The detective might have acted wholly on his own responsibility, but many difficulties would have been involved in that case, and he decided against it. He turned on the lights in his room and looked up at the wall in the neighborhood of the door. As he had anticipated, his eyes fell upon an electric bell, which had doubtless been placed there in order to arouse guests who might have left instructions for an early call. If there was one in his room, there was doubtless one in each of the others—including James Stone’s. Having made up his mind as to that, the detective switched off the light again, softly unlocked and opened his door, and slipped out into the corridor. The Hotel Windermere was a modern one, with all the latest safeguards, including floor clerks; in other words, there was a clerk on each floor night and day. These clerks had desks in the main corridors, with mirrors about them so arranged that they could see what went on in all of the side passages. Calls from their floor were handled by them, and it was their business to see that everything was orderly and respectable, to scrutinize visitors, to note the comings and going of guests, and to keep a watch for delinquencies on the part of employees. Nick approached the clerk on his floor, a young woman of thirty-three or four. “Will you kindly tell me where I can find the house detective at this hour?” he asked. The clerk looked him over in some surprise. “Has anything happened?” she asked quickly. “Have you lost anything?” Nick smiled slightly. “Oh, no,” he answered. “It’s nothing of that sort. I simply have business with your detective.” As he spoke, he took out a two-dollar bill and laid it on the young woman’s desk. “And I must ask that you look upon my interest in him as strictly confidential,” he added. The clerk frowned slightly as she saw the money, then gave the detective a searching look. “I can’t accept that, Mr. Mortimer,” she said, giving him the name he was using at the hotel. “We clerks are not allowed to accept tips. It wouldn’t do, you know. Thank you just as much, though. You may be sure I won’t say anything about it. You’ll find Mr. Stickney, the detective, in room twelve hundred and twelve.” “Thanks,” Nick replied. “And accept my apologies, please. I didn’t think for a moment of the policy here. I don’t want to go up to the detective’s room, though, for that would arouse the curiosity of the elevator boy. Will you kindly telephone and ask him to meet me here as soon as he can?” “Certainly,” was the reply. Ten minutes later, the house detective, having dressed hastily, put in an appearance. Nick greeted him and drew him aside. He knew Stickney, but had not seen fit to reveal that fact to the floor clerk. “Look here, Stickney,” he said, as soon as they were out of earshot, “I suppose you wonder what you’re up against. I’m registered here under the name of Thomas Mortimer, but you know me better as Nick Carter.”