Nick Carter, on the other hand, had made an exhaustive study of the subject, both from a theoretical and a practical standpoint, and had often had occasion to utilize his extensive knowledge.
While Warden Kennedy, the physician, and a couple of nurses leaned forward curiously, the detective bent over the figure on the narrow white bed and rubbed the forehead and eyes a few times, in a peculiar way.
Then he spoke to the man.
“Come, wake up, Bradley!” he said commandingly. “I want you! You’re conscious! You’re answering me. You cannot resist! Get up!”
And to the amazement of the onlookers, the keeper opened his eyes in a dazed, uncomprehending sort of way, threw his feet over the edge of the bed, and sat up.
“What is it? Where have I been?” he asked, looking about him. And then he added, in astonishment: “What—what am I doing here?”
“You’ve been taking a long nap, but you’re all right now, Bradley,” the detective assured him. “You remember what happened, don’t you?”
For a few moments the man’s face was blank, but soon a look of shamed understanding, mingled with resentment, overspread it.
“It was that cursed Number Sixty Thousand One Hundred and Thirteen!” he exclaimed, giving Grantley’s prison number. “He called to me, while I was making my rounds—was it last night?”
Nick nodded, and the keeper went on: