The man shook his head.
She considered awhile, then made a gesture of utter helplessness. She knew no adequate description of the geographical position of her home. It was just the Monk Road, running from an indefinite somewhere to an equally mysterious ending, and anyone who did not know that was lacking in their education. They threaded their way through the press of people to the narrow street, and entered a cab. Then, while the husband and wife talked in subdued tones, Nancy listened to the babel of clanging gongs and footsteps of many people on the pavements over which they were passing. She suddenly bethought herself of questioning Mr. Morris as to his knowledge of her son Cornelius. His answer was as perplexing as everything else she had encountered in that strange new world. He had never heard of him. Fortunately she had a business card of her son's firm, and after much cogitation Mr. Morris decided that he could find the establishment in the morning.
Nancy secured a much-needed night's rest at the home of the Morris family, and was up and had the kettle boiling on the range before the appearance of the household.
"I'd no enjoy the day at all if I wasn't doin' somethin' o' the sort! An' ye're tired," she responded to Mr. Morris' surprised ejaculation. She had to curb her anxiety to be off until after the noon hour, and then, with a promise to return, if her plans miscarried, she was piloted aboard the Overhead by Mr. Morris.
"I'll drop you off in front of the block in which your son's offices are situated," he informed her by the way. The run through the city was perhaps a distance of four miles, and while Nancy gazed in open-mouthed wonder, the little man pointed out to her the places of note along the route.
"It's all just wonderful," was the text of her replies.
They drew up at a little station, and from it descended to the pavement, and at a great door in a block that made her neck ache to see its top, he left her, with a list of directions that only served to shatter the remnant of location which her mind contained. She looked uncertainly about her until her eyes rested on the sign, "Beware of Pickpockets!" then she clutched her old leathern wallet, and with frightened glances hurried inside. But here a second labyrinth opened to her. A glass door led into a very spacious apartment, where a number of men were counting money in little iron cages. She boldly marched in and asked the nearest one, "Please, sir, is this Cornelius McVeigh's office?" The man addressed stopped his counting and scowled at her, but something in her wrinkled, serious face caused him to relent of his churlishness.
"A moment, ma'am," he replied.
Next instant he was by her side, and very gallantly led her to the outer hall and over to the elevator man. That Mecca of information scratched his head before venturing to assist them, then he hazarded, briskly, "Fifth floor, No. 682."
"If that's wrong, come back," the young man said, kindly, as he left her.