“You can leave word for him. Write him a note and make some excuse that will sound plausible.”
“Yes, I could do that,” the miner agreed. “Where do you want me to go?”
“I haven’t thought of any particular place as yet. That will come later, but it is necessary that you should go away at once. Furthermore, I want the people here in the hotel to see you and me go out together.”
Crawford soon became convinced that something of the sort was desirable. He was very reluctant to leave the hotel before learning anything definite concerning Stone’s whereabouts, but there seemed no help for it, and Nick promised to let him know at frequent intervals whenever anything new came up. By half-past nine o’clock Crawford and the detective—the latter once more in the guise of Thomas Mortimer—were eating their breakfast in the dining room. Making a pretense of eating, however, would be the better way of describing the half-hearted way in which the man from South America toyed with his food.
Before ten o’clock they had both left the Windermere without giving any one a hint as to their destination. So far as the detective knew, he was the only one on the case; therefore it did not occur to him to keep Chick advised of his comings and goings.
Crawford took with him nothing in the way of baggage; therefore they were obliged to purchase a suit case and enough clothing for a few days. That done, they boarded a train at the Grand Central Terminal, and about half an hour later alighted in one of the northern suburbs within sight of Long Island Sound.
A motor bus from the hotel met the train and took them to a huge pile of masonry on a hill overlooking the water. It was one of the best-known hotels in the neighborhood of New York, and much frequented by those who wished to go away from the bustle of the great city for a few days. There Crawford registered, at Nick’s suggestion, under an assumed name.
They had parted, and the detective was already descending the steps, when the miner ran after him.
“I’ve just thought of something that may help you to an understanding of poor old Jim’s condition,” Crawford said breathlessly. “It has occurred to me that he used to knock about the mine without his hat on last year in all that broiling sun, and I know that many years ago, when he was a boy, an axhead hit him on the skull. He was watching somebody chop wood, and the head became loosened and flew off the handle. Isn’t it possible that that injury affected him somehow, but that the trouble didn’t manifest itself until recently?”