Chick felt instinctively that the discovery he had made was of considerable importance. He had come to look upon Follansbee with suspicion, and he was aware of Stone’s attempts upon Crawford’s life. To be sure, he also knew that Stone had been advised to consult a specialist in New York. It might well be, of course, that the specialist in question was Stephen Follansbee, and that the miner had gone to him in good faith. The connection between them, however, whatever it was, seemed to deserve a little more attention. At any rate, he felt that he ought to inform his chief at once of the fact that Follansbee had been inquiring for James Stone. “I’ll have to clear out of this,” he thought, “and I mustn’t let the Buzzard see me, either. If Crawford should come down and speak to me, Follansbee might be put on his guard—supposing there’s anything fishy about his call on Stone. It’s up to me to make tracks before Crawford comes back.” He rose to his feet, and as he did so the elevator bell gave a subdued buzz. The man in charge closed the gate, and the elevator shot upward. Chick felt morally certain that it was Crawford who had rung the bell, and was waiting to descend. Another might have laughed at him for the thought, when the big hotel was well filled with guests, but Chick put enough faith in it to cause his heart to give a startled bound. Without a look toward the elevator, he strode along the lobby in the direction of the door, and hurried out. He had barely disappeared when the car sank to the level of the ground floor, and Winthrop Crawford emerged. The miner looked expectantly toward the corner where he had left Nick Carter’s assistant, and stopped short when he found it vacant. His bewildered gaze traveled over the whole room, and then he approached a bell boy who was standing in a near-by doorway. “Do you happen to know what’s become of the young man I left in that corner less than five minutes ago?” he asked, pointing to the chair Chick had occupied. “He’s just gone out, sir,” was the reply. “He hurried past me just before you came down, and shot out of the door as if he had been sent for.” “Did any one speak to him?” “No, sir, not that I know. Maybe he just thought of something he had to do.” “That’s queer!” Crawford muttered. “I don’t understand it.” Then he suddenly made up his mind. “See if you can catch him,” he said to the boy. “Hurry! There’s a dollar in it if you do.” The bell boy broke into a run, and Crawford hastily followed. When he reached the street he saw the uniformed boy in full flight after a slender, well-dressed man who was walking swiftly down the street to the left. It looked like Chick, but in order to make no mistake, Crawford halted where he was and looked to the right, then crossed the street. He saw no one else whose appearance tempted him to follow; consequently, he strode in the wake of the boy. The latter soon caught up with his man and spoke to him. Crawford saw the pedestrian halt and turn about.