But there was an interruption.  Rownie had knocked twice at her door before Lloyd had heard her.  When Lloyd had opened the door the girl handed her a card with an address written on it in the superintendent’s hand.

“This here jus’ now come in f’om Dr. Street, Miss Lloyd,” said Rownie; “Miss Bergyn” (this was the superintendent nurse) “ast me to give it to you.”

It was a call to an address that seemed familiar to Lloyd at first; but she did not stop at that moment to reflect.  Her stable telephone hung against the wall of the closet.  She rang for Lewis, and while waiting for him to get around dressed for the street.

For the moment, at the prospect of action, even her haunting fear drew off and stood away from her.  She was absorbed in her work upon the instant—­alert, watchful, self-reliant.  What the case was she could only surmise.  How long she would be away she had no means of knowing—­a week, a month, a year, she could not tell.  But she was ready for any contingency.  Usually the doctors informed the nurses as to the nature of the case at the time of sending for them, but Dr. Street had not done so now.

However, Rownie called up to her that her coupe was at the door.  Lloyd caught up her satchels and ran down the stairs, crying good-bye to Miss Douglass, whom she saw at the farther end of the hall.  In the hallway by the vestibule she changed the slide bearing her name from the top to the bottom of the roster.

“How about your mail?” cried Miss Douglass after her.

“Keep it here for me until I see how long I’m to be away,” answered Lloyd, her hand upon the knob.  “I’ll let you know.”

Lewis had put Rox in the shafts, and while the coupe spun over the asphalt at a smart clip Lloyd tried to remember where she had heard of the address before.  Suddenly she snapped her fingers; she knew the case, had even been assigned to it some eight months before.

“Yes, yes, that’s it—­Campbell—­wife dead—­Lafayette Avenue—­little daughter, Hattie—­hip disease—­hopeless—­poor little baby.”

Arriving at the house, Lloyd found the surgeon, Dr. Street, and Mr. Campbell, who was a widower, waiting for her in a small drawing-room off the library.  The surgeon was genuinely surprised and delighted to see her.  Most of the doctors of the City knew Lloyd for the best trained nurse in the hospitals.

“Oh, it’s you, Miss Searight; good enough!” The surgeon introduced her to the little patient’s father, adding:  “If any one can pull us through, Campbell, it will be Miss Searight.”

The surgeon and nurse began to discuss the case.

“I think you know it already, don’t you, Miss Searight?” said the surgeon.  “You took care of it a while last winter.  Well, there was a little improvement in the spring, not so much pain, but that in itself is a bad sign.  We have done what we could, Farnham and I. But it don’t yield to treatment; you know how these things are—­stubborn.  We made a preliminary examination yesterday.  Sinuses have occurred, and the probe leads down to nothing but dead bone.  Farnham and I had a consultation this morning.  We must play our last card.  I shall exsect the joint to-morrow.”