Many criminals would have given a great deal to know the location of one of those rooms, but Nick did not dream that one rascal had long since discovered the halfway house in Harlem.
The man who had gained entrance by picking the lock was Green-eye Gordon, of course.
He had learned of the place shortly before Nick had caught him, two years or more back, and had been more or less uncertain as to the present use of the room. The detective might have given it up in the interval, for all he knew, but he had resolved to put his knowledge to the test, and now he was rewarded, for a glance about the place showed him that it was still employed by the detective.
Rows of clothing hung in orderly array on hooks along the walls. At one side there was a long mirror, which enabled one to view oneself from head to feet, and between the windows, at the rear, was a dressing table, which looked as if it might belong to some musical-comedy star, so cluttered was it with make-up materials of all sorts.
It was nearly an hour later when Ernest Gordon let himself out, locked the door behind him—after some further effort—and sauntered downstairs.
Another complete transformation had taken place in his appearance. He was no longer the hunted criminal who had escaped from Clinton Prison, no longer the dressy individual who had presented himself at the detective’s, the day before, and least of all did he look like the man who had ascended those stairs some fifty minutes previously.
Now, to all intents and purposes, he was Nick Carter himself.
Not only was he wearing one of the excellent suits the detective kept for his more respectable disguises, but in build, walk, features, and even expression, he was as much like Nick Carter as one pea is like another.
His astounding plan had ripened into action.