“What doctor?” bolted out Randy.
“The one you went for. He got here ahead of you. I took him up to the studio and he sent me for this.”
“The doctor—here?” cried Randy. “That is impossible! The doctor the druggist telephoned for lives a mile away and couldn’t possibly get here inside of the next fifteen minutes.”
“I don’t understand—” began the landlady, but Randy darted past her.
“Something’s wrong,” he faltered, as he crossed the threshold of the studio. “See,” he added to the landlady—“there is no doctor here.”
“Why, I left him here not two minutes since,” declared the woman, staring about the room and almost dropping the basin she carried in her sheer amaze and bewilderment.
Randy’s quick eyes swept the room with a swift, comprehending glance. Mr. Randall lay quiet as if exhausted on the couch where Randy had seen him last. Except for him and themselves the apartment held no occupant.
Suddenly Randy uttered a startled cry. It was a fairly terrified one, shocking afresh the already disturbed nerves of the landlady.
“Where is the package that was on that table?” he cried, wildly.
“Eh—oh, yes, I noticed it when I went for the hot water. It’s gone; isn’t it?”