THE PRIVATE HOSPITAL.
In his eagerness to reach the detective’s headquarters, Patsy drove
the runabout rather recklessly at a time when the streets were full
of traffic. As a result, his machine was struck by a street car, and
he was thrown out against the curbstone. He was rendered unconscious
and removed to the hospital, where, owing to the fact that he was in
disguise, his identity was not discovered.
When he came to, he felt decidedly groggy at first, but insisted on
dressing and leaving the hospital. After he had given his name, he was
allowed to go under protest, and a taxi was sent for.
The hired machine took him home in record time, but when he arrived
there, the chief had once more flown. To be sure, he had left word that
he was going to Doctor Follansbee’s, but that only added to Patsy’s
troubles.
On the one side, the young assistant felt it to be his duty to follow
his chief immediately and reveal what he had learned, in the hope that
his information would clinch the case against the doctor, and leave
the latter no loophole or escape. On the other hand, however, he found
himself hesitating and undecided. He did not know why his chief had
gone to the physician’s house, and was afraid to spoil Nick’s plans
in some way. The detective might be working under cover in such a way
that Patsy’s coming would ruin everything. Anyway, even at best, it
would be decidedly awkward for him to break in on an interview without
previously preparing his superior for his revelations, or finding out
if they would be welcome at that time.
If he only could have caught his chief before the latter had left,
all would have been well, but as it was, Nick might already have left
Follansbee’s, and Patsy’s inquiries for him might alarm the physician
and lead to further complications.
“This is certainly my unlucky day,” Nick’s assistant complained
inwardly. “What the dickens am I to do now? I could sit here and
twiddle my thumbs, of course, while waiting for the chief to show
up, but every time I get busy, I seem to learn something more of
importance—something that the chief isn’t wise to. I think, therefore,
I’ll have another try at the same game.”
He was already feeling much better, and a bath and a change of clothing
left few traces of his recent accident. Before leaving the house, he
scribbled a brief note to his chief and left it with the housekeeper.
It read:
“DEAR CHIEF: I have been having a mischief of a time trying to locate
you. I am bursting with information about Stone and Follansbee, but
have decided not to run the risk of spoiling your play by following
you to the latter’s house. Stone has been removed from St. Swithin’s
Hospital to Miss Worth’s private hospital for convalescents, on
Flatbush Avenue. I saw him when he was put into the ambulance.
He looked considerably the worse for wear, but was walking—with
assistance. I’m going over to Brooklyn now to murder a little more
time while waiting for you. For the love of Mike stay put this time
until I can get back!
P.G.”
Young Garvan had already put one car out of commission that day, and
did not know where it was, although he assumed that it was in the
hands of the police—if there was anything left of it. That was only an
incident in the day’s work, however, and he promptly sent for another
of the detective’s machines.
In it he hurried downtown across the Manhattan Bridge, and sped up
Flatbush Avenue. He had learned so much that he hoped to pick up
some more information. Nick might know something about Miss Worth’s
hospital, but he did not, and he wished to supply that deficiency if he
could. This time he had brought the detective’s chauffeur along with
him, and he remained with the car when Patsy left it a block or two
from his destination.
It was an easy matter to find the private hospital, although the small
brass plate affixed to one of the big gate posts was the only outward
evidence that the building was more than a private residence. It was a
large, old-fashioned house, with broad verandas, standing some distance
back from the street, in the midst of extensive grounds. A driveway led
up to the spacious entrance, and in this drive, just in front of the
door, stood a handsome motor vehicle. Patsy’s experiences of the night
before had familiarized with just such a car, and his nerves tingled as
he caught sight of it.
“Follansbee’s own machine, as I’m a living sinner,” he thought, with a
start. “The last time I saw that was when the doctor brought Stone home
with him in the small hours of the morning. This is interesting, to say
the least. That rascal hasn’t lost much time before paying a visit to
his ‘patient’ in the latter’s surroundings.”
The sight of the car changed his plans. He had intended to pay a visit
to the private hospital at once, but now he decided to delay until
Follansbee had left.
He strolled up and down the block for perhaps ten minutes, and at the
end of that time his patience was rewarded. He saw the diminutive,
sinister form of Stephen Follansbee emerge from Miss Worth’s and vanish
into the vehicle, which promptly wheeled and made its way back to the
city. When it had gone, Patsy sauntered slowly along the pavement, and
paused for a moment in front of the gate. He was anxious to find out
what kind of a place it was; and at last, putting on a bold front, he
entered the grounds, strode up the walk, and rang the bell.
A neat-looking maid opened the door to him, and he was led into a quiet
waiting room.
Patsy always had a story ready to fit the occasion, and it was
generally the most plausible sort; consequently, he was quite prepared
for the advent of Miss Worth herself, who proved to be a kindly-faced
woman of middle age, gray-haired and stately.
He informed the lady that a friend of his was convalescent after a
fever, but that certain unavoidable noises in the neighborhood made
him nervous, and it seemed best to remove him to a more quiet place.
Patsy, it appeared, had taken upon himself to hunt up such a place,
and, having been told of Miss Worth’s, had called to inquire as to the
charges.
His well-cut suit and his ingratiating manner had their effect. After
giving him the information he asked for, Miss Worth volunteered to show
him over the building, and Patsy spent fifteen minutes in going through
the wards. It was soon obvious to him that the private hospital was
a perfectly respectable place, and the well-bred face of Miss Worth
herself justified the opinion that she could have nothing in common
with the scoundrelly side of Stephen Follansbee.
Presently the lady paused in front of a door and opened it.
“There’s a new guest here,” she said: “a poor fellow who is recovering
from the effects of the drug habit.”
Patsy glanced into the room and noted that there were two beds in
it. The one on the right was unoccupied, but in the left one lay the
figure of James Stone. The ex-miner’s eyes were closed, and his hands
stretched out on top of the coverlet were painfully clenched.
“Our distinguished consultant, Doctor Stephen Follansbee, of St.
Swithin’s Hospital, has made a special study of that type of case,”
Miss Worth went on, as she closed the door. “The patient will soon
recover, and meanwhile your friend could have that other bed. It
happens to be the only one available just now.”
“What luck!” thought Patsy. “It’s a good thing I took it into my head
to come over here. I hope the chief will appreciate all I’ve done.
Hanged if I can see how he thought he could handle this case alone.”
Assuring Miss Worth that he would let her know as soon as possible of
his friend’s decision, he left the building. He was on tenterhooks now
to pour out the whole story to his chief, and as soon as he was out of
sight from the hospital windows, he hurried to the waiting car.
“Start something!” he urged the chauffeur. “Open her up and let’s see
you burn up a little asphalt.”