He muttered an impatient word as he kicked off a shoe. "If it's the wrong number again, I'll give that operator the devil," he thought, hastily crossing to the telephone. "Is this Captain James O'Malley?" asked the voice in the instrument, and at his gruff response it continued, "Telegram for you." "All right," said O'Malley. "Shoot." "Got the goods----" "What!" cried O'Malley. "Repeat that, please." "'Got--the--goods'----" the voice reiterated, with bored distinctness. "'Meet us, Penn. Station, Saturday, eleven-forty-five from Chicago. Say nothing yet to D. M.' Signed 'Pete.' Got that?" "Penn. Station, eleven-forty-five from Chicago, Saturday," repeated O'Malley, slowly. "Yes. I've got it. Thanks." He hung up the receiver. "Saturday--that's the day after to-morrow," he considered, and sat down heavily on a chair. "Us, meet _us_----" "Now, what in hell has Pete turned up?" he went on, wonderingly, half aloud. "What--in--hell----" CHAPTER XXVIII DONALD MORRIS UNDERSTANDS It chanced that O'Malley had little difficulty in following Peter's instructions in regard to Donald Morris, for they had but a few minutes' private conversation together during the next day, and O'Malley cleverly filled the time by reporting Peter's discovery of the Italian, Angelo Russo, in Miss Blake's apartment, and the subsequent confession, which practically explained the condition in which the apartment was found. Donald listened to the recital with little of the interest he would have felt two days before. His whole mind was occupied with the discovery they had made on the previous night, and his heart was wrung by the fact that, though Doctor Stevens had reported his patient to be physically much improved, she still insisted that she knew no other name than Rosamond Curwood, had no memory whatever of the past, and showed not the slightest sign of recognition when Donald approached her. As early in the morning as possible she was removed to Doctor Stevens's private sanitarium. She accepted, quietly and unquestioningly, all the arrangements which were made for her comfort, and appeared grateful for the consideration shown her, to a certain extent, but it was all evidently like a dream to her, and her manner remained absent and listless. All that day and the morning of the next Donald spent in the sanitarium, or at his home in Gramercy Park, within reach of the telephone, hoping, longing for news, but none came. At two o'clock on Saturday, as he was rising from an untasted luncheon, he was summoned to the telephone by John Stevens, who told him, with evident sympathy, that there had been no change whatever but that he was preparing to try an experiment that afternoon.