“I wish to see Mr. Garland on very important business. Ask him to wait for me if he comes in presently. I will return in a few minutes.”
“I will, sir,” replied the girl. “I think you then will find him here.”
Nick thanked her and withdrew to the corridor, where he found an attendant who directed him to Barstow’s office on the floor above. While he was approaching the stairway to walk up, Nick saw Garland leaving the elevator, just returning to his own office.
He looked gaunt and white, a shadow of his former self, as Senator Barclay had stated. His refined, clean-cut face, which was as strong in many respects as that of the detective, wore an expression of overwhelming anxiety. His eyes had an abnormal glitter, as if the fever of prolonged mental distress was consuming him.
Nick watched him for a moment, then went up to Barstow’s office. There, after partly confiding in the government official, whom he pledged to subsequent secrecy, Nick obtained a specimen of Lottie Trent’s handwriting. He also learned that Garland had been sent for only because he recently had been seen talking with the girl in the corridors, which had given rise to a hope that he might know what now occasioned her absence. He had asserted, nevertheless, that he knew nothing about her.
Nick returned to the corridor and compared the girl’s writing with that in the torn letter found near the scene of the murder. A mere glance at both, for Nick was a keen chirographist, convinced him that Lottie Trent was the writer. He replaced the letter in his pocket and returned to Garland’s office.
“He came in soon after you went out,” remarked the stenographer, looking up and smiling. “You will find him in his private office.”
Nick entered it without knocking.
Garland was seated at a large roll-top desk. He swung round in his swivel chair and sharply eyed the detective.
“Oh, you’re the gentleman who called while I was out,” he said, a bit brusquely. “Sit down. What can I do for[{20}] you? My clerk said you spoke of having important business.”