“Out from where?” Carter asked curtly.
“From his apartments, sir. He has a suite in the Pemberton.”
“Where is that?”
“About ten minutes’ walk from here,” Shannon said suavely. “I can find out for you, sir, whether he is there.”
“By telephone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do so,” the detective said shortly.
He sat down and kept an eye on the man, who did not appear in the least disturbed by the detective’s visit. One less quick to suspect subterfuge would have apprehended that his suspicions were misplaced, that Shannon knew nothing about the anonymous letter, and that Doctor Devoll was not the sender of it, after all.
Nick Carter, however, had no such apprehension. He knew that he was up against as cool and crafty a gang of knaves as ever stood in leather. He now was accepting nothing that appeared on the surface. He was seeking the wheel within.
He watched and listened while Shannon telephoned, readily getting Doctor Devoll on the wire and stating that Mr. Blaisdell, who had called the previous day, would like to come to the Pemberton to see him. That was all that Shannon said, noncommittal it was, too, and he immediately hung up the receiver and turned to the detective.