The chauffeur had slowed down considerably before entering the village of New Pelham, but they were still going at a rapid rate, and Griswold was obliged to raise his voice for his final instructions to the chauffeur.
“The top of the hill!” he called out, leaning forward and pointing, while he held his hat on with the other hand.
The usually easy-going millionaire was having some unusual experiences, and had been pretty thoroughly shaken up in more ways than one.
Straight up the hill that led from the heart of the village, the great car raced, and Griswold added that it was the last house. A few moments later the machine came to an abrupt, but quiet, stop in front of No. 31 Floral Avenue.
Quickly the three men alighted and hurried through the gate. The door was opened almost immediately by the maid, and behind her stood Doctor Lord, who had evidently been impatiently awaiting Griswold’s arrival.
The doctor looked inquiringly at the others.
“Carter, shake hands with Doctor Lord,” he said informally. “Doctor, this is Nick Carter and this is Chick Carter, his assistant.”
“I’m very glad,” the young physician said heartily, as he acknowledged the detective’s greeting. “Frequently during the patient’s long stupor, Mr. Carter, he mumbled your name.”
“Just how is he?” Nick asked eagerly, and, for the moment, concern for his friend weighed with him more than anything else.
“He’s better,” was the reply. “He has taken the turn that I hoped for, and now, although he may be laid up for some time, I think I may safely say that the danger is over. You must not see him for long, however, and you had better come at once. I’ve been afraid that he might lapse into unconsciousness again before Mr. Griswold could get here.”