“He expects to use it to reach the lower platform, but I’m curious to know what else is in his mind. According to Crawford he’s sane enough in all respects but one—and he wasn’t born yesterday. He must know that he can’t leave the ladder set up against the landing when he comes back to his room. If he does, there will surely be an investigation in the morning, if not before. Does he merely think that there will be a little burglar scare which won’t affect him, or is there something deeper in all this?
“Has he gone off half-cocked, or—— Great Ned! I wonder if that can be it. If he were going to bring some one back with him—some one who would be leaving by the same route later on who could put the ladder back where it was originally—that would effectually remove the difficulty. If Stone is as shrewd as I give him credit for being, I’ll wager that’s what’s in the wind. And I can give a guess at his prospective visitor’s identity.”
He referred, of course, to Doctor Follansbee; and the possibility that the latter was expected later on that night was enough to stir his pulses. It suggested that the period of inactivity was about to come to an end, and that the test of his unsolicited guardianship of Winthrop Crawford was at hand.
Stone had gone, and it was unnecessary, as well as useless, to attempt to follow him. All that remained was to await his return as patiently as possible, and in the meantime to keep an eye—or at least, an ear—out for Crawford.
The latter proved an easy matter, for about an hour later he heard the door of Crawford’s room open and close, and from his window saw the light flash up in his new friend’s.
A glance at his watch told him that it was now almost ten o’clock. He knew that Crawford was a man who rose early, and there was every probability that the miner was about to turn in for the night.
Nick’s own room had remained in darkness. He now drew a chair close to his window and took up his vigil, his arms resting on the sill. Fifteen or twenty minutes later the light vanished in Crawford’s room. In order to make sure, the detective hurriedly rose, slipped to his own door, and opened it slightly. His friend did not appear in the corridor, which was sufficient proof that he was going to bed.
Nick reclosed his door and locked it. “You are settled for the night,” he thought; “and now for Stone.”
He was possessed of the infinite patience that means so much to a detective, and is so essential to the success of any one who takes up that profession. The rumble of traffic gradually died down, and light after light went out in the hotel. At last, in the distance the clock in the Metropolitan tower struck twelve. Yet the bunch light still glowed in the courtyard below, and many windows were rectangles of light, bright or subdued, as the case might be, for New York is very slow to go to bed.
The detective’s lower sash was raised about six or eight inches, and that fact at length enabled him to hear a slight sound in the courtyard, even before his watchful eyes had warned him of the approach. He did not make the mistake of leaning out of the window. Indeed, it would not have been easy to do so, in view of the narrow space he had left.