“He seems to be in no danger,” came the answer.  “Are you interested in the patient, Miss Erith?”

“No—­that is—­yes.  Yes, I am interested.”

“Shall we communicate with you in case any unfavourable symptoms appear?”

“Please do!”

“Are you a relative or friend?”

“N-no.  I am very slightly interested—­in his recovery.  Nothing more.”

“Very well.  But we do not find his name in any directory.  We have attempted to communicate with his family, but nobody of that name claims him.  You say you are personally interested in the young man?”

“Oh, no,” said Miss Erith, “except that I hope he is not going to die....  He seems so—­young—­f-friendless—­”

“Then you have no personal knowledge of the patient?”

“None whatever....  What did you say his name is?”

“McKay.”

For a moment the name sounded oddly familiar but meaningless in her ears.  Then, with a thrill of sudden recollection, she asked again for the man’s name.

“The name written in his cheque-book is McKay.”

“McKay!” she repeated incredulously.  “What else?”

“Kay.”

“What!!”

“That is the name in the cheque-book—­Kay McKay.”

Dumb, astounded, she could not utter a word.

“Do you know anything about him, Miss Erith?” inquired the distant voice.

“Yes—­yes!...  I don’t know whether I do....  I have heard the—­that name—­a similar name—­” Her mind was in a tumult now.  Could such a thing happen?  It was utterly impossible!

The voice on the wire continued: 

“The police have been here but they are not interested in the case, as no robbery occurred.  The young man is still unconscious, suffering from the chloral.  If you are interested, Miss Erith, would you kindly call at the hospital to-morrow?”

“Yes....  Did you say that there was foreign money in his pockets?”

“Dutch and Danish silver and English gold.”

“Thank you....  I shall call to-morrow.  Don’t let him leave before I arrive.”

“What?”

“I wish to see him.  Please do not permit him to leave before I get there.  It—­it is very important—­vital—­in case he is the man—­the Kay McKay in question.”

“Very well.  Good-night.”

Miss Erith sank back in her armchair, shivering even in the warm glow from the hearth.

“Such things can not happen!” she said aloud.  “Such things do not happen in life!”

And she told herself that even in stories no author would dare—­not even the veriest amateur scribbler—­would presume to affront intelligent readers by introducing such a coincidence as this appeared to be.

“Such things do not happen!” repeated Miss Erith firmly.

Such things, however, do occur.

Was it possible that the Great Secret, of which the Lauffer cipher letter spoke, was locked within the breast of this young fellow who now lay unconscious in the Samaritan Hospital?