CHAPTER XXI.

ANOTHER KINK.

Although Howard Milmarsh had declared that he was not much hurt, and soon would be well again, it was found that his injuries were more serious than either he or Nick Carter had believed at first.

The patient was kept at Nick’s home that night, and the detective’s own physician, the famous Doctor Grant, came in. He gave the sick man a long examination. Then, after prescribing a sedative, he beckoned Nick one side, for a private report.

“The truth is, Carter, his mind has gone.”

The detective started and a look of genuine horror appeared in his face.

“Do you mean that he is permanently insane?”

“No. I wouldn’t say that. But the blow on the head, with the excitement and mental strain, have been too much for his brain. It has produced a condition of aphasia, or loss of memory, which makes him unable to talk in a coherent manner, simply because he can’t think.”

“I understand. But I hope he will soon recover.”

Doctor Grant shrugged his shoulders. As a physician, he was more interested in the case from a scientific point of view than anything else. At the same time, he was not wanting in sympathy.

“My advice is to have him removed to a hospital, where he will be under constant supervision and will have proper care. You can put him in a private room—that is, if you do not mind the expense——”

“The expense is nothing,” interrupted the detective impatiently.

“Very well. Then that is what you’d better do. In time, with quiet and careful nursing, together with medical attention, he will come around, I have no doubt. I will see him every day. I’m on the staff of the Universal Hospital—where I should advise you to send him—and I will put him on my regular list.”

An ambulance conveyed the patient to the Universal Hospital, and he was put to bed in one of the best private rooms. Special nurses were engaged for him—one day nurse and one for the night—and orders given that he be not left alone for an instant.

Having done this, the detective could only wait, although it worried him to think that, now that he had found the missing heir, it was only to see him physically unable to take possession of his rights.

“I suppose you are sure this is the real, genuine Howard Milmarsh, eh?” suggested Chick, the evening that they had had the sick, and still partly unconscious, young man taken to the hospital.

“I am not sure of anything,” returned his chief, lighting a perfecto. “But if he isn’t, then I am worse fooled than I am generally in a matter of identity.”

A tap at the door, and the butler entered, to announce “Mr. Andrew Lampton!”

“Show him in.”

Lampton came in with rather a jaunty step, bowed to Carter and glanced questioningly in the direction of his companion.

“You can say what you have to say, Lampton,” was Nick’s reply to this silent query. “This is Chick Carter, and he is my confidential assistant. Take a chair.”

Andrew Lampton seated himself slowly, at the same time keeping his eyes fixed on the detective, while a cynical smile played about his lips.

“Where is T. Burton Potter?” asked Nick, handing a cigar box to his visitor. “You have not brought him with you?”

Andrew Lampton took a perfecto from the box, and accepted a light before he answered. Then he said calmly:

“I have not brought him with me, because he is in the Universal Hospital. He was badly hurt at a fire last night, I have been told, and has been removed to the hospital, where it is expected he will not recover.”

It was with difficulty that Nick maintained his usual calm exterior. Here was an assertion that he could not disprove while the patient at the Universal Hospital was unable to speak for himself. True, the girl, Bessie Silvius, had called him Howard Milmarsh. But if T. Burton Potter were slick enough to deceive others, why should he not have fooled the girl also?

These thoughts ran like lightning through the detective’s brain, as he and Andrew Lampton both smoked steadily. The former was staring at a picture on the opposite side of the room, as if his mind were quite occupied with it, to the exclusion of everything else.

“What makes you think the man in the hospital is T. Burton Potter?” he inquired, at last.

“Well, I was told by Louden Powers that he lived in that house, and that he had been accepted by some of Milmarsh’s intimate friends as Milmarsh, and that he had been injured at last night’s fire.”

“You know I was at that fire?” asked Nick quietly.

“Naturally. Everybody knows that.”

“How does everybody know it?”

“Haven’t you seen the evening papers?”

“No. I saw the morning papers, and my name did not appear in them. I requested that it should not. Also, I asked that Howard Milmarsh’s name be kept out of the account of the fire.”

“Well, here is an evening paper,” returned Lampton, handing him one. “It is evident that the news leaked. I don’t mind saying, however, that Louden Powers and I were both at that fire, and that we saw you come down the ladder with that old man. Somebody else—the gentleman over there, whom you tell me is your assistant—carried him down the lower part of the ladder. Then you slid down by yourself.”

Nick glanced down the column of print detailing the incidents of the fire, and saw that his own name and Howard Milmarsh’s were both mentioned. He had little doubt that the “leak” had been contrived by Louden Powers and Andrew Lampton. But he did not say so. It was his custom to let the other party play his hand out before he showed his own, if it could be done.

“How long had T. Burton Potter been living in that house where the fire was?” he asked, at last.

“Only a few days, I understand. That’s what the man who rents the house tells me. He is a truckman, and his name is said to be Billings. They call him Bonesy Billings, but I should think the ‘Bonesy’ is only a nickname. At all events, that is the only first name I heard for him. He calls his roomer Howard Milmarsh. But that only shows how much alike Potter and this Milmarsh must be; when nobody can tell which is which. You haven’t heard anything of the real Milmarsh, have you?”

“I think I have,” was Nick’s curt reply.

He had to admit to himself that Andrew Lampton and Louden Powers were playing a cunning game. They had taken instant advantage of the sickness of the man hurt at the fire to declare that he was T. Burton Potter, and not Howard Milmarsh. And the worst of it was that it could not be disproved unless the poor fellow whose memory was gone could be brought to his senses.

“Where is Louden Powers?”

This question came suddenly, but it did not disturb Lampton. He puffed contentedly at the good cigar between his lips, and answered briefly:

“I don’t know.”

“You saw him last night?”

“Yes. But that is the last time I saw him. Louden said he had a little business to attend to, which would keep him out of New York for a few days. Then he hopped on a street car and was gone. Mighty slick citizen, Louden!”

“What is to prevent my putting you in the Tombs while I look into this matter?” suddenly demanded Nick.

Chick, who had been sitting at his desk in a corner of the room, jumped to his feet as his chief abruptly flung the question at Lampton. Chick was as much surprised as anybody—more so than Lampton appeared to be, for that worthy did not move in his chair, and took the time to inhale a few more puffs of his cigar, before he answered coolly:

“Your word, my dear boy! You promised me you would not do anything of that kind so long as I did what you requested. Well, I’ve done it. You wanted me to bring T. Burton Potter to you, and you have him in your own care. He is in the hospital, it is true. But he’s under your own eye, and you might not have had him if I had chosen to get him away before the fire broke out. I could have done it easily, but I was pledged to you, and, of course, I could not go back on you. I know you will keep faith with me.”

“That is true,” admitted the detective. “It would be better if I had you securely in a cell. But I won’t do it at present.”

“Thanks!”

“I do not concede that you had anything to do with putting T. Burton Potter into my hands—if the young man in the hospital really is Potter—but I will allow you to have your own way about that.”

“It is the truth. That’s why. You know it, too, Mr. Carter. Well, if there is nothing else, I reckon I’ll be going. If you want me again, you can hear of me at the café in Third Avenue, where you found me before. So long!”

With the remnant of the perfecto sticking up from the corner of his mouth, Andrew Lampton strolled to the door, opened it, and disappeared. As the door closed, Chick remarked casually:

“Patsy will see where he goes. I’ve given him a standing order not to lose sight of Andrew Lampton when once he has been here.”

“Quite right!” commended the chief. “Now we have a lot of our work to do all over again! I believed I really had Howard Milmarsh and could close up the case. But these rascals have started a new game, and we shall have to see it through.”

“You don’t believe it is really T. Burton Potter who is in the hospital, do you?” asked Chick.

“I shall have to prove it isn’t. That’s the task they have set for me, and it will not be an easy one.”