“What is his whole name, and what was he sent up for?” queried the Duchess, that flickering fire of interest once more in her old eyes.

“Joe Ellison.  He was an old-time confidence man.  He got caught in a jam—­there had been drinking—­there was some shooting—­and he had attempted manslaughter tacked on to the charge of swindling.  But Joe said everybody had been drinking and that the shooting was accidental.”

“Joe Ellison—­I knew him,” said the Duchess.  “He was about the cleverest man of his day.  But I never knew he had a child.  Who was this best friend of his?”

“Joe Ellison didn’t mention his name,” answered Larry.  “You see Joe spoke of his story only once.  But he then said that he’d had letters once a month telling how fine the kid was getting on—­till three or four years ago when he got word that his friend had died.  The way things stand now, Joe won’t know how to find the kid when he gets out even if he should want to find it—­and he wouldn’t know it even if he saw it.  Up in Sing Sing when I had nothing else to do,” concluded Larry, “I tell you I thought a lot about that situation—­for it certainly is some situation:  Joe Ellison for fifteen years in prison with just one big idea in his life, the idea being the one thing he felt he was really doing or ever could do, his very life built on that one idea:  that outside, somewhere, was his kid growing up into a fine young person—­never guessing it had such a father—­and Joe never intending to see it again and not being able to know it if he ever should see it.  I tell you, after learning Joe’s story, it made me feel that I’d had enough of the old life.”

Again the Duchess spoke.  “Did Joe ever mention its name?”

“No, he just spoke of it as ‘his kid.’”

Larry was quiet a moment.  “You see,” he added, “I want to get settled before Joe comes out—­his time’s up in a few months—­so that I can give him some sort of place near me.  He’s all right, Joe is; but he’s too old to have any show at a fresh start if he tries to make it all on his own.”

“Larry, you haven’t got such a tough piece of old brass for a heart yourself,” commented Hunt.  “What are your own plans?”

“I know I’ve got the makings of a real business man—­I’ve already told you that,” said Larry confidently.  He had thought this out carefully during his days as a coal-passer and his long nights upon the eighteen-inch bunk in his cell.  “I’ve got a lot of the finishing touches; I know the high spots.  What I need are the rudiments—­the fundamentals—­connecting links.  You see, I had part of a business college training a long time before I went to work in a broker’s office, stenography and typewriting; I’ve been a secretary in the warden’s office the last few months and I’ve brushed up on the old stuff and I’m pretty good.  That ought to land me a job.  Then I’m going to study nights.  Of course, I’d get on faster if I could have private lessons with one of the head men of one of these real business schools.  I’d mop up this stuff about organization and management mighty quick, for that business stuff comes natural to me.  A bit of that sort of going to school would connect up and give a working unity to what I already know.  But then I’ll find a job and work the thing out some way.  I’m in this to win out, and win out big!”