He said something under his breath, and decided not to wait. He was too uneasy by that time, for James Stone’s fate was troubling him. Accordingly he left word with the clerk for “Mr. Mortimer” to remain in when he came, if possible, until he could be communicated with. That done, he jumped into the runabout again and headed northward in the direction of St. Swithin’s Hospital.
It was well that he did so, for his luck was to change.
CHAPTER XXXI.
NICK HAS A HUNCH.
“You, Carter!”
Winthrop Crawford had raised himself in bed, and, leaning on one arm, was staring wonderingly at the figure of the detective seated in a chair close to the head of the bed.
Nick had removed his false mustache, and although he was still dressed in one of the suits he had worn as “Thomas Mortimer,” Crawford recognized the clean-cut features.
“It is rather an early hour to make a call, Crawford,” the detective said, with an apologetic smile.
“Oh, I’m always glad to see you,” was the answer. “Hanged if I understand how you got in, though. Wasn’t my door locked?”