In the bright glow close to the table, however, sat the solitary occupant of the room. He was lounging in a large armchair, with his slippered feet in another, and his tall figure wrapped in a long house robe. He seemed to be a man of fifty, of refined appearance, with hair and beard slightly shot with gray. He wore black-rimmed glasses and was reading a book, over which he gazed inquiringly when the detective entered.
“Sheldon himself,” thought Nick, recalling Nancy Nordeck’s description of the man. “Alone and absorbed in a book. It’s odds, then, I’m ahead of any warning from Kate Crandall. She certainly has not been here since I left her.”
These conclusions flashed through Nick’s mind while he bowed and said:[Pg 25]
“I am looking for Mr. Floyd, or Mr. Sheldon. You are one or the other, I infer.”
“My name is Sheldon,” he replied, drawing up in his chair. “Mr. Floyd is out just now, but he may return at any moment. What is your business?”
“I want a little information which I think you, or Mr. Floyd, can give me.”
“Certainly. Sit down, Mr.——”
“Carter,” put in Nick. “I am a detective.”
“Not—not Nick Carter?” faltered Sheldon inquiringly, with a look of surprise.
“Yes. I see that you have heard of me.”