“You’re free to laugh at me,” he went on, “but I’m almost afraid to venture out alone. It looks to me as if a man has to take his life in his hands every time he crosses the street in this pandemonium.” He paused again and smiled appealingly. “If you’ve got an hour or so to spare, would it be too much to ask you to pilot me around a bit?” he inquired. “I’d appreciate it, I assure you.” The deep, friendly voice had a certain charm in it which the detective found it impossible to resist. “Of course I’ll come gladly,” he said. He and Crawford left the hotel and strolled along the crowded pavements. The grizzled miner seemed to find a keen delight in halting to examine almost every window they passed. “Spending years in the open makes a man fairly hungry for this sort of thing. I’ve longed to be back home again just to look into these very shop windows.” His enthusiasm was infectious, and he and Chick walked along, laughing and chatting together. They dropped in at the public library, and Crawford could hardly tear himself away. When they reached the street again and started back toward Broadway, Chick happened to glance at a jeweler’s clock. “Half past five!” he ejaculated. “By George! I had no idea it was as late as that.” “Late be hanged!” Crawford answered, with a laugh. “The game is young yet. Let’s have a look in at one of those continuous performances I’ve heard so much about—that is, unless you have to get back.” The detective had nothing pressing in view, and he was thoroughly enjoying Crawford’s comments on what they saw. He, therefore, expressed his willingness to do whatever his companion wished, and conducted the latter to a combination moving-picture and vaudeville house, where they spent a little over an hour. It was after seven when they returned to the hotel. “I’ll just go and see if Stone has come back,” Crawford said anxiously. “I won’t be long.” Chick nodded assent and seated himself in one corner of the lobby, while the miner made for the elevator. Nick Carter’s assistant had bought an evening paper and stuffed it into his pocket. He now took it out and began glancing over it. Presently, as he lowered the paper to turn the page, his eyes chanced to look into a mirror set into the wall beside him. The mirror was so placed that it reflected the wide entrance of the hotel, and just at that moment Chick saw a lean, curious figure approach from the street. He gave a slight start, and stared for a moment at the familiar reflection, then instinctively raised the paper again so that it hid his face. He never forgot features, and that one brief glance had been enough for him. As a matter of fact, however, there was little chance of any one forgetting Doctor Stephen Follansbee after even the most casual meeting. “The ‘Buzzard’!” he muttered to himself, using the name he had applied to the famous specialist. “I wonder what the dickens he’s doing here.” CHAPTER XIV.