Nick Carter had not exaggerated when he said that anybody seeing Chick might think him the real Howard Milmarsh of the present day.
He might have remarked that his own make-up was also perfect. If the elder Milmarsh had been alive, anybody meeting the detective would have declared him to be the multimillionaire steel manufacturer.
A distant clock somewhere in the house, with deep, cathedral tones, boomed out twelve strokes.
“Midnight!” observed Nick. “Just the time for a ghostly visit.”
He went to a door, which was fastened, like the others, by a secret spring, and opened it wide. A narrow, winding staircase, of the kind with which they had become familiar that night, led to a hall, and along this a short walk brought them to a large door with heavy portières in front.
Howard Milmarsh, the elder, had been so intimate with the great detective that he had told him more about the ways of his mansion than he ever had confided to any one else.
So Nick soon opened the door, and then another one beyond.
“Stand still, Chick!” he whispered. “I must see whether he is in bed.”
A moment later he returned to his assistant and whispered:
“He is in bed and fast asleep. Do not speak a word unless I give you a signal. Walk softly, and keep out of sight for the present.”