“Now, then, my boy,” the detective went on, pointing to the telephone on his desk, “you’ll oblige me by calling up Miss Worth and telling her that your friend has agreed to place himself in her hands. Say that he’ll arrive there about half past nine to-night.”  
Patsy eyed his chief doubtfully. “It’s a risky business,” he warned him. “You’ll have to stay there for some time to keep up the bluff, and Follansbee will probably visit Stone to-morrow. If the scoundrel should recognize you——”
 
“I’ll take that risk,” Nick put in; “but I don’t think he will. If I can’t make use of a disguise that will deceive him, I ought to go out of the business. It’s settled, anyway. I want you to accompany me to Miss Worth’s and see me safely deposited.”
 
“How long do you expect to stay there?”
 
“I haven’t the slightest idea. That will depend on circumstances. Perhaps I can get away after a day, but it may be a week, for all I know.” And he left the room.
 
Patsy nodded after the lithe, upright figure. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours, chief,” he said to himself; “and if you’re not out of that place by that time, I’ll be hanged if I don’t come and get you.”
 
He turned to the desk, and, after consulting the telephone book, found the number of Miss Worth’s private hospital.
 
“Number two bed in Ward E will be reserved for your friend, Mr. Bainbridge,” Miss Worth informed him over the wire. Gerald Bainbridge was the name Patsy had given to Nick on the spur of the moment.
 
About nine o’clock that evening young Garvan, who was fidgeting about in the study, heard the door open softly. Some one entered the room. He knew that it was his chief, but he was forced to think that the disguise was one of the most successful Nick had ever attempted. He had dressed himself in a suit that was a size or two too large for him. The garments hung loosely on him, he stooped slightly, and it seemed as though his shoulders were much thinner and narrower than was actually the case. His cheeks looked hollow and his eyes had dark rings around them that seemed to indicate a weakened frame and long hours on a sick bed. A straggling beard, badly in need of trimming, covered his cheeks and chin. It was by no means an ordinary false one, but one of Nick’s own invention—of the kind used by him when the occasion called for extraordinary care against detection.
 
He knew that he would be in charge of a nurse, and that a commonplace disguise would not stand the close inspection he would be obliged to undergo. It would have taken a Nick Carter himself, however, to discover that that beard was artificial. It had been put on with a great deal of care, and the thin substance into which the hairs were embedded so closely resembled the human skin in hue and texture that it was almost impossible to tell where one began and the other left off. Ordinary washing would not effect it in the least, and yet it could be removed in fifteen minutes’ time—if one knew how. It was the same with the wig.
 
He was leaning heavily on a stout walking stick, and caught the look of admiration in Patsy’s eyes.
 
“Well, will I do?” he asked.
 
His assistant drew a deep breath. “You’re the real thing,” was the enthusiastic comment. “I never saw you turn out anything better than that.”
 
A moment later Ida Jones, Nick’s beautiful woman assistant, entered the room. She, too, was to play a part in the sketch that had been so hastily staged. Nick waved one trembling hand toward her.
 
“For an old............