His conscience was pricking him most uncomfortably, and although he was hungry, he would have eaten little if he had had his own way. The housekeeper stood over him, however, and saw to it that he made a good meal. The breakfast consumed fifteen minutes of his precious time, and even then the elderly lady sniffed as she picked up the tray. “You oughtn’t to bolt your food like that, Mr. Garvan,” she complained. “You’ll be a martyr to indigestion before you’re forty. Don’t you think you might bite a thing twice before it goes down?” She had gained her main point, however, and that was something. She returned to the kitchen, and Patsy hurried out of the house. He had ordered one of Nick’s runabouts brought round, and in it he drove to the hotel. “Mr. Mortimer” had not yet returned. He said something under his breath, and decided not to wait. He was too uneasy by that time, for James Stone’s fate was troubling him. Accordingly he left word with the clerk for “Mr. Mortimer” to remain in when he came, if possible, until he could be communicated with. That done, he jumped into the runabout again and headed northward in the direction of St. Swithin’s Hospital. It was well that he did so, for his luck was to change. CHAPTER XXXI. NICK HAS A HUNCH. “You, Carter!” Winthrop Crawford had raised himself in bed, and, leaning on one arm, was staring wonderingly at the figure of the detective seated in a chair close to the head of the bed. Nick had removed his false mustache, and although he was still dressed in one of the suits he had worn as “Thomas Mortimer,” Crawford recognized the clean-cut features. “It is rather an early hour to make a call, Crawford,” the detective said, with an apologetic smile. “Oh, I’m always glad to see you,” was the answer. “Hanged if I understand how you got in, though. Wasn’t my door locked?” “I believe it was,” was the calm response. “Then——” “Oh, you ought to know that locked doors don’t trouble me, Crawford,” Nick broke in, his smile broadening. “I sometimes tickle their keyholes a little, and sometimes pass around them.” He was delighted and greatly relieved to have Crawford awake and evidently in such good trim. “And which method did you employ in this instance?” inquired the man on the bed, with a twinkle in his eyes. “I’ll tell you all about that when I come to it. It’s too long to be dismissed in a sentence. As a matter of fact, this is by no means my first visit to your room since you went to bed last night, and I’ve spent considerable time here.” Crawford looked bewildered. “What on earth for?” he demanded; then, as he saw Nick eying him queerly, he added: “Why are you looking at me like that? What has happened?” Instead of answering, the detective put another question. “How do you feel this morning?” he queried. Crawford searched Nick’s face as though he were half afraid that his visitor had lost his senses.