“Mr. Carter was seized with a fit in the street half an hour since.”
“Is he—dead?” asked Phil, in dismay.
“No, no! I think he will come out all right.”
“Where is he?”
“In my house. I didn't of course know who he was, but I found in his pocket a letter directed to Oliver Carter, Madison Avenue. There was also a business card. He is connected in business with Mr. Pitkin, is he not?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Phil; “where is your house?”
“In Bleecker Street, near by. Mr. Carter is lying on the bed. He is unconscious, but my wife heard him say: 'Call Philip.' I suppose that is you?”
“Yes, sir; my name is Philip.”
“I went around to his place of business, and was told that you had just left there. I was given a description of you and hurried to find you. Will you come to the house and see Mr. Carter?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Phil, forgetting everything except that his kind and generous employer was sick, perhaps dangerously.