He smiled with the last, nevertheless, and hurried across the street, presently vanishing around the nearest corner.
Nick Carter stepped into the corridor of a near building. The janitor, with a broom and a pail of rubbish, the result of his morning’s cleaning, was just approaching a small storeroom under the rise of stairs.
Nick overtook him at the open door.
“One moment, janitor,” said he, stepping into the narrow room. “I am Nick Carter, the detective, and I’m on a rush case. Hang onto this cane and disguise until I call for them, will you? I then will make it worth your while.”
“Sure, sor, I’m glad to do it,” cried the janitor, eyes lighting. “Who don’t know Nick Carter?”
“Good on your head,” Nick nodded. “I want to reverse my trousers and coat, also, which will take but half a minute.”
“Go ahead, sor. The room is yours for the asking.”
Nick emerged from it in precisely thirty seconds, so changed in looks and attire, the latter expressly made to be quickly reversed, that he bore not even a remote resemblance to the man who had entered it. Then wearing no facial disguise, he again thanked the janitor and hurried away from the building, retracing his steps to Fifth Avenue.
Not more than five minutes had passed since he departed from the loan company office, when, from a doorway on the opposite side of the avenue, he was in a position to cautiously watch the place.
He had returned none too soon. He scarce had turned his gaze in that direction, when Garland came from the loan office in company with a handsome, flashily dressed woman of twenty-five, whom Nick had seen at a typewriter through the partly open door of Garland’s private office.