"No. What's the matter? Luke isn't in any trouble, is he?"
There was maternal anxiety in the tone of the voice. Nick believed that evasion would be charity.
"I hope not," he said. "Good night," and he walked quickly away from the door before further and probably embarrassing questions could be asked.
The patrolman on the beat was found. He had seen two men go from Broadway toward the Filbon house between nine and ten o'clock. They were not together, but were fifteen minutes apart. He had not been near enough to observe them closely, but was satisfied from their build—they were both large men—that neither was Filbon, who was small and thin.
Perplexed and dissatisfied, the detective went to the river end of the street. There was a rotten wharf extending toward the big grain-elevator. It was short, and for a portion of its length the planking had been torn out.
The night was clear, with a half-moon, and Nick picked his way about the wharf, in the hope that he might find a clue to the night's mysterious proceedings. There was a possibility that Luke Filbon, determined on suicide, had given up the idea of going home to secure the revolver—to take which action he would have to tell a story that would deceive his mother, and that would be no easy task—and instead had thrown himself into the Mississippi.
Nick, with his bull's-eye, investigated the water space under the wharf without much hope of making a discovery. If death by drowning had been Filbon's purpose, he would, in all probability, have jumped from the edge of the wharf into the river, and the swift current would have carried him far down-stream.
The water, muddy and but slightly disturbed, carried nothing upon its surface that was out of the ordinary. Nick moved to a point where he could get an outlook on the short section of bank beyond the water. He was rewarded by the sight of a human figure huddled up on the sloping bank of the levee a few feet from the water's edge. The figure was that of a man, with head bowed, elbows on knees, and face in hands. As the light of the bull's-eye was flashed upon him the man lifted his head with a start, but made no effort to arise. Nick believed that a way to get under the wharf would be found at the street abutment. Hastening over the planks, he soon discovered an opening, and quickly descended. The man was still there. He had not moved. Walking over to him, the detective saw a small, thin man of about twenty-five, with a haggard face and bloodshot eyes.
"What do you want?" he asked, in a surly tone. "I am minding my own business here."
"I want your confidence," said Nick kindly. "I am not your enemy. I may prove to be the best friend you ever had."