“He is not an old resident of Madison, then?”
“No, sir. He came here a year ago next month.”
“Where from?”
“I am not sure, sir, but I think he—ah, he is coming right now, sir,” Hurst broke off abruptly. “That’s his step in the corridor.”
Professor Graff entered at that moment, wearing a baggy plaid suit, his overcoat and cape, and with a rusty felt hat on his gray head. His bearded face took on a look of mild surprise when he saw the detective, who immediately arose, while Tim Hurst explained glibly:
“This gentleman came with Doctor Devoll to see you. The doctor has gone down to the laboratory to telephone to you, thinking——”
“We’ll go down, Timothy, and save him the trouble,” Professor Graff interposed blandly, dropping his coat and cape over a chair. “Will you go with us, sir, or——”
“I think I will,” Nick put in, bent upon keeping the physician under his eye, and noting that the chemist did not appear to recall him.
Professor Graff led the way, Nick following, and Tim Hurst bringing up in the rear. Half a minute took them down the stairs, through the basement entry, and into the laboratory.
The detective flashed a swift glance around the room, at the zinc-covered table, the bottle-laden shelves, the ground-glass windows, and at a telephone on one of the walls. But he failed to see the suspected physician, and he drew back a step, instinctively reaching for his revolver.