When Gertrude Van Deusen decided to go to see Newton Fitzgerald on that eventful evening, she thought first, as has been intimated already, of calling on Bailey Armstrong to escort her. But as she hoped to win Newton's confidence, and did not like to have her visit known to others, she believed that by going quietly, alone with Mary Snow, she would be doing wisely. And so the two met at the drug-store, as previously arranged, and attracted no attention whatever.
When they arrived at the address given them, they found a big apartment block, with stores underneath. There was no one in the vestibule as they entered, but a man stood waiting at the elevator—apparently the functionary who had charge of the lift.
"Does Newton Fitzgerald live here?" asked Gertrude.
The man motioned to the elevator and the two young women entered and were quickly borne to the top floor.
"This way," said the man, leading the way down a narrow corridor, and pressing an electric button at the last door on the right.
It was opened by a neatly dressed Irish woman, who led the way into a comfortably furnished living-room.
"Be seated," she said. "I'll be back in a while." She spoke with a brogue, and they did not notice the peculiar expression. For some moments they remained quietly waiting; but no one came.
"He must be pretty sick, the place is so quiet," said Mary Snow, at last.
"Probably," assented Gertrude. "But I suppose they'll call us when they are ready."
Fifteen minutes, thirty, forty-five—an hour went by, and still no one came. The place was oppressively still. The electric lights burned brightly; a breeze came in from an open window; the street sounds below floated up to them, insistent and garish. But no rustle of garments, no hushed voices, no slightest motion in the rooms beyond came through the door.