Shirley
caught up the telephone again.
"Some one says that Cronin is at Bellevue Hospital, injured.
I'll find out."
It was true. Captain Cronin was lying at point of death, the
ward nurse said, in answer to his eager query. At first the
ambulance surgeon had supposed him to be drunk, for a patrolman
had pulled him out of a dark doorway, unconscious.
"Where was the doorway? This is his son speaking, so tell me
all."
"Just a minute. Oh! Here is the report slip. He was taken from
the corner of Avenue A and East Eleventh Street. You'd better
come down right away, for he is apt to die tonight. He's only
been here ten minutes."
"Has any one else telephoned to find out about him?"
"No. We didn't even know his name until just as you called up,
when we found his papers and some warrants in a pocketbook. How
did you know?"
But Shirley disconnected curtly, this time. He bowed his head in
thought, and then, with his usual nervous custom, fumbled for a
cigarette. Here was the Captain, whom he had left on Forty-fourth
Street, near Fifth Avenue, a short time before, discovered fully
three miles away.
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