There was no mistaking that clean-cut, hard-featured face, with its gleaming, malignant eyes and drawn, sinister lips. Its expression was like that of a dog about to bite.
“Floyd himself, as sure as fate,” flashed through Nick’s mind. “He’s gazing in here with some object in view. Can he see me, I wonder, as plainly as I can see him? He will take to his heels, in that case, if I stir to undertake catching him. But how can I otherwise get him, or contrive——”
Nick’s train of thought ended abruptly.
The face at the window suddenly vanished. Nick now leaped up and rushed through the hall, hurriedly opening the front door and descending the steps to the sidewalk. He gazed quickly in all directions. There were pedestrians to be seen in all directions—but no sign of Stuart Floyd.
An approaching taxicab was swerving toward the curbing. The glare of its lamps dazzled Nick’s eyes and prevented his seeing distinctly. He turned sharp on his heel and entered the house, going into his library, which then was unoccupied.
“By Jove, that was strange,” he said to himself, taking the swivel chair at his desk. “That certainly was Stuart Floyd. But why was he gazing into my house? Has he vengeful designs upon me? Is he out to plant a bomb, or to turn some other cowardly trick? If he——”
The doorbell rang, ending Nick’s train of thought, and he heard his butler going through the hall to answer the summons. He sprang up and intercepted him, saying quickly:
“Go back, Joseph, to the kitchen. I will answer the bell. There may be something doing.”
Joseph looked surprised but Nick did not say what more he had in mind. It was not in his nature to let another face possible peril, instead of meeting it himself. He saw Joseph retreating, and he then strode to the door and opened it.
The taxicab mentioned had stopped in front of the house. Its passenger had alighted and was standing on the steps.