“Now, watch this fellow,” the detective directed. “Don’t let him make even a move to get up.”
As he spoke, Nick got to his feet, and, striding to the wall, switched on a couple more lights, flooding the room.
Follansbee lay where he had been left, but his evil eyes searched the features of the pajama-clad detective. Seemingly he had guessed his identity, but had failed to verify his suspicions from the bearded face.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “And what does this mean?”
Simultaneously he started to rise on one elbow, but Chick prodded him in the ribs with his foot.
“Stay where you are!” he advised. “I have my eye on you, you know.”
“It’s too much trouble to take off this beard, Follansbee,” Nick replied evenly. “I hardly think that’s necessary, anyhow. I have a notion you could guess at my name without much trouble, and that the guess would be right. I am Nick Carter, not at yours—but at James Stone’s—service.”
There was a tense, dramatic silence; then suddenly, with a curious, gurgling sound, another figure came to the stage.
Stone, swinging himself out of bed, rose to his feet unsteadily. The blind, vacant look had vanished. A perplexed, troubled frown had taken its place, and Stone turned his head slowly, eying each of the occupants of the room in turn.
“What is this?” he asked, in a hesitating voice. “What does it mean?”