Nick had not long been thus engaged before he made a convincing discovery. Peering under the long rows of freight cars, he saw beyond that in which Gilbert and McLauren were working--the legs of a man. One fact alone convinced Nick that his immediate suspicions were correct. The legs were motionless. The man was stationary. “The rascal is listening on the other side of the car from which the two men are taking out the cases,” Nick said to himself, after briefly watching what little he could see of the motionless figure. “The opposite door must be closed and his presence is not suspected. He hopes to hear Gilbert and the truckman discussing what occurred in the Waldmere residence this morning, and what I said about the robbery. Otherwise, he would not be standing there like a lay figure in a shop window. I’ll have a closer look at him for a starter.” Passing around the trains under which he had been gazing, Nick speedily reached a position from which he could view the suspect. He was not the type of man the detective had expected to see. He was roughly clad and looked like a ragpicker. He had a short iron hook in one hand and carried a partly filled burlap bag under his arm. His hair and beard were gray and long, his figure bowed, and he appeared to be fully seventy years old. This questionable character, who had been standing just where the detective had thought, looked up and saw Nick just as he appeared beyond the end of the sidetracked train. He betrayed no fear, however, no inclination to run away. Instead, he walked straight toward the detective, glancing under the cars and over the ground, as if in search of bits of iron and junk, or anything else with which he could turn a penny. He passed directly by Nick, with merely an indifferent glance at him, as he might have bestowed upon any of the yard hands, and then he ambled on with unsteady gait and sought the near street. Nick passed quickly around a string of cars and followed him. “Floyd himself, by Jove, or I am much mistaken,” he said to himself. “The make-up is a good one, but I don’t think I can be mistaken in those shifty gray eyes. Now to prevent his eluding me, if he even suspects my identity.” There seemed to be no probability of the last. Without looking back, walking as slowly and feebly as if really bowed with years, pausing at intervals to peer into a rubbish barrel he was passing, or to prod into it with his iron hook--thus the man proceeded toward the East Side, with the detective cautiously following. Nick knew the district tolerably well at which his quarry finally brought up, knew it to be one of the worst in the city. He was somewhat surprised that Floyd, if he had not mistaken his identity, was seeking such a locality, for he had been in the past a man of good taste and fastidious habits. Nevertheless, constantly watching him, Nick saw the man turn suddenly from the street and disappear between two old storage buildings.