He turned to the desk, and, after consulting the telephone book, found the number of Miss Worth’s private hospital. “Number two bed in Ward E will be reserved for your friend, Mr. Bainbridge,” Miss Worth informed him over the wire. Gerald Bainbridge was the name Patsy had given to Nick on the spur of the moment. About nine o’clock that evening young Garvan, who was fidgeting about in the study, heard the door open softly. Some one entered the room. He knew that it was his chief, but he was forced to think that the disguise was one of the most successful Nick had ever attempted. He had dressed himself in a suit that was a size or two too large for him. The garments hung loosely on him, he stooped slightly, and it seemed as though his shoulders were much thinner and narrower than was actually the case. His cheeks looked hollow and his eyes had dark rings around them that seemed to indicate a weakened frame and long hours on a sick bed. A straggling beard, badly in need of trimming, covered his cheeks and chin. It was by no means an ordinary false one, but one of Nick’s own invention—of the kind used by him when the occasion called for extraordinary care against detection. He knew that he would be in charge of a nurse, and that a commonplace disguise would not stand the close inspection he would be obliged to undergo. It would have taken a Nick Carter himself, however, to discover that that beard was artificial. It had been put on with a great deal of care, and the thin substance into which the hairs were embedded so closely resembled the human skin in hue and texture that it was almost impossible to tell where one began and the other left off. Ordinary washing would not effect it in the least, and yet it could be removed in fifteen minutes’ time—if one knew how. It was the same with the wig. He was leaning heavily on a stout walking stick, and caught the look of admiration in Patsy’s eyes. “Well, will I do?” he asked. His assistant drew a deep breath. “You’re the real thing,” was the enthusiastic comment. “I never saw you turn out anything better than that.” A moment later Ida Jones, Nick’s beautiful woman assistant, entered the room. She, too, was to play a part in the sketch that had been so hastily staged. Nick waved one trembling hand toward her. “For an old friend, my boy, you don’t seem to be on your job. Is it possible you don’t recognize ‘Mrs. Bainbridge?’” Patsy looked bewildered for a moment, and then broke into a grin. “Mrs. Bainbridge, eh?” he queried. “So you’ve taken a wife for the occasion, have you? Is she going with us?” “Of course. She’s devoted to her husband, and it wouldn’t do, you know, for you to take me there alone. We’ll have to have a woman along to fuss over me and make the thing seem real.” The young assistant’s grin broadened. “Well, I must say I admire your taste,” he remarked, with a wink. “I could have told you long ago that Ida is just the girl for you.”