The millionaire’s daughter was indeed glad to see Larry.  She had read the first edition of the Leader, and wanted to know if there was anything further to tell.

“I hoped to be able to give you some definite news,” replied Larry, in answer to her questions.  Then he related the scene in the hospital.

“Poor man!” exclaimed Grace.  “I wish I could go and see him.”

“I’m afraid they wouldn’t let you,” said the reporter.  “I called up the place just before I came here and they said the man was still under the influence of ether, though the operation was over.”

“Was it a success?”

“They think so, but it will be some time before he will be able to talk to anyone about your father.  We shall have to be patient.”

“It is so hard,” complained Grace, and Larry agreed with her.  He did not yet see how he was going to get a story for the next day’s paper—­that is, a story which would have some fresh features in it.

“I don’t suppose you have anything new to tell me?” he asked of Grace.

“Not much.  I have had another letter from my father.  It came a little while ago.”

“Is it the same as the others?”

“The contents are, but the envelope is different.  He says he will soon be home, and tells us not to worry.”

She gave the missive to Larry.  He looked at the post-mark, and saw that it had come from a downtown sub-station.

“This was mailed near the steamer pier!” he exclaimed.  “Close to where Retto was hurt.  He must have posted it just previous to the accident.  I wish I had known this before.”

It was too late now, and Larry gazed regretfully at the envelope.  Clearly, Retto had not been far from Mr. Potter at the time of the accident.  Perhaps the missing millionaire was hiding downtown in New York.

“I must make some inquiries in that neighborhood,” thought Larry, as he arose to go.

“Another thing,” Grace said.  “That man Sullivan was in front of the house again this morning.”

“I must see him!” exclaimed Larry.  “I’ll make him tell what his object is.  This thing has got to end!”

He was fiercely determined that he would force some information from the politician.  Evidently Sullivan had a game on hand which the reporter had not yet succeeded in fathoming.  “I’ll hunt him up at once!” he added, as he bade Grace good-bye.

“Be careful,” she cautioned.  “He is a dangerous man.”

“I will,” Larry promised.

But he could not find Sullivan.  For once that wily politician denied himself to reporters, and kept out of their way.  He was sought by a number of newspaper men, for the matter of a candidate for the eighth assembly district was again to the fore, and the henchmen of Kilburn and Reilly were making rival claims as to Sullivan’s support.

“Where is Sullivan?” was the cry that went up, and in the next two days that became almost as much of a mystery as the disappearance of Mr. Potter.