"When did you get that?" demanded Donaldson, as he sprang from his bed.
"This morning, sir, at one o'clock."
In three strides Donaldson was across the room. The hotel attendants crowded one another in their efforts to get out.
Donaldson gave the number and waited, every pulse beat of time throbbing hot through his temples. She had called and been unable to rouse him, while he lay there like a yokel and dreamed of her! He conjured up visions of all sorts of disaster. The boy might have returned and—he shuddered and drew back from the suggestion. He refused to imagine. He beat a tattoo with the inane hook which summons Central.
"Number does n't answer, sir," came the reply.
"They must answer! You must make them answer."
Again the interminable wait; again the dead reply. He hung up the receiver. The hallucinations which swarmed through his brain taken in connection with the meaningless talk of the hotel employees made him fear an instant for his sanity.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and devoted five minutes to the concentration of his mind upon the fact that he must be cool, must be steady. Else he would be of no use to any one. He must be deliberate. Then he dressed himself with complete self-possession.
When he came down into the lobby he noticed with some astonishment the business-like appearance of the place for Sunday morning. The clerk glanced at him curiously as he approached. Donaldson spoke with exaggerated slowness and precision.
"I wish," he said, "that you would kindly make a careful note of any messages which may come to me to-day. Your error of this morning—"