Having finished that manipulation, he carelessly thrust the pen back into his pocket and went with long, silent strides to a stationary washstand in a little alcove. He turned on the faucets, directed a little stream of warm water into the syringe, and operated the plunger several times, in order to clean the cylinder as well as he could; after which he filled the syringe with water, and, leaving the plunger out as he had found it, returned the instrument to the case. The case closed, he made for the window.
So swift had been his movements that he had been in the room hardly more than a minute, and nothing had occurred to disturb him. The bell had continued its deafening ringing, and he had thought he heard Crawford’s bed creak, but Stone’s partner had not called out. He gave a sigh of relief as he reached the balcony of the fire escape and plunged out into the shadows at one side. In a few brief moments he was over the railing and through his own window.
He had hardly reached his room, however, before he heard Stone’s familiar footsteps in the corridor outside. The miner was returning, and muttering angrily to himself as he did so. Presently the noise ceased. The bell had been “fixed.” The detective heard Stone pass again and yet again, probably to tell the floor clerk that it was all right.
Not until Stone’s door was finally closed and locked did the detective drop into a chair. “Whew!” he said, half aloud, “that was warm work, and not very good for the nerves. I’ve saved Crawford for the time being, but my work isn’t done by any means—even for to-night.”
He looked at his watch and found that it was quarter past one. There was still an hour and a quarter if Stone obeyed instructions, and Nick had no doubt that he would now. In fact, he might even wait longer, for he would be certain to fear that the ringing of the bell had disturbed Crawford, and would wish to give him plenty of time to fall into a deep sleep again.
Nick did not intend to remain idle, but he felt sure that he had some time to kill, and he was glad of it. Despite his iron nerve, he felt just a trifle shaken by the exacting ordeal through which he had just gone; therefore, he took out a cigar, lighted it, and leaned back in a Morris chair. He must have dozed off before long, for the next thing he knew he sat up with a start. It was half past two.
“Stone will probably be making a move now,” he thought, on the alert at once. “I’m glad my mental alarm clock woke me when it did.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE PLUNGER REACHES HOME.
Once more Nick Carter eased himself out of his window. It was getting to be a habit with him. His long legs bridged the gap as before, but this time his errand was, if possible, even more fraught with risk than the previous ones had been.