Читать книгу A Battle for Right; Or, A Clash of Wits онлайн

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“Well?”

“As I turned my car around, I had a view of the doorway, and I saw Mr. Milmarsh come out and get into a taxi.”

“Where did the taxi go?”

“I don’t know, sir. I didn’t think of following it. That would not have been any of my business. It vanished among all the other taxis and motor cars in the avenue. I shouldn’t have thought anything of it at all if you hadn’t asked me.”

“I suppose that’s true,” remarked Carter, half to himself. Then, louder: “That will do. Good night!”

The detective called up every club, hotel, restaurant, and private home in which it might be possible to hear of Howard Milmarsh. But the same answer was returned from all. Nobody had seen him that day or evening. Even the Hotel Supremacy could give him no information.

Nick Carter went to his comfortable home in New York, and settled himself behind the great oaken table he used in his library, as he lighted one of his own particular perfectos, to think over the incidents of the evening.

He was only half through his cigar when the telephone bell rang. With his customary deliberation, he picked up the instrument and responded, in his grave, firm tones: