"Open the door," I ordered, speaking as quietly as I could. "She's probably asleep—I've an important message for her, and I want to give it now before I go downtown."
He did as I told him and I ran up the stairs, and pressed the electric button at her door. As I waited I heard the janitor's slow steps pounding up behind me, but from the closed apartment there was not a sound.
"She ain't there, I guess," he said as he gained the landing. "She must have gone last night."
I turned on him:
"Have you a key for this apartment?"
"I've a key for every apartment," he answered, holding out the bunch in his hand.
"Then open the door. If she's not here I've got to know it."
He inserted a key in the lock and in a minute we were inside. The morning light filtered in through drawn blinds, showing a deserted place, left in the chaos of a hasty move. Everything was in disorder, trunks open, furniture stacked and covered. The curtains to the front bedroom that I'd always seen closed were pulled back, revealing the evidences of a hurried packing, clothes on the bed, bureau drawers half out, a purple silk thing lying in a heap on the floor.
She was gone, gone in wild haste, gone like one who leaves on a summons as imperative as the call of death—or love!
"She's evidently gone to her mother or some friend for the night," I said carelessly. "She'll be back again to finish it up."