Mrs. Simpson and the maid rushed away to do the young physician’s bidding, and several women accompanied them. The men waited for perhaps five minutes, in order to allow time to get the couch in readiness. Then they lifted Cray’s inert bulk as carefully as they could and bore it slowly toward the house. It was no easy task, for the detective weighed close to two hundred pounds, but their united efforts were equal to it, and the unconscious man was soon lying, partially undressed, on the comfortable couch in one of the lower rooms. A little later, every one had left the house, with the exception of the doctor, who continued to work over Cray for some time. “I’ve done all I can at present, Mrs. Simpson,” he announced finally. “If you don’t mind, though, I’ll stay with him for the present, so that I shall be on hand if any change comes.” He paused and smiled frankly. “You see, I’m not overburdened with practice,” he explained, “and under the circumstances, I’m inclined to make as much out of this case as I can—in the way of experience, I mean.” That promised to relieve the woman of a great deal of responsibility, and she accepted the suggestion readily enough, although she would have preferred, if possible, that no outsider should have access to the patient. “I’m afraid you had better telephone to the office, though, before breakfast,” the doctor went on. “As yet, there’s no knowing how this case is going to turn out, and this poor fellow’s friends may live out of New York, in some other direction. In that case, there’s a possibility that it will take hours for them to reach here.” “I’ll telephone at once,” Mrs. Simpson assured him, “and, meanwhile, Mary will be getting breakfast. You must join me in the dining room, doctor, or let her bring you something here.” She intended to play the part that had been thrust upon her as well as she could, even though her mind was filled with all sorts of tragic possibilities. Fortunately there was a telephone in the house, and, after considerable delay, Mrs. Simpson got in touch with the office of the New York _Chronicle and Observer_. To her regret, however, she could find no one who knew anything about an employee by the name of Jones who answered her description. It was explained, however, that the hour was a very early one, and that the business offices would not be open until eight-thirty. “This is the editorial department,” the man at the other end assured her, “and we don’t know much about the other branches. I’ll make a note of it, though, and of your telephone number, and have the matter brought to the attention of the general manager when he arrives.” “I—I think it might be well to inform Mr. Griswold himself,” the woman ventured to suggest. “Mr. Jones told me yesterday that Mr. Griswold had sent him. I don’t know whether he meant it literally or not, but——” “Well, I’ll do everything I can, Mrs. Simpson,” the editor promised, and with that she had to be content.