Late in the evening he was in the street, bent on some urgent errand. It was cold, rainy, and pitch-dark, and most people had sought the shelter of their homes. ButHaywood regarded not the weather. He plunged into the gloom and the damp dreariness, indifferent as to the discomfort and exposure.
Yet he was not the only one out that night.
Doctor Davison had waited at the depot for his brother, and the two had proceeded to the hotel together, where lay Carlos Conrad on his sick-bed.
“He is a pretty sick man,” said Doctor Davison, as they ascended the stairs that led to the invalid’s room. “Step softly now, for if he is sleeping he must not be awakened.”
Treading on tiptoe, and opening the door silently, they entered the apartment where the patient had been left a few hours before under the influence of an opiate.
But as they approached the bed the physician and his brother halted in amazement. They looked at one another in mute, helpless surprise, for the bed was empty!
Carlos Conrad was gone!
CHAPTER XXVI.
A DARK NIGHT’S WORK.
Carlos Conrad had lain on his bed all the afternoon in a state of agitation which the opiates of Doctor Davison had not allayed.