At four o’clock my telephone rang. I was packing my suitcase according to the list I keep pasted in the lid. Under the list, which was of uniforms, aprons, thermometer, instruments, a nurse’s simple set of probe, forceps and bandage scissors, was the word “box.” This always went in first—a wooden box with a lock, the key of which was round my neck. It contained skeleton keys, a small black revolver of which I was in deadly fear, a pair of handcuffs, a pocket flashlight, and my badge from the chief of police. I was examining the revolver nervously when the telephone rang, and I came within an ace of sending a bullet into the flat below. Did you ever notice how much you get out of a telephone voice? We can dissemble with our faces, but under stress the vocal cords seem to draw up tight and the voice comes thin and colorless. There’s a little woman in the flat beneath—the one I nearly bombarded—who sings like a bird at her piano half the day, scaling vocal heights that make me dizzy. Now and then she has a visitor, a nice young man, and she disgraces herself, flats F, fogs E even, finally takes cowardly refuge in a wretched mezzo-soprano and cries herself to sleep, doubtless, later on. The man who called me had the thin-drawn voice of extreme strain—a youngish voice. “Miss Adams,” he said, “this is Francis Reed speaking. I have called St. Luke’s and they referred me to you. Are you free to take a case this afternoon?” I fenced. I was trying to read the voice. “This afternoon?” “Well, before night anyhow; as—as early this evening as possible.” The voice was strained and tired, desperately tired. It was not peevish. It was even rather pleasant. “What is the case, Mr. Reed?” He hesitated. “It is not illness. It is merely—the governess has gone and there are two small children. We want some one to give her undivided attention to the children.” “I see.” “Are you a heavy sleeper, Miss Adams?” “A very light one.” I fancied he breathed freer. “I hope you are not tired from a previous case?” I was beginning to like the voice. “I’m quite fresh,” I replied almost gayly. “Even if I were not, I like children, especially well ones. I shan’t find looking after them very wearying, I’m sure.” Again the odd little pause. Then he gave me the address on Beauregard Square, and asked me to be sure not to be late. “I must warn you,” he added; “we are living in a sort of casual way. Our servants left us without warning. Mrs. Reed has been getting along as best she could. Most of our meals are being sent in.” I was thinking fast. No servants! A good many people think a trained nurse is a sort of upper servant. I’ve been in houses where they were amazed to discover that I was a college woman and, finding the two things irreconcilable, have openly accused me of having been driven to such a desperate course as a hospital training by an unfortunate love affair.