“I am seeking the apartment of an acquaintance who possibly resides here,� he said to the clerk, as he stopped at the desk and leaned upon it. “Will you let me see your house directory, please?�
“If you will give me the name I can save you the trouble of looking through the directory,� replied the clerk.
“Grafton,â€� said Nick, mentioning the first name that occurred to him—the name, by the way, of a very oldtime acquaintance, whom he had not seen for years, and whose home, when last Nick Carter knew him, was in London.
And right here happened one of those strange coincidences—or phases of luck, whichever one chooses to name it—which occur in the experience of every person of active life; for the clerk replied at once, and without an instant of hesitation:
“Oh, yes; Colonel Grafton. Certainly, he lives here. It is not ten minutes since he went up in the elevator. Will you telephone up to him? Or—if you will give me your name, I will have it attended to for you.â€�
“I will go directly to the apartment, since the colonel has only just gone up himself,� the detective replied carelessly. “Will you tell me how to find it?�
“Certainly, sir. Tenth floor, Broadway front; number one thousand and one.�
“Thank you.�
“Give me your name, please, and I will telephone up that you are coming. It is the rule, you know.�
“Just say that it is Mr. Parsons,� replied the detective, as he turned and hurried toward one of the elevators; and he did some tall thinking while the swiftly moving cage was bearing him to the tenth floor of the enormous building.