“Hello!” said he, with a voice very unlike his own. “One of Carter’s assistants is talking from the Wilton House. Do you know where I can find him?”
A sergeant answered, one who happened to know of Carter’s relations with the chief, but upon whom the above inquiry made no impression and was not afterward recalled.
“I do not,” he replied. “He has not been here since morning.”
Shannon hung up the receiver; then arose and hurried back to rejoin the physician.
“I’m wise, Dave,” he announced, with an exultant snarl. “I’ve nailed him.”
Doctor Devoll swung around from the fireplace, near which he was standing.
“Wise to what?” he demanded. “Do you mean that you know him?”
“You bet I know him. Brady, you remember, telephoned to a man named Blaisdell last night, who is at the Wilton House. It just struck me that Gleason has employed outside detectives. There is just one crack sleuth whom he most likely would want. I have phoned to headquarters, saying I was his assistant and asking if he was there. I was told that he was there this morning. That does settle it. You have just been talking, Dave, with the famous New York detective, the worst ever—Nick Carter.”
Doctor Devoll started slightly and for a moment appeared incredulous. Then his teeth met with a vicious snap. His face changed as if he had been suddenly turned to a devil incarnate.
“You are sure of it, Shannon, sure of it?” he questioned, with a sibilant hiss.