Then the little wrapped bottle he held in his hand reminded him that he
must hasten if he would perform the mission left for him and return in
time for supper. There was something in his soul that would not let him
wait until after supper. So he plunged forward into the dusk and swung
himself on board a down-town car.

He had no small trouble in finding the street, or rather court, in which
the old woman lived.

He stumbled up the narrow staircase, lighting matches as he went, for
the place was dark as midnight. By the time he had climbed four flights
he was wondering what in thunder Wittemore came to places like this for?
Just to major in sociology? Didn't the nut know that he would never make
a success in a thing like that? What was he doing it for, anyway? Did he
expect to teach it? Poor fellow, he would never get a job! His looks
were against him.

He knocked, with no result, at several doors for his old woman, but at
last a feeble voice answered: "Come in," and he entered a room entirely
dark. There didn't even appear to be a window, though he afterward
discovered one opening into an air-shaft. He stood hesitating within the
room, blinking and trying to see what was about him.

"Be that you, Mr. Widymer?" asked a feeble voice from the opposite
corner.

"Wittemore couldn't come. He had a telegram that his mother is dying and
he had to get the train. He sent me with the medicine."