“Hello, Chick!” was the greeting his chief gave him. “So you’re back at last, are you? I got your message. Have you been with Crawford all this time?” The young detective seated himself hastily, gave an account of the afternoon’s program and then wound up with the startling information that he had heard Doctor Follansbee asking for Stone. At the mention of the specialist’s name, Carter’s lithe body stiffened, and he darted a quick glance at Chick. “Follansbee and Stone!” he repeated. “That combination looks bad. I don’t like it.” CHAPTER XVI. A BIRD OF ILL OMEN. “Neither did I,” his assistant answered. “Don’t forget, though, that that young doctor down in South America insisted that Stone should consult a specialist upon reaching New York. It looks as if Follansbee were the man.” “That seems probable,” Nick agreed, “but it doesn’t help matters very much. For all I know, Floyd may be a scamp himself, and even if he isn’t, and has communicated with Follansbee in good faith, the latter may try some trick. Both Crawford and Stone are the sort of men who would be looked upon as easy marks. They’ve been out of the country for many years, and they now possess a million dollars between them. What’s more, they’re almost friendless here in New York. That fact would appeal to Follansbee. He made the mistake of aiming too high the last time—of trying to victimize a man who was too well known. If he hasn’t turned over a new leaf—and I fear he hasn’t—we may be pretty sure that he’ll tackle a different proposition the next time.” “Well, I didn’t feel easy about it,” Chick admitted. “That’s why I hurried out without waiting for Crawford to return.” A brief silence fell between them, although some of the others at the table renewed in lower tones the conversation which Chick’s entrance had interrupted. The chief was eating mechanically and hurriedly, and the absent-minded expression on his face told Chick that something was in prospect. Presently the detective refused his dessert, and rose to his feet. “What’s the number of Crawford’s room at the Windermere?” he asked. “Twenty-one,” Chick answered. Carter went out into the hall, where the nearest of the several telephone connections in the house was located. The listening Chick heard him shuffling over the pages of the directory, and then caught the click as the receiver was removed from its hook. The chief gave a number, and after a little delay asked: “Is this the Windermere?” In another moment he went on: “I wish to engage a room for a few days, and I’m particular about its location. Is number twenty-two vacant?” A slight grin parted his assistant’s lips. “It isn’t?” he heard his chief ask. “Then how about twenty?” There was another pause, and then: “Good! I’ll take it. Mortimer is the name—Thomas Mortimer. Got that? Thanks!”