CHAPTER XI. THE ANGLE OF REFLECTION.

Doctor David Devoll, whose will and word were law in the Osgood Hospital, gazed intently at the card brought in by his personal attendant. He was seated at a broad, flat desk in the middle of his private room, a sanctuary into which few would have dared to intrude after having once offended in that way.

For of all the rules and regulations of this institution, there was none more inflexible, none more rigorously enforced, than that forbidding intrusion upon the privacy of Doctor David Devoll.

And when, perchance, it was violated, which was very, very seldom, the unfortunate offender had cause to long remember that suavity and smoothness in a man may sometimes serve only to hide, like the sleek coat of a leopard, very sharp claws and merciless teeth.

Doctor Devoll rubbed the top of his bald head with his slender hands, gazing at the card and muttering the name inscribed on it.

“Blaisdell--John Blaisdell--I do not place him. Written with a pen, eh? Do you know the man, Shannon?”

“Not from a side of leather.”

“Not even by sight?”

“Never laid eyes on him. He’s a new one to my lamps.”

Shannon’s terse replies seemed to issue with husky quietude from the uppermost depths of his throat. They were neither refined nor respectful. They smacked of closer relations than those of master and servant, as also appeared in his confidential attitude and air of assurance. For he was bowed over the desk, with both hands spread upon it, a broad, compact, muscular man of fifty, with the bullet head of a pugilist and the strength of a bull. He was clad in livery, nevertheless--a bottle-green jacket and trousers, trimmed with black braid.

“He stated, you say, that he has private business with me.” Doctor Devoll gazed up from the card with a sinister gleam in his cold blue eyes.

“That’s what he said.”

“But not to what it relates?”

“Not he!” Shannon grinned. “He ducked my question, as if it were a right swing. When I have private business with a man, says he, I don’t confide it to his servant. That was how he countered.”

Doctor Devoll’s thin lips took on a smile that did not improve his facial expression, usually very agreeable and benign. He said deliberately:

“You may show him in, Shannon. Wait. Don’t let his business be too private, not too private, Shannon,” he added significantly, pointing to a curtained door. “Slip around there after admitting him and wait until he goes. You may be needed.”

“I’ll do better than that. If needed, Dave, I’ll be--here!”

“Very good. Show him in.”

Shannon straightened up, smoothed his bottle-green jacket with his palms, and stalked with stilty stiffness through the opposite door, closing it after him.

Doctor Devoll reverted to the card.

“Written with a pen,” he repeated, his eyes squinted and gleaming. “But not on one of our office blanks. Most men have a printed card or engraved. Written with a pen. One might rightly infer from that, perhaps, that his name is not--Blaisdell.”

Obviously, Doctor Devoll was more than ordinarily discerning.

Shannon had, in the meantime, returned to the man waiting in the hospital office. He then had all the earmarks of a well-trained butler, thoroughly conscious of his dignified functions.

“Pardon the delay, sir,” he said sedately. “Doctor Devoll was talking by telephone with a patient. He will see you. This way, sir.”

Nick followed him through the main corridor, then into a narrow diverging passageway, then down three steps and through a second narrow entry, at the end of which was the door of the physician’s private room. Shannon knocked and then opened it.

“Mr. Blaisdell, sir,” he announced.

The detective entered and Doctor Devoll arose to meet him, bowing and placing a chair.

“Take a seat, Mr. Blaisdell,” he said blandly. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I was busy with the telephone.”

“Don’t mention it,” Nick replied. “I shall not take much of your valuable time.”

He sat down while speaking, and his trained eyes quickly took in most of the details of the spacious, handsomely furnished room. Two windows overlooked the rear grounds. Each was entirely covered with an interior, painted wire screen, which precluded observation from outside, but through which one within could see plainly. There were roller shades and shutters, also, that would insure privacy after the lamps were lighted.

The detective saw at once that he was in a rear room in the main building. He could see the broad sweep of the rear lawn, the back street in the near distance, a gravel path leading out to it through the park, evidently from a near rear door. He no sooner was seated, moreover, than he saw something else--which would have been seen and appreciated by only one detective in a million.

The broad, flat desk was between him and one of the windows, the light from which struck the top of the desk at an angle, causing a slight glare on its smooth leather surface. Two spots that broke this glare, however, apart from some books and papers nearer the chair from which the physician had arisen, instantly caught the detective’s eye.

There was no mistaking the shape of them, nor what had caused them. They were the broad outlines of a man’s hands, outspread while he leaned over the desk, and the moisture from which still lingered on the smooth leather.

“By Jove, I’ve hit a pair of liars!” thought Nick instantly, though his strong, clean-cut face did not change by so much as a shadow. “That fellow in livery was leaning over the desk, with both hands spread on it, directly opposite the chair from which this doctor arose. The dampness from them has not yet dried from the leather, nor would it have been imparted to it unless the hands were there for several moments. That’s an unusual and remarkably confidential attitude for a servant. The telephone is in one corner and ten feet from the desk. I’ll wager, by Jove! that the doctor was not using it, and that something else occasioned the delay, possibly a conference concerning me and my mission. Both lied about the telephone, as sure as I’m a foot high, but for what reason?”

Obviously, of course, these shrewd deductions were mere impressions that flashed very swiftly through the detective’s mind, rather than a process of deliberate reasoning. Naturally, too, they instantly gave rise to new and somewhat startling suspicions, which, with characteristic self-control, Carter was careful to conceal.

Doctor Devoll had pattered around his desk, in the meantime, and was taking the chair from which he had arisen.

“I am not busy just now, Mr. Blaisdell,” he said. “I can give you what time you want. What’s the trouble? You don’t look like a man afflicted with any physical ailment.”

Nick laughed lightly and shook his head, sizing up with augmented interest this bald, thin-featured, smooth-spoken physician who, so singularly and unexpectedly, had now incurred his distrust.

“No, nothing of the kind,” he replied. “If all men were as strong and healthy as I am, Doctor Devoll, those of your profession would find it hard sledding.”

“That is fortunate for you, at least,” smiled the physician.

“My business with you relates to another matter,” the detective added.

“Private business--or so my man informed me.”

“Yes.”

“Concerning what?” Doctor Devoll’s narrow eyes took on a searching squint.

“I want to ask you about the girl who was found unconscious in the hospital grounds late last night,” Nick explained. “More precisely, I want your opinion of her condition and the cause of it, as well as of the three previous cases very closely resembling it. It strikes me----”

“One moment, sir,” Doctor Devoll interrupted. “Why are you specially interested in the case?”

“Is that material?” Nick inquired, smiling.

“Quite so. I am not in the habit of discussing my cases with strangers. I want to know to whom I express an opinion, and for what reason and by what right it is asked.”

“Otherwise, Doctor Devoll, you do not express it?” queried the detective, noting a subtle ring in the other’s voice. “Is that what I am to infer?”

“Exactly.” Doctor Devoll nodded. “Reticence would denote a covert motive on your part in seeking my opinion. I would not stand for that for a moment. I must be met halfway or I will not discuss a case with any visitor.”

“That seems to be a consistent position, I’m sure,” Carter admitted. “I will tell you, therefore, why I am interested in this case. It was brought to my notice by Chief Gleason, of the police department, at whose request I am investigating it.”

“You are a detective, then.”

“Well, merely to that extent,” Nick allowed evasively.

“I see.” Doctor Devoll stroked his black frock coat and drew up in his chair. “Let me ask you one more question, Mr. Blaisdell.”

“Certainly.”

“Why is an investigation thought to be necessary?”

“Don’t you consider it wise?”

“For the police to butt in?” Doctor Devoll said a bit sharply. “I can’t say that I do.”

“No?”

“Why should they interfere? What was there in either case that demands police investigation?” Doctor Devoll curtly questioned. “A girl was overcome, was addicted to a drug, or a dope of some kind, and wandered into the hospital grounds. She was found and brought in here. I revived her and she immediately insisted upon going home. That’s all there was to any one of the cases. Why, I repeat, do they require police investigation?”

“I cannot conceive, Doctor Devoll, that you have any personal objection to an investigation,” Nick remarked dryly, smiling again.

A tinge of red leaped up in the physician’s cheeks. A sharper gleam shot from his squinted eyes. He detected a covert insinuation in his visitor’s tone. He felt that he had said too much, perhaps, for he quickly retorted:

“Not the slightest objection, Mr. Blaisdell, not the slightest objection. I merely fail to see why an investigation is necessary. There are hundreds of dope fiends in every large city, but in none of them have the police a very great interest. Why their activity, then, in these cases? What do they suspect?”

“Don’t you think that four such cases warrant suspicion?” the detective blandly inquired.

“Not more than the hundreds I have mentioned.”

“But all were found in the hospital grounds,” Carter pointed out suggestively.

“What of that?” Doctor Devoll demanded. “A coincidence. Nothing else. One may have been influenced by having read of the others. There is no accounting for the doings of a drug fiend.”

“There is some truth in that,” Nick admitted.

“Let it go at that, then,” said Doctor Devoll, with a wave of his slender hands. “I wanted only to learn your opinion, your grounds for suspicion. You now are welcome to mine. I will answer any question you care to ask.”

“Thank you,” said the detective, who now was taking a somewhat different course than he would have shaped if he had detected nothing denoting duplicity in the physician. “You think these girls were drug fiends, do you?”

“I don’t know positively,” Doctor Devoll said quickly. “I am not sure that the coma in which I found them was the cause of a drug. There is a possibility, of course, that the cause was a temporary atrophy of the cerebral nerves.”

“But you intimated to Sergeant Brady that they were drugged,” Nick reminded him.

“That was and still is what I suspect, but I am not sure of it,” Doctor Devoll retorted. “I had not time to look deeply into either case. My duty was to restore my patient, which I succeeded in doing, and each of them then insisted upon departing and going home.”

“Why didn’t you detain them?”

“I had no right to do so. One may leave here as soon as able. This is not a police station.”

“But why didn’t you question them about their habits, Doctor Devoll, and insist upon knowing their names?” the detective asked more pointedly.

“I did so in the last case.”

“Why not in the others? It strikes me----”

“Stop a moment,” Doctor Devoll interrupted, lurching forward in his chair. “I run this institution, Mr. Blaisdell, and I’m not going to be bothered in this way nor have my conduct picked to pieces by the police. When another case turns up, I would advise your having her taken to headquarters. You then can call another physician. Get him to restore her. He may know more than I.

“You can hold the girl, charge her with something, frame her up in any way you like, which is quite in a line with police methods, and, perhaps, you can force her to impart all the information you want. I know no other way by which you can learn the truth.”

Doctor Devoll arose with the last, signifying that he would not prolong the interview. Carter had let him run on without interrupting, noting his impatience and a more threatening shrillness in his voice. He decided not to question him further. He arose and took his hat, saying with ominous quietude:

“There is another way, Doctor Devoll, and I shall find it. I’m going to dig out the whole truth, not only in these cases, but also in the sudden mysterious death of Gaston Todd. There is, I now feel sure, quite a close relation between all of these cases and the many mysterious robberies that have recently been committed in Madison. I want the whole truth, Doctor Devoll, and I’m out to get it. Take it from me--I’ll find the way.”

“I wish you much success.” Doctor Devoll’s thin lips took on a rather sardonic smile. “I wish you much and speedy success, Mr. Blaisdell. This way, sir, if you are going. Call again. I shall be interested to know how you succeed and to learn the true inwardness of these mysteries. Ah, here is my man. Show Mr. Blaisdell the way, Shannon, if you please. Call again, sir; call again.”

“Thank you. I think it highly probable,” said Carter, with singular dryness.

Doctor Devoll bowed, still smiling, and closed the door, to which he had accompanied the detective.

Nick Carter followed Shannon out by the way he had entered, departing without so much as a word to the burly attendant. There was a suspicious gleam in the latter’s eyes, however, while he watched the departing detective through one of the office windows. Turning abruptly, as if hit with a sudden idea, he closed the office door and then called up the police headquarters by telephone.

“Hello!” said he, with a voice very unlike his own. “One of Carter’s assistants is talking from the Wilton House. Do you know where I can find him?”

A sergeant answered, one who happened to know of Carter’s relations with the chief, but upon whom the above inquiry made no impression and was not afterward recalled.

“I do not,” he replied. “He has not been here since morning.”

Shannon hung up the receiver; then arose and hurried back to rejoin the physician.

“I’m wise, Dave,” he announced, with an exultant snarl. “I’ve nailed him.”

Doctor Devoll swung around from the fireplace, near which he was standing.

“Wise to what?” he demanded. “Do you mean that you know him?”

“You bet I know him. Brady, you remember, telephoned to a man named Blaisdell last night, who is at the Wilton House. It just struck me that Gleason has employed outside detectives. There is just one crack sleuth whom he most likely would want. I have phoned to headquarters, saying I was his assistant and asking if he was there. I was told that he was there this morning. That does settle it. You have just been talking, Dave, with the famous New York detective, the worst ever--Nick Carter.”

Doctor Devoll started slightly and for a moment appeared incredulous. Then his teeth met with a vicious snap. His face changed as if he had been suddenly turned to a devil incarnate.

“You are sure of it, Shannon, sure of it?” he questioned, with a sibilant hiss.

“Dead sure, Dave,” Shannon insisted. “There’s nothing to it.”

“Nick Carter, eh? The worst ever, eh?” Doctor Devoll gave way to a mirthless, derisive laugh. “We’ll see about that. We’ll see about that, Shannon. He shall find that he has met one worthy of his steel, one who will balk, thwart, and laugh at him. Or, if need be, Shannon, who will wipe him from the face of the earth!”

Shannon shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled grimly. It was not the first time that he had heard such sentiments as these, and seen that same gleam and glitter in the eyes of the man confronting him, eyes with a glare like that of madness.

“You will not quit, then?” he said inquiringly.

“Quit!” Doctor Devoll sneered scornfully. “Only curs and cowards quit, Shannon, and throw up the sponge. Sit down at my desk. Sit down and write what I dictate. Your hand will never be suspected.”

Shannon obeyed him without a protest. He was accustomed to yielding to this man, to obeying him without question. He sat down at the desk, taking the pen and paper which the physician provided. Half an hour had passed when Doctor Devoll ended his dictation and gave the other his instructions.

Shannon arose and went to change his livery for street attire.

Doctor Devoll, with face still reflecting his vicious sentiments, gazed intently at his desk for several moments. Then he started abruptly, having decided what course he would shape, and hurriedly opened a safe in one corner, taking from it a small rubber mask, which he quickly adjusted over his mouth and nostrils. Then he took from an inner compartment--a small leather bag.

Out of the latter he drew a crumpled handkerchief, lady’s size, and hurriedly cast it with the bag into the fireplace. A blue flame sprang up, hissing audibly, denoting that the handkerchief was saturated with a very volatile and inflammable substance of some kind. The physician watched them burn, smiling sardonically; then forced the charred remains deep among the glowing embers.

“Nick Carter, eh?” he muttered, relocking the mask in his safe. “He suspects me, does he? He’ll corner me, will he? We shall see--we shall see!”

When Shannon returned, he had a disguise in his hand, which he was placing temporarily in his pocket.

Doctor Devoll started up from his desk with two sealed letters, which he had hurriedly written. He gave them to his attendant, saying sharply, with eyes gleaming again:

“This to Toby Monk. This to Tim Hurst. Be wary when leaving the other, Shannon, both wary and watchful. Nick Carter, eh? We shall see, Shannon, we shall see!”