Chick’s talk with Patsy had occurred while they picked their way through the belt of woods, from which they presently emerged, then hastened to the nearest trolley line and back to the city. It was nearly three o’clock when they arrived at the Adams House, and went to Nick’s room. There was no sign of Nick, however. The magnifying-glass with which he had examined the incriminating photograph was still lying on the table where he had left it. But there was neither note nor token to show that he had been there since the three departed in company that morning. “He has not returned since he left with us, Patsy,” said Chick, after looking about. “We’ll wait till the appointed hour.” “Four o’clock?” “Or a little later.” “He may show up by that time.” “I haven’t much hope of it,” replied Chick, a bit anxiously. “I’ve got it on me good and hard, a genuine hunch, Patsy, that something has gone wrong with him.” “You’re most generally right, Chick, when you feel like that.” Chick made no reply, but began pacing the floor. An hour passed, and brought no sign of Nick. At half-past four Chick could restrain his impatience no longer. “Come on!” he abruptly exclaimed, catching up his hat. “We’ll get a move on.” Patsy started up from the couch, on which he was having a pull at his pipe. “I’m with you!” he cried, with alacrity. “Going to try to trace him?” “Yes.” “Where first, Chick? To State Street?” “It’s too late to go there,” replied Chick, as they left the room and hastened toward the elevator. “Yet we might strike his trail there.” “I can do so more quickly, I think.” “Where?” “At police headquarters—Chief Weston’s office, in Pemberton Square.” CHAPTER XV. ON NICK’S TRAIL. It was five o’clock when Chick and Patsy entered Pemberton Square. It was about half an hour before that when Nick Carter was lodged in his place of confinement. “You wait here, Patsy,” said Chick, at the corner on which Nick engaged Grady’s runabout a few mornings before. “There is no need of both of us going into the chief’s office. I’ll return inside of five minutes.” “Go ahead.” Chick hastened down the basement stairs and into the chief’s office—only to encounter Sandy Hyde just entering from the opposite corridor. “Where’s the chief?” Chick cried bruskly. Hyde didn’t know Chick from a side of sole leather, but, knowing at least that he was not Nick Carter, he answered quite promptly: “The chief is in his office.” “I must see him.” “What name?” “Chick Carter. Come, come, I’m in a rush!” Hyde’s catlike eyes at once began to dilate upon hearing the name, taking on their greenish glow of internal excitement. He now realized that he had given Vic Clayton a wrong tip, that one of Nick’s assistants was in Boston and on the case with him, and the servile little rascal at once began to figure how he could square himself and discover Chick’s mission.