Gramercy Park was peaceful and quiet on this spring morning. The sun shone on the budding trees and bushes of the little park, and already little children were playing and laughing with their nurses behind the iron railings. A few private cars stood waiting along the curb at different points, but not a cab was in sight. Without wasting an instant, Morris passed swiftly westward. As he neared Fourth Avenue, he saw an empty cab rolling uptown. He hailed it with a shout and broke into a run. "Ninety-nine Waverly Place," he called, as he pulled open the door and leapt inside. "Make the best time you can," he called through the glass as the cab turned. "It'll be worth your while to forget the speed laws. Understand?" The smart Bowery boy at the wheel grinned his comprehension of the order. His wary eye noted the appearance and probable generosity of his fare, and the pressure of his foot on the accelerator marked, with sincerity, the result of his observations. "Fool, to hurry now," thought Donald, leaning forward, however, and chafing at every delay caused by the traffic of the busier streets. "Too late! I know it will be too late.... But there's the merest chance. Thank God----" he broke off as they swung into University Place, and the way before them being comparatively clear, they sped swiftly southward. In a few minutes the cab turned the corner of Waverly Place and stopped before the quiet brownstone front of Number Ninety-nine. It had once been a private residence of distinction, and even in its altered condition it had retained a look of reserved dignity which would have impressed any one less preoccupied than the man who now, dismissing the cabman with a handsome tip, sprang up its broad, worn steps. In his haste, Donald Morris almost fell over a kneeling figure just inside the half-open door. "Watcha da pail!" a voice protested, as its owner jumped to his feet and jerked a bucket of water out of the way. He grinned at Morris's rapid apology, disclosing two rows of strong teeth, shining white in a ruddy and rather stupid Italian face. "Me scrubba da floor," he explained the obvious. "White marb' maka lotta troub'." Morris nodded, absently. "Miss Blake in? May I go up?" he asked, hurriedly. Already his foot was on the stair. "Sure," answered the Italian, indifferently, bending again to his work. "Me tinka both in, awright." The reply surprised and heartened Morris, to some slight extent allaying his fears. The man was evidently the caretaker and might know. At any rate, he could see Mary's sister, Anne, and find out----He swore to himself that he would find out--that he would spare no means and no person to get to the bottom of this--and with set jaw and racing feet he dashed up the stairs. He passed two landings, where gas burned dimly beside discreetly closed doors, and in a moment reached the top of the last flight.