“I think he is at his rooms in the Grand Pacific,” said an incautious secretary. “He’s not feeling well.” Louise, a little disturbed, telephoned to the Grand Pacific, and was told that Mr. Kane had not been there for several days—did not, as a matter of fact, occupy his rooms more than one or two days a week. Piqued by this, she telephoned his club. It so happened that at the club there was a telephone boy who had called up the apartment a number of times for Lester himself. He had not been cautioned not to give its number—as a matter of fact, it had never been asked for by any one else. When Louise stated that she was Lester’s sister, and was anxious to find him, the boy replied, “I think he lives at 19 Schiller Place.” “Whose address is that you’re giving?” inquired a passing clerk. “Mr. Kane’s.” “Well, don’t be giving out addresses. Don’t you know that yet?” The boy apologized, but Louise had hung up the receiver and was gone. About an hour later, curious as to this third residence of her brother, Louise arrived at Schiller Place. Ascending the steps—it was a two-apartment house—she saw the name of Kane on the door leading to the second floor. Ringing the bell, she was opened to by Jennie, who was surprised to see so fashionably attired a young woman. “This is Mr. Kane’s apartment, I believe,” began Louise, condescendingly, as she looked in at the open door behind Jennie. She was a little surprised to meet a young woman, but her suspicions were as yet only vaguely aroused. “Yes,” replied Jennie. “He’s sick, I believe. I’m his sister. May I come in?” Jennie, had she had time to collect her thoughts, would have tried to make some excuse, but Louise, with the audacity of her birth and station, swept past before Jennie could say a word. Once inside Louise looked about her inquiringly. She found herself in the sitting-room, which gave into the bedroom where Lester was lying. Vesta happened to be playing in one corner of the room, and stood up to eye the new-comer. The open bedroom showed Lester quite plainly lying in bed, a window to the left of him, his eyes closed. “Oh, there you are, old fellow!” exclaimed Louise. “What’s ailing you?” she hurried on. Lester, who at the sound of her voice had opened his eyes, realized in an instant how things were. He pulled himself up on one elbow, but words failed him. “Why, hello, Louise,” he finally forced himself to say. “Where did you come from?” “St. Paul. I came back sooner than I thought,” she answered lamely, a sense of something wrong irritating her. “I had a hard time finding you, too. Who’s your—” she was about to say “pretty housekeeper,” but turned to find Jennie dazedly gathering up certain articles in the adjoining room and looking dreadfully distraught. Lester cleared his throat hopelessly.