"Who's that with him?"
"Old Spicer."
"The deuce it is! But, yes; I would have known him by the descriptions I have seen of him. Queer looking cuss, ain't he?"
"He's—well, he's rather slender, to say the least."
"A sort of Wm. M. Evarts. Ah! good-day, Mr. Spicer. Good-day, doctor; glad to see you, gentlemen," and as the great detective and the surgeon entered the room with Crowley, the reporter followed after them, as a matter of course.
"Why, Crowley, where's your prisoner?" demanded Old Spicer, in startled tones, after a single glance at the blood-stained bed.
"He's—Great Scott! He's gone!"
"Gone?" exclaimed the reporter, in his usual brisk way. "How the devil did he manage to get away?"