Another fragment. Karlov's agent sought his chief and found him in the
cellar of the old house, sinisterly engaged. The wall bench was littered
with paraphernalia well known to certain chemists. Had the New York bomb
squad known of the existence of this den, the short hair on their necks
would have risen.
"Well?" greeted Karlov, moodily.
"I have found the man in the dress suit."
"He and the Conover girl left that office building together this
morning, and I followed them to Park Row. This man uses the loft of the
building for his home. No elevator goes up unless you have credentials.
Our man is hiding there, Boris."
Karlov dry-washed his hands. "We'll send him one of the samples if we
fail in regard to the girl. You say she arrives daily at the newspaper
office about nine and leaves between five and six?"
"Every day but Sunday."
"Good news. Two bolts; one or the other will go home."
About the same time in Cutty's apartment rather an amusing comedy took
place. Professor Ryan, late physical instructor at one of the aviation
camps, stood Hawksley in front of him and ran his hard hands over the
young man's body. Miss Frances stood at one side, her arms folded, her
expression skeptical.
"Nothin' the matter with you, Bo, but the crack on the conk."
"Right-o!" agreed Hawksley.
"Lemme see your hands. Humph. Soft. Now stand on that threshold. That's
it. Walk t' the' end o' the hall an' back. Step lively."
"But," began Miss Frances in protest. This was cruelty.
"I'm the doctor, miss," interrupted Ryan, crisply. "If he falls down he
goes t' bed, an' you stay. If he makes it, he follows my instructions."
When Hawksley returned to the starting line the walls rocked, there were
two or three blinding stabs of pain; but he faced this unusual Irishman
with never a hint of the torture. A wild longing to be gone from this
kindly prison--to get away from the thought of the girl.
"All right," said Ryan. "Now toddle back t' bed."
"Bed?"
"Yep. Goin' t' give you a rub that'll start all your machinery workin'."
Docilely Hawksley obeyed. He wasn't going to let them know, but that bed
was going to be tolerably welcome.
"Well!" said Miss Frances. "I don't see how he did it."
"I do," said the ex-pugilist. "I told him to. Either he was a false
alarm, or he'd attempt the job even if he fell down. The hull thing
is this: Make a guy wanta get well an' he'll get well. If he's got any
pride, dig it up. Go after 'em. He hasn't lost any blood. No serious
body wound. A crack on the conk. It mighta killed him. It didn't. He
didn't wabble an' fall down. So my dope is right. Drop in in a few days
an' I'll show yuh."