“None whatever, Patsy, at present,” said Nick. “We must dig up evidence that will supply us with a definite clew. I think the Ringolds may be able to aid us.”
“Are you acquainted with them?”
“With Mr. Ringold, but not with his wife,” said Nick. “We will ring them up, however, in spite of the hour.”
It was two o’clock when they sprang from the taxicab in front of the fine Ringold residence in a fashionable quarter of Brooklyn. With Patsy following, Nick hastened up the walk leading to the house and rang the bell.
The summons brought a response from one of the front windows on the second floor. It was hurriedly opened and the head and shoulders of Mr. Ringold himself appeared.
“Who’s there?” he called, gazing down.
“Nick Carter,” replied the detective. “Slip on your bath robe, Ringold, and come down to the door. I want to talk with you.”
“Great Scott!” Mr. Ringold exclaimed audibly. “You here, Nick, at this hour? What’s wrong?”
“Come down and admit me. I then will tell you.”
“I’ll be with you in half a minute.”