“Miss Potter,” began Larry, who was deeply touched by her distress, “a newspaper man could have no greater incentive to work than the duty to which his assignment calls him.  More especially in this case to which my city editor has told me to devote my whole time.  But aside from that I’m going to find your father for your sake and your mother’s.  I’ll do all I can.  I’ll work on this case day and night.  I’ll find your father for you!”

“Oh!” exclaimed Grace, “you don’t know how much good it does me to hear you talk so!  It seemed as if no one cared.  Of course my father’s business associates want him to come back, and so do his friends, but—­but they don’t wish it as much as my mother does and as I do!  I miss him so much!”

If Larry had not had the injunction laid on him by Mr. Emberg to urge him on in the search, the appeal by Grace would have been more than sufficient.  Hereafter, he resolved, he would feel somewhat as did the knights of old when they were commissioned by their ladies to execute some bold deed.

“Don’t worry,” he told Grace, as he saw her distress was getting the better of her.  “I’ll find him.”

“Suppose you can’t?”

“There’s no such work as ‘can’t’ in my dictionary,” replied Larry, repeating what Mr. Emberg had told him.

Grace smiled at the young reporter’s enthusiasm, but she knew she could have had no better friend, no one who would devote more time and energy to her cause, and no one who had so strong a motive for finding the missing millionaire as had this young newspaper reporter.

While the two were discussing various details of the case there was a ring at the front door, and, presently, the butler entered the library.

“Mr. Jack Sullivan to see you, miss,” he announced.

CHAPTER XVI

SULLIVAN’S QUEER ACCUSATION

“Whom did you say it was?” asked Grace.

“Mr. Jack Sullivan,” repeated the butler.  “I asked him for his card, miss, but he said he hadn’t got none.  Told me to mention his name, an’ said you’d know him.”

“But I don’t know him,” protested Grace.  “I never heard of him in my life.  There must be some mistake.  Are you sure he wants, me, Peterson?”

“He said so, miss, but I’ll ask again.”

Whereupon the butler, as stiff as a ramrod, went back to the door where he had left Mr. Sullivan standing.

“He means you, miss,” the functionary remarked, as he came back to the library.

“I wonder what he can want,” Grace said, half to herself.  “I don’t know any such person.  I think there’s a mistake.  I will see him, and tell him so.”

“Wait a minute,” exclaimed Larry.  “Perhaps I can explain this.  I think I know Mr. Sullivan.”

“Who is he?”

“A political leader of the eighth assembly district.”

“What does that mean; I’m dreadfully ignorant of politics,” Grace remarked with a smile.  “Poor papa was much interested in them, but I never could make head or tail out of political matters.”