“I’m sure you deserve it all,” the detective told him warmly.
Crawford’s eyes grew misty with a host of memories of hard days and lean ones—days when the nearest approach to a meal had been another notch in the belt and the hope of something more substantial on the morrow.
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve earned it; and that brings me to something I wanted to say. I’m a little afraid of your New York, Mr. Carter. I know much more about prospecting than I do about finance. As I’ve told you, there’s nothing to occupy my mind, and I suppose I’ll soon be looking about for investments. If I’m not very careful, I’m likely to fall among thieves.”
He leaned across and placed his hand on Nick’s arm.
“Even in South America we hear of Nick Carter,” he said, with a quiet nod of his grizzled head, “and I count it a very fortunate chance that I should have run across you here on this vessel. I have engaged rooms at the Hotel Windermere, and I’ll be very glad if you’ll give me your address. I should like to have some one to go to for advice if I find that the sharks begin to gather.”
Then, as the detective remained silent, Crawford went on:
“It must be a strictly business undertaking, you understand. If I’m doubtful about any concern or individual, I would like to call on you and have you give me a report. I should expect you to make the usual charge for such work—in fact, I would be willing to pay more than that, because, as a friendless man who doesn’t understand the game, I would profit more than usual by such invaluable assistance.”
There was something curiously winning about Crawford’s voice, and the man appealed strongly to Nick. The sort of assistance he asked for was hardly in the detective’s line, but the simple, direct appeal gained the day.
“Very well,” he said, taking out his case and handing a card to Crawford. “Let’s hope for your sake that you won’t have any very urgent need of me, but here’s my address, and you can ring me up at any time. I shall be very glad to do anything I can.”
Crawford had just placed the card in his pocket when the door of the smoking room opened and James Stone appeared. There was a little bar at one end of the room, and it was toward this that Crawford’s partner was headed. Stone’s eyes traveled across to Crawford, and the latter made a move as though to rise to his feet, but his partner turned his head away quickly and went on his way. There was more than a suggestion of surliness, if not of enmity, in the way he ignored Crawford, and the latter leaned back again with an involuntary sigh.