“The same policeman who told me he was taken away in a motor car saw me on the street this morning. We have always been on speaking terms since the fire. He said to-day he had heard that the motor car in which Mr. Gordon—as everybody called him where he lived—was taken away belonged to the detective, Nick Carter.”
“Yes?”
“It was not difficult to find your address. So my father and I came down to try to see you. I was so disappointed when your man said you were away. We had come a long way, and I was determined to see you if I could. So we said we would wait.”
“You have been here more than an hour?”
“Yes, but we didn’t mind waiting, so long as you are here at last. We should have waited another hour, and more than that. And if we had not seen you to-day, we should have been here again to-morrow.”
“That’s true, sir,” added Roscoe Silvius, who had hardly spoken. “I can’t say all I should like, but I don’t think I need speak my gratitude. You surely must know. Why, Mr. Carter, you plucked me out of the very jaws of a horrible death!”
“I’m very glad I happened to be there,” returned Carter earnestly. “At such a time as that any man would have done what I did. Mr.—er—Gordon, was as active as I was.”
“Yes, but he couldn’t have done it alone, although I saw that he would have given his life to save us. Then there is the young man over there at the other side of the room—Mr. Chick. I remember how he helped to get my father down the ladder when it was breaking in the middle. I wish I could say something to him that would seem only partly adequate.”
“Don’t say anything, Miss Silvius,” put in Chick, blushing like a girl himself. “It was the chief who did it. I only helped him a little. And—and—it was all in my day’s work. Nothing to talk about!”
“Well, now, Mr. Carter, will you take me to him?” asked the girl, going back to her former request.