The clue to the murderer which he had stumbled on was of no avail at that time, for what he knew might never aid in the detection of the criminals. The wound on the head, the doctor said, was liable to produce a lapse of memory which would go further back than the night on which it was received.
In the meantime, Nick Carter was satisfied that Maynard had gone to his rooms from the hotel, and would remain there until the next day. As he walked down the street with the self-styled reporter, the detective listened between steps for a sound he hoped to hear not far away. No such sound came to his ears. Presently he found himself in Houston Street.
The house occupied by the African fortune teller with whom Maynard and Townsend had made an appointment was not far away. Nick knew the place well, for, as much out of curiosity as anything, he had called upon the woman when she had first attracted the attention of the town, and had made a close scrutiny of her apartments, which were on the first floor of an old residence not far from the East River.
There was a red light over the door, but the building seemed still and the window shades were closely drawn. The young man stopped directly in front of the house.
“This is the place,” he said.
Again Nick listened for the expected footfalls, but in vain. There was nothing for it but to go in alone and trust to luck. He had summoned Chick and Patsy from his home when he had called the coroner, instructing them to hasten to the hotel and trail him, wherever he went. Something had possibly happened to disarrange the plan.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE GREAT DIAMOND SYNDICATE.
“Are you coming in?” asked the alleged reporter. “The girl I told you of is in the rear room on the second floor.”