“This way to Professor Graff’s office. We are old friends, and I frequently call here to see him. I have known him for years.”
Carter followed him, with a glance at the spot where Gaston Todd had been found dead, scarcely twenty feet from the door opened by the physician. He led the detective in, and a man arose from a table at which he appeared to have been at work—Tim Hurst.
“Ah, good morning, doctor,” he said respectfully, hastening to place chairs for both visitors.
“Good morning, Tim,” Doctor Devoll said familiarly. “Is Karl in his laboratory?”
“No, sir.” Hurst appeared as frank as a schoolboy. “He has not come down yet. He has not been coming in much before noon lately, sir.”
“Ah, well, I can expedite matters,” Devoll said glibly. “Sit down, Mr. Carter, while I ring him up. His telephone is in the laboratory.”
He passed out of a side door while speaking, and Nick did not detain him, supposing he had merely entered an adjoining room. The door closed automatically. Tim Hurst tendered a morning newspaper, asking politely:
“Have you read the news, sir? There was another robbery last night, Mrs. Mortimer Thurlow, sir, the swell society woman.”
“Yes, I know about it,” Nick nodded, sizing Hurst up more intently. “How long have you been in Professor Graff’s employ?”
“About a year, sir; ever since he came here.”