"Mr. Morris has—has had a stroke or something. The housekeeper 'phoned."
"Mr. Morris! A stroke?"
"The housekeeper wants you to go right out there, please."
George Judson leaped to his feet and went rushing out of the office and three steps at a time downward to his car. As he went there came over him with a rush a sense of all that he owed to this man.
"Quick! to Mr. Morris's!" he called to his chauffeur; and in an incredibly short time, as if he had plunged in a straight arrow flight, was being admitted by the housekeeper—for Milton Morris would never come to butlers. She was a tall, angular Scandinavian type, with the natural gloom upon her countenance considerably heightened.
"He is upstairs in his room, sir—you know where," said the woman solemnly, waving George on before her and following laggingly.
He bounded up the steps, but on the floor above halted, breathless. No servants were in sight. The bedchamber of Milton Morris stood at the far end in the corner over-looking Fort Street from a broad expanse of window. This door was ajar and George approached with trepidation and entered noiselessly, expecting to find a roomful of doctors and nurses.
Instead the chamber was empty save for Mil-
