No one there.
“I accused him of being Carter, the detective, but he did not reply,” he went on. “Years ago I was in Carter’s hands and the grip to-night seemed the same. But I may have been mistaken. I mustn’t forget that years have passed since Carter caught me red-handed. I cannot believe that my foe to-night was the detective.”
George did not resume his inspection of the old hearth, for he turned away after replacing the last brick and slipped into the street.
He was to vanish now.
That was his bargain with Claude Lamont, and he knew that the fictitious account of his death was even then in the hands of the printers.
He turned up later in another part of the city.
He crossed the bridge and vanished in Brooklyn.
Chuckling to himself, he thought of how he had played it on Perry Lamont.
In a small room he threw himself upon a couch to snatch a little sleep.
He was to be pronounced dead by the newspaper to Perry Lamont.