The Luminous Face - Carolyn Wells

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      “Who isn’t?” returned Pollard, smiling, and then Barry turned off in his own street, and Pollard went on down toward his home, a small hotel on West Fortieth.

      Held up for a few moments by the great tide of traffic at Forty-second Street, he glanced at his wrist watch and found it was ten minutes after six. And then, a taxicab passed him, and in it he saw Phyllis Lindsay. She did not see him, however, so, the traffic signal being given, he went on his way.

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      Every hour of every twenty-four is filled with amazing occurrences and startling episodes. Astonishing incidents and even more startling coincidences are happening every minute of every sixty minutes, but the fact that those most interested are unaware of these deeds is what makes the great cases of mystery.

      Only an omniscient eye that could see all the activities of the few hours following the events just related could pierce the veil of doubt and uncertainty that overhung the ensuing tragedy.

      The first human being to receive news of it was Miss Hester Jordan.

      This capable and efficient young woman was the office nurse of Doctor Davenport, and her position was no sinecure.

      Of a highly nervous temperament, she yet managed to preserve the proper calm and poise that nurses should always show, except when, at the end of a long, hard day, she became mentally and physically exhausted.

      Though supposed to be off duty at six o’clock, her relief was frequently late in arriving and in this instance had not yet put in an appearance, though it was half past the hour.

      Wearily, Miss Jordan answered telephone calls, striving to keep her tired voice pleasant and amiable.

      “No,” she would answer the anxious speakers, “Doctor Davenport is not in.” “Yes, I expect him soon.” “Can you leave a message?” “Yes, I will tell him.” “He will surely be in by seven.” “No, he left no message for you.” “No, I don’t know exactly where he is.” “Yes, I will let you know.”

      Replies of this sort, over and over, strained her nerves to their furthest tension, and when at six-forty the telephone bell jangled again she took the receiver from its hook with what was almost a jerk.

      “Hello,” she said, unable to keep utter exasperation out of her voice.

      But instead of a summons from some impatient patient, she heard a faint voice say, “Come, Doctor—oh, come quick—I’m—I’m done for—shot——”

      There were more incoherent words, but Nurse Jordan couldn’t catch them.

      “Who are you?” she cried, alert now. “Who is speaking?”

      “Gleason,” came back the faint voice. “Wash’—t’n Square—come—can’t you come quick——”

      She could get no more. The voice ceased, and only blank silence met her frantic queries.

      She hung up her receiver, and a sudden realization of the situation came to her. She seemed to see the scene—somebody shot—somebody telephoning that he was shot—somebody’s voice getting weaker and ceasing to sound at all—the picture was too much for her tired brain, and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed hysterically from sheer nervous excitement.

      Only for a moment did she give way. Nurse Jordan’s training and personality was not to be conquered by a sudden shock of any sort.

      Pulling herself together, she set to work to find the doctor.

      This meant telephoning to two or three places where she knew there was a chance of locating him.

      And at the third call she found him at Mrs Ballard’s, and, though still shaken and quivering, she controlled her voice and told him distinctly of the tragic telephone call she had taken.

      “Gleason!” cried the Doctor, “Washington Square? What number?”

      But Nurse Jordan didn’t know, and Doctor Davenport had to call up somebody to inquire.

      He tried Mrs Lindsay, who was Gleason’s sister, but her wire was busy and after an impatient moment, Davenport called Pollard, at his hotel.

      “Here,” he cried, handing the receiver to a staring butler, “take this and when the gentleman answers, ask him the address of Robert Gleason. Tell him Doctor Davenport’s inquiring.”

      He then returned to the prescription he had been writing, and gave it to Mrs Ballard, who was indignant at having her interview with her doctor intruded upon.

      “I’ll call to-morrow,” he soothed her; “you’ll be better in the morning. Let fish alone, and stick to simple diet for a few days. Get that address, Jenkins?”

      “Yes, sir,” and the butler gave him a slip of paper.

      “H’m—near Washington Square, not on it,” he murmured, looking at the written number, and then he ran down the Ballard front steps, and jumping into his waiting car, gave his chauffeur Gleason’s address.

      “Wonder what’s up?” he thought, as his car rolled down Fifth Avenue. “Accident, I suppose. Jordan is always on edge this time of night. Have to take her excitement with a grain of salt.”

      But when he reached the house, and pushed the button that indicated McIlvaine’s apartment, there was no response from the closed street door.

      He rang again, long and insistently, then, still getting no encouragement, he pushed another button.

      The door gave a grudging grunt, and, unwillingly, as it seemed, moved slowly inward.

      Doctor Davenport was half way up the first flight of stairs, when a woman’s head appeared through a doorway.

      “What do you want?” she inquired, a little crisply.

      “Mr McIlvaine’s apartment.”

      “That’s it, opposite,” she returned, more affable as she caught sight of the good-looking man. “Mr Gleason’s in there now.”

      “Yes, he’s the man I want. Thank you, madame.”

      She still stood, watching, as he rang the doorbell of the designated apartment.

      There was no answer, nor any sound from inside. The doctor looked apprehensively at the door.

      “Your key wouldn’t let me in, I suppose,” he said, turning back to the now frankly curious spectator.

      “Oh, Lord, no! We don’t have interchangeable keys! He’s out, I expect. He’s mostly out.”

      “But I want to get into his place——”

      “You do! And he not there! You a friend of his?”

      “Why—yes; I’m his doctor—and I’m afraid he’s ill.”

      “Oh—that. But look here—if you’re his doctor, why didn’t you know which was his place? You’re pretty slick, mister, but it’s a bit fishy—I think.”

      She half withdrew back into her own doorway, but curiosity still detained her, and, too, Doctor Davenport’s demeanor impressed her as being quite all right.

      “Nothing wrong—is there?” she whispered, coming across the small hall, and peering into the doctor’s face.

      “Oh, no—I think not. But he may be helpless, and I must get in. I’ve never been here before, but I’ve been called by him just now. I must get in. Where’s the janitor?”

      “Where, indeed? If you can find him, I’ll bless you forever. I’ve wanted him all day.”

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