“Yes, sir. He has a suite with Mr. Floyd on the third floor. They have been here about two months.”
“Philip Floyd?”
“Yes, sir. But I don’t think he is here to-day. He travels a good deal of the time. The clerk can tell you.”
“It’s not material,” said Nick, turning away.
He sauntered out and around to the side door of the house, throwing away his cigar, then entered and took the elevator, saying to the man in charge:
“Miss Crandall’s apartments.”
“Third floor, sir,” directed the man. “Number ninety-eight, to the right.”
“Number ninety-eight?” queried Nick. “I thought Ralph Sheldon had that suite.[Pg 20]”
“No, sir. He and Mr. Floyd have number ninety-four, rear corridor.”
Nick did not reply. He stepped out on the third floor and turned to the right. The dimly lighted corridor was deserted. It ran parallel with one side of the house and led to a stairway and a narrow passage back of some of the rear apartments, evidently a passage and stairway designed for the use of servants and the removal of sweepings and rubbish.