HELEN AND THE STRIKE LEADER'S WIFE.


But what had become of Helen Nash?

It was a very determined little woman who stole out of the Stanlock
residence, with the contents of the last threatening letter fresh in
her memory, after the return of the members of Flamingo Camp Fire from
their Sunday afternoon drive. She walked briskly four blocks east and
boarded a street car.

A twenty-minutes' ride took her into the heart of the mining tenement
district. Reference to an address memorandum on a slip of paper that
she carried in her handbag and a question to the conductor determined
where she should get off.

Heaver street, the conductor told her, was three blocks east. With no
evidence of a slackening of resolution, she proceeded as directed and
was soon searching a long row of cottages, built along almost
identical lines, for number 632.

Reaching this number, she ascended a flight of seven or eight steps
and gave a quick turn to the old-fashioned fifteen-or-twenty-cent
trip-action door bell. A pale-faced, care-worn woman of about 30
years, who might have been mistaken for 40, answered the ring. At
sight of the caller she exclaimed in a voice that echoed years of toil
and suffering:

"Helen!"