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Broken Bond

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<h2 id="XLIV">CHAPTER XLIV. CHICK COMES TO GRIEF.</h2> With every nerve on the alert, Nick Carter waited. He was prepared to interfere at once, whatever the cost, if he should feel Stone was in any immediate peril; but he was curious to hear and see all he could. Suddenly a thin voice pierced the silence. “You are well now,” it announced. “You feel your strength returning.” It was Stephen Follansbee who spoke, and the slow incisiveness of the tone seemed to cut through the stillness of the room like a knife. “Yes. I feel it. I’m much better now—almost well.” Nick hardly recognized Stone’s voice, so changed was it. It sounded thin and vague, as though the man were hardly sure of himself, as if he had been in solitary confinement for months. It was by no means the first time that the detective had witnessed a hypnotist at work, but seldom had he experienced a more dramatic thrill than he did at that moment. The uncanny power gave him the creeps. “To-morrow you will get up and go back to the Hotel Windermere,” Follansbee went on. His eyes never left those of his victim, and he was speaking slowly and distinctly, so that the entranced brain would follow each detail. [213] “Remember that to-morrow is Monday,” he said. “The bank people will want to see you, and you must tell them that the check for four hundred and fifty thousand dollars is quite correct—that it covers not only professional fees, but a business transaction, the nature of which you are not at liberty to reveal.” Subtle and powerful though the influence was that held the poor, abused brain in thrall, Nick saw a shaft of doubt cross Stone’s face. “The check for forty-five thousand,” the miner corrected, in his far-off tone. Follansbee’s face went suddenly livid. “Not forty-five thousand!” he cried. “Four hundred and fifty thousand. Don’t you remember?” Again the clawlike hands moved in swift passes in front of the rigid features, and the doubt vanished from the reflected face as Nick watched it. “Yes, four hundred and fifty thousand,” murmured Stone mechanically, as if talking in his sleep. An expression of exultant content possessed Stephen Follansbee’s features. It was victory for him now. With this man under his complete control, ready to carry out his desires, he believed his position was secure. If Stone appeared at the bank and authorized the transaction, the chief weapon which still remained in Nicholas Carter’s grasp would be torn away. The plotter started to get up from the bed. “You are——” he began. But at that moment the faint click of some hard object sounded against the glass of the window, and[214] was accompanied by a smothered exclamation. Follansbee wheeled abruptly and peered through the opening. Outlined against the background of glass, he—and the detective as well—saw a head and shoulders. With a swiftness that few would have given him credit for, the doctor darted across the room and threw up the sash; then his long arms shot out and closed around the intruder’s throat, strangling the words that rose to his lips. The swift movement brought Nick round, and he stared at the open window out of which Follansbee was leaning, his outstretched arm thrust into the darkness. Over the rounded shoulders the detective caught sight of a familiar face involuntarily twisted in pain. It was that of Chick Carter. For the fraction of a second Nick found himself surprised that it was not Patsy. It would have been quite like the latter, especially after his unauthorized activities of the last few nights, to have come there to see for himself how things were going; but Chick’s appearance was unlooked for. Nick had heard and seen enough, however, and even had the interruption been far more unwelcome, he would not have remained idle. With a swift bound he was on his feet, and then, darting across the room, he hurled himself headlong at Follansbee. He was just in time. Patsy Garvan had talked over his affairs with Chick, and the latter had decided to accompany him to Miss Worth’s hospital at the expiration of twenty-four[215] hours. They had entered the grounds at the rear, and had made their way without detection to a point beneath the window which Patsy knew belonged to Ward E. A stout vine climbed the wall beside the window, and Patsy had wanted to make use of it in order to gain a view of the room, but Nick’s first assistant had used his authority as Patsy’s senior, and made the ascent instead. The ward was on the second floor, but the ground fell away from the building on that side, and was about ten feet below the level of the main floor; consequently there was a nasty drop from the second floor to the concrete walk beneath. The climb had been an easy matter for Chick, and no more risky than the stunts he did every day. When he had reached the level of the window sill, however, he had found the footing rather precarious. The main stem of the vine was three feet or more to the left of the window. He was obliged to hold this with his left hand and lean far out, with one foot extended along a branch of the vine. In this way he was able to get his right hand on the window sill and to pull the vine over far enough so that he could look into the window. But his efforts had loosened the vine, and when he felt it giving way, he made a sudden thoughtless move, which brought one of the buttons of his coat sleeve in sharp contact with the pane. That was the sound Nick and Follansbee had heard. The doctor’s lightninglike attack had taken Chick by surprise, and the detective, who was clawing for[216] a fresh hold had been unable to resist. He had let go of the vine the moment the window was opened, and had clutched the inner edge of the sill with both hands; but while he was doing so, Follansbee had secured a strangle hold, and begun to push his head backward, with the obvious intention of making him let go of the sill. The rascally physician would have been no match for Chick under ordinary circumstances, but that situation was a different matter. The young detective was absolutely defenseless. It was all over in a few seconds, but they seemed like years to Carter’s assistant. “A-h-h!” It was a thin, frenzied scream that went up. Chick felt the muscular fingers relax from his throat, and dimly saw the long, lean arms, waving wildly, drawn in from the window. For a few moments he hung there, gasping, then, inch by inch he dragged himself up until his head was level with the sill again, and his feet had found a support on a little ledge which hooded the first-floor window. Another heave brought him higher, and he dizzily drew himself over the sill somehow, anyhow, into the room. For an instant he lay where he had fallen, while the interior of the room danced about him. Then, as his eyes cleared, he saw two figures writhing on the floor, locked in each other’s arms. Summoning all of his strength, and gritting his teeth, he rose to his feet and staggered forward. It seemed as if the Fury possessed Follansbee, for[217] he fought like a wild cat, and it was all Carter could do to hold him down. But the detective won at last, and as Chick scrambled to his feet, Follansbee was stretched out flat on his back, while the chief, with one hand on the heaving chest, pinned the miscreant to the floor. “It looks like a—a case of handcuffs, chief,” Chick said, panting for breath. <hr class="chap" /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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