as has been intimated already, of
calling on Bailey Armstrong to escort her. But as she hoped to win
Newton's confidence, and did not like to have her visit known to others,
she believed that by going quietly, alone with Mary Snow, she would be
doing wisely. And so the two met at the drug-store, as previously
arranged, and attracted no attention whatever.

When they arrived at the address given them, they found a big apartment
block, with stores underneath. There was no one in the vestibule as
they entered, but a man stood waiting at the elevator--apparently the
functionary who had charge of the lift.

"Does Newton Fitzgerald live here?" asked Gertrude.

The man motioned to the elevator and the two young women entered and
were quickly borne to the top floor.

"This way," said the man, leading the way down a narrow corridor, and
pressing an electric button at the last door on the right.

It was opened by a neatly dressed Irish woman, who led the way into a
comfortably furnished living-room.

"Be seated," she said. "I'll be back in a while." She spoke with a
brogue, and they did not notice the peculiar expression. For some
moments they remained quietly waiting; but no one came.

"He must be pretty sick, the place is so quiet," said Mary Snow, at
last.

"Probably," assented Gertrude. "But I suppose they'll call us when they
are ready."

Fifteen minutes, thirty, forty-five--an hour went by, and still no one
came. The place was oppressively still. The electric lights burned
brightly; a breeze came in from an open window; the street sounds below
floated up to them, insistent and garish. But no rustle of garments, no
hushed voices, no slightest motion in the rooms beyond came through the
door.

"This is strange," said Gertrude at last. "Newton must be very ill--or
something." She arose. "I wonder if we'd better investigate. I hate to
intrude, but we ought to be getting back, I didn't tell anybody at home
where I was going."

"Nor I--I didn't tell anybody," said Mary. "I thought we should be back
long ago. Yes, let us find someone."

They went on through the open door into a bedroom. Out of this opened a
small dining room, and beyond that a little kitchen. There was a tiny
bathroom, and lights were burning in all the rooms. But there was no
sign of the sick man.

They looked at one another, puzzled and anxious.

"They seem to have gone out," said Mary. "Here is another bedroom.
Perhaps Fitzgerald is here."