“Take the ’phone, Professor Gehren,” he said, when the reply came. “It’s the Cairnside Hospital. Ask for information about Harvey Craig.” With absorbed intentness the other three listened to the one-sided conversation. “Hello!... May I speak to Mr. Harvey Craig’s doctor?... This is Professor Gehren of the Metropolitan University... Thank you, Doctor. How is he?... Very grave?... Ah, has been very grave .... Wholly out of danger?... What was the nature of his illness? “When may I see him?... Very well. I will visit the hospital to-morrow morning. Thank you.... I should have expected that you would notify me of his, presence.” intervened, then “Good-by.” “It is most inexplicable,” declared Professor Gehren, turning to the others. “The doctor states that Harvey was brought there at night, by a foreigner who left a large sum of money to pay for his care, and certain suggestions for his treatment. One detail, carefully set down in writing, was that if reddish or purple dots appeared under Harvey’s nails, he was to be told that Mr. Smith released him and advised his sending for his friends at once.” “Reddish or purple dots, eh?” repeated Average Jones. “I should like—er—to have talked with—er—that doctor before you cut off.” “And I, sir,” said the professor, with the grim repression of the thinker stirred to wrath, “should like to interview this stranger.” “Perfectly feasible, I think,” returned Average Jones. A long silence. “You don’t mean that you’ve located him already!” cried young Mr. McIntyre. “He was so obliging as to save me the trouble.” Average Jones held up the letter from which he had taken the Cairnside Hospital’s telephone number. “The advertisement worked to a charm. Mr. Smith gives his address in this, and intimates that I may call upon him.” Young Mr. McIntyre rose. “You’re going to see him, then?” “At once.” “Did I understand you to imply that I am at liberty to accompany you?” inquired Professor Gehren. “If you care to take the risk.” “Think there’ll be excitement?” asked Bertram languidly. “I’d like to go along.” Average Jones nodded. “One or a dozen; I fancy it will be all the same to Smith.” “You think we’ll find him dead.” Young Mr. McIntyre leaped to this conclusion. “Count me in on it.” “N-no; not dead.” “Perhaps his friend ‘Mercy’ has gone back on him, then,” suggested Mr. McIntyre, unabashed. “Yes; I rather think that’s it,” said Average Jones, in a curious accent. “‘Mercy’ has gone back on him, I believe, though I can’t quite accurately place her as yet. Here’s the taxi,” he broke off. “All aboard that’s going aboard. But it’s likely to be dangerous.”