“Gleason,” came back the faint voice. “Wash’—t’n Square—come—can’t you come quick——”
She could get no more. The voice ceased, and only blank silence met her frantic queries.
She hung up her receiver, and a sudden realization of the situation came to her. She seemed to see the scene—somebody shot—somebody telephoning that he was shot—somebody’s voice getting weaker and ceasing to sound at all—the picture was too much for her tired brain, and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed hysterically from sheer nervous excitement.
Only for a moment did she give way. Nurse Jordan’s training and personality was not to be conquered by a sudden shock of any sort.
Pulling herself together, she set to work to find the doctor.
This meant telephoning to two or three places where she knew there was a chance of locating him.
And at the third call she found him at Mrs Ballard’s, and, though still shaken and quivering, she controlled her voice and told him distinctly of the tragic telephone call she had taken.
“Gleason!” cried the Doctor, “Washington Square? What number?”
But Nurse Jordan didn’t know, and Doctor Davenport had to call up somebody to inquire.
He tried Mrs Lindsay, who was Gleason’s sister, but her wire was busy and after an impatient moment, Davenport called Pollard, at his hotel.