As he turned in
his copy the editor handed him a slip of paper on which was written:
"Call Aleta Boice at once." He sought a telephone, but there was no
response. He tried again, but vainly. A third attempt, however, and
Aleta's voice, half frantic, answered his.
"He's killed himself," she cried. "Oh, Frank, I don't know what to do."
"He? Who?" Frank asked startled.
"Frank, you know! The man who wanted me to--"
"Do you mean the Supervisor?"
"Yes.... They say it was an accident. But I know better. He lost his
money in the safe deposit failure.... Oh, Frank, please come to
me, quick."
CHAPTER LXXXVI
A NEW CITY GOVERNMENT
Frank found Aleta, dry-eyed, frantic, pacing up and down her little
sitting room which always looked so quaintly attractive with its jumble
of paintings and bric-a-brac, its distinctive furniture and
draperies--all symbolic of the helter-skelter artistry which was a part
of Aleta's nature. She took Frank's hand and clung to it.
"I'm so glad you've come," she whispered. "I'm so glad you've come."
It was a little time ere she could tell him of the tragedy. The man had
been run over, quickly killed. Witnesses had seen him stagger, fall
directly in the path of an advancing car.
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