The butler's voice changed. "Oh, very well, Mr. Ollnee," he replied, knowing the intimacy which existed between his mistress and the psychic. "Just hold the line; I'll call her."
It was a long time before the calm, cultivated voice of Mrs. Joyce came over the 'phone, but it was worth the waiting for. "Who is it?" she asked.
"Mrs. Joyce, this is Victor Ollnee. My mother is very, very ill. I'm afraid she's dead."
He heard her gasp of pain and surprise as she called: "Your mother! Why she seemed perfectly well last night."
"I found her lying cold and still this morning. I can't detect any pulse or any breathing. Can't you come over at once? Please do. I don't know a soul in the city but you, and I'm in great trouble."
"You poor boy! Of course I'll come. I'll be over instantly. Have you called a doctor?"
"No, but the woman below has been up. She is quite sure my mother is dead."
"Gracious heavens! I can't realize it. Good-by for a few minutes. I'll come at once."
Victor returned to Mrs. Bowers' apartment with a glow of grateful affection for Mrs. Joyce. It was wonderful what comfort and security came to him with her voice so sincerely filled with compassion and desire to help. He wondered if Leo would come with her, and asked himself how the news of his bereavement would affect her. Her attitude toward him had been that of the elder sister who felt herself also to be the wiser, but he did not resent that now.
He thought of the effect of his mother's death upon the press. Would the _Star_ forego its malignant assault upon her character now that she was gone beyond its reach? Would those who threatened her with arrest be remorseful?
Mrs. Bowers persuaded him to take another cup of hot coffee, and then together they returned to the little apartment above to wait for the coming of the doctor and Mrs. Joyce. The young mother became philosophical at once. "After a body gets to be forty I tell you he don't know what's going to happen next. I reckon you better set here where you can't see the bed," she added, kindly. "It don't do any good, and it only makes you grieve the harder."
He obeyed her like a child and listened through his mist of tears as she rambled on. "I've had my share of trouble," she explained. "First my mother went, then my oldest boy, then my husband took sick. Yes, a body has to face trouble about so often, anyway, and, besides, I don't suppose your mother was afraid of death, anyhow. I've known all along what her business was, ever since I came into the house, and I've been up to see her a few times. Still I'm not much of a believer. Dad is, though. It's his greatest affliction that he can't hear The Voices any more. I want to say I believe in your mother. She was a mighty fine woman; but the docterin of spiritualism I never could swaller, notwithstanding I grew up 'longside of it."