“Then I suppose there is nothing else for it but for me to wait.”
“Or get some one else,” added Nick.
“Who shall I go to?”
“The New York chief of police.”
“I’ll think about it. Good-morning, Mr. Carter.”
He left.
When the front door had closed, the detective admitted John Lansing from the other room.
“The infernal scoundrel!” cried Lansing. “He dared to come here to you to get you to look for me—a man whom he believes he murdered.”
“He’s a pretty smooth rascal,” said the detective.
“Will you help me out in the mine matter, Mr. Carter?”