Glenn Andrews walked down the street, which had been written on the sheet of paper in his pocket.
“No. 23.” He looked up and saw that No. 23 was a hospital. There must be some mistake. No, that was plainly what it said.
He stood looking at the door in an anxious manner.
“Could she be here—ill?”
He had drawn a charming picture of her, a radiant specimen of perfect health. His pulse quickened. The curtains parted and a girl appeared at the window. Her eyes were dim, her face ghastly—the look on it was neither pain nor age—it was a look of hopelessness. The rich, gleaming hair made a glory about her head, as the light caught its golden sheen. That was like her hair. A moment she stood there, looking down the street, then dropped the curtain. He saw her turn and go sorrowfully upstairs.
The light from the hall chandelier was very brilliant—his face cleared. A better look satisfied him it was not Esther Powel.
He pondered a minute, then started down the street again. She had evidently given him the wrong number.
At the corner he stopped a policeman. “I am looking for a boarding house on this street—No. 23, West.”
“Maybe it’s the next street; that same number is a boarding house. All in this block are private houses except the hospital.”
Glenn thanked him and went on quickly. She’d made a mistake in the street maybe. It would soon be too late to call. He did not need to inquire again, for as he turned the corner he could see Esther Powel on the steps, looking out upon the square ablaze with light and confusion.