THE PLUNGER REACHES HOME.
Once more Nick Carter eased himself out of his window. It was getting
to be a habit with him. His long legs bridged the gap as before, but
this time his errand was, if possible, even more fraught with risk than
the previous ones had been.
He lowered himself over the rail slowly and with infinite care, and
then, stooping, crept along the platform to Stone’s window. By peering
in through the crack between the sill and the partly lowered sash, he
saw the tall miner in the act of picking up the little leather case
from the writing desk. Stone’s back was turned to the detective, and
the latter seized the opportunity to slip noiselessly past the window.
A few feet ahead of him loomed another window, dark and open at top
and bottom. Winthrop Crawford was fond of fresh air. The lower sash
was raised about eighteen inches, which made it possible for Nick to
flatten himself over the sill and crawl through. It required daring
under the circumstances, but his performance that night would have
established a reputation for that sort of thing on the part of any one.
The room was in darkness, but the detective had previously found
opportunity to study the position of the furniture. He was able,
therefore, to avoid a collision, and his stockinged feet trod softly on
the thick carpet. A private bathroom opened off from the bedroom on the
side opposite the connecting door which led to Stone’s quarters. Nick
darted into this and began cautiously to close the door.
“Let’s hope our friend Crawford is a sound sleeper,” he thought; “and
that this door isn’t inclined to squeak. If he wakes up now and starts
on a burglar hunt, it will mess things up hopelessly.”
Crawford’s heavy breathing went on uninterruptedly, however, and the
sound was reassuring. It seemed to indicate, on the other hand, that
Crawford would fall an easy victim to his old partner’s attack; but the
detective had already pulled Stone’s fangs.
He waited perhaps five minutes, standing behind the bathroom door,
which he had left slightly ajar. At the end of that time the opposite
door, that leading from Stone’s room, quietly opened. As it did so,
it revealed the fact that Stone had put out his own lights. Nick
stiffened, for he knew that the crucial moment was close at hand.
He had taken the risk of entering Crawford’s room and secreting
himself there partly to witness whatever might happen, and partly
because he was by no means sure of James Stone. One never can be
certain of what a madman may do. Stone had been supplied with the
instruments necessary for the commission of a highly scientific
crime, but when the time came, he might discard them, owing to his
unfamiliarity with such things, and resort to some more commonplace
weapon. In fact, if he made a slip, or if Crawford awoke prematurely
and showed fight, it was almost certain that Stone would try to make
us of some more familiar way of getting rid of enemies—or supposed
enemies. Consequently Nick wanted to be on hand to give instant aid,
if necessary. He did not consider that his duty to Crawford had been
discharged when he had substituted water for the mysterious and deadly
charge which Doctor Follansbee had originally placed in the hypodermic
syringe.
Stone came in noiselessly, and the subdued light from the corridor
which shone in through the transom accentuated his lean, angular form
as it entered. The door was closed carefully behind him, and Nick could
hear his suppressed, nervous breathing as he crossed toward the bed.
The intruder paused there within a yard or so of the outstretched form
of Crawford, and Nick braced himself in anticipation of a possible
emergency. He saw Stone looking toward the bed with his head thrust
slightly forward, as if he were listening to Crawford’s breathing.
Seemingly the man soon became satisfied that all was well, for he took
from his pocket a couple of small objects which the detective guessed
to be the little vial and sponge.
Stone’s movements indicated that he was emptying the contents of the
vial into the sponge. As he did so, he took a quick step forward and
bent over the bed. Simultaneously there was a stir, and the springs of
the bed creaked.
Nick peered out and saw the head and shoulders of Crawford rising from
the pillow. The bearded face of the kindly mine owner peered for a
moment through the gloom at the vague form bending over him, then a
single word came to the detective’s ears:
“Jimmy!”
A savage cry sounded, and, with a last bound, the demented partner had
thrown himself upon Crawford. Nick heard a choking gasp, and for a
moment was tempted to leap from his hiding place and hurl himself upon
the would-be murderer. It was only with a supreme effort of will that
he kept himself in hand and mutely watched the struggle.
Stone had all the strength of his madness behind him, and with
remorseless force he pressed Crawford back upon the pillow. Then, with
a quick swoop, he pressed the sponge over the bearded lips and nostrils
of the man who loved him better than a brother. There was a convulsive
movement of the prone figure, and a long-drawn sigh, then Crawford’s
arms fell back from their hold on Stone’s shoulders and he relapsed
into unconsciousness.
Stone’s heavy breathing was very audible to the detective as the latter
stood watching the dramatic scene. He saw the miner take the little
leather case from his pocket and remove the hypodermic syringe. After
that, leaning over his unconscious partner, the madman plunged the
needle into Crawford’s forearm, close to the elbow, and the plunger was
pressed home with one quick movement of the powerful thumb.
As soon as the deed was done, Stone gave an exultant exclamation, and,
still leaning over the bed, shook his clenched fists at the motionless
body.
“It was either you or me, curse you!” he said, as if growling, his
face working savagely. “And I have won. You’re as good as done for,
and unless you stop playing with me as a cat plays with a mouse, you
won’t have a chance to do what you want to do with me. I’ve taken care
of myself so far, and I guess I can keep on doing it until you’re too
sick to try any tricks on me. Follansbee says you’ll be dead before the
twenty-seventh, and he ought to know. Anyway, he won’t get his money if
you’re not.”