“Here,” he cried, handing the receiver to a staring butler, “take this and when the gentleman answers, ask him the address of Robert Gleason. Tell him Doctor Davenport’s inquiring.”
He then returned to the prescription he had been writing, and gave it to Mrs Ballard, who was indignant at having her interview with her doctor intruded upon.
“I’ll call to-morrow,” he soothed her; “you’ll be better in the morning. Let fish alone, and stick to simple diet for a few days. Get that address, Jenkins?”
“Yes, sir,” and the butler gave him a slip of paper.
“H’m—near Washington Square, not on it,” he murmured, looking at the written number, and then he ran down the Ballard front steps, and jumping into his waiting car, gave his chauffeur Gleason’s address.
“Wonder what’s up?” he thought, as his car rolled down Fifth Avenue. “Accident, I suppose. Jordan is always on edge this time of night. Have to take her excitement with a grain of salt.”
But when he reached the house, and pushed the button that indicated McIlvaine’s apartment, there was no response from the closed street door.
He rang again, long and insistently, then, still getting no encouragement, he pushed another button.
The door gave a grudging grunt, and, unwillingly, as it seemed, moved slowly inward.
Doctor Davenport was half way up the first flight of stairs, when a woman’s head appeared through a doorway.