He did not feel in the least like eating or drinking, but he needed human companionship. Therefore he followed his neighbor down the stairs and into her cluttered little living-room with submissive gratitude. The home was slovenly, but it was glorified by kindliness. A tousled baby of eighteen months was keeping the old man busy and a small boy of eight or nine was struggling into his knickerbockers, and Victor, thrust into the midst of this hearty, dirty, noisy household, remembered with increasing respect his mother's dainty housekeeping. "She was a lady," he said to himself, in definition of the difference between her apartment and this. "Her home was poor, but it was never ratty." Mrs. Bowers was kindness and consideration itself. Her father, deaf and partly paralytic, was treated gently, although he was irritatingly slow of comprehension and insisted on knowing all about what had taken place up-stairs. It pained and disgusted Victor inexpressibly to have his mother's condition bawled into the old man's ears, but he could not reasonably interfere. He thought of Mrs. Joyce, knowing that his mother would want to have her instantly informed. "I ought to telephone some friends," he said to Mrs. Bowers. "Where is the nearest 'phone?" She told him, and he went out and down the steps in haste to let Mrs. Joyce know of his tragic bereavement, and when at the drug-store near by he finally succeeded in getting communication with the house he was deeply disappointed to be told by the butler that Mrs. Joyce was not down and could not be disturbed so early in the morning. "But I _must_ see her," he insisted. "My mother, Mrs. Ollnee, her friend, is--is--very sick. I am Victor, her son, and I'm sure Mrs. Joyce would want to speak to me." The butler's voice changed. "Oh, very well, Mr. Ollnee," he replied, knowing the intimacy which existed between his mistress and the psychic. "Just hold the line; I'll call her." It was a long time before the calm, cultivated voice of Mrs. Joyce came over the 'phone, but it was worth the waiting for. "Who is it?" she asked. "Mrs. Joyce, this is Victor Ollnee. My mother is very, very ill. I'm afraid she's dead." He heard her gasp of pain and surprise as she called: "Your mother! Why she seemed perfectly well last night." "I found her lying cold and still this morning. I can't detect any pulse or any breathing. Can't you come over at once? Please do. I don't know a soul in the city but you, and I'm in great trouble." "You poor boy! Of course I'll come. I'll be over instantly. Have you called a doctor?" "No, I don't know of any." "Where are you now?" "At the corner drug-store." "Is any one with your mother?" "No, but the woman below has been up. She is quite sure my mother is dead." "Gracious heavens! I can't realize it. Good-by for a few minutes. I'll come at once."