“I believe it was,” was the calm response.
“Then——”
“Oh, you ought to know that locked doors don’t trouble me, Crawford,” Nick broke in, his smile broadening. “I sometimes tickle their keyholes a little, and sometimes pass around them.”
He was delighted and greatly relieved to have Crawford awake and evidently in such good trim.
“And which method did you employ in this instance?” inquired the man on the bed, with a twinkle in his eyes.
“I’ll tell you all about that when I come to it. It’s too long to be dismissed in a sentence. As a matter of fact, this is by no means my first visit to your room since you went to bed last night, and I’ve spent considerable time here.”
Crawford looked bewildered. “What on earth for?” he demanded; then, as he saw Nick eying him queerly, he added: “Why are you looking at me like that? What has happened?”
Instead of answering, the detective put another question. “How do you feel this morning?” he queried.
Crawford searched Nick’s face as though he were half afraid that his visitor had lost his senses.
“I feel like a fighting cock,” he said promptly. “Why should I feel any other way?”