For that—the unexplained disappearance of persons—was one of the hideous features of the epidemic in the tenement districts. The workers of a family, scourged on by the additional necessity of having sickness in their home circle, would start out of a morning when they themselves felt ready to drop. During the day, while at work, they would drop and be taken to a hospital. Even had their employers, or fellow employees, the inclination to notify the family of the stricken one, they would not be able to do so, because in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred they did not know their home address. Because I was not a trained nurse Miss Wadley set me to work running down missing parents, and putting children orphaned during the epidemic out to board. It was while looking up the parents of Francisco LaCastro that I was first brought face to face with the puzzling dread caused by a person dropping out of sight. Miss Wadley was notified by the hospital that Francisco, though able to leave the hospital, had not been called for by his parents. She turned the case over to me. According to Francisco’s entrance-card, he was three years old, and lived at a certain number on Sullivan Street. Accustomed to tenement conditions, on reaching the address I set about looking for the janitor. After much knocking, the door was opened by a tiny girl. Yes, her mother was janitor—here the tiny mite began to sob. From her sobs I learned that a policeman in a hospital wagon had carried her mother off. Furthermore, that her father had been in a hospital, but was out and had gone to work. Also that three children older and two younger than herself were still in the hospital. One of many peculiar features of tenement-dwellers is that few of them know the names of their neighbors, even when on intimate terms. A janitor knows the names of the persons occupying flats in her house because, on receiving rent, she has to give a receipt. This house on Sullivan Street was occupied exclusively by Italians. Though I called at every one of the twenty-four flats no one could tell me anything about the LaCastro family. On the fifth floor my knock at one of the doors was not answered. Deciding that this must be the flat occupied by Francisco’s parents, I made a second trip through the house looking for some one who could tell me anything about the persons who lived in it. After many questions I finally learned that the silent flat had been occupied by the family of a man who brought home bread each night, “grand bread.” Nobody could tell me what had become of the man or his wife, only that two of his children had been taken away by their grandmother. Where did this grandmother live? Then recalling that a notification had been sent by Bellevue to Francisco’s parents, I went after the postman. Fortunately, I found him on the block. He gave me an address on Bleecker Street.