Only for a moment did she give way. Nurse Jordan’s training and personality was not to be conquered by a sudden shock of any sort. Pulling herself together, she set to work to find the doctor. This meant telephoning to two or three places where she knew there was a chance of locating him. And at the third call she found him at Mrs Ballard’s, and, though still shaken and quivering, she controlled her voice and told him distinctly of the tragic telephone call she had taken. “Gleason!” cried the Doctor, “Washington Square? What number?” But Nurse Jordan didn’t know, and Doctor Davenport had to call up somebody to inquire. He tried Mrs Lindsay, who was Gleason’s sister, but her wire was busy and after an impatient moment, Davenport called Pollard, at his hotel. “Here,” he cried, handing the receiver to a staring butler, “take this and when the gentleman answers, ask him the address of Robert Gleason. Tell him Doctor Davenport’s inquiring.” He then returned to the prescription he had been writing, and gave it to Mrs Ballard, who was indignant at having her interview with her doctor intruded upon. “I’ll call to-morrow,” he soothed her; “you’ll be better in the morning. Let fish alone, and stick to simple diet for a few days. Get that address, Jenkins?” “Yes, sir,” and the butler gave him a slip of paper. “H’m—near Washington Square, not on it,” he murmured, looking at the written number, and then he ran down the Ballard front steps, and jumping into his waiting car, gave his chauffeur Gleason’s address. “Wonder what’s up?” he thought, as his car rolled down Fifth Avenue. “Accident, I suppose. Jordan is always on edge this time of night. Have to take her excitement with a grain of salt.” But when he reached the house, and pushed the button that indicated McIlvaine’s apartment, there was no response from the closed street door. He rang again, long and insistently, then, still getting no encouragement, he pushed another button. The door gave a grudging grunt, and, unwillingly, as it seemed, moved slowly inward. Doctor Davenport was half way up the first flight of stairs, when a woman’s head appeared through a doorway. “What do you want?” she inquired, a little crisply. “Mr McIlvaine’s apartment.” “That’s it, opposite,” she returned, more affable as she caught sight of the good-looking man. “Mr Gleason’s in there now.” “Yes, he’s the man I want. Thank you, madame.” She still stood, watching, as he rang the doorbell of the designated apartment. There was no answer, nor any sound from inside. The doctor looked apprehensively at the door. “Your key wouldn’t let me in, I suppose,” he said, turning back to the now frankly curious spectator. “Oh, Lord, no! We don’t have interchangeable keys! He’s out, I expect. He’s mostly out.” “But I want to get into his place——” “You do! And he not there! You a friend of his?” “Why—yes; I’m his doctor—and I’m afraid he’s ill.”