None of these things seemed to worry him, though. He slipped cautiously into the room and looked about him with keen eyes. A faint ejaculation of satisfaction escaped his lips as he caught sight of what he was looking for.
There was a small writing desk close to the head of the bed. It was open, and on the extended leaf lay a small, flat, leather case. Leaping forward, Nick opened the case and took out a small hypodermic syringe. The plunger had been drawn back to its fullest extent, and the detective’s lips tightened as he realized that in that little cylinder lurked sure death.
He paid no attention to the other articles in the case—the tiny bottle with some colorless drug, the bit of sponge, and so on. He cared nothing for them, and was interested only in the deadly hypodermic.
Looking about him again, and listening all the while, he took out his fountain pen, removed the cap, and unscrewed the pen itself; then he squirted the contents of the syringe into the barrel of the pen, which he had taken the precaution to empty before leaving his room, and replaced the pen and cap.
Having finished that manipulation, he carelessly thrust the pen back into his pocket and went with long, silent strides to a stationary washstand in a little alcove. He turned on the faucets, directed a little stream of warm water into the syringe, and operated the plunger several times, in order to clean the cylinder as well as he could; after which he filled the syringe with water, and, leaving the plunger out as he had found it, returned the instrument to the case. The case closed, he made for the window.
So swift had been his movements that he had been in the room hardly more than a minute, and nothing had occurred to disturb him. The bell had continued its deafening ringing, and he had thought he heard Crawford’s bed creak, but Stone’s partner had not called out. He gave a sigh of relief as he reached the balcony of the fire escape and plunged out into the shadows at one side. In a few brief moments he was over the railing and through his own window.
He had hardly reached his room, however, before he heard Stone’s familiar footsteps in the corridor outside. The miner was returning, and muttering angrily to himself as he did so. Presently the noise ceased. The bell had been “fixed.” The detective heard Stone pass again and yet again, probably to tell the floor clerk that it was all right.