“You, Carter!”
Winthrop Crawford had raised himself in bed, and, leaning on one arm, was staring wonderingly at the figure of the detective seated in a chair close to the head of the bed.
Nick had removed his false mustache, and although he was still dressed in one of the suits he had worn as “Thomas Mortimer,” Crawford recognized the clean-cut features.
“It is rather an early hour to make a call, Crawford,” the detective said, with an apologetic smile.
“Oh, I’m always glad to see you,” was the answer. “Hanged if I understand how you got in, though. Wasn’t my door locked?”
“I believe it was,” was the calm response.
“Then——”
“Oh, you ought to know that locked doors don’t trouble me, Crawford,” Nick broke in, his smile broadening. “I sometimes tickle their keyholes a little, and sometimes pass around them.”
He was delighted and greatly relieved to have Crawford awake and evidently in such good trim.
“And which method did you employ in this instance?” inquired the man on the bed, with a twinkle in his eyes.
“I’ll tell you all about that when I come to it. It’s too long to be dismissed in a sentence. As a matter of fact, this is by no means my first visit to your room since you went to bed last night, and I’ve spent considerable time here.”
Crawford looked bewildered. “What on earth for?” he demanded; then, as he saw Nick eying him queerly, he added: “Why are you looking at me like that? What has happened?”
Instead of answering, the detective put another question. “How do you feel this morning?” he queried.
Crawford searched Nick’s face as though he were half afraid that his visitor had lost his senses.
“I feel like a fighting cock,” he said promptly. “Why should I feel any other way?”
Nick’s face had grown stern. “Because some five or six hours ago,” he answered gravely, “you were forcibly drugged, and a murderous attack was made upon you.”
The blank look of amazement that came into Crawford’s eyes increased as memory returned to him. He sat up in bed and stared at the detective.
“Good heavens, I remember now!” he broke out. “I—I thought at first, though, that it was only a nightmare.” He raised his brown, muscular hand and passed it across his brow. “Yes,” he muttered slowly, “I remember—I saw Jim Stone—I saw the wet sponge—his terrible face!”
His voice died away into a frail whisper, whereupon Nick came up closer to the bed and laid a kindly hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Stone drugged you,” he explained; “but that was not the worst he tried to do. The drug was only administered so that you might be kept quiet during what was to follow. Look!”
With a quick movement he pulled back Crawford’s right sleeve, and then, extending his finger, indicated a small speck of hardened blood on the tanned forearm.
“That mark covers a puncture made by the hypodermic syringe,” the calm voice went on, “and it was charged with the bacilli of some deadly disease when it was first handed to Stone to operate with.”
The mine owner listened rigidly.
“Again?” he whispered hoarsely. “Jim has tried again?”
“Yes, and he came very near accomplishing it this time,” the detective answered. “Fortunately, however, I was in a position to take a hand. Had I not done so, I’m afraid it would have been all up with you. Neither you nor any one else would have known of what had happened, and by the time you had begun to feel the effects of the injection you would probably have been beyond hope or help.”
He seated himself at the foot of the bed and quietly told the whole story. Before it was concluded, the lined, russet face of the miner had become sallow and beaded with perspiration. He leaned back on the pillow, his hands clasped behind his head.
“This is frightful; far more so than anything I dreamed of,” he said, in an uncertain voice. “How can I reward you for what you’ve done?”
The detective leaned forward and laid his hands on the covers over one of the raised knees.
“The only reward I ask for,” he said, “is to see you rouse yourself to the true situation. If there was any doubt before, certainly none can be pr............