“Never mind about that, doctor,” he said. “I know what is the matter with him, and I believe I can revive him--unless Grantley has blocked the way.” “Is it possible!” exclaimed Kennedy and the doctor, in concert. “What is it?” added the former, while the latter demanded: “What do you mean by ‘blocking the way’?” “Your ex-guest hypnotized him, Kennedy,” was the simple reply, “and, as I have had more or less experience along that line myself, I ought to be able to bring Bradley out of the hypnotic sleep, provided the man who plunged him into it did not impress upon his victim’s mind too strong a suggestion to the contrary. Grantley has gone deep into hypnotism, and it is possible that he has discovered some way of preventing a third person from reviving his subjects. There would have been nothing for him to gain by it in this case, but he may--out of mere malice--have thrown Bradley under a spell which no one but he can break. Let us hope not, however.” “Hypnotism, eh?” ejaculated Kennedy. “By the powers, why didn’t we think of that, doctor?” The prison physician hastily sought an excuse for his ignorance, but, as a matter of fact, he could not be greatly blamed. He was not one of the shining lights of his profession, as his not very tempting position proved, and comparatively few medical practitioners have had any practical experience with hypnotism or its occasional victims. Nick Carter, on the other hand, had made an exhaustive study of the subject, both from a theoretical and a practical standpoint, and had often had occasion to utilize his extensive knowledge. While Warden Kennedy, the physician, and a couple of nurses leaned forward curiously, the detective bent over the figure on the narrow white bed and rubbed the forehead and eyes a few times, in a peculiar way. Then he spoke to the man. “Come, wake up, Bradley!” he said commandingly. “I want you! You’re conscious! You’re answering me. You cannot resist! Get up!” And to the amazement of the onlookers, the keeper opened his eyes in a dazed, uncomprehending sort of way, threw his feet over the edge of the bed, and sat up. “What is it? Where have I been?” he asked, looking about him. And then he added, in astonishment: “What--what am I doing here?” “You’ve been taking a long nap, but you’re all right now, Bradley,” the detective assured him. “You remember what happened, don’t you?” For a few moments the man’s face was blank, but soon a look of shamed understanding, mingled with resentment, overspread it. “It was that cursed Number Sixty Thousand One Hundred and Thirteen!” he exclaimed, giving Grantley’s prison number. “He called to me, while I was making my rounds--was it last night?” Nick nodded, and the keeper went on: “What do you know about that! Is he gone?” This time it was the warden who replied. “Yes, he’s skipped, Bradley; but we know he was down in New York later in the night, and Carter here can be counted on to bring him back, sooner or later.”