In the hall and nearly opposite this door was a large coat-and-hat stand, backed with a plate mirror. It stood at such an angle that a person lying on the couch and looking into the library mirror, which hung at an angle from the wall, could see the mirror in the hatstand, and reflected in that a portion of the hall and the front door leading to the street. In the front door was an oval plate-glass window, with filmy lace curtains draped daintily to each side. It was plainly visible from the library by means of the double reflection under the conditions described. The French clock on the library mantel struck the half after five. Nick Carter heard it. It recalled to his mind the single stroke of the clock in the hall of the Carrington mansion, the half after ten the night before, a fateful moment. Sensitive in the superlative degree, particularly to outside influences, and still thinking of the knave by whom Waldmere twice had been victimized, Nick suddenly opened his eyes. He started slightly. He thought for an instant that he beheld a ghost, an apparition, or some mental fantasy called up by the nature of his thoughts. For his eyes were turned toward the mirror on the wall, and in double reflection he saw the brightly lighted front hall, the massive front door, the oval window; and he beheld between the parted lace draperies the face of a man peering into the hall--the face of Stuart Floyd. It would have caused most men to leap up from the couch, but Nick Carter never lost command of himself. He knew on the instant that this was no mental fantasy, no optical illusion. There was no mistaking that clean-cut, hard-featured face, with its gleaming, malignant eyes and drawn, sinister lips. Its expression was like that of a dog about to bite. “Floyd himself, as sure as fate,” flashed through Nick’s mind. “He’s gazing in here with some object in view. Can he see me, I wonder, as plainly as I can see him? He will take to his heels, in that case, if I stir to undertake catching him. But how can I otherwise get him, or contrive----” Nick’s train of thought ended abruptly. The face at the window suddenly vanished. Nick now leaped up and rushed through the hall, hurriedly opening the front door and descending the steps to the sidewalk. He gazed quickly in all directions. There were pedestrians to be seen in all directions--but no sign of Stuart Floyd. An approaching taxicab was swerving toward the curbing. The glare of its lamps dazzled Nick’s eyes and prevented his seeing distinctly. He turned sharp on his heel and entered the house, going into his library, which then was unoccupied. “By Jove, that was strange,” he said to himself, taking the swivel chair at his desk. “That certainly was Stuart Floyd. But why was he gazing into my house? Has he vengeful designs upon me? Is he out to plant a bomb, or to turn some other cowardly trick? If he----”