Garland stared at him with feverish eyes, as white as a sheet, with that terrible expression of anguish and anxiety on his drawn features that Nick had noticed in the afternoon.
“Beg pardon!” he muttered, pulling himself together. “I don’t think I know you.”
“Yes, you do,” said Nick. “We met this afternoon in Welden’s office. I am Nick Carter.”
“Oh, good heavens!” Garland seized the detective’s arm. “Welden said I would not have known you. Tell me—do you bring me good news? You have been waiting for me. You must, then, have learned something.”
“Invite me in,” Nick replied. “There will be time enough for me to tell you.”
“Pardon! Certainly,” Garland said, fishing out his keys. “I’m so frightfully upset that I scarce know what I’m doing. I started for home in a taxi, but couldn’t remain in it. I was so infernally nervous. I wanted to walk—walk—walk. I shall go stark mad, Carter, unless those plans are recovered. Come up to my room.”
Nick followed him to a handsomely furnished double room on the second floor.
Garland switched on the lights, throwing off his hat and inverness, and then placing cigars and cigarettes on the table.
“Help yourself, Mr. Carter, but don’t keep me in suspense,” he pleaded. “What have you learned?”
Nick did not hurry. He settled back in an armchair, lighting a cigar, and inquired: