It would have taken a clever observer to notice that on the wall, almost level with his head, hung a small mirror. It had been tilted at such an angle that the detective, although he had his back to the bed occupied by Stone, could see everything that happened there.
The door opened, and he heard a soft footfall. He lay quite still, breathing easily and regularly.
There was only one light in the room, a shaded bulb, which was suspended above a small table that stood close to Stone’s bed. The rest of the little ward was in semidarkness.
“Another patient?”
The detective recognized an undercurrent of disagreeable surprise, if not of anger, in Follansbee’s voice.
Miss Worth had accompanied the physician into the room. “Yes, a typhoid convalescent,” she answered, in a low voice. “He came last night, and there was no other place to put him. He seems to be asleep now.”
Nick could hear Follansbee’s footfalls as the latter came across the room and halted by the side of the bed. The hawklike face bent over him and the beady eyes searched his features for a few moments.
The pains which Nick had taken in his disguise justified themselves, however, and Follansbee presently straightened up.
“Very well, Miss Worth,” he said, turning to the matron, “you need not wait. If I want the nurse I shall call her.”