There is always a certain element of luck in one’s experiences, and chance ordained it that Patsy Garvan should arrive in front of St. Swithin’s Hospital at just the right moment. His anxiety had sent him in that direction after his repeated failures to reach his chief, but he had no very definite idea in view.  
He had driven the little runabout to Amsterdam Avenue partly to kill time during his chief’s absence from the hotel. Having left the car around the corner, he had approached the hospital on foot. When he came near the big entrance, he noticed an ambulance—evidently a private one, for there was no lettering on it—drawn up at the curb with a circle of the curious loitering about it. Evidently some patient was to be taken away in the ambulance; perhaps a convalescent. Patsy mingled with the crowd, but before he had time to make any inquiries, a couple of hospital attendants appeared, half carrying, half supporting a tall man.
 
One glance at the face was sufficient for Patsy. Despite the intense pallor which lay under the tan, he recognized it at once as being that of James Stone, whom he had previously taken pains to identify. The miner was fully dressed, but his eyes were sunken, and every line of his naturally powerful frame bespoke weakness and listlessness. The two attendants, although they were supporting Stone, were allowing him to make use of his lower limbs, and the mine owner was able to walk unsteadily toward the ambulance.
 
Nick’s assistant looked about and into the wide hallway, but could see no signs of Doctor Follansbee. A dapper-looking interne in a white uniform was superintending the removal. When Stone had been placed in the vehicle, a stout, matronly looking nurse in uniform came out of the hospital and entered the waiting ambulance. Immediately the vehicle, a motor one, started quietly and shot ahead down the street.
 
Patsy bitterly regretted that he had left his runabout. If he had brought it to the front of the hospital he could have followed the ambulance, but as it was there was no hope of that. The ambulance was already a block away, and going at a high rate of speed, and there was no other available vehicle within reach.
 
“Confound it,” thought the young detective. “Why didn’t it have a sign on it? If it had I would have known where to look for Stone.”
 
As a matter of fact, he did know where to look, although indirectly. He had to have something to worry about, however, for this succession of anticipated developments was getting on his nerves, and he felt very much aggrieved because he had been unable to share the knowledge of them with any one else. He had taken the precaution of fixing the license number of the ambulance in his memory before it had been whisked away, and he knew that all he had to do—unless the number was a false one—was to get into communication with the license bureau.
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