NICK CARTER MISCALCULATES.
At seven o’clock on the evening of the twenty-fourth the dining room of
the Hotel Windermere presented a scene of animation. The big hotel was
fairly well filled, and most of its guests, as well as many outsiders,
seemed to be on hand.
At a table in one of the little alcoves sat a quietly dressed gentleman
in evening clothes. A close-clipped, iron-gray mustache adorned
his lips, and the hair on his temples was tinged with gray, which
contrasted with the deep tan of his hands and neck. He was known in the
hotel as Thomas Mortimer, a wealthy traveler and sportsman.
From where he sat, Nick—as we may as well call him—could see the table
at which Crawford and Stone usually seated themselves. He had been in
the hotel constantly, and had kept a sharp watch on Stone’s movements,
but the miner’s actions had puzzled him not a little. Several times he
had met Stone stalking along the corridor or in the lobby, his brows
knitted, and his lips moving as if he were talking to himself.
Nick had been too clever to thrust his companionship on the man, and
Stone did not even know that “Mortimer” had a room so near to his own.
It was not part of the detective’s policy to allow Stone, or the more
subtle-minded Follansbee, to have a chance to penetrate his disguise.
So far, however, he had not been able to find out anything that was
likely to help him in his self-imposed task of guarding the life of
Winthrop Crawford. Follansbee had not reappeared at the Windermere, and
although there was every possibility that Stone had been holding some
sort of communication with the scoundrelly physician, the detective had
not been able to discover the means by which he did so.
Crawford, on his part, had been busy. Several men had called on him
at the hotel, evidently to urge the advantage of certain investments,
and one or two had been closeted with the miner for several hours.
It was obvious that he was trying to find a safe channel for some of
his money, and probably at the same time seek an outlet for his own
energies. He was not a man who would be likely to settle down and be
content to do nothing.
James Stone, however, seemed to be of a different type, or else his
insane suspicions of his former partner kept him in a state of mind
which prevented him from seeking new business responsibilities.
Nick noted that Stone was the first to take his seat at the table.
Crawford did not put in an appearance until a few minutes later, and
by that time his partner had already finished the first course. The
two men exchanged a few monosyllables as the meal went on, and as soon
as he had finished, Stone rose with only the curtest of nods to his
partner.
Nick had already signed the waiter’s slip, but had been toying with
a little fruit. He rose and followed Stone, but without any sign of
hurrying. His man used the stairs, and the detective followed in the
elevator, reaching the second floor ahead of his quarry.
Nick’s room, number twenty, occupied an angle of the corridor, its door
being almost opposite the elevator, while those leading to the rooms
occupied by Stone and Crawford were just around the corner.
When the detective entered his room, he left his door slightly ajar,
and a few moments later he heard Stone’s footsteps, as the miner passed
and went on round the angle. Nick gently closed his door and crossed
his room to the window, without turning on the lights.
The window looked out into a big courtyard of the Windermere, and from
it, by glancing sharply to his right, Nick could see the window of
Crawford’s bedroom, and also that of Stone’s, both of which were not on
a line with his, but at right angles.
Peering out through the darkness, he saw a light leap up suddenly in
Stone’s room, and presently the shadow of a man appeared on the shade.
The moving shadowgraph was significant. The detective inferred from
Stone’s actions that he must be putting on a light overcoat.
“He seems to be going out again,” the detective commented mentally.
“And in that case, I’d better go ahead again.”
He stepped back from the window, hurriedly snapped on the electric
lights, and secured his own hat and walking stick. That done, he left
the room, locked the door behind him, and made for the stairs. No one
followed, and he concluded that something had delayed Stone.
The detective slowed down and leisurely entered the lobby. He seated
himself there after buying a paper at the news stand; but ten minutes
passed without any sign of James Stone.
“What is keeping him?” he wondered. “Can it be that he sneaked out
through one of the other entrances?”
The thought was a disagreeable one, and Nick decided to put it to the
test at once, without further delay. He climbed the stairs once more,
hurriedly entered his own room, and crossed to the window.
A glance to the right told him that his suspicion was well founded.
There was no light in Stone’s room now, and it was obvious that the
tall miner had left.