WILL HE SCORE?
Winthrop Crawford was not satisfied, however. His anxiety was centered
about the welfare of his old friend, and he could not lose sight of
Stone’s continued absence from the Windermere.
“But what are you going to do about Jimmy?” he asked eagerly. “Don’t
delay, man. Hunt him up as soon as possible, even if you have to defy
Follansbee, and mess things up generally in order to do so.”
“Don’t worry about that, Crawford. I’ll look out for your friend. He
may have spent the night at Follansbee’s house. At any rate, the doctor
is a marked man, and if Stone has gone anywhere with his companion, it
ought to be a comparatively easy matter to trace them. You can’t stay
here, though, while I’m doing it.”
“Why not?”
“For various reasons. If you did so, and Stone came back, it would be
hard to act as if nothing had happened, and he would be watching you
with lynx eyes, waiting to see the effect of the injection. I haven’t
had time yet to analyze the original contents of the syringe, so that
I can’t say just how the stuff is supposed to act. In order to be on
the safe side, though, you’ll have to leave the Windermere for the time
being. If you’re out of their sight, they will not be able to keep tabs
on your condition, and we can easily enough make them believe that the
disease which they suppose has been introduced into your system is
following its normal course.”
“But won’t Jimmy think it strange if I disappear after I’ve stuck to
him so long—stuck to him against his will?”
“You can leave word for him. Write him a note and make some excuse that
will sound plausible.”
“Yes, I could do that,” the miner agreed. “Where do you want me to go?”
“I haven’t thought of any particular place as yet. That will
come later, but it is necessary that you should go away at once.
Furthermore, I want the people here in the hotel to see you and me go
out together.”
Crawford soon became convinced that something of the sort was
desirable. He was very reluctant to leave the hotel before learning
anything definite concerning Stone’s whereabouts, but there seemed no
help for it, and Nick promised to let him know at frequent intervals
whenever anything new came up. By half-past nine o’clock Crawford and
the detective—the latter once more in the guise of Thomas Mortimer—were
eating their breakfast in the dining room. Making a pretense of eating,
however, would be the better way of describing the half-hearted way in
which the man from South America toyed with his food.
Before ten o’clock they had both left the Windermere without giving any
one a hint as to their destination. So far as the detective knew, he
was the only one on the case; therefore it did not occur to him to keep
Chick advised of his comings and goings.
Crawford took with him nothing in the way of baggage; therefore they
were obliged to purchase a suit case and enough clothing for a few
days. That done, they boarded a train at the Grand Central Terminal,
and about half an hour later alighted in one of the northern suburbs
within sight of Long Island Sound.
A motor bus from the hotel met the train and took them to a huge
pile of masonry on a hill overlooking the water. It was one of the
best-known hotels in the neighborhood of New York, and much frequented
by those who wished to go away from the bustle of the great city for
a few days. There Crawford registered, at Nick’s suggestion, under an
assumed name.
They had parted, and the detective was already descending the steps,
when the miner ran after him.
“I’ve just thought of something that may help you to an understanding
of poor old Jim’s condition,” Crawford said breathlessly. “It has
occurred to me that he used to knock about the mine without his hat on
last year in all that broiling sun, and I know that many years ago,
when he was a boy, an axhead hit him on the skull. He was watching
somebody chop wood, and the head became loosened and flew off the
handle. Isn’t it possible that that injury affected him somehow, but
that the trouble didn’t manifest itself until recently?”
Nick nodded. “There may be something in that,” he said. “The exposure
to the sun may have developed the latent disease, somewhat in the way
photographic film is developed. I’m glad you told me of that. It makes
it clearer than ever that your friend is a victim himself, and should
not be judged harshly.”
“That’s it,” Crawford agreed eagerly. “He deserves all the mercy you
can show him, Carter. I’m positive that if he ever returns to his
senses he will be absolutely heartbroken to hear what he has tried
to do. I tell you, Jimmy Stone loves me like a brother, and he would
rather cut off his right hand than harm me. You must save him—save him
from Follansbee first of all, and then from himself. If you do, there’s
nothing you can’t ask of me.”
Nick ignored the generous promise. “The affection of man for man is a
wonderful thing, Crawford,” he said quietly. “I’m glad to have known
you and had this proof of what loyalty means. I must go now, though.
Try to have patience and take things as quietly as you can. I’ll do my
best for Stone, and telephone you from time to time.”
As he returned to the station, the detective felt sure that his promise
to Winthrop Crawford would greatly hamper his movements but he shrugged
his shoulders philosophically.
“Follansbee is a lucky rascal, and a keen one,” he thought. “He has
remained in the background, and even that telltale conversation I
overheard last night doesn’t seem destined to be used as a weapon
against him. He’s certainly stolen a base or two, but he may yet be
called out at the home plate!”