Alas for Alice White, who but a few hours ago had been young and strong, and heedless of disaster! Juliet descended the staircase of the hospital thrilling with horror at the remembrance of that cry, her mind seething with agitated questions. Who was Alice, and who—a thrill of excitement ran through her veins—who was Eighty-one, Grosvenor, with whom the dying girl’s thoughts had sought communion?
Grosvenor? That meant London. Alice White, then, had friends in London. Would it not be better to communicate with them, rather than with mere officials in an office?
At the door of the great building, Juliet hesitated and turned from the street as if to retrace her steps. Should she go back to the Mary Wright Ward, tell the Sister what she had overheard, and suggest telephoning forthwith? For a moment the suggestion found favour, then, with her foot outstretched to remount the first step, she drew back and walked rapidly away. In the flash of a moment it had darted into her brain as a crystallised resolution to give her information into no second hand, but to go herself to the nearest call office and ring up Eighty-one Grosvenor. The woman in the nearest bed had spoken of mutterings. The sister had caught no coherent words. If death had immediately followed her own interview, it seemed probable that no one but herself had overheard the number.
Juliet’s eyes brightened, and a flush of colour showed in her cheeks. The information received might be of the driest; the sequel of reporting it to the hospital authorities promised but small excitement; nevertheless, in her uneventful life, small things counted as great, and the touch of uncertainty fired her blood.
She seated herself in the little boxed-off room, and at the end of ten minutes’ wait received an affirmative answer to the oft-repeated question.
“Yes. This is Eighty-one, Grosvenor. Who is speaking?”
Though she had waited so long, Juliet was still pondering how to word her inquiries. It seemed useless to mention an unknown name, so on the impulse of the moment she decided to give a simple account of the accident.
“Alice White—” She was about to add—“has been mortally injured,” or some such statement, when, cutting swiftly across her words, came a cry of relief from the other end of the wire:
“Alice White! At last! We’ve been expecting to hear from you all day. It’s urgent. Why didn’t you wire?”
“I—I—” Juliet stammered in confusion, and the voice, a woman’s voice, interrupted again, in a sharp, businesslike accent: