CHICK COMES TO GRIEF.
With every nerve on the alert, Nick Carter waited.
He was prepared to interfere at once, whatever the cost, if he should
feel Stone was in any immediate peril; but he was curious to hear and
see all he could. Suddenly a thin voice pierced the silence.
“You are well now,” it announced. “You feel your strength returning.”
It was Stephen Follansbee who spoke, and the slow incisiveness of the
tone seemed to cut through the stillness of the room like a knife.
“Yes. I feel it. I’m much better now—almost well.”
Nick hardly recognized Stone’s voice, so changed was it. It sounded
thin and vague, as though the man were hardly sure of himself, as if he
had been in solitary confinement for months.
It was by no means the first time that the detective had witnessed a
hypnotist at work, but seldom had he experienced a more dramatic thrill
than he did at that moment. The uncanny power gave him the creeps.
“To-morrow you will get up and go back to the Hotel Windermere,”
Follansbee went on. His eyes never left those of his victim, and he
was speaking slowly and distinctly, so that the entranced brain would
follow each detail.
“Remember that to-morrow is Monday,” he said. “The bank people will
want to see you, and you must tell them that the check for four hundred
and fifty thousand dollars is quite correct—that it covers not only
professional fees, but a business transaction, the nature of which you
are not at liberty to reveal.”
Subtle and powerful though the influence was that held the poor, abused
brain in thrall, Nick saw a shaft of doubt cross Stone’s face.
“The check for forty-five thousand,” the miner corrected, in his
far-off tone.
Follansbee’s face went suddenly livid. “Not forty-five thousand!” he
cried. “Four hundred and fifty thousand. Don’t you remember?”
Again the clawlike hands moved in swift passes in front of the rigid
features, and the doubt vanished from the reflected face as Nick
watched it.
“Yes, four hundred and fifty thousand,” murmured Stone mechanically, as
if talking in his sleep.
An expression of exultant content possessed Stephen Follansbee’s
features. It was victory for him now. With this man under his complete
control, ready to carry out his desires, he believed his position was
secure.
If Stone appeared at the bank and authorized the transaction, the chief
weapon which still remained in Nicholas Carter’s grasp would be torn
away.
The plotter started to get up from the bed. “You are——” he began.
But at that moment the faint click of some hard object sounded
against the glass of the window, and was accompanied by a smothered
exclamation. Follansbee wheeled abruptly and peered through the
opening. Outlined against the background of glass, he—and the detective
as well—saw a head and shoulders.
With a swiftness that few would have given him credit for, the doctor
darted across the room and threw up the sash; then his long arms shot
out and closed around the intruder’s throat, strangling the words
that rose to his lips. The swift movement brought Nick round, and he
stared at the open window out of which Follansbee was leaning, his
outstretched arm thrust into the darkness.
Over the rounded shoulders the detective caught sight of a familiar
face involuntarily twisted in pain. It was that of Chick Carter.
For the fraction of a second Nick found himself surprised that it was
not Patsy. It would have been quite like the latter, especially after
his unauthorized activities of the last few nights, to have come there
to see for himself how things were going; but Chick’s appearance was
unlooked for.
Nick had heard and seen enough, however, and even had the interruption
been far more unwelcome, he would not have remained idle. With a swift
bound he was on his feet, and then, darting across the room, he hurled
himself headlong at Follansbee.
He was just in time.
Patsy Garvan had talked over his affairs with Chick, and the latter had
decided to accompany him to Miss Worth’s hospital at the expiration of
twenty-four hours. They had entered the grounds at the rear, and had
made their way without detection to a point beneath the window which
Patsy knew belonged to Ward E.
A stout vine climbed the wall beside the window, and Patsy had wanted
to make use of it in order to gain a view of the room, but Nick’s first
assistant had used his authority as Patsy’s senior, and made the ascent
instead. The ward was on the second floor, but the ground fell away
from the building on that side, and was about ten feet below the level
of the main floor; consequently there was a nasty drop from the second
floor to the concrete walk beneath.
The climb had been an easy matter for Chick, and no more risky than the
stunts he did every day. When he had reached the level of the window
sill, however, he had found the footing rather precarious. The main
stem of the vine was three feet or more to the left of the window. He
was obliged to hold this with his left hand and lean far out, with
one foot extended along a branch of the vine. In this way he was able
to get his right hand on the window sill and to pull the vine over
far enough so that he could look into the window. But his efforts had
loosened the vine, and when he felt it giving way, he made a sudden
thoughtless move, which brought one of the buttons of his coat sleeve
in sharp contact with the pane.
That was the sound Nick and Follansbee had heard.
The doctor’s lightninglike attack had taken Chick by surprise, and the
detective, who was clawing for a fresh hold had been unable to resist.
He had let go of the vine the moment the window was opened, and had
clutched the inner edge of the sill with both hands; but while he was
doing so, Follansbee had secured a strangle hold, and begun to push his
head backward, with the obvious intention of making him let go of the
sill.
The rascally physician would have been no match for Chick under
ordinary circumstances, but that situation was a different matter. The
young detective was absolutely defenseless.
It was all over in a few seconds, but they seemed like years to
Carter’s assistant.
“A-h-h!”
It was a thin, frenzied scream that went up. Chick felt the muscular
fingers relax from his throat, and dimly saw the long, lean arms,
waving wildly, drawn in from the window. For a few moments he hung
there, gasping, then, inch by inch he dragged himself up until his head
was level with the sill again, and his feet had found a support on a
little ledge which hooded the first-floor window.
Another heave brought him higher, and he dizzily drew himself over the
sill somehow, anyhow, into the room. For an instant he lay where he had
fallen, while the interior of the room danced about him. Then, as his
eyes cleared, he saw two figures writhing on the floor, locked in each
other’s arms. Summoning all of his strength, and gritting his teeth, he
rose to his feet and staggered forward.
It seemed as if the Fury possessed Follansbee, for he fought like a
wild cat, and it was all Carter could do to hold him down. But the
detective won at last, and as Chick scrambled to his feet, Follansbee
was stretched out flat on his back, while the chief, with one hand on
the heaving chest, pinned the miscreant to the floor.
“It looks like a—a case of handcuffs, chief,” Chick said, panting for
breath.