"John," he said earnestly, "there may be more in this than you have any idea of. What do you say? May I come round to-night and give you the benefit of my experience?"
"Yes. I shall be glad to have you. Come at, say, nine o'clock."
"All right."
It was six o'clock when they parted. At nine Nick went up the elevator to the floor upon which was located the office of the manufacturing company. He knocked at the door, but there was no answer. He waited a moment and knocked again. Still no answer. By means of the keyhole he saw that there was no light in the office. Dashwood, then, was not there. Something must have happened, something out of the ordinary, to cause this punctiliously honorable young man to slight an appointment with a friend. The detective instantly attributed Dashwood's absence to an alarming discovery made while examining the books and accounts of the firm. Perhaps he had gone home. In a saloon below, next door to the entrance, was a phone. Nick used it to call up Gabriel Leonard's residence. The housekeeper answered. Neither Mr. Dashwood nor Mr. Leonard was at home. Didn't know where either might be found. Had Mr. Carter gone out to the fair-grounds?
Nick left the phone troubled in mind. Leonard's absence from home was indication that business of pressing importance had demanded his attention, for his rule, so the detective had been informed by Dashwood, was to remain at home every evening. He cared nothing for theaters or social divertisements, belonged to no club or secret order. The business of each day over, he betook himself to his suburban residence, there to find comfort and rest in his pipe and newspapers.
Nick went up to the counter and engaged in conversation with the barkeeper.
"How's business this evening?"
"Rotten. Everybody is at the fair."
"Gives you opportunity to get a breath of fresh air as compensation, though."
"Yes, that's so. I stood at the door from eight until eight-forty-five without a break."