Garrick’s face was actually pale as he fairly started back from the telephone and caught my eye.

“Tom,” he exclaimed huskily to me, “Violet Winslow left for New York on the early train this morning!”

I felt my heart skip a beat, then pound away like a sledge-hammer at my ribs as the terrible possibilities of the situation were seared into my brain.

“Yes, Warrington—­a letter to her?  Read it—­quick,” I heard Garrick’s tense voice repeating.  “I see.  Her maid Lucille was taken very ill a few days ago and she allowed her to go to her brother who lives on Ninth Street.  I understand.  Now—­the letter.”

I could not hear what was said over the telephone, but later Garrick repeated it to me and I afterwards saw the letter itself which I may as well reproduce here.  It said: 

“Since I left you, mademoiselle, I am very ill here at the home of my brother.  I have a nice room in the back of the house on the first floor and now that I am getting better I can sit up and look out of the window.

“I am very ill yet, but the worst is past and some time when you are in New York I wish I could see you.  You have always been so good to me, mademoiselle, that I hope I may soon be back again, if you have not a maid better than your poor Lucille.

“Your faithful servant,

“Lucille de Veau.”

“And she’s already in the city?” asked Garrick of Warrington as he finished reading the letter.  “Mrs. de Lancey has gone with her—­to do some shopping.  I see.  That will take all day, she said?  She is going to call on Lucille—­to-night—­that’s what she told her new maid there?  To-night?  That’s all right, my boy.  I just wanted to be sure.  Don’t worry.  We’ll look out for her here, all right.  Now, Warrington, you just keep perfectly quiet.  No relapses, you know, old fellow.  We can take care of everything.  I’m glad you told me.  Good-bye.”

Garrick had finished up his conversation with Warrington in a confident and reassuring tone, quite the opposite to that with which he had started and even more in contrast with the expression on his face as he talked.

“I didn’t want to alarm the boy unnecessarily,” he explained to me, as he hung up the receiver.  “I could tell that he was very weak yet and that the trip up to Tuxedo had almost done him up.  It seems that she thought a good deal of Lucille—­there’s the address—­99 Ninth.  You can never tell about these maids, though.  Lucille may be all right—­or the other maid may be all bad, or vice versa.  There’s no telling.  The worst of it is that she and her aunt are somewhere in the city, perhaps shopping.  It only needs that they become separated for something, anything, to happen.  There’s been no time to warn her, either, and she’s just as likely to visit that Lucille to-night alone as not.  Gad—­I’m glad I didn’t fly off up there to Tuxedo, after all.  She’ll need someone here to protect her.”