That they would guard against anything of that kind not only was obvious to Nick, but he further reasoned that any attempt to do so would surely be detected, and result only in perverting his own more promising designs. He preferred to take his own chance, therefore, and to rely upon the other work about to be done by Chick Carter and Patsy. Shortly before eight o’clock that evening, a tall man clad in black, wearing gold-bowed spectacles and a pointed beard, issued from the Grayling as if he were a resident in the house, and sauntered away through Vermont Avenue. This man was Harold Garland, wearing the garments and disguise of the detective, the same worn by Nick when he visited the office of the government engineer the previous day. Nearly an hour later, or close upon nine o’clock, the light in Garland’s apartments suddenly vanished. Half a minute later, wearing a soft felt hat, a long frieze overcoat, and a suit of plaid woolen, precisely the same garments worn by Garland when he visited Margate, Nick Carter emerged from the apartment house and strode toward the first corner east. A man who was turning it just as Nick was approaching it gazed at him sharply, then smiled and bowed. “Good evening, Garland,” he said familiarly. “Ah, good evening,” Nick returned genially. “I thought I recognized you. A misty night, this.” “Yes, quite so,” said the detective. They then had passed one another, scarce two feet between them, and in the bright glare from a near arc light, and Nick halted on the corner. “By Jove, that’s quite encouraging,” he said to himself. “That man evidently is well acquainted with Garland. He felt sure that he recognized me. He saw me plainly, too, in the bright glare from this arc light. I also got by with the voice. Having done so under these conditions, I ought to succeed in fooling Margate. Yes, indeed, it was encouraging.” Nick was justified in congratulating himself, in fact, for he had, with consummate skill and artistic applications of paint and powder, transformed himself into an almost perfect likeness of the man he was aiming to impersonate. It was, as the passing stranger’s remark implied, a fit night for such an undertaking. A mist hung like a gray pall on the quiet night air. It obscured all but the brightest stars. A half-filled moon shone through it only faintly, surrounded with a great circle, like a halo around the head of a saint. It was, in fact, a damp, chilly, and disagreeable November night. Nick gazed up and down the avenue and through the side street. The latter was less brightly lighted. Lamps of motor cars could be seen in each direction on the avenue. They came and went, many of them passing him, but none showing any sign of stopping to pick him up. Suddenly a clock on a neighboring church began to boom the hour--nine o’clock.