“Yes, sir, Doctor Devoll is there, and it’s all right,” he said, with the air of one glad to have conferred a favor. “He will wait for you. You can go right up.”
Nick took all this for what he thought it was worth. He lingered only to inquire the way, then turned on his heel and departed.
Shannon watched him hasten across Hamilton Square, and then, with a scowl as black as a thunder-cloud, he darted to the telephone.
Ten minutes had passed when the detective knocked on the door of a second-floor suite in the Pemberton, and he was immediately admitted by the man he was seeking.
Doctor Devoll looked more lean and bald than usual in the sunlight shed into his attractively furnished parlor. He wore a short, velvet jacket, his customary black vest and trousers, and he greeted the detective with an ingratiating smile.
“Come in, Mr. Blaisdell, and take a seat,” he said, waving Carter to a chair. “I remembered your visit, of course, when Shannon called me up. You were very lucky, however, in finding me this morning.”
“Yes?” queried Carter tentatively.
“I usually leave here about half past eight, but I overslept this morning. I was very busy at the hospital all of last evening, and did not retire till after midnight.”
“A serious case or an operation?”
“Neither. I was doing some writing in my private room, with the help of my attendant,” Doctor Devoll explained blandly. Then he added, with a covert leer deep down in his squinted eyes: “But it’s an ill wind, indeed, that blows no one any good. What can I do for you, Mr. Blaisdell?”