At that institution, however, I was again refused all information as to the condition of Harriet Walter. It was not even admitted, when I became more insistent, that any such person was in the hospital.
"But I'm a friend of this young lady's," I tried to explain. "And I've a right to know of her condition."
The calm-eyed official looked at me quite unmoved.
"This young lady seems to have very many friends. And some of them seem to be very peculiar."
"What do you mean by that?" I demanded. For answer he pointed to a figure pacing up and down in the open street.
"There's another of these friends who've been insisting on seeing her," he explained, with a shrug of extenuation.
The uniformed attendant of that carbolized and white-walled temple of pain must have seen my start as I glanced out at the slowly pacing figure. For it was that of a young man wearing a velour hat. It was the youth I had met the night before in Madison Square.
"Do you happen to know that man's name?" I asked.
"He gave it as Mallory—James Mallory," was the answer.
I wasted no more time inside those depressing walls. I was glad to get out to the street, to the open air and the clear afternoon sunlight. I had already decided on my next step.