The room occupied by Harry Royal was on the third floor front, and the occupant was alone when Nick, disguised as described, rapped sharply on the door.
For fully a minute there was no response from within.
“Fear!” said Nick to himself. “The terror born of conscious guilt is upon him. He dreads every sound, fears every visitor, yet dares not leave his chamber. Solitude and secret dread are preferable to the voice and eyes of an accuser.”
Nick rapped again, louder.
Then a step within echoed the sound, and the door was finally opened.
Harry Royal, sober enough now, and as white and haggard as if from a long illness, appeared on the threshold, his boyish figure clad in a long, loose house robe.
Nick fell as cleverly as an actor into the part he designed to play.
“Hush!” he instantly whispered, with startling intensity. “I see that you’re alone! Not a word till I am under cover! Let me come in.”
“Who the devil——”
“First let me come in,” persisted Nick, fairly forcing his way into the room. “I may be seen here, recognized, arrested on the spot. It’s for your sake I am here, Harry Royal, as well as my own. Now close the door and lock it. I am taking long chances for these few words with you.”