Several such attempts brought no response, and the valet tried the door. It would not open, so Ferdinand went to Eunice's door and knocked there.

Jumping from her bed, and throwing a kimono round her, Eunice opened her own door.

Ferdinand started at sight of her white face, but recovered himself, and said, "Mr. Embury, ma'am. He doesn't answer my knock. Can he be ill?"

"Oh, I guess not," Eunice tried to speak casually, but miserably failed. "Go through that way." She pointed to the door between her room and her husband's.

Ferdinand hesitated. "You open it, Mrs. Embury, please," he said, and his voice shook.

"Why, Ferdinand, what do you mean? Open that door!"

"Yes, ma'am," and turning the k.n.o.b, Ferdinand entered.

"Why, he's still asleep!" he exclaimed. "Shall I wake him?"

"Yes--that is--yes, of course! Wake him up, Ferdinand."

The door on the other side of Eunice's room opened, and Aunt Abby put her head in.

"What's the matter? What's Ferdinand doing in your room, Eunice? Are you ill?"

"No, Aunt Abby--" but Eunice got no further. She sank back on her bed, and buried her face in the pillows.

"Get up, Mr. Embury--it's late," Ferdinand was saying, and then he lightly touched the arm of his master.

"He--he--oh, Miss Eunice! Oh, my G.o.d! Why, ma'am--he--he looks to be dead!"

With a shriek, Eunice raised her head a moment and then flung it down on the pillows again, crying, "I don't believe it! You don't know what you're saying! It can't be so!"

"Yes, I do, ma'am--he's--why, he's cold!"

"Let me come in!" ordered Aunt Abby, as Ferdinand tried to bar her entrance; "let me see, I tell you! Yes, he is dead! Oh, Eunice--now, Ferdinand, don't lose your head! Go quickly and telephone for Doctor--what's his name? I mean the one in this building--on the ground floor--Harper--that's it--Doctor Harper. Go, man, go!"

Ferdinand went, and Aunt Abby leaned over the silent figure.

"What do you suppose ailed him, Eunice? He was perfectly well, when he went to bed, wasn't he?"

"Yes," came a m.u.f.fled reply.

"Get up, Eunice; get up, dear. That doctor will be here in a minute.

Brush up your hair, and fasten your kimono. You won't have time to dress. I must put on a cap."

Aunt Abby flew to her bedroom, and returned quickly, wearing a lace cap Eunice had given her, and talking as she adjusted it.

"It must be a stroke--and yet, people don't have strokes at his age.

It can't be apoplexy--he isn't that build--and, too, he's such an athlete; there's nothing the matter with him. It can't be--oh, mercy gracious! it can't be--Eunice! Sanford wouldn't kill himself, would he?"

"No! no! of course not!"

"Not just now before the election--no, of course he wouldn't! But it can't be-oh, Lord, what can it be?"

CHAPTER VII

A VISION

"I have never been so mystified in all my life!" Dr. Harper spoke in a perplexed, worried way, and a puzzled frown drew his s.h.a.ggy eyebrows together. Though the family physician of most of the tenants of the large, up-to-date apartment house, he was of the old school type and had the kindly, sociable ways of a smalltown pract.i.tioner.

"I know Sanford Embury, bone, blood and muscle," he said; "I've not only been his physician for two years, but I've examined him, watched him and kept him in pink of condition for his athletic work. If I hadn't looked after him, he might have overdone his athletics--but he didn't--he used judgment, and was more than willing to follow my advice. Result--he was in the most perfect possible physical shape in every particular! He could no more have had a stroke of apoplexy or paralysis than a young oak tree could! And there's no indication of such a thing, either. A man can't die of a stroke of any sort without showing certain symptoms. None of these are present--there's nothing present to hint the cause of his death. There's no cut, scratch or mark of any description; there's no suggestion of strangulation or heart failure--well, it's the strangest thing I ever ran up against in all my years of practice!"

The doctor sat at the Embury breakfast table, heartily partaking of the dishes Ferdinand offered. He had prescribed aromatic ammonia for Eunice, and a cup of coffee for Miss Ames, and then he had made a careful examination of Sanford Embury's mortal body.

Upon its conclusion he had insisted that the ladies join him at breakfast and he saw to it that they made more than a pretense of eating.

"You've a hard day ahead of you," he said, in his gentle, paternal way, "and you must be fortified as far as possible. I may seem harsh, Mrs.

Embury, but I'm going to ask you to be as brave as you can, right now--at first--as I may say--and then, indulge in the luxury of tears later on. This sounds brutal, I daresay, but I've a reason, dear madam. There's a mystery here. I don't go so far as to say there's anything wrong--but there's a very mysterious death to be looked into, and as your physician and your friend, I want to advise--to urge you to keep up your strength for what may be a trying ordeal. In the first place, I apprehend an autopsy will be advisable, and I trust you will give your consent to that."

"Oh, no!" cried Eunice, her face drawn with dismay, "not that!"

"Now, now, be reasonable, Mrs. Embury. I know you dislike the idea--most people do--but I think I shall have to insist upon it."

"But you can't do it, unless I agree, can you?" and Eunice looked at him sharply.

"No--but I'm sure you will agree."

"I won't! I never will! You shan't touch Sanford! I won't allow it."

"She's right!" declared Aunt Abby. "I can't see, doctor, why it is necessary to have a postmortem. I don't approve of such things.

Surely you can, somehow discover what Mr. Embury died of--and if not, what matter? He's dead, and nothing can change that! It doesn't seem to me that we have to know--"

"Pardon me, Miss Ames, it is necessary that I should know the cause of the death. I cannot make a report until--"

"Well you can find out, I should think."

"I never heard of a doctor who couldn't determine the cause of a simple, natural death of one of his own patients!" Eunice's glance was scathing and her tones full of scorn.

But the doctor realized the nervous tension she was under, and forbore to take offense, or to answer her sharply.

"Well, well, we'll see about it," he temporized. "I shall first call in Marsden, a colleague of mine, in consultation. I admit I'm at the end of my own knowledge. Tell me the details of last evening. Was Mr.

Embury just as usual, so far as you noticed?"

"Of course he was," said Eunice, biting the words off crisply. "He went to the Athletic Club he's a candidate for the presidency--"

"I know--I know--"