The catlike eyes followed the burly figure of the speaker as he returned through the passage, and presently the snap of the catch-lock sounded through the office.
Then Mr. Hyde laid down his pen and came out of the enclosure. His tread was more light and cautious than ordinary business should have required. He glanced sharply into both of the adjoining corridors, listened intently for a moment, then darted into a telephone-closet near-by and tightly closed the door.
Nick Carter found Grady on the corner mentioned, a shrewd-looking young Irishman, seated in an excellent runabout, reading the morning newspaper.
“Do you know Laurel Road, Brookline, Mr. Grady?” asked Nick, halting beside the machine.
“I know pretty near where it is, sir,” said Grady, alert for business. “I can find it for you, all right.”
“Take me out there,” said Nick, mounting to the seat. “To the house of Mr. Amos Badger.”
“The broker, sir,” nodded Grady. “I know the man, sir. I’ll land you out there in thirty minutes, sir, or less, if you say the word.”
“I’m in no special hurry,” said Nick. “Keep down to the speed limit.”
He did not tell Grady his name, nor that he came from the police headquarters. Neither did he enter into much conversation with the man, for Nick was absorbed in thought about the disclosures made him, and the various possibilities of the work he was invited to undertake.
Grady, on his part, was not quite as good as his word. He ran a mile or two out of the direct course to Laurel Road, and then he had to round the great Chestnut Hill reservoir in order to hit the right track.