Scenting a good feature story, my city editor had sent me out on an assignment, my sole equipment being a clipping of two paragraphs from the morning Star.

GIRL IN COMA SIX DAYS—­SHOWS NO SIGN OF REVIVAL

Virginia Blakeley, the nineteen-year-old daughter of Mrs. Stuart Blakeley, of Riverside Drive, who has been in a state of coma for six days, still shows no sign of returning consciousness.

Ever since Monday some member of her family has been constantly beside her.  Her mother and sister have both vainly tried to coax her back to consciousness, but their efforts have not met with the slightest response.  Dr. Calvert Haynes, the family physician, and several specialists who have been called in consultation, are completely baffled by the strange malady.

Often I had read of cases of morbid sleep lasting for days and even for weeks.  But this was the first case I had ever actually encountered and I was glad to take the assignment.

The Blakeleys, as every one knew, had inherited from Stuart Blakeley a very considerable fortune in real estate in one of the most rapidly developing sections of upper New York, and on the death of their mother the two girls, Virginia and Cynthia, would be numbered among the wealthiest heiresses of the city.

They lived in a big sandstone mansion fronting the Hudson and it was with some misgiving that I sent up my card.  Both Mrs. Blakeley and her other daughter, however, met me in the reception-room, thinking, perhaps, from what I had written on the card, that I might have some assistance to offer.

Mrs. Blakeley was a well-preserved lady, past middle-age, and very nervous.

“Mercy, Cynthia!” she exclaimed, as I explained my mission, “it’s another one of those reporters.  No, I cannot say anything—­not a word.  I don’t know anything.  See Doctor Haynes.  I—­”

“But, mother,” interposed Cynthia, more calmly, “the thing is in the papers.  It may be that some one who reads of it may know of something that can be done.  Who can tell?”

“Well, I won’t say anything,” persisted the elder woman.  “I don’t like all this publicity.  Did the newspapers ever do anything but harm to your poor dear father?  No, I won’t talk.  It won’t do us a bit of good.  And you, Cynthia, had better be careful.”

Mrs. Blakeley backed out of the door, but Cynthia, who was a few years older than her sister, had evidently acquired independence.  At least she felt capable of coping with an ordinary reporter who looked no more formidable than myself.

“It is quite possible that some one who knows about such cases may learn of this,” I urged.

She hesitated as her mother disappeared, and looked at me a moment, then, her feelings getting the better of her, burst forth with the strange appeal I have already quoted.

It was as though I had come at just an opportune moment when she must talk to some outsider to relieve her pent-up feelings.