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                         Out of Death's Shadow

                                  OR

                      A CASE WITHOUT A PRECEDENT

                                  By
                            NICHOLAS CARTER

      Author of "Nick Carter's Fall," "Captain Sparkle, Pirate,"
                      "The Boulevard Mutes," etc.

                            [Illustration]

                      STREET & SMITH CORPORATION

                              PUBLISHERS

                    79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York


                            Copyright, 1905

                           By STREET & SMITH

                         Out of Death's Shadow


    All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
                languages, including the Scandinavian.

                        Printed in the U. S. A.




                        OUT OF DEATH'S SHADOW.




                              CHAPTER I.

                        A MAN WITHOUT A SECRET.


On the shady veranda of an old-fashioned Southern house, on the
outskirts of St. Louis, two men in the prime of life were enjoying
their cigars one fine morning.

One, the younger, with a fair, full face and honest, gray eyes, after a
long period of silence, said:

"To-morrow will decide her fate, Nick. You have worked up a strong case
against her, but I am afraid of the jury."

"The jury is all right. We have seen to that, John. Conviction is
certain. It has been an easy case for me."

The woman to whose trial reference had been made had killed her
husband, but the deed had not been witnessed, and it was due to Nick
Carter's efforts that a complete case for the prosecution had been made
out.

"Murder is a secret of such awful weight," said Nick, "that there are
few men, to say nothing of women, who are able successfully to carry
it."

"It will out some time or other, eh?"

"In the majority of cases, yes. Of course, there are instances where
the crime of taking human life has remained an unsolved and seemingly
insoluble mystery, but such instances have, in my opinion, resulted
either through a chain of accidents, impossible to foresee, or through
the negligence or inefficiency of the officers of the law, whose duty
it was to use all possible skill and diligence in arriving at the
facts. In this woman's case we have, I think, exercised all necessary
skill and diligence. To-morrow the end will come, and the next day I
shall be on my way to New York."

"You have been here but a week, Nick, and yet I feel as if I had known
you a lifetime. When you introduced yourself as an old friend of my
mother, I knew in a moment that I had myself found a friend, and one
after my own heart."

The young fellow's earnestness and feeling warmed the cockles of the
great detective's heart. He liked John Dashwood and he took no pains
to conceal the fact. A portly, well-groomed man of sixty, with a
self-satisfied smile on his keen, smoothly shaven face, who had come
out of the house and approached unperceived, now broke in with the
remark:

"I'll bet it's a secret you are discussing."

"What makes you think so?" asked John Dashwood quickly.

"The expression of your face. There is certainly something about the
position of your lips, your eyes are slightly narrowed, your head is
bowed in a suspicious manner, your----"

"Might we not have been exchanging simple confidences?" put in Nick,
with a smile.

"Possibly. But confidences are secrets, you know."

The speaker leaned against the railing in front of the two friends and
regarded them benignly.

"We were not discussing secrets," said Dashwood, as he threw back his
head, though his manner was pleasant enough.

"No? Then you should have been, for all of us have our secrets."

Dashwood shook his head. "You must except me, Mr. Leonard," he said.

"What? A man without a secret? Come, now, Dashwood, you must be joking.
I don't assume, of course, that any secret you may have hidden in your
breast is of a shady nature, but to say that your mind is an open book,
that during your twenty-six years of life--twenty-six or twenty-seven,
which is it?"

"Twenty-six."

"That during your twenty-six years of life you have never had any
experience which, for honorable reasons, you have thought best to keep
to yourself, or have never been the recipient of another's secret,
equally honorable, but not proper for publication, is to stamp you as
an exceptional man."

Dashwood laughed.

"I am an exceptional man, then, for really I haven't any secrets.
But as for Mr. Carter, here," turning and nodding in his friend's
direction, "he is nothing less than a walking mystery. He has to be,
you know, for he is a detective."

Mr. Leonard looked keenly at Nick Carter.

"How is it?" he asked, in a bantering tone. "Are you as Dashwood says,
or is he mistaken, and are you to be placed with him in the category of
unfledged innocents? Come now, out with the truth. Are you a man with a
corroding secret, or are you not?"

"There are some matters of no concern to the general public," replied
Nick, rather coldly, "which I have found advisable to keep to myself.
But"--with a smile--"they are honest ones, I assure you."

"Would your enemies think so if they knew them?" queried Leonard
provokingly.

"My enemies give me little concern."

"Neither do mine, for I have none," said John Dashwood proudly.

Gabriel Leonard lifted his eyebrows. Then he spoke rather cynically.
"You are both to be congratulated. Dashwood, especially. A man without
a secret and with not an enemy in the world! Your condition, I suppose,
must be attributed to the very lucky circumstances that have hitherto
surrounded your existence."

Dashwood nodded. "I have been lucky, I know, and the greatest piece
of luck that ever came in my way, Mr. Leonard, was when I made your
daughter my wife."

As he spoke, pride and satisfaction, strong and deep, were expressed in
his honest countenance.

"Letty ought to have heard that pretty speech," said Leonard lightly,
though in his heart he was vastly pleased with his son-in-law's
appreciation of the treasure he had won.

Nick accompanied his friend up-town that morning and left him at a
large building on Market Street, a few blocks from the Union Depot,
with the understanding that they should dine together in the afternoon.
John Dashwood was the manager of a manufacturing company of which
Gabriel Leonard was the president. His parents were dead and he lived
with his father-in-law, who was a widower.

The friends took dinner in an Olive Street restaurant. Dashwood's brow
was clouded throughout the meal.

"What's the matter, John?" Nick asked. "Anything wrong in the office?"

"I hope not; but a good bit of money has come in lately, and the books
do not show what they ought to show."

"Did you find any pronounced irregularities?"

"I have found something that excites my suspicions, but I can't make
sure that there has been crooked work until I have gone over the
books thoroughly and compared vouchers, and so forth. I shall work at
them to-night, for I know I sha'n't sleep a wink until I have matters
straightened out. It's lucky Letty is away on a visit to Chicago, or
she would be terribly worried over the muddle."

Nick looked grave.

"John," he said earnestly, "there may be more in this than you have
any idea of. What do you say? May I come round to-night and give you
the benefit of my experience?"

"Yes. I shall be glad to have you. Come at, say, nine o'clock."

"All right."

It was six o'clock when they parted. At nine Nick went up the elevator
to the floor upon which was located the office of the manufacturing
company. He knocked at the door, but there was no answer. He waited
a moment and knocked again. Still no answer. By means of the keyhole
he saw that there was no light in the office. Dashwood, then, was not
there. Something must have happened, something out of the ordinary, to
cause this punctiliously honorable young man to slight an appointment
with a friend. The detective instantly attributed Dashwood's absence
to an alarming discovery made while examining the books and accounts
of the firm. Perhaps he had gone home. In a saloon below, next door to
the entrance, was a phone. Nick used it to call up Gabriel Leonard's
residence. The housekeeper answered. Neither Mr. Dashwood nor Mr.
Leonard was at home. Didn't know where either might be found. Had Mr.
Carter gone out to the fair-grounds?

Nick left the phone troubled in mind. Leonard's absence from home
was indication that business of pressing importance had demanded
his attention, for his rule, so the detective had been informed by
Dashwood, was to remain at home every evening. He cared nothing for
theaters or social divertisements, belonged to no club or secret order.
The business of each day over, he betook himself to his suburban
residence, there to find comfort and rest in his pipe and newspapers.

Nick went up to the counter and engaged in conversation with the
barkeeper.

"How's business this evening?"

"Rotten. Everybody is at the fair."

"Gives you opportunity to get a breath of fresh air as compensation,
though."

"Yes, that's so. I stood at the door from eight until eight-forty-five
without a break."

"Studying the people who passed?"

"In a way."

"All sorts and conditions in town during the fair. Good chance for a
novelist to make copy."

"That's right. Now, I saw something to-night that might give one of
these fiction fellows a cue. A fact here and there is all they want.
Imagination does the rest."

"What did you see, if it is a fair question?"

"I saw a woman act in two scenes."

"Monologue?"

"No, she had company, but she was the star. Great woman that. I know
her name, but I've never spoken to her. Wish I did know her. I'd ask
her what her little play to-night might mean."

"Say," said Nick, with an eagerness that was not assumed, but which was
purposely allowed vent, "you are exciting my curiosity. What was her
play? But first let's smoke, unless you prefer liquid refreshment."

"No, a cigar suits me."

After each man had lighted his weed, the barkeeper began his story:

"I had been at the door not more than five minutes when my lady comes
up and starts for the elevator. Her lips were shut tight, and she
looked as if she had it in for some one and was going to call for a
settlement. She was gone about three minutes, and then reappeared,
in company with Luke Filbon, the bookkeeper and cashier of the
manufacturing company. Filbon, who is a young geezer with not enough
sense to last him overnight, appeared to be dippy with fright. They did
not see me, for I was standing off the sidewalk, and so I got the full
benefit of the scene without putting up a bean. The way that woman's
tongue lashed young Filbon was a caution to sinners. 'You shouldn't
have waited so long,' she said. 'You should have taken it out when you
left the office this afternoon. You are a poor, weak, pitiful fool. I
want nothing more to do with you. If I had not more spunk than you have
I'd cut my throat. Go. You've ruined everything. You have destroyed my
chance, and you have destroyed your own. You're fit for nothing but to
wear stripes. Get out of my sight.'

"'I'll go home, get my revolver, and blow out my brains, that's what
I'll do,' Filbon said. 'I thought you loved me, but it was the money
you wanted, not me.'

"'I wanted both, you fool,' she retorted. 'But go. I don't care to talk
further with you. I have no use for such timid cattle.'

"'You will be sorry when you read the papers to-morrow morning,' he
said, and then away he went, leaving her standing on the sidewalk just
outside the entrance to the elevator. For a few minutes she stood
there. Then I heard her say: 'It's risky, but it has got to be done,
for that old fool may, after all, fail to come to time.' Bad habit
that, talking to oneself, but I reckon she was so worked up that she
didn't realize what she was saying. I don't know, of course, what she
had made up her mind to do, and maybe she had no chance to carry it
out, for just at that moment the elevator descended--it seemed the cage
was at one of the upper floors all this time--and John Dashwood came
out. The woman spoke to him first. I heard her plainly. 'You had better
look after Luke Filbon,' she said, 'for he's liable to make a fool of
himself to-night.'

"'Where is he?' Dashwood asked sharply.

"'Gone home,' she said.

"Dashwood thanked her, and then went down the street aways and took a
car, the car that goes to Broadway. The woman watched him get on the
car, and then hurried around the corner."

The barkeeper paused.

"Is that all?" Nick asked.

"Not quite. Ten minutes passed, and a Laclede Avenue car stops at the
corner and off gets Gabriel Leonard. He comes to the elevator entrance
and goes up in the cage. Five minutes goes by, and down he comes,
muttering something about there being the devil to pay. Off he goes on
a car bound for Broadway. Gone to see Filbon."

"What makes you think so?"

"I am a deducer," answered the barkeeper, with a knowing air. "Luke
Filbon lives on one of the little streets west of Broadway, near the
southern limits of the city. The Broadway car lands within a couple of
blocks of his home. That's where Dashwood went to-night, and it's ten
to one that Leonard followed him."

There was a city directory in the saloon, and when Nick had found
Filbon's address, he said quickly: "Your story has interested me. I
think I will go out there myself. I know both Dashwood and Leonard, and
I am curious to learn what is at the bottom of to-night's business.
Now, as to the woman. You said you know her name. What is it?"

"Madam Ree. She is a palmist, who has recently opened a joint on
Chestnut Street."

Madam Ree! Nick drew a deep breath. Madam Ree was the assumed name of
Cora Reesey, who, as the accomplice of James Dorrant, had figured so
conspicuously in a San Francisco case which, a short while before, had
occupied the attention and had exhibited the wonderful skill of the
great detective.[A]

[Footnote A: See "In the Lap of Danger; or, The Bait That Failed to
Lure," MAGNET LIBRARY, 458.]

This woman, handsome, fascinating, unscrupulous, with wits sharpened
by the contest with Nick Carter, whose bitter enemy she had announced
herself to be, because she had been thwarted in her attempt to win a
fortune in diamonds, was now in St. Louis and mixed up in a mysterious
affair in which Nick's friend, John Dashwood, was in some way
connected. What did it all mean?




                              CHAPTER II.

                     THE FATE OF THE TRANSGRESSOR.


At the time of Nick Carter's meeting with Cora Reesey she was but a
novice in crime, but the detective was convinced by a study of her
character that she needed only experience to make her a dangerous
foe. Foiled in her scheme to enrich herself at the expense of Roland
Garrett, a fortunate member of San Francisco's society, she had
turned upon Nick Carter, the author of her defeat, and had venomously
announced her intention to get even. Perhaps it had been her plan to
try conclusions with the great detective in the city of New York, his
headquarters, and, perhaps, the stay in St. Louis was meant to be but
temporary and for the purpose of putting her in funds.

After arranging a disguise which completely concealed his identity,
Nick boarded a car bound for Broadway, transferred to that long
thoroughfare which runs parallel with and through the river district,
and near the hour of eleven found himself in front of the door of Luke
Filbon's house. It was a small, one-story, brick structure, located
but a short distance from the river and near a large grain-elevator.
The house was in darkness, and all was silent within. Nick pressed the
button by the side of the door, and soon was heard a weak, querulous
voice from within.

"Who's there?"

"Some one to see Mr. Filbon on important business. Is he at home?"

"No, and he won't come to-night, I'm thinking. He said he had work to
do at the office that would likely keep him until after midnight. I am
his mother. I suppose you know."

"I took it for granted that you were. Has any one been here to see him
this evening?"

"Yes. John Dashwood was here about an hour ago."

"No one else?"

"No. What's the matter? Luke isn't in any trouble, is he?"

There was maternal anxiety in the tone of the voice. Nick believed that
evasion would be charity.

"I hope not," he said. "Good night," and he walked quickly away from
the door before further and probably embarrassing questions could be
asked.

The patrolman on the beat was found. He had seen two men go from
Broadway toward the Filbon house between nine and ten o'clock. They
were not together, but were fifteen minutes apart. He had not been
near enough to observe them closely, but was satisfied from their
build--they were both large men--that neither was Filbon, who was small
and thin.

Perplexed and dissatisfied, the detective went to the river end
of the street. There was a rotten wharf extending toward the big
grain-elevator. It was short, and for a portion of its length the
planking had been torn out.

The night was clear, with a half-moon, and Nick picked his way about
the wharf, in the hope that he might find a clue to the night's
mysterious proceedings. There was a possibility that Luke Filbon,
determined on suicide, had given up the idea of going home to secure
the revolver--to take which action he would have to tell a story that
would deceive his mother, and that would be no easy task--and instead
had thrown himself into the Mississippi.

Nick, with his bull's-eye, investigated the water space under the wharf
without much hope of making a discovery. If death by drowning had been
Filbon's purpose, he would, in all probability, have jumped from the
edge of the wharf into the river, and the swift current would have
carried him far down-stream.

The water, muddy and but slightly disturbed, carried nothing upon its
surface that was out of the ordinary. Nick moved to a point where he
could get an outlook on the short section of bank beyond the water. He
was rewarded by the sight of a human figure huddled up on the sloping
bank of the levee a few feet from the water's edge. The figure was that
of a man, with head bowed, elbows on knees, and face in hands. As the
light of the bull's-eye was flashed upon him the man lifted his head
with a start, but made no effort to arise. Nick believed that a way to
get under the wharf would be found at the street abutment. Hastening
over the planks, he soon discovered an opening, and quickly descended.
The man was still there. He had not moved. Walking over to him, the
detective saw a small, thin man of about twenty-five, with a haggard
face and bloodshot eyes.

"What do you want?" he asked, in a surly tone. "I am minding my own
business here."

"I want your confidence," said Nick kindly. "I am not your enemy. I may
prove to be the best friend you ever had."

The young man gazed stupidly at the detective, then lowered his head
and said, in a voice broken with emotion: "No; I have no friends."

"That remains to be seen, Mr. Luke Filbon."

"My God! Do you know me?"

There was the ring of abject despair in the utterance.

"Yes, I know you now, if I did not know you before."

For a few moments there was silence. Then Nick asked: "What do you
fear?"

"If I ever see daylight, I fear the anger and vengeance of one man."

"Gabriel Leonard?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"By putting two and two together."

"Who are you?"

There was both fear and curiosity in the expression of Filbon's face.

"I am a friend of John Dashwood, and he is one man among a thousand.
That ought to satisfy you."

Filbon groaned.

"Yes, yes," he huskily replied. "I can guess who you are. You are Nick
Carter, and that means----"

"It means," was the detective's quick interruption, "that you must
tell the truth and that you need not fear me. I have talked with your
mother, and I pity her son. Come, confide in me, for I believe you have
been hounded into your present position."

"I--I can't tell you."

Great drops of perspiration showed themselves on Filbon's brow. Nick
lighted a cigar.

"Let me help you a little," he said easily. "You have been led into
crime by a woman, and you are afraid that if you betray her your life
will be attempted. Am I right?"

"You are not far wrong," said the young man wearily.

"Now, if you can aid me in tightening the cords about this woman, will
not that furnish protection for yourself? For how can you be harmed if
the person you fear is in prison?"

Filbon shook his head, and then compressed his lips. He was now sorry
that he had admitted anything, and he cursed his want of backbone. And
he thought, bitterly: "If I hadn't been a mean, spiritless wretch, I
would never have got into this mess."

Nick knew the nature he had to deal with. He said quietly: "Listen to
me a moment, and maybe you will find it advisable to change your mind.
You are the bookkeeper and cashier of the manufacturing company of
which Gabriel Leonard is president and John Dashwood is manager. You
have been stealing from the company. The crime would never have been
committed but for the evil prompting of a wicked woman, who, protesting
love for you, would have cast you aside the moment she received the
money she urged you to steal. To-night John Dashwood surprised your
guilty secret. You had hidden the stolen money in the office, and you
went there to get it, in pursuance of this woman's order. You did not
get it, or, if you did, it was taken from you. Dashwood allowed you
to go. His heart overflows with charity and--and I presume he knows
your mother. As you left the elevator you saw the woman. You told her
that the scheme had failed. She reproached you, cast you off. You then
announced your intention to go home, get a revolver, and blow out your
brains. What induced you to reconsider that determination?"

Luke Filbon had listened to this clear exposition of his case in sheer
amazement. "No need to keep silent longer," he said, in a husky voice.
"I'll tell you all."

But he did not at once begin his story.

For some time he sat without speaking, his eyes on the water. What
thoughts passed through his mind the detective never guessed until his
account with Filbon had been closed.

"This woman," he began, in a steady voice, "came to St. Louis a short
time ago. I met her on the evening following her arrival here. It was
at a Parisian beauty show, which has since been interdicted by the
police. She was the star of the outfit, and my admiration seemed to
please her. We had opportunity for a quiet confab, and she invited me
to call upon her next day. I was fool enough to do so; and before I
had been with her an hour she knew all about my affairs. I have never
associated much with women of her class, and she exercised her powers
of fascination so well that the next visit I promised to do all she
wished me to do. I was infatuated, and when she painted in glowing
colors a life abroad without work, a life that should be one long
round of pleasure, I stood ready to furnish the means if such a thing
were possible. She said we would require twenty thousand dollars, and
proposed that I should steal that amount from the company. I could not
see my way to the performance of such a thing. I told her that, though
I was the cashier, there was never more than a few thousands in the
safe on any one day, and that every afternoon, before the banks closed,
the money in the safe was banked.

"She had thought of that, she said, and could suggest a way out of the
difficulty. I could every day hold out something, say a few hundred
dollars, as a rule, and more when the receipts should be unusually
large, and cover up the shortage by falsifying the books. In this way
the twenty thousand dollars could be withdrawn within thirty days. The
plan seemed feasible, for I was fully trusted by Dashwood, and before
the expiration of thirty days I had drawn out of the safe and secreted
in the office twenty thousand dollars in bank-notes."

"Of course, you did not take the numbers?"

"But I did. There was no reason for it. Force of habit, I suppose, made
me put them down."

"Did you keep the list?"

"Yes, and I have it with me. But it is of no importance, as you must
see before I have finished my story. Yesterday afternoon I saw Madam
Ree--that's her name, and she took up the palmist business when the
beauty show shut up shop--and told her the twenty thousand would be
ready to-night. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was never more
gracious. All the details of our contemplated trip to Europe were gone
over, and when I left her she promised to meet me across the street
from the office at seven-thirty o'clock to-night.

"At seven-fifteen I went to the office, and was surprised to see John
Dashwood there, and at work on the books. This was suspicious, and I
was all of a tremble lest he should discover one or more of my false
entries. His first words told me that the game was up.

"'Sit down,' he said sternly. 'I shall have something to say to you
before long.'

"I waited in an agony of dread for nearly half an hour. Then Dashwood
turned and faced me. 'You have been taking the firm's money, Filbon,'
he said sorrowfully. 'Why have you done so? And what has become of it?'
I was so taken aback, so overwhelmed by the gravity of my position,
that I could only stammer a few inarticulate words.

"'Come,' he said, 'where is the money?'

"In an instant my brain cleared up.

"I knew what I must do.

"I would give him the money, then go home, get my pistol, and blow out
my brains. Taking the notes from their hiding-place, I handed them to
Dashwood, without a word.

"'Very well,' he said kindly. 'Now, go home, get a good sleep, and come
around in the morning and we'll talk over this matter.'

"So saying, he turned his back on me, opened the safe, put the notes
in a box, and then relocked the safe. Before he looked up again I
was gone. Down-stairs I met Madam Ree. She had become impatient over
my delay, and was beside herself with rage. When I told her what had
happened she lost all control of herself. While she upbraided me, the
scales fell from my eyes. I saw that I had been tricked, that the woman
cared nothing for me, had been using me as a tool to enrich herself.
I left her resolved to end my life. I went down the street, intending
to take the first car for Broadway that came along. But the thought of
showing my telltale face to any of the passengers so distressed me that
I gave up the idea of riding and determined to walk the distance. I
went down to Washington Street and from Washington Street to Seventh,
and so on out to my home. But I did not enter the house. I knew I could
not meet my mother's eye"--here great sobs shook his frame--"I knew I
could not invent a story that would be likely to allay her suspicions.
No, if I wished to die, I must try some other way. I came down here to
think over the matter. That's all."

"Did you see any one on the wharf or in its vicinity as you came down?"

"No."

"How long have you been here?"

"I had been here about half an hour before you came."

Nick regarded the young man thoughtfully. "You have made a serious
mistake," he said slowly, but not unkindly, "but there's hope for you.
Your nature is not a vicious one. I can't give you positive assurance,
but my opinion is that you will not be prosecuted for what you have
done."

"You don't know Gabriel Leonard," was the reply, given in a hopeless
tone. "He is hard, hard as nails. I know him. And there is my mother.
Even if I escape prosecution, I must lose my place. She will discover
the truth. I could not lie to her."

"You should have thought of your mother before," said the detective
coldly.

"I know it, I know it, and I'm lost, lost! Go away. Leave me to myself
for a minute. Let me consider. Oh, my poor brain!"

The spectacle of Filbon's anguish was not a pleasant one, and Nick
moved a few paces away. But he kept his eyes on Filbon, who, rocking
his body and sobbing violently, seemed to be in the lowest depths of
despair. Suddenly, with a wild laugh, he straightened up. "I have
settled it," he almost shouted. "It's all right now."

Nick rushed forward, seized him by the arm, and let the lantern's light
fall full upon his face. What he saw filled him with dismay.

"What have you done?" he demanded harshly.

"Got the stuff at a drug-store coming down here," was the answer, given
with chattering teeth. "Fooled you, didn't I? Ha! ha!"--the laugh
quickly ceased, the face grew ashen, the form stiffened, there was a
sharp rattle in the throat, and Nick, dropping his bull's-eye, caught
the body as it was falling forward. Luke Filbon, weak instrument of a
woman's wicked cupidity, was dead.

A small phial on the ground by the side of the body told the story of
the fatal agency. It had contained prussic acid, one of the deadliest
and quickest-acting poisons known to the pharmacopœia. It had been
procured that evening at a Broadway drug-store, for the label was
there, and there were the death's head and cross-bones below the word
"Poison." By what representations had he obtained the poison? A visit
to the drug-store would furnish the explanation.

The detective was about to leave the spot, when a sudden thought caused
him to stay his steps. In Filbon's pocket was the list of bank-notes
which he had stolen and replaced. The peculiar happenings of the night
contained mysterious suggestions. The list, apparently without value,
might become useful. No harm in obtaining possession of it. It was
found and placed in Nick's pocketbook. Now the detective hurried away
to find a patrolman, state what had been discovered, and have the
nearest police-station notified.

When this duty had been performed, Nick went to the drug-store where
the prussic acid had been purchased. He had left the phial where he had
found it, for it bore evidence that would, at the coroner's inquest, in
connection with an analysis of the contents of the dead man's stomach,
absolutely determine the cause of death.

It was an all-night drug-store, and the one clerk readily gave the
information desired. He had known Filbon as a customer for many years,
and the poison had been sold upon the representation that it was to be
used for the asthma, with which Filbon's mother was afflicted. "Diluted
with water, it is often used by asthmatics," said the clerk, "as it
gives quick relief." When informed that the poison had been used for
quite a different purpose, the clerk was horrified.

Nick Carter could do no more that night. He sought his room in
Jefferson Avenue, but was an early riser. At nine o'clock next morning
he called at the office of the manufacturing company. It was closed. He
went away, returning at ten o'clock. In response to his knock, the door
was opened by Gabriel Leonard. His face was pale, and there were dark
circles about his eyes. He did not greet the detective with his usual
heartiness.

"Where is Dashwood?" was Nick's first question.

"I don't know," was the answer, in a half-angry manner.

"Didn't Dashwood go home last night?"

"No. I haven't seen him since early yesterday afternoon."

Leonard passed a trembling hand over his forehead, met Nick's frowning
gaze for an instant, and then his eyes sought the floor.




                             CHAPTER III.

                        MYSTERY WITHIN MYSTERY.


Nick Carter, while a visitor at the house of Gabriel Leonard, had a
fair opportunity for studying the man. The result did not leave a
favorable impression. Leonard's cynicism, his occasional exhibition
of a plastic conscience, his at times brutal way of putting things,
repelled friendship. Still he might be like many business men engaged
in large enterprises, case-hardened in respect of the nicer notions
of morality, and yet possessed of no really vicious instincts. But
Nick, in looking at Leonard now, was not certain whether his former
deductions had not been too favorable. The manufacturer was uneasy in
mind, had shifted his gaze as if he were afraid to look an honest man
squarely in the face. What did this strange absence of John Dashwood
mean? And had Leonard any connection with it?

Nick closed the door, and deliberately took a seat. Leonard, still at
ease, paced the floor.

"I suppose you made an unfortunate discovery last night," said Nick
tentatively.

"I"--giving the detective one sharp glance and then letting his eyes
fall again--"I made a discovery, certainly. But how did you learn of
it?"

"From Luke Filbon, whose death, by suicide, is the feature of the local
news in this morning's papers."

"You saw him before he died?" asked Leonard eagerly.

"Yes."

"Then perhaps he told you where he had secreted the stolen money?"

The detective stared at the manufacturer.

"Am I to infer," he said, rather sharply, "that you did not find the
money in the safe, where it had been placed by John Dashwood?"

"The money was not in the safe," said Leonard.

Tone and manner indicated that he was speaking the truth. This was an
astonishing statement. A terrible suspicion entered the mind of the
detective.

"No money in the safe," he said, looking fixedly at the manufacturer,
who had pulled himself together and had his head raised almost
defiantly, "and how do you account for its absence?"

"Ask me something easy."

"Was the safe locked when you came in this morning?"

"Yes."

"And was the safe locked when you visited the office last night?"

Leonard started violently.

"How do you know I was here last night?" he asked, in a voice which
shook slightly, in spite of his efforts at control.

"I know, and that's enough. As you were here, in your own office, as
you had a right to be, why should you try to conceal that fact?"

"I haven't been trying to conceal it." His manner was now offensive.
"I would ask you to moderate your tone a little. What right have you
to pry into my personal affairs? I admit your friendship for John
Dashwood, but it must not carry you to the length of insulting me."

Nick smiled inwardly. He was succeeding in drawing Leonard out. When
the manufacturer's period of agitation should have passed, when affairs
in some measure should have settled into a normal condition and he
should again become the cool, self-contained man of business, the
effort to obtain information might prove difficult.

"I spoke as a detective," replied Nick smoothly, "and with no intention
of insulting you. This is a grave matter. Luke Filbon is dead. John
Dashwood has disappeared. I shall not leave St. Louis until the mystery
of last night's work has been cleared up. I expect to have your
assistance. Of course, you will give it?"

"Of course, of course," returned Leonard, in a mollified tone, though
his uneasiness had not disappeared.

"Then please answer such questions as I shall put to you. To begin, did
you open the safe when you were here last night?"

"No, I did not," said Leonard, quickly and positively.

"But, of course, you discovered that the money--twenty thousand
dollars--had been stolen?"

"Not the amount--I did not know the amount--the books were open on the
desk--some entries were marked--and a few minutes' inspection showed me
that I had been robbed."

"What did you do when you made the discovery, Mr. Leonard?" asked Nick
quietly.

"I started for Filbon's house."

"Did you go there?"

"No. I passed the house, saw no light, and, having in mind the nervous
condition of Mrs. Filbon--she is old and frail--I determined to let the
matter go over until to-day."

"Did you return home by car?"

"No. I was excited over the discovery, and I wanted to quiet my nerves.
I walked home."

"It was a long walk for you."

"It was."

"Your place is near Forest Park, southwest of the Filbon place. Why
did you go east, toward the river, instead of west, toward the King's
Highway, which would have taken you near your home?"

"What do you mean?" Leonard's surprise was genuine.

But was not fear mingled with the surprise? Nick's penetrating gaze
tried to answer the question.

"I have been informed that a man of your build passed Filbon's house
last night going not toward Broadway, but away from it."

Such had been the account given by the patrolman.

Leonard appeared relieved by the statement. "The man may have resembled
me in build," he said. "Probably there are thousands in this city who
do, but, all the same, I was not the man."

"How do you account for Dashwood's absence?" said Nick, after a pause.

Leonard did not answer for a moment. He stroked his chin and frowned.
When he spoke it was with a curious hesitancy.

"I hate to say it," he said, with a furtive glance at the detective's
face, "but I can account for it only in one way. Dashwood has taken the
money and made off with it."

"It's not so," said Nick, with a warmth that caused Leonard's cheeks to
flush. "He is no thief. You--you cannot mean this, Mr. Leonard."

"Better men than he have fallen from grace," was the dogged response.
"He might have been speculating and----"

"Not another word," interrupted Nick. "I won't hear it."

Leonard shrugged his heavy shoulders.

"Friendship is a fine thing," he said, with a half-sneer. "It knows no
medium. It's all or nothing. Well," with a patronizing smile that made
Nick grit his teeth, "I can't blame you for sticking up for John. He is
a fine fellow, a very fine fellow, and if he has taken a wrong step I
shall be deeply grieved."

A police officer entered before another word could be said. He had a
summons for Leonard to appear at the coroner's inquest in the matter of
Luke Filbon's death. "One o'clock," said the manufacturer, glancing at
the paper. "I will have time to go home and get an early lunch. I will
see you again, Mr. Carter."

Nick took the suggestion that he should leave, but once on the sidewalk
he hastened to the nearest telegraph-station and wired Chick, his
brave and shrewd assistant, to come at once. This done, the detective
went to the apartments of Madame Ree, on Chestnut Street. The sign had
been taken down and the rooms were closed. From the janitress Nick
learned that Madame Ree had left St. Louis, giving no hint as to her
destination.

"When did she leave?"

"Last night. She gave up her rooms about eight o'clock."

"Who hauled her luggage? Do you know?"

"She didn't have any luggage."

"What? Didn't she sleep in this building?"

"No."

"Where did she lodge?"

"I don't know."

"While she was here did she have many visitors?"

"No. Business was poor. That's why she gave it up, I guess."

"Do you know Gabriel Leonard, the manufacturer?"

"Can't say as I do. I have been in the city but a few months."

Nick described Leonard, and asked if such a man had ever visited Madame
Ree. The janitress' face brightened.

"Yes. A man of that look and build was here several times."

"Did Madame Ree ever speak to you about him?"

"Yes. I was going by her reception-room the other day, when he came
out. His face was as long as the moral law. As he went down the stairs,
Madame Ree turned to me and winked. 'That's an old fool,' she said
contemptuously, 'and I've got him on a string. He's going to make me
rich.' I tried to pump her, but she wouldn't say anything more."

"What did she say when she left yesterday?"

"Not very much. She said she was tired of St. Louis and that she was
about to leave it for good. The next morning would see her on the way
to another city."

"Was she in good spirits?"

"Indeed she was. She was as happy as a lark."

The janitress permitted Nick to see the rooms which Madame Ree had
vacated, but there was nothing to denote that she had ever occupied
them.

In a brown study, Nick left the place and walked from Chestnut Street
to Market. Presently his eye brightened and his lips tightened. Ideas,
at first confused, were taking definite shape. There was a riddle to
solve, and his acute brain had evolved what might prove to be a start
toward the solution. With a determined mien, he ascended the elevator
of the factory building and was soon before the door of the office.

The corridor was clear, there was no one about. With his picklock
he opened the door, passed in, shut the door, and then proceeded to
take a close survey of the office. Between the two front windows was
a large roller-top desk. Against one of the narrow sides of the room
was the safe. Opposite, against the other narrow side, was a small
desk, used by Dashwood. By the side of the safe was a door opening into
the president's private apartment. It was partly open, and Nick went
in. Nothing there except a desk, a closet, and a few chairs. After a
thorough inspection, the detective returned to the main office. Here
the clean floor and the absence of dust denoted that the janitor had
performed his usual work that morning. There was a waste-basket for
each desk. The one by the small desk was empty; the other, by the large
desk, contained a few torn scraps of paper. Nick took them up one by
one, saw that they were all from envelopes and printed circulars and
catchpenny advertisements, and threw them back into the basket.

The great detective now took a position near the door and fronting the
large desk, and tried to put himself in the place of Gabriel Leonard,
at the time of his visit to the office the night before, a visit which
had resulted in the discovery of Filbon's dishonesty.

"He came up for an important purpose," ran the detective's thought,
"for he sticks so close at home evenings that nothing short of
important business could have called him out. Was it a suspicion of
Filbon's crookedness? Or was it a purely personal matter having no
relation to the books of the company? Impossible, at this moment, to
say, unless--unless the remarks of Madame Ree, overheard by the saloon
man down-stairs, had reference to Gabriel Leonard. She said: 'It's
risky, but it has got to be done, for that old fool may after all fail
to come.'

"She then started for the elevator to do that which she had declared
had got to be done.

"What was that?

"Evidently to assault, perhaps kill John Dashwood and secure the
twenty thousand dollars, which he had forced Luke Filbon to give up.
The sudden appearance of Dashwood, coming down the elevator, prevented
the carrying out of this murderous scheme. Dashwood took a car; she
did not do so. Where she went, what she did, are matters which may be
considered later on. What is requisite now to know is: Are she and
Leonard the possessors of some secret; is Leonard in her power, and did
she mean Leonard when she said 'the old fool may after all fail to come
to time'?

"The story told by the janitress shows that she and Leonard are
acquainted, and it shows also that she has some hold on the
manufacturer. Her words spoken to the janitress imply as much, the
demeanor of Leonard, when he left her room a few days ago, supports
the implication. Therefore, in attempting to probe the mystery of last
night's doings, I must consider Madame Ree. She is mixed up in this
strange affair, as well as Gabriel Leonard and John Dashwood, but as
she has probably left the city in accordance with her announcement,
there is not much chance of obtaining any information through her
agency.

"If Gabriel Leonard came up here last night," Nick's reflections ran
on, "having no suspicion that he had been robbed by Filbon, and for the
purpose of acting in accordance with some arrangement made with Madame
Ree, it probably had relation to a matter of money. He may have wanted
to obtain the money in the safe, money received after banking-hours.
Perhaps the sum may have been a respectable one. He says the books were
open upon the desk--and that means that the desk was open, showing that
Dashwood had left in a hurry--and that from certain marked entries
he discovered that Filbon had been robbing him. In that respect he
may have spoken the truth. I am inclined to think he did. But he says
further that he did not open the safe. He may not have done so, he may
have found something which put the idea of opening the safe out of his
head. Leonard was terribly upset this morning. There was something
weighty on his mind, the nature of which he did not see fit to reveal
to me. I obtained only a part of his story. The suppressed part holds a
secret that may prove to be of terrible significance. If John Dashwood
does not turn up to-day, the work upon which I have entered must
include a rigid investigation of the case of Mr. Leonard.

"Now for his movements last night. He came here to get something,
money, let me say. He saw the open desk and the books upon it. Did he
see anything else? He says he did not learn from the marked entries
how much money Filbon had stolen, yet he did not exhibit either
surprise or concern when I told him that the amount was twenty thousand
dollars. Now, twenty thousand dollars is not a small amount of money.
Leonard is not so well off, in a pecuniary sense, as to be able to
consider twenty thousand a bagatelle. His unconcern, not assumed, for
I was watching him closely, is evidence to me that he knew the amount
Filbon had filched. And if he knew it the knowledge must have come
to him when he visited the office last night. How did he learn it?
Not from going over the books, for he did not remain, according to
the barkeeper's story, more than five minutes in the office. When he
came down he was greatly agitated, and the barkeeper heard him mutter
something about there being the devil to pay. What must I infer from
this remark, from his state of mind?

"One thing, and one thing only: He had learned, without opening the
safe, that Filbon had returned the money, and that John Dashwood had
gone off with it. And why did Dashwood take the money with him? I can
imagine a good reason, but first I must endeavor to discover what it
was that gave Leonard his information. A note from Dashwood, of course,
and that note was on the desk, probably lying upon one of the books.
What became of it? Did Leonard tear it up, or did he put it in his
pocket? The fact that he has lied to me shows that he wishes to conceal
his knowledge of the note's contents. What would be the action of a
man, agitated, confused, beset by troubles, some of which I think I
can divine, others of which I can only guess at, upon reading the note
which John Dashwood, under last night's conditions, would write?

"Common sense would not prevail, for common sense would suggest the
pocketing of the note and its destruction, if destruction should
be deemed necessary, afterward, and in a spot where the fragments
would not be found. My judgment is that he tore it into bits here in
this room. But the bits did not go into the waste-basket, for I have
examined it. They were not likely thrown on the floor. Where could they
have been thrown?"

Nick's eyes were glued on the large roller-top desk. The open floor
space in the middle had not a speck upon it. The back showed the
wall-paper and baseboard. The drawer sides of the desk concealed the
wall back of them. Nick stepped to the desk and rolled it away from the
wall. If the janitor had done his full duty that morning he would find
nothing. But the janitor had been amiss, for, partly on the rim of the
baseboard and partly on the floor, on one side back of one of the sets
of drawers, were torn bits of paper.

The detective quickly gathered the bits, placed them in his pocketbook,
and then left the office. Before attempting to make a sequential
arrangement of the bits, upon which writing had been observed, Nick
went to the office of the chief of police in the Four Courts, on Clark
Avenue. He had not given his name to the patrolman on the night
before, when announcing his discovery of the suicide of Luke Filbon,
but had simply said that he was a friend of the chief and would report
to that official in the morning. The patrolman was a new hand, and the
quiet, authoritative manner of the great detective had its effect.
Besides, he was excited over the announcement Nick had made, and
was off for the nearest signal-box as soon as Nick had finished his
statement.

When the detective entered the office he found the chief in earnest
conversation with the chief of detectives, and he was heartily greeted
by each of them. In a few words Nick stated that, while looking for
John Dashwood, he had come upon Luke Filbon, just before the taking of
the dose of poison.

"Now," he said, "I do not wish to appear as a witness at the inquest,
for reasons which any detective officer will appreciate. My presence
in St. Louis is known to but few people. I do not wish to announce the
fact to the whole city. Leonard will give the reason for the suicide,
the bottle of poison and the autopsy report will show the cause of the
death. My evidence would be simply cumulative."

"Leonard has been here," said the chief, "and has told us about the
robbery. We can get along without you, Nick."

"Thank you, chief. And--did Leonard say anything about Dashwood?"

"He said he was missing, but he hoped he would show up before night.
We were discussing the Dashwood matter when you came in. I don't like
the looks of things. Dashwood is a sober, honest, clear-headed man of
business. He would never leave town without notifying somebody, Leonard
or Mrs. Dashwood."

"Mrs. Dashwood is out of town."

"Leonard, then. And, as he did not notify Leonard, I believe there has
been foul play."

Nick was of the same opinion, but for hours he had hoped that
something--preferably the appearance of Dashwood himself--might cause
him to change it.

"Dashwood is my friend--I shall speak of him as alive, for I will not
believe him dead until I see his dead body--and I shall remain here
until the mystery of his disappearance has been solved."

"I am glad to hear you say that," said the chief, with pronounced
satisfaction. "Take the case, and we will assist you."

A long consultation followed. When it was over Nick went to his room
and proceeded without loss of time to put together the pieces of paper
he had picked up in Leonard's office. The work was laborious, but it
was at last completed. The paper was, as Nick had surmised, a note from
Dashwood, written the evening before, and it told a story which stamped
Gabriel Leonard as a liar. This is what the note said:

   "DEAR MR. LEONARD: This evening I discovered that Luke
   Filbon, by falsifying the books, was enabled to steal twenty thousand
   dollars from the company. Filbon came in just as I had finished my
   examination of the books, and not only confessed, but restored
   the money, which he had secreted in his desk. Before he left, I
   allowed him to go on his promise to return in the morning for an
   understanding--I placed the money, all in notes, in the safe, but
   immediately afterward withdrew them, fearing that Filbon might return
   and repossess them. I might have changed the combination of the
   safe, but that would have taken time, and my nerves are not in good
   condition. Besides, I want to see Filbon again as soon as possible. I
   don't think I did right in letting him go. Of course, you will see me
   in the morning, but in the possible event that I may be kept up all
   night, and, therefore, not reach home, and to make sure that you may
   understand matters when you come to the office, I have written this
   note.

                                                    "JOHN DASHWOOD."

There was a cloud on Nick's brow when he had finished reading what
Dashwood had written. He now feared the worst.

"Why did Gabriel Leonard keep silent regarding this note?" he said to
himself. "And why did he give a false account of his movements after
he left the office? Because, in his breast, he holds a guilty secret.
I am satisfied that it was Leonard whom the patrolman saw going from
Filbon's house toward the river fifteen minutes after another man had
gone in that same direction. Supposing that other man to have been John
Dashwood, they might have met on the wharf, or near it. What happened
when they did meet? If the river knows, the river may hold the secret
forever. I must make another trip to that wharf. Last night was not a
good time for an exhaustive investigation."

After lunch Nick took a car, rode out Broadway, alighted at the street
on which Mrs. Filbon lived, and walked down to the wharf. There were a
few people near the approaches. They were discussing the suicide, and
one of them dropped a remark which caused Nick to stop in his walk.

"Strange that his boat should have been stolen on the night of his
death, isn't it?"

"Looks queer, for a fact," said another man. "The verdict will be
suicide, of course, but I'm leery on that theory. Maybe the man that
stole the boat poisoned Filbon first, gave him the stuff in a drink of
whisky, and then planted the bottle by Filbon's side."

"Who would do that?" asked the first speaker. "The man that notified
the policeman?"

"Sure. And then he went back and swiped the boat."

"But why would he notify the policeman?"

"Why? To make sure that the bottle of poison would be found before
anything might cause it to be removed."

The people soon dispersed. Nick followed the man who had spoken about
the boat.

"I have heard of the suicide," he said, as he reached the man's side,
"and I am curious to know what this boat business means."

"It means murder, according to my way of thinking," said the man, who
had an intelligent, honest countenance, and was in workman's clothes.

"I did not know that Filbon owned a boat."

"He has had it for more than a year. It's a yawl, and he used to keep
it in the open part of the wharf. I saw it yesterday before dark. This
morning it was gone."

Further conversation failed to elicit anything of importance. Nick
left the man and went out upon the wharf. There was nothing there but
a few empty barrels, pieces of rotting lumber, and staves. But every
part of it was given a searching inspection. Before an overturned
barrel, the top hoop of which was broken, so that a section half a
foot in length stood straight out with its jagged edge, the detective
remained for some moments. The circular impression directly behind it
was of a nature to show Nick's experienced eyes that the barrel had
been overturned but a short time before. Perhaps the overturning had
occurred during the night.

Nick rolled it aside, keeping his eyes upon the planks. At the first
movement something was disclosed which made the detective draw a sharp
breath. The something was a lady's brooch of gold, green-enameled, made
in the form of a lizard. The barrel had not rested upon it, but it had
been concealed by the barrel's curve. It was a valuable discovery, but
it was not in the line of anything Nick had hoped to find. He knew to
whom it belonged, for he had seen it upon the breast of the owner in
San Francisco a year before. That person was Cora Reesey, otherwise
Madame Ree, who had been Luke Filbon's evil genius, and who was the
avowed enemy of the great detective.




                              CHAPTER IV.

                        THE FLIGHT OF LEONARD.


The finding of Madame Ree's brooch in a locality in which John Dashwood
had last been seen introduced an element into the case that deepened
the mystery surrounding Dashwood's fate. She, as well as Gabriel
Leonard, had been on the wharf the preceding night. And there was the
disappearance of the boat. Had she stolen it, or had it been stolen by
Gabriel Leonard? And if murder had been done, who was the murderer?

Before attempting to answer these questions, Nick purposed making
certain investigations, and having still others made for him. When he
returned to town the inquest was over. It had been short, as there were
but few witnesses, and these had given testimony directly in point.
Gabriel Leonard had testified that Filbon had robbed him, and that John
Dashwood must have discovered the robbery and confronted Filbon with
the proofs, for on his visit to the office the night before witness had
found Filbon's desk open, the books spread out, and the false entries
marked. The autopsy revealed the fact that death had resulted from the
taking of prussic acid. The phial was introduced in evidence, and the
druggist who sold the poison testified that Filbon was the purchaser.

Meeting the chief of police, Nick told the story of the missing boat,
and asked that men be detailed to make inquiries along the river, north
and south. Boats were already patrolling the river looking for floating
bodies. Having disposed of this matter, Nick found a car, and in half
an hour was at Gabriel Leonard's house, near Forest Park. He had
counted on finding no persons at the place but the servants, and was
well pleased when the housekeeper informed him that Mr. Leonard would
not likely be at home before eight o'clock, more than four hours away.

"He will probably return with Mrs. Dashwood," she said, "for early this
morning he sent a telegram so that she take the ten-thirty-five train
from Chicago, which will arrive here at seven-twenty-four. Is there
any news of Mr. Dashwood?" she added, her motherly face betraying keen
anxiety.

"No. But we must hope for the best. How does Mr. Leonard take his
son-in-law's disappearance?"

Nick had seated himself in an easy chair on the veranda, and the
housekeeper had followed suit.

"He left so early this morning that I didn't have much chance to talk
with him. He was very pale, and greatly disturbed in mind. He scarcely
touched his breakfast."

"Loss of sleep probably accounted somewhat for his appearance,"
suggested Nick Carter.

"I don't believe he slept at all," said the housekeeper.

"Did he come in late?" This question was asked without eagerness, in
order that the good woman might not suspect that she was being pumped.

"I don't know what time it was, but it was after three o'clock, and not
long before daylight."

"What kept him up, I wonder?" said Nick, as if to himself, and not
for the benefit of the housekeeper. "Must have been worrying over the
Filbon matter. Yes, yes, of course, unless," looking up at the woman as
if the thought was of but little importance, yet had been suggested by
ordinary curiosity, "unless he told you it was something else."

"I asked him where he had been all night," replied the housekeeper,
wholly unsuspicious of the detective's design, "and he said that he had
been trying to find Luke Filbon, who had robbed him of a large sum of
money."

"Did he seem surprised to learn that John Dashwood had not come home?"

"No. He said that John would probably turn up all right."

"And yet he went off to wire Mrs. Dashwood. That shows, does it not,
that he must have feared that harm had come to his son-in-law, and that
he concealed his feelings in order not to alarm you? That was the act
of a considerate man."

There was no hint of sarcasm in tone of voice or expression of face.
The housekeeper took the remarks as Nick had meant them to be taken.

"Yes, that must be it," she said, with a sorrowful shake of the head,
"for he knows that I think the world of John Dashwood. A finer man
never lived."

Nick nodded his head in approval. Then he said: "I want to write a
letter, so that when I go back to town it may go out with the next
mail. I have used Mr. Leonard's desk before. Will you permit me to use
it again?"

"Certainly, Mr. Carter. You know the way to his rooms. Go right up and
help yourself to whatever you may find there."

The detective mounted the stairs to the second story, and entered
Gabriel Leonard's den, as he called it, which was one of a suite of
three rooms. But he did not go to the writing-desk, but passed on to
the bedroom.

Everything was in order from bed to closet. The housemaid had been
there, and had done her work well. Nick found nothing in the room
itself to arouse his interest. But in the large closet he paused
several minutes. At Leonard's office in town that day the detective,
who never allowed the slightest thing to escape his notice, had
observed that, though it was of the same color, cut, and texture, the
suit of clothes the manufacturer was wearing was not the same one worn
the day before. In the closet the suit of yesterday was found. Nick saw
nothing out of the way in the appearance of the coat and vest, but the
trousers were stained with clayey mud. In the hip pocket a discolored
handkerchief was sticking out. Nick examined it, to find a number of
large, dark-red stains.

They were not blood-stains, but the stains of some mineral substance.
A curious light came into the detective's eyes as he examined them.
Replacing the handkerchief in the trousers pocket, he left the closet
and went into the den. The writing-desk now engaged his attention.
The pigeonholes contained letters and bills. These were examined,
to be replaced with a shake of the head. All the drawers except one
were unlocked. Nothing in the way of evidence was discovered. With
his picklock appliance, he speedily unlocked the last drawer. Large
envelopes filled with documents met his eye. As he inspected them one
by one, his astonishment became so pronounced that he found it hard to
repress an exclamation. In one envelope were two letters. The first
read as follows:

                                    "SAN FRANCISCO, May 15, 1904.

   "GABRIEL LEONARD: My last letter, written over six months ago,
   remains unanswered. Does that mean that you defy me? I should be
   sorry to believe that you decline to recognize my claim. Perhaps
   you are not fully aware of the nature of the proofs which are in my
   hands. Let me inform you that in the case I have against you there
   is nothing lacking. I have not only photographs, original documents,
   and court transcripts, but a number of letters which you wrote
   before you had in contemplation the offense which you afterward
   committed. I write thus guardedly of my proofs in order that the
   truth may not be guessed at by any third party into whose hands this
   letter might chance to fall. This is my last appeal to you. If, on
   receipt of this, you do not at once notify me by telegraph or letter
   that you are willing to treat with me on a cash basis, I shall come
   to St. Louis and either invoke the aid of the law there or--but I
   will not threaten. You know how you stand, and what you deserve. If
   I were in your position, I would give every dollar I possessed in
   the world rather than let the public know what manner of man I am.
   You have deceived the good people of St. Louis for many years. If
   you hope to deceive them to the end, come to my terms. Otherwise, a
   grand smash, the State's prison, infamy, and a dishonored grave.

                                                     "CORA REESEY."

"That must have stirred Leonard up a little," said Nick to himself.
"Yes, it did, for here is a copy of the answer he wrote:

                                         "ST. LOUIS, May, 20, 1904.

   "CORA REESEY.

    "MADAME: You seem determined to crush me. You are not willing to
    wait for my death--which cannot be far away, for I have had
    serious heart trouble lately, and the doctors give me no
    encouragement--but wish to strike the blow at once. But for my
    daughter, I should say, strike and be hanged to you. But her
    interest must be considered, and, therefore, I say, come to St.
    Louis and I'll try to make a satisfactory settlement with you. I
    am certain that a personal conference will be better than a
    discussion of the matter by letters. I dare not say with a pen
    what I would say to you orally. If you conclude to come, advise
    me in advance, so I may meet you on the arrival of the train.
    Yours,

                                                      "G. LEONARD."

In another envelope was a statement showing that Leonard had some weeks
before pledged all his stock in the manufacturing company.

The last envelope contained fifty one-hundred-dollar notes on St.
Louis, Chicago, and Kansis City banks.

In Nick's pocket was the list of the notes which Luke Filbon had
stolen. The detective drew it out, and, when comparison had been made,
he saw that all the numbers of the notes found in Leonard's desk
were to be found on the list prepared by Filbon. The conclusion was
irresistible. Gabriel Leonard had received the stolen money from John
Dashwood. He had retained five thousand, and had given fifteen thousand
to Cora Reesey, alias Madame Ree.

Cool reflection told the detective that there might be a flaw in this
theory, for it would involve murder, the murder of John Dashwood.
And why should Gabriel Leonard murder John Dashwood to obtain twenty
thousand dollars, when the twenty thousand dollars was his own money,
which he could obtain by the mere asking for it? There was something
yet to be unearthed. The mystery was deepening. A crime had been
committed, and Gabriel Leonard was implicated; how seriously, the
future might disclose.

The stains on the trousers indicated that Leonard had been in the mud
of the river's shore, but he might have been there, he might have gone
off in the boat, and still be innocent of the death of John Dashwood.
But the stains on the handkerchief? Here was a problem of a different
nature. It suggested something that increased the detective's gravity;
something that seemed to connect itself with the statement that Leonard
had pledged all his stock in the manufacturing company, and, therefore,
might be practically bankrupt.

After he had replaced the envelopes, with their contents, in the drawer
and locked it, Nick went down-stairs. There was no one in the hall.
Under the stairs was the telephone. Nick went to it and called up the
office of the chief of police. At the conclusion of a talk that lasted
over a minute, he hung up the receiver and walked out to the veranda.
He hoped the housekeeper would not come out, for he wanted to postpone
a certain explanation until circumstances should force him to make it.
As luck would have it, he was not disturbed until more than half an
hour had elapsed. Then arrived the chief of police and the chief of
detectives.

Nick spoke a few words when they came up, and then led the way to
Leonard's rooms. There the evidence which Nick had discovered was
shown to the local officers. The trousers, with the clayey mud and the
handkerchief, together with the envelopes found in the drawer of the
desk, were taken possession of by the chief of police. As the officers
were going down-stairs, the housekeeper came into the hall.

"A matter of business," said Nick, in an offhand manner. "Mr. Leonard
will understand."

"But I don't understand," spoke the good woman.

"I can't explain now," said the detective gently. "All I can say is
that we are acting in the interests of Mrs. John Dashwood."

Sorely perplexed, the housekeeper saw the three agents of the law walk
away.

One hour later, at the suggestion of the great detective, the river
in front of the wharf was dragged. Nick, expecting yet fearing that
something would be found that would substantiate a theory that pointed
to foul play, watched the diggers with painful, and yet with eager
interest. The space upon which the work was being performed was not
large, and before darkness set in the something was brought up from the
muck of the river. It was a section of two-inch water-pipe about two
feet in length, and heavy rust showed when the mud had been removed.
Rust and something else, something that spoke of a bloody deed.
Adhering to the pipe, under partly detached wafers of rust, were human
hairs, sticky with a substance that was not rust, but which Nick knew
without analysis was coagulated blood. The chief of police was present
when the iron pipe was brought up, and his superficial examination
caused him to come to the same conclusion that had forced itself into
the mind of Nick Carter.

"There has been murder done," was the chief's comment, "and this is the
instrument of death. We must drag further for the body, though we may
not be able to find it, on account of the swift current which has been
running for several days."

"Yes, that should be done."

Nick would have been better satisfied could an expert's analysis of
the stains and the evidence on the iron pipe have been obtained before
the arrest of Gabriel Leonard, but there was danger in delay. Leonard
must be arrested before he reached home and discovered the loss of the
incriminating articles. Two detectives, with Nick, were at the Union
depot for an hour before the arrival of the Illinois Central train
from Chicago. But Gabriel Leonard did not appear. Among the passengers
who alighted from the train was a tall, handsome woman, with large,
trustful, gray eyes. One of the detectives knew her, and pointed her
out to Nick as the wife of John Dashwood. She was pale, but composed.
There was nothing in her manner to indicate that she had been expecting
to meet any one. And yet she must have come on from Chicago in response
to the telegram sent in the morning by Gabriel Leonard. At Nick's
request, the detective who knew her walked forward and accosted her
just as she was entering the spacious waiting-room, on her way to the
broad stairway leading to the street.

"Good evening, Mrs. Dashwood," he said. "Can I be of any assistance?
Perhaps you are looking for Mr. Leonard?"

"No. I met him at Madison, a little over an hour ago. He won't be home
until morning."

Nick Carter heard this statement with deep disappointment.

"Has Mr. Dashwood returned?" Mrs. Dashwood was now the questioner.

"I--I don't know. Perhaps you will find him at home," the detective
hurriedly replied.

"I hope so," she said, with an attempt at cheerfulness. "My father said
Mr. Dashwood was away on business, and that all sorts of silly stories
were afloat, and that I must not believe any of them. I am sure he
knows, don't you think so?" she asked, with an appealing air.

"Yes. Of course, he is the best authority."

The detective saw her to a carriage, and then rejoined Nick.

Before fifteen minutes had elapsed the wires were hot with instructions
to officers along the line of the railroad from East St. Louis
northward, and in towns off the road, to arrest Gabriel Leonard, whose
full description was given.

"That's all we can do to-night," said the chief to Nick. "Of course,
Leonard won't turn up in the morning of his own accord."

"I don't think he will, and yet----" The detective did not finish the
sentence, but sat apparently studying the pattern of the wall-paper
back of the chief's desk.

"You don't put him as a fool, do you?" queried the chief.

"Anything but that. This is a most peculiar case, however, and
surprises are likely to occur. About that analysis," he said, to give a
new turn to the conversation, "will it be ready to-night?"

"Yes. I gave a hurry order."

In a short time the report, made by an analytical chemist and
physician, was before them. The stains on the handkerchief taken from
the pocket of Gabriel Leonard's trousers were found to be rust-stains,
and the rust was reported as identical with the rust on the section
of water-pipe. Also, the hairs, brown and silky, upon the pipe
were affirmed to be hairs from the head of a human being, while the
substance which assisted in making the hairs adhere to the rust of the
pipe was, beyond question, human blood.

"All this looks bad for Leonard," remarked the chief.

"Yes, it does."

"I think I can figure the thing out, Nick. Leonard is in a bad way. He
is shy of money. Maybe he has been speculating, and has eaten up all
his ready cash and all the money he could raise on his factory stock.
On top of his pecuniary troubles comes this blackmailing demand of
Madame Ree. I can't guess what the secret is, but it is a sure gamble
that she has got a strangle-hold on Leonard. She demands money, and
fixes last evening as the time for payment.

"Leonard, not having been able to scare up the wherewithal, comes to
the office, in the hope that he may find enough money in the safe to
stop the woman's mouth, for awhile, at least. He discovers that Filbon
has robbed him, but has not run off with the money. John Dashwood has
it. The amount is more than enough to square the madame's claim. He
starts out to find Dashwood, being informed by the note left on the
desk that Dashwood has gone to Luke Filbon's house. When near the house
he sees Dashwood, who has been down to the river looking for Filbon,
who, not being at home, may have made his way to the river for the
purpose of ending his life.

"Now, what follows? Here is my idea of what followed: Leonard killed
Dashwood to get the twenty thousand dollars, and threw the body into
the river, which may not reveal its secret for a week. Why should
he murder Dashwood? Because, Nick, Dashwood, upon the request being
made, refused to give up the money. It is very probable that Dashwood
knew that Madame Ree had been dogging Leonard. Let us assume that he
had seen them together, had overheard some suspicious words. If he
had known that they were acquainted, had suspected that a criminal
secret existed between them, he must have formed some decided opinion
respecting the woman's presence in front of the factory building that
night. Therefore, he would refuse to hand over the money to Leonard.
Angry words may have passed. Dashwood may have mentioned Madame Ree's
name, and--men have become devils upon less provocation than Leonard
may have received. It is certain that murder was not contemplated when
Leonard went out to seek Dashwood. The crime was committed on the
impulse of the moment, the weapon picked up on the wharf on which they
were standing when the conversation took place. And it was Dashwood who
was killed that night, for he has brown, silky hair. Now, what do you
say to all this?"

"I say," said Nick solemnly, "that Gabriel Leonard never murdered John
Dashwood."




                              CHAPTER V.

                        NICK HAS AN ADVENTURE.


The chief of police looked at Nick Carter, as if he could not believe
the evidence of his ears. "Leonard did not kill Dashwood?" he
exclaimed, in surprise and incredulity. "Then, in the name of wonder,
who did?"

"I don't know," said Nick simply.

"Madame Ree?"

"Perhaps."

The chief shook his head. "That was no woman's work, Nick. The murderer
was a man, and a strong man. But I'd like to hear what has induced you
to come to the conclusion that Gabriel Leonard is innocent."

"I believe him to be innocent of the murder of Dashwood, but guilty
of other crimes. Your assumption, chief, that circumstances may have
arisen sufficiently strong to make Leonard murder the husband of his
daughter does not appeal to me. I believe that Leonard would have
defied Madame Ree, no matter what her hold on him may be, rather than
commit a murder, particularly the murder of a man whom he respected,
and who was dearly loved by Leonard's daughter, for whom Leonard would
sacrifice much. But, however much he might sacrifice, whatever he might
do within the law or without the law, he would never commit an act
that would plunge her into the depths of sorrow. It is--I hope you
will pardon me, chief--preposterous to suppose it.

"We have evidence that he held in his hands the instrument with which
murder was probably done. But that is not proof that he did the deed.
He may have wrested it from the real murderer. Madame Ree was there, on
the evidence of the brooch. She is a strong woman, a regular Amazon.
I believe she would commit murder to obtain even a much less sum than
twenty thousand dollars. She may have murderously assaulted Dashwood.
She may have dealt the fatal blow, have prepared to deal another, to
find her hand arrested by Leonard, just come upon the scene. Then what
would likely follow? I am not maintaining that I am giving you a theory
which I look upon as convincing; I am only putting a case that seems to
me more reasonable than the one you have outlined.

"Let me assume for the moment that Madame Ree did kill John Dashwood,
and that Gabriel Leonard witnessed the deed. Would he feel like giving
her into custody? I don't think so. There was not only the chance
that he would be deeply involved--perhaps the woman might prefer a
countercharge, accuse him, in fact, of the murder--but there was also
the fact that Dashwood was dead, and that no proceedings could bring
him to life. Let us suppose, further, that Leonard, accepting the
situation thus forced upon him, allowed the woman to keep fifteen out
of the twenty thousand dollars taken from the dead man's person, on
the promise of immediately leaving town never to return.

"Now let us suppose that, although the locality was out of the way
and is not patrolled by the police, they feared, in their excitement,
to return to town in the usual way. The boat was in plain sight. They
took it, rowed down the river some distance, went ashore, and turned
the boat adrift. The murder must have been committed not far from ten
o'clock, probably an hour before I arrived on the wharf and half an
hour before Filbon got there. Leonard reached home after three o'clock,
so he must have had a three or four hours' walk. He could have covered
ten or twelve miles in that time.

"As to Leonard's absence, or flight, that may be explained in this way:
This morning he arose, after a few hours' sleep, if he slept at all,
with his daughter occupying all his thoughts. She must come home, and
to have her arrive by the first train leaving Chicago he must wire her
at once. Filled with this idea, he hurried down-town, not thinking of
the evidence he had left behind. If he thought of it while in town,
he may have considered it wholly unlikely that he would be suspected,
for who could possibly know of his dealings with Madame Ree? But the
conversation I had with him in his office this forenoon may have
excited his fears. Just before I left him he said he was going home
for lunch. He did not do so. I think he was afraid to go home. But he
stayed for the inquest.

"He may have feared that he was running desperate chances in remaining,
but, at the same time, he must have felt that his absence would arouse
suspicion, if no suspicion existed before, and that the start in
daylight which he would have to make would not be sufficient to insure
his escape. But as soon as he had given his testimony he left town.
I know that this action of his, this fear of the result of possible
discoveries at his house, leaves a presumption that he is deeper in
the mire than I would have you believe him to be, yet I still stick to
my belief that he did not kill John Dashwood. He has disappeared under
very suspicious circumstances, but the cause is something unconnected
with the death of his son-in-law."

"Have you formed an opinion as to what the cause is?" asked the chief.

"Not a decided opinion, but I have some ideas, which are not yet in
shape for explanation. Probably by to-morrow I may speak of them. But
we must find Leonard, if possible. There is a double secret in this
case, and he holds the key."

Nick Carter had given a theory for the chief to ponder over, but, as
he intimated, it was not one in which, as a whole, he fully believed.
Strange ideas had come into his head during the afternoon and evening,
and he longed for the presence of Chick, in order that he might have
assistance in working them out.

The morning came, and Gabriel Leonard did not appear. A police officer
had been stationed near the manufacturer's house, with instructions to
make the arrest should Leonard come home during the day.

The noon train of the B. & O. brought Chick. He was met at the depot
by Nick, and together they proceeded to the great detective's rooms on
Jefferson Avenue.

Once there and seated, Nick went over the case which involved the
disappearance of John Dashwood, and the connection with it of Gabriel
Leonard and Madame Ree.

Chick listened with eager attention.

"It seems a clear case against Leonard," he said.

"Yes, at first blush it does. It is too plain to suit me."

After giving the reasons, as stated to the chief of police, for
disbelieving that Leonard had murdered John Dashwood, Nick said:

"Outside of the improbability, on account of relationship by marriage,
and so forth, of Leonard's killing Dashwood, there is the further
circumstance that he did not, upon his arrival home in the early
morning, attempt to conceal the evidences of his crime. A man guilty of
the murder of John Dashwood, no matter how satisfied he may have been
in respect of his security from suspicion, would not have allowed the
clay-stains to remain on the trousers, nor the telltale handkerchief
to remain in his closet. And he would never have permitted these
incriminating letters and notes to stay in his desk. No, my boy,
Leonard is not the man. He had not upon his head the guilt of his
son-in-law's death when he went up-town early yesterday morning."

"But, Nick, ought he not to have feared, from what he knew of the
night's happenings, that, though innocent, he might be suspected? And
would not that suspicion have caused him to take the precaution to put
out of the way evidence that would associate him with the crime?"

"Not at the time. He arose early to send off that telegram to his
daughter. His conscience was clear of the guilt of Dashwood's murder,
and when he left the house he had not arrived at a sober idea of the
situation. And I can imagine another reason which could explain why he
acted as he did, and we will immediately proceed to test the theory
which it raises. Have you had your breakfast?"

"Yes."

"Then you must begin work at once. You must go down the river."

"In a boat?"

"No. Get a rig. I'll explain on our way to the livery-stable."

Nick saw Chick off, and then went to the chief's office. No trace of
the missing boat had been found, and the chief was now of opinion that
it had been scuttled and sunk. Nick coincided with this view.

"Oh," said the chief, "here is something for you, a letter. It came
this morning, in my care. Looks like a woman's handwriting."

Nick tore open the envelope, which bore the East St. Louis postmark,
and found a note which contained these words:

    "NICK CARTER: You are on a wrong scent. Give up the pursuit of
    Gabriel Leonard, wait two days, and the truth will come out. You
    well know I have no love for you, but in this case I am willing
    to act fairly. You are making a mountain out of a mole-hill.
    This is all. I have made arrangements to leave, and will be
    hundreds of miles away when you receive this. Be guided by my
    advice, and you will live to thank me. C. R."

Having read the note, Nick handed it to the chief.

"H'm. She is very mysterious, whoever she is, Nick. 'C. R.' Do you know
what the initials mean?"

"Yes. They stand for Cora Reesey, alias Madame Ree."

"Then she is mixed up in this affair, sure enough. But do you believe
what she says in the note?"

"I'll answer you in a moment. First, I would like to look at that
blackmailing letter which she wrote to Leonard."

The chief opened a drawer, found the letter and gave it to Nick, who
compared the writing with the writing on the note.

"A very good imitation," he said, after a few minutes, "and likely to
deceive any one except an expert."

"Then Madame Ree did not write it?"

"No. It was written by Gabriel Leonard. Just what I might have
expected."

"What is his little game? I confess I am puzzled."

"It is a waiting game, chief. There is more in this case than has
appeared on the surface. By the way, have you heard from Mrs. Dashwood
to-day?"

"No."

"Call up the house and ask her if she has heard either from her father
or her husband. It is not likely that she has heard from her husband,
but her father may have written."

Mrs. Dashwood responded to the call, and, in answer to questions, said
that her father had written from Madison, and had stated that Mr.
Dashwood would return home in a few days. Leonard himself might not be
able, on account of pressing business, to return before his son-in-law
arrived.

The chief passed his hand slowly over his forehead. "What are we
up against?" he said, with a puzzled look at Nick. "I have it," he
continued, as a thought struck him. "Leonard is keeping his daughter in
the dark out of regard for her feelings. She will stay fooled until her
father has either been arrested or has left the country."

Nick was toying with the note purporting to have come from Madame Ree,
and did not reply.

When he did speak, it was not in relation to anything the chief had
said. "Who among the business men of St. Louis would be likely to know
the names and addresses of Leonard's closest friends?"

"Jasper Swayne, the insurance-broker. He was once associated with
Leonard in business, and has been intimate with him ever since Leonard
came to town. His office is in Pine Street."

Nick got the number from the directory, and in a short time was seated
in Swayne's office, talking with that gentleman. What he learned made
him anxious to see Chick, who, however, would not probably report
before evening.

At Olive and Broadway, Nick took a car. As there was a crowd inside,
he rode on the platform. While the car was passing Twentieth Street he
saw a man standing at the edge of the sidewalk, who, at sight of the
detective, wheeled quickly and walked rapidly down Twentieth Street.
The man was Carroll Slack, who had been a deputy in the San Francisco
county jail at the time of the escape of James Dorrant. He had been
in love with Madame Reesey before the events which had culminated in
the death of Dorrant, and his presence in St. Louis at this time was,
to Nick's mind, a suspicious circumstance. Although he had not been
criminally implicated in the crimes which the great detective had
unearthed while he was in the Pacific-coast metropolis, Nick had looked
upon him as of weak moral fiber, one who could be easily led astray by
a beautiful, designing woman.

The detective motioned to the conductor, the car stopped, and pursuit
at once began. Slack kept up his rapid walk to Chestnut Street, then
turned into it and went north. Nick reached the corner just in time to
see Slack disappear through a small opening at the farther end of a
high board fence enclosing a large vacant lot, back of some business
buildings fronting on Market Street, opposite the Union Depot.

There might be a trap in store, but Nick, in view of the importance
of the pursuit, determined to risk the danger. He came to the opening
just as Slack was entering the door of a wooden lean-to of one of the
brick buildings. From his observation of the locality taken while
passing the block many times, either on his way to the depot or the
court buildings, Nick was satisfied that his quarry had gone into an
unoccupied section of the block. The rooms, sandwiched between a cheap
hotel and a ticket-scalper's office, had been the headquarters of a
band of fakers, whose operations, not coming within the limits of the
law, had been summarily discountenanced by the police.

There was the possibility, which, on account of the former deputy
jailer's good record, had in it strong elements of reason, that Slack
was really trying to evade Nick Carter, and that he hoped by darting
through the vacant rooms to slip through to Market Street, and on into
one of the near-by hotels or saloons, where backway exit to safety
might be found.

Nick opened the door of the lean-to, and entered what had been intended
for a kitchen. Probably the rooms had last been put to legitimate use
by a restaurateur. There was no one in the room, and Nick, without a
moment's pause, hurried toward another, the middle room beyond, the
door of which was partly open. At the threshold he stopped and struck
the door a resounding blow, which caused it to fly backward against
the wall. Nothing of a suspicious nature met his gaze. The room, as
far as he could see, was bare. While walking slowly in, so as to guard
against possible surprise from some unexpected quarter, a heavy body
struck him on the shoulders and back, and he was borne violently to the
floor. Over the door was a wide shelf, and from that shelf a man had
leaped. The suddenness, as well as the force of the assault, caught
Nick without that tension of mind and muscle which is of such efficacy
at critical times.

For a moment he lay flat upon his stomach, the while his adversary was
reaching to grasp his windpipe. Then, with a mighty effort, Nick Carter
called all his wonderful strength into play. With one hand planted on
the floor, he turned sidewise, made a sudden twist, and flung Slack
off. But the former deputy jailer was as quick in movements as a
cat, and he rolled over and clutched Nick about the waist before the
detective could make an offensive move. The two instantly became locked
in a deadly embrace. Nick was the more powerful and scientific, but
Slack was a strong man, and he fought as if for his life.

He soon gained an advantage, but it was not lasting. Nick, upon Slack's
initial onslaught, had sprained his ankle, and the San Franciscan, in
exerting all his energies to bring the detective's back to the floor,
unintentionally pressed his legs against the injured member, twisting
it so that Nick, in the intensity of his pain, slightly relaxed his
hold, and was rolled over in consequence.

The detective fell face upward, and upon the instant that he reached
that position his hands went up and grasped Slack by the throat. As
the grip tightened, Slack struck out blindly, but his hands soon grew
nerveless, while his eyes began to start from their sockets. At the
right moment Nick, with a supreme effort, raised himself and threw his
enemy backward, and the next instant was sitting on the man's chest.

"Give up?" he asked.

"Yes," came in a labored, husky voice. "I'm a quitter, all right."




                              CHAPTER VI.

                        THE MYSTERY OF ROOM M.


Not until the detective had tied Slack's hands, removed his weapons, a
pistol and knife, and propped him against the wall, did he move away.
After he had bathed his ankle with water found in the kitchen and
satisfied himself that the sprain was not a bad one, Nick opened his
batteries on his prisoner.

"Slack," he said, more in sorrow than in anger, "this is a strange part
for you to play. What has come over you? In San Francisco you were an
honest man, a defender of law and order."

"Every man for himself! that's my motto," replied Slack sullenly.

"That is dodging the question. What have I ever done to you, that you
should jump me?"

"You have stuck your nose into my concerns, that's what you have done,"
was Slack's savage outburst.

Nick looked at the man curiously.

"I think I understand," he said quietly. "You are under the thumb of
Cora Reesey, otherwise Madame Ree. She has taken you into her good
graces again. You came here to meet her. You find her gone, and you get
the notion into your head that I am responsible for her disappearance.
Well, you are wrong. I have had no dealings of any kind with Madame Ree
since her arrival in St. Louis. I had no hand in sending her away, and
I don't know where she is. It is very evident, though, that she has
given you the icy mitt."

Slack's face was a study while Nick was speaking.

"Do you mean to say that you have neither driven her, nor given a tip
to the chief of police which has caused her to be driven from St.
Louis?"

"I am not a liar," returned Nick coldly. "What I say goes with those
who know me."

"I beg your pardon," said Slack humbly. "I have been a fool. I thought
you had mixed up in my affairs--for I'm going to marry Madame Ree--and
I made up my mind to get even."

"When did you arrive in town?"

"Yesterday. Cora was expecting me; had written me to come. I found her
gone. I learned from a police officer of my acquaintance that you were
here, and I at once connected Cora's disappearance with your presence."

"You saw me quite by accident, didn't you?"

"Yes. I have been laying for you all day. I hired these rooms, and my
plan was to lure you here, jump you, and keep you a prisoner until I
had found Cora, who might deal with you as she liked."

"You were not holding out an alluring prospect for me, Slack," said
Nick dryly.

"I was mad, crazy," said Slack penitently. His manner since his fight
with the great detective had undergone a complete change. He was no
longer aggressive, vindictive. The good in his disposition was coming
uppermost. Nick saw that he was in condition for full confession, but
to obtain it he took the least offensive way.

"See here, Slack," said he, in a friendly tone, "you will have reason
to congratulate yourself over this affair of to-day. And it is due to
your good luck that you did not meet Madame Ree on your arrival. She
wrote to you to come, not because she loves you, but for the reason
that she wanted help in an unlawful undertaking. Money is her passion.
You ought to know that."

Slack winced slightly. Nick went on: "She may have revealed to you what
her plans were, and she may have held out a bait which you swallowed.
Now, without having seen her, without having interfered with her in the
slightest degree, I know what her plans were, and my knowledge has come
through events associated with the disappearance of John Dashwood and
the suicide of Luke Filbon. If you have read the newspapers, you know
something concerning these matters."

"I have read the papers, and I know what the public knows."

"Very well. Now I'll tell you something which the public does not
know." Then Nick proceeded to lay bare the blackmailing scheme which
Cora Reesey, alias Madame Ree, had concocted with Gabriel Leonard as
the victim.

"If she got fifteen thousand dollars from Leonard," said Slack, with a
black frown, "she has skipped the country."

"She got it, all right. I am entirely satisfied on that point."

"Then I'm sure in the soup," was Slack's desponding utterance. "She
wanted me to come and help her out, but she has corralled the money
without my assistance, and now she has no use for me."

"It looks that way, doesn't it? If she really meant to deal squarely
with you, she would have written a letter after she had closed the deal
with Leonard."

"That's right. I see it all now. I'm a double-distilled jackass." Then
his face hardened and his eyes gleamed cruelly. "I may meet her some
day," he said, "and if I do, I'll"--he clenched his hands--"I'll make
her wish she had never been born."

After a pause, he added: "I know enough now to send her to prison."

Nick, taking counsel with himself, stepped forward and cut the cords
which bound Slack's hand. "Now you may talk with more ease," he said.

"Thank you." Slack opened and shut his hands several times to get the
blood in proper circulation, and then resumed his story: "I know what
her hold on Leonard is, and it's partly sham."

Nick's eyes glistened.

"You assisted her in preparing it, didn't you?"

"Yes; and if you'll go easy with me on the bughouse break I made
to-day, I'll tell you all about it."

"It's a whack," said Nick instantly.

"Then here goes: The claim she pretends to have on Leonard embraces
bigamy and embezzlement. She well knew, if Leonard refused to come to
her terms and she published what she held in her hand as alleged facts,
that, though Leonard's reputation might suffer, he could never be
proceeded against criminally."

The word "bigamy" brought a shadow to Nick Carter's face, for his mind
reverted instantly to the fair, gentle daughter of Leonard, Mrs. John
Dashwood. The shadow lifted before Slack had finished his narrative.

"Leonard, whose real name is Reesey, went to California in the early
fifties," said Slack, "and while there married an Italian woman, a
widow with one child. Her name was Massona. Shortly after her marriage
with Reesey, and before the birth of her daughter, her husband
embezzled the funds of a mining company, of which he was secretary, and
skipped the State. Instead of returning to his former home in Ohio, he
went to St. Louis, assumed the name of Leonard, and engaged in business.

"Years passed, and, perhaps believing his Italian wife to be dead, he
married again. When Cora Reesey, his daughter by the Italian wife,
reached womanhood, she discovered by secret inquiry that her father was
alive and in St. Louis. But she died before she could make practical
use of her knowledge. While on her sickbed she confided what she had
discovered to her cousin and intimate friend, Lucia Massona. This
cousin is an adventuress, a woman of surpassing beauty and an evil
heart. She resolved to profit by what she had learned, and when she
left the up-country mining town where her cousin had lived and died she
took the name of the dead one, and, as Cora Reesey, appeared in San
Francisco.

"In that city she laid her plans for blackmailing Gabriel Leonard. I,
in my senseless infatuation for her, promised and gave assistance in
preparing the proofs. I soon discovered that she had no criminal case
against Leonard, for her aunt, Mrs. Reesey, had died three days prior
to her husband's second marriage. This fact did not disconcert her, for
she believed that Leonard did not know whether his Italian wife was
alive or dead when he contracted his St. Louis marriage, and that the
spurious documents which she had prepared would be accepted as genuine.
The embezzlement matter, of course, was outlawed. But the threat to
publish the facts would be sufficient, she thought, to bring him to
terms.

"Cora went on to St. Louis after correspondence with Leonard, with the
understanding that I was to follow on receipt of a letter which she
promised to write soon after arrival here. The letter reached me five
days ago, and I came on without an instant's loss of time. That is the
story, Mr. Carter."

Nick looked at his watch.

"Time I was going," he said, and moved toward the door.

"Am I free to go, too?" asked Slack, in a respectful tone.

"Certainly you are. Take care of yourself, keep out of mischief, is all
the advice I have to give."

"But," looking at the detective shyly, "I may meet Cora; she may throw
her grappling-hooks on me again, and I may put her wise about you and
what you know."

"I'll trust you," said Nick, with a smile.

"Sure you are not afraid I may fall down?"

"Not in the least, Slack. Good-by."

Nick limped out of the building, and half an hour later was in his room
on Jefferson Avenue. Chick, to his satisfaction, was there to meet him.
His face shone with excitement and pleasure. "Great news, Nick," he
said. "I've located Leonard."

"Where is he?" Nick's face was now as bright as Chick's.

"In a big brick building used as a private sanatorium, beyond the
southern limits of the city."

"Doctor Holcomb runs this sanatorium, doesn't he?"

"Yes," regarding the great detective in astonishment. "How did you
know?"

"I obtained a list of Leonard's friends to-day, and among them, as the
closest and most intimate of all, is the name of Doctor Holcomb. He was
a mining partner of Leonard in California many years ago. I have been
anxious to see you, Chick, so that I might put you on, but you have
already done the trick. You are a wonder, Chick."

The young detective blushed with pleasure.

"The building is set in the middle of spacious grounds, and is well
guarded. Its appearance excited my curiosity, and I made a few cautious
inquiries before venturing near the main gate. I was made up as a
hobo, as you know, and I was giving the guard outside the gate a fill
about experiences on the road, when a closed carriage drove up and two
men alighted. One I took to be Doctor Holcomb; the other, from your
description, I identified as Gabriel Leonard. They did not notice me,
and I slipped out of sight while the guard was opening the gate."

"I wonder where Leonard and the doctor had been?" said Nick
thoughtfully. "Perhaps Leonard had been hiding out of the city, and had
got a note to his friend, the doctor, and the doctor went to bring him
to safer quarters."

"That's it, Nick, I'll bet."

"Is this sanatorium near the river?"

"Yes; the grounds extend to the levee. And now, what's the program?
Shall we notify the chief, get a force of men, go out there, surround
the place, and catch our man?"

"No. Such a move might spoil all. Leonard at bay might commit suicide.
I want his confession. And I want something else. I have in mind a plan
which, I think, will bring us victory. About this outside man at the
sanatorium, is he an American?"

"No, a Swede, with long, fair hair, and whiskers to match."

"Are his duties confined to the outside?"

"It's turn about with the attendants. I learned this when I struck the
Swede for a dime. He refused, and told me to tackle the man whose turn
for outside duty would come to-morrow."

"'I tank he ban easy,' he said."

"Then the Swede is not easy. Therefore, he cares for money. But how to
reach him? We don't even know his name."

"I know it," said Chick. "Doctor Holcomb called him Detson."

"Ah! now I see daylight. Go down-stairs and borrow a directory, Chick."

When the directory was before him, Nick turned to the D's and found two
Detsons, one a spinster dressmaker, called Hannah, the other a hospital
attendant, called Christian.

"Hannah is probably the sister, and lives on Locust Street. My ankle
troubles me, or I would go over there myself."

"I'll go; it's only a few blocks," said Chick. "What shall I say to
her?"

"If she proves to be Christian's sister, ask her how often she sees
her brother, and when. Christian may have regular hours for visiting
his sister. Perhaps he comes every day. I hope he does. In explanation
of your questions, say a friend of yours wishes to see her brother on
important business."

Chick was gone an hour. When he returned he was whistling.

"Christian is the brother, all right," he said to Nick, "and he will be
at his sister's this evening. Hours from eight to ten o'clock."

"Good. And did you learn anything about Christian's affairs, and family
history, and so forth? I did not ask you to go into any such matters,
for I knew you would take advantage of circumstances and get all there
was coming to you."

"Say, she is a peach, Nick," returned Chick, enthusiastically. "A
pretty, plump, flaxen-haired angel. Her brother is the apple of her
eye. He is saving up money to send for the old mother in Sweden, and
she is helping all she can. I hadn't been with her ten minutes before
she was telling me the story of her life."

"Then the way is easy, Chick. Christian will jump at the chance of
securing a neat sum in a lump. But he must first be assured that
he will be doing a creditable thing. If he is on the square, as he
probably is, from your account, I think I can convince him that in
assisting me he is not only benefiting himself, but is also doing a
commendable act."

The two detectives then put their heads together, conversing together
earnestly until dinner-time came. That evening Nick had a long and
satisfactory talk with Christian Detson.

"Dey ban some man ho would yump at dat chance," he said, at the end of
the conversation, "but ay look bayfore ay do any yumpin'. Ay tank ay
see where ay ban land vurst."

Late in the afternoon of the next day Doctor Holcomb received a new
patient, a young man of powerful physique, who gave no trouble, for
his mania was not a violent one. The certificate which his conductors,
two well-known business men of St. Louis, presented set forth that he
was suffering from acute dementia. His face was drawn, his eyes were
lusterless, and his mouth gave a clicking sound, but no words came,
whenever he was spoken to.

"I don't think there is any hope for him," said Doctor Holcomb to the
men who had brought the subject, "for dementia such as he is afflicted
with is generally the last stage before death. He may live a year, he
may die in a month."

"I would ask," said one of the men, Major Haines, a lawyer, "that you
do not confine him. He is of good family, and we are willing to pay
well for his care. As you must know, from your experience with such
cases, he is perfectly harmless. But he cannot take care of himself.
He needs the attention that is given to a child. You need not give him
the run of the grounds, though you might do so with entire safety, but
I shall be pleased if he is given the run of the building, locking him
up, of course, every night."

"There is no objection to such an arrangement," said the doctor. "The
attendants about will see that he does not get into trouble."

And so the matter was arranged which installed James Winters as an
inmate of Doctor Holcomb's sanatorium.

For an hour after his entrance the demented patient sat upon the floor
of one of the corridors and played with his hands. Attendants passed
him without a glance, for they were used to such sights. At noon he was
taken into a small room intended for his future use and given some soup
and potatoes. Apparently, he did not know how to put the food into his
mouth, and had to be assisted, as a babe newly weaned would have been.

About the middle of the afternoon, while he was in a small corridor,
which, opening out of a larger one, terminated at the side wall, an
attendant marvelously like the Swede Chick had accosted outside the
gate the day before came up and spoke to him in a low voice.

"How does it go, Chick? Have you made any discoveries?"

"I know where Leonard's room is, Nick. He has been out of it twice
to-day; once to see the doctor, and once to enter Room M, a few doors
beyond his own. And how are you making out?"

"My task is harder than yours, Chick. My disguise is good. I have got
the lay of the wards and rooms, and my duties are understood, thanks to
Detson; but I have to dodge the other attendants whenever I can, for
there is the possibility that some sharp eyes may spot the imposture.
We must, if possible, finish our work here within twenty-four hours.
I'd like to have the round-up take place to-day."

"Do you anticipate any trouble?"

"No; Doctor Holcomb enjoys a good reputation, and I am satisfied
that he will not interfere with the course of justice. Leonard is an
old-time friend of his, and he has, without doubt, been imposed upon.
He does not know, of course, that Leonard is suspected of murder. He
is harboring his friend, but with the idea, I believe, that Leonard is
simply dodging his creditors."

The sound of steps along the long, wide corridor stopped Nick Carter's
talk with his assistant. Leaving Chick, the detective went forward, and
saw Doctor Holcomb in the act of ascending the stairs to the second
story. Half-way up he stopped, frowned, and then turned back. At the
foot of the stairs his eyes fell on the person of the bogus Swede.

"Detson," he called out sharply, "I wish you would keep in sight. I
have forgotten my instrument-case. Go to the office, tell my assistant
to give it to you, and when you get it bring it to Room M."

"Ay tank ay ban go queeck," said Nick, and away he hurried to the
office. Soon, with the case in his hand, he went up the stairs, found
the room, knocked at the door with an impatience which he had much
difficulty in repressing. Doctor Holcomb opened the door, and the
detective tried to peer into the room. To his disappointment, he was
unable to see more than the foot of a bed, upon which some person was
lying. The doctor received the instrument-case, uttered a curt "Thank
you," and quickly closed the door.

Nick would have remained by the door, but a moment after it closed
Gabriel Leonard opened the door of a room opposite the head of the
stairs and came toward him. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were
marks of suffering on his face. The detective passed him half-way to
the stairs, but Leonard did not look at the pseudo Detson. With his
head bent, he walked quickly to Room M, and entered without knocking.

Nick hastened down-stairs, saw Chick, and, seizing an opportunity when
the corridor was clear, whispered a few rapid words. Chick nodded his
head in comprehension, and, leaving the great detective, slouched
along the corridor, mounted the stairs, and walked toward Room M. Once
there, he sat down with his back against the door. He had been in that
position about fifteen minutes, when conversation inside caused him
to prick up his ears. He waited with every sense alert, and his heart
beating at an unusual rate for ten minutes more; then, rising to his
feet, flew, rather than ran, until he reached Nick.

"Well," said the great detective quickly, his curiosity on edge.

"You were right, then, Nick," said Chick, in a gasp. "The mystery will
be solved in Room M. I have heard them talk. The last words of Leonard
were: 'The hour has come. Now, good-by to St. Louis.'"




                             CHAPTER VII.

                        OUT OF DEATH'S SHADOW.


Nick breathed heavily. The end was approaching. Chick's information
told him that.

"We've got Leonard in a box," said Chick. "We can drop on him right
now, if you say so."

"Now is not the time. We will wait until he comes out. Go up the stairs
again, sit on the top step, and when Leonard enters his own room, let
me know. If he does not go to his room, but comes down-stairs, follow
him and inform me. I may be at the foot of the stairs when he leaves
Room M. I shall try to be there. Now, go."

The approach of an attendant caused Nick to cut short his talk and walk
slowly away.

Chick sat at the top of the stairs for nearly half an hour. Then
Gabriel Leonard came out of Room M, and, with quick steps, hastened
forward. He stopped near the stairs and stood for a few minutes
looking, not at Chick, of whose existence he seemed to have no
realization, but over and beyond him. Biting his lips nervously, he
muttered: "I've got to go," and, turning, went to his room across
the way. Chick noted with satisfaction that Leonard did not lock the
door after entering the room. Nick stood at the foot of the stairs.
Unobserved by Leonard, he had seen the manufacturer, and knew that
the time to strike had come. Up the stairs he went, and, walking over
to Leonard's room, opened the door and stepped in. Chick followed, the
door was closed quickly and the key turned in the lock.

Gabriel Leonard, sitting on his bed, glanced up when the two detectives
entered, but without suspicion. But when the door was locked he sprang
to his feet, a wild fear in his eyes.

"What does this mean?" he demanded harshly, though his lips trembled
and his body was shaking.

"It is time the masks were discarded," replied the great detective
soberly. "I am Nick Carter, and this is my assistant, Chick. We have
been on your trail ever since the inquest. Now we have found you, what
have you got to say for yourself? What do you know in reference to the
disappearance of John Dashwood?"

The manufacturer's countenance was gray with terror when Nick began his
speech, but at the close this expression had gone. He sighed, as if
with relief, as the last word was spoken.

"I have laid myself open to suspicion," he said, as his wits began
to return, "but the time for concealment has passed. I am now ready
to tell the truth, and the whole truth, and"--his tone now became
tinctured with acrimony--"when I shall have done so, I hope for some
consideration at your hands."

"You shall receive what you are entitled to," returned Nick coldly. "I
am not your enemy. I represent society, and I am the friend of John
Dashwood."

Leonard's face brightened, in spite of the detective's words and tone.
"Before I begin," he said, "I wish to ask one question. Did you, or the
chief of police, or any of his officers, search my house the other day?"

"Yes."

"And found----"

"Found your correspondence with Madame Ree, five thousand dollars in
notes, a portion of the money Filbon stole and which John Dashwood took
away that night, and muddy trousers and a rust-stained handkerchief."

Leonard exhibited no surprise.

"I thought so," he said. "Then the whole story must be told."

"Yes," repeated Nick Carter, "the whole story must be told."

The manufacturer resumed his seat on the bed. Nick and Chick found
chairs. Nick sat near the door, with his back to it. Chick sat on the
other side of Leonard, and near the window.

"Well," began the manufacturer, "the whole trouble took a start when
this woman, who called herself Cora Reesey, and my daughter, wrote her
first letter from San Francisco. I was not afraid of the embezzlement
matter, for I have paid up every cent I appropriated. I was young and
reckless in my California days, but I repented when I grew older. But
I did fear an arrest for bigamy, though God knows I thought I was a
widower when I married my second wife here in St. Louis."

"And you were a widower," said Nick quietly. "I know it. Cora Reesey
deceived you."

Gabriel Leonard's expression of astonishment at this statement was
speedily succeeded by one of anguish. He licked his lips, and looked
toward the wall with eyes contracted in pain.

"Deceived me, did she?" he muttered brokenly. "What a fool, what a fool
I have been!"

Nick Carter's cool gaze recalled Leonard to the work of explanation
which he had undertaken to do.

"Where was I? Oh, yes, I remember."

He spoke with his eyes on the floor. The slight buoyancy with which he
had begun his story was gone. His words now came slowly and gravely.

"I wrote to the woman that it might be well for her to come to St.
Louis. She acted upon the suggestion and came. At our first interview
she demanded fifteen thousand dollars as the price of her silence. I
did not have the money. My affairs, within one week, had become badly
involved. Some speculative ventures had proved utter failures. But
all attempts to induce the woman to wait were unavailing. She did not
believe me when I told her that I was on the brink of ruin, and she
threatened that if I did not have the money on a certain night, to go
the next day to a newspaper office, tell her story, and produce her
vouchers. The night set for the payment of the fifteen thousand dollars
was the night of the disappearance of John Dashwood."

Leonard ceased speaking, went to the water-cooler in a corner, drew a
glass of water, drank it, and then returned to the bed.

"I went up-town that night," he continued, "without any definite
thought of what I should do. In front of the office the thought struck
me that perhaps there might be sufficient money in the safe--receipts
after banking-hours--to stop the woman's mouth for a few days. I had
promised to meet her at midnight at her rooms in an apartment-house on
Manchester Avenue. She had said that she would give me all day for the
work of digging up the money, and the day would end at twelve o'clock.
I went to the office, and, after opening the door and striking a light,
saw by the open desk and the open books that some one, probably Filbon,
had been there that evening.

"Upon one of the books lay a folded note addressed to me. It was from
John Dashwood, and it informed me that I had been robbed and that
Dashwood, having recovered the stolen money, twenty thousand dollars,
had placed it in his pocket for safe-keeping. Imagine my feelings, if
you can. Twenty thousand dollars! I did not think of my creditors then,
but of Cora Reesey. Here was money with which I could pay her, silence
her mouth forever. I must find Dashwood. He had gone to seek Filbon,
who would probably be found at home. Hurriedly I left the office,
found a car and got to Filbon's house, to discover that the lights
were out. I went around the house softly, listened carefully at doors
and windows, but could hear nothing. I might have aroused Mrs. Filbon,
but I did not think it would be of any use. Besides, I did not wish to
disturb her, unless it should be absolutely necessary to do so.

"Why I walked toward the water instead of toward Broadway and the
car-line I do not know. A hard fate controlled my movements"--he sighed
heavily--"and I went to meet--trouble. On reaching the wharf I saw, at
the water end, a man and a woman. Their backs were toward me and they
were talking, the woman angrily, the man calmly, but firmly. The woman
was Cora Reesey. The man John Dashwood. 'I tell you, Gabriel Leonard
will approve,' I heard her say. 'He is a bigamist, and he promised to
pay me the money to-night. You will be doing him a favor by handing it
over to me.'

"'Before I do anything of the kind I must have an authorization,'
Dashwood said, 'and so you will have to wait until to-morrow. I don't
know what Mr. Leonard will do then, but I know what I would do if I
were in his place. I would put you in jail for blackmail. I would defy
you to do your worst.'

"'You would, would you?' she hissed, and then I saw her arm shoot out.
There was a knife in her hand, and she struck to kill, but, owing to
Dashwood's quick movement aside, only cut the flesh on his arm. But the
force of the rush sent her forward past him, and her dress caught on
a projecting broken piece of hoop on a barrel, and she stumbled and
fell, bringing the barrel with her.

"I was hurrying forward," Leonard went on, his voice now showing some
animation, "when I saw her arise with some heavy substance in her hand.
It was a section of old iron pipe, which was within sight and reach
when she fell. Before I could get to her she struck John Dashwood,
who was looking not at her but at me at the time, a powerful blow on
the head. I got to the scene to find Dashwood lying senseless on the
planking, and Cora Reesey busily engaged in searching his pockets for
the bank-notes.

"At my approach she lifted her head. The notes were in her hand.

"'So it is you,' she said coolly. 'Very well, then, for I here make
acknowledgment that I have received the money agreed upon as my price
for keeping silent regarding certain events in your past life.'

"Without answering her, I bent over Dashwood and placed my ear against
his heart. It was beating faintly. He might live. But I did not voice
my hope to her. Instead, I said: 'You have killed him.' 'I don't care,'
was her cold, heartless reply. 'And I am safe,' she added quickly, 'for
you will not betray me. You dare not open your mouth against me, for if
you do I will tell my story and denounce you as the murderer.'

"Again imagine my feelings. I could not do as I wished, for I was in
this terrible woman's power. I said: 'Have no fear. I shall keep my
lips closed.' 'Good,' was her response; 'and for your discretion I
will give you five thousand dollars. Fifteen thousand will suffice for
me.' She counted out the money and handed it to me. I took the notes
and put them in my pocket. Next she gave me the documents which she had
obtained in California. These I examined by the aid of matches, and,
finding them to be as represented, I tore them up and threw the pieces
in the river. When the woman had gone, my first impulse was to hunt
up a policeman, have the nearest station notified, and John Dashwood
removed to the receiving hospital. But as I stood on the wharf my
eyes fell on Luke Filbon's boat. I wished to escape, if possible, the
notoriety with which I must be invested if the assault became public
property; of the danger to which I might be subjected if John Dashwood
died. The sight of the boat suggested a way to avoid publicity. I could
take Dashwood down the river to my friend Doctor Holcomb's sanatorium.
There he would be properly treated, and, while under treatment, I would
be given time for arranging my affairs, preparatory to leaving St.
Louis."

"And Dashwood?" asked Nick, as Leonard paused for a moment. "Is the
danger-point passed?"

"Yes. The operation which restored his reason was performed this
afternoon. He will live, he will have his mind. If you wish to see him,
come with me."

Leonard arose. Nick removed his facial disguise, unlocked the door, and
the three men passed out. They entered Room M, to find Doctor Holcomb
in the act of cleaning his instruments.

The room was large, and beyond the bed was a large operating-table.
Upon it, his head propped by pillows, haggard and thin, but with the
light of reason in his eyes, lay John Dashwood.




                             CHAPTER VIII.

                      NICK CARTER'S DENUNCIATION.


"Hello, Nick," was Dashwood's cheerful greeting, as his eyes fell on
the face of his friend, the great detective. "I'm glad to see you,
awfully glad, for I reckon I've been through the valley of the shadow."

Nick took Dashwood's hand and pressed it gently. But their conversation
was short, as excitement at that time was to be avoided.

"He will be as good as new in a few weeks," said Doctor Holcomb, when
Nick, Chick, and Leonard were outside the door, and after the reason
of Nick's appearance in disguise had in a measure been explained. "He
came here with a fractured skull, and to-day, the conditions being
favorable, I removed a piece of bone which was pressing on the brain,
and which would, if permitted to remain, have affected his memory."

Doctor Holcomb returned to his patient, and Leonard, followed by the
two detectives, went back to his room. The door was again closed and
locked.

"You brought Dashwood here, Mr. Leonard," said Nick, when they were all
seated, "and turned him over to Doctor Holcomb. What sort of story did
you tell the doctor?"

"I said that Dashwood was the victim of a murderous assault, that I was
present and tried to prevent it, and that, for good family reasons,
I did not want the facts to get to the public. The doctor knows me of
old, and he asked no embarrassing questions."

"Now, as to your after-actions, some of which were peculiar. I desire a
full explanation."

"They can easily be explained. I went home, the doctor's carriage
taking me to within a few blocks of my house. I was utterly exhausted,
but I could neither sleep nor think coherently. My main anxiety was my
daughter. It was essential that she should be at home. I arose early,
with my mind on no other subject, swallowed a hasty breakfast, and
hurried up-town to a telegraph office. After I had sent the telegram,
I went to the office in the factory building to try to compose my
thoughts, to figure out what I ought to do. I soon convinced myself
that the occurrences on the wharf were unknown to the police, but I was
worried somewhat when, on looking over the morning papers, I learned
of the suicide of Luke Filbon. His body had been found on the wharf
an hour or more after the time of the assault on Dashwood. Had he
witnessed it? Had he left behind any statement?

"I was considering this matter when you, Mr. Carter, came in. I did
not tell you the truth. I could not, and now you know why I could not.
After you had gone, I studied over what you had said, and the fear that
you were working on the Dashwood case was allied with another fear that
you suspected me, and that your suspicions might induce you to make a
visit to my house, for the purpose of investigation. When I returned
home the night before, I placed the five thousand dollars in notes in a
drawer which I always kept locked. In the morning I changed my clothes.
On leaving the house to send the telegram I gave no thought to the
notes, the other articles in the drawer, or anything else, for at that
time I believed I was safe from suspicion of any knowledge of what had
happened on the wharf.

"Now, hours afterward, in my office, the fact was borne home to me
that, if you did search my rooms, you would have cause for the gravest
suspicion, for the muddy trousers and the handkerchief which was
stained with rust from wiping my hands upon it after I had picked up
and thrown into the river the section of pipe used as a weapon by
Cora Reesey, would speak against me. And there were the notes and the
correspondence. I thought of all these matters, and realized what a
fool I had been in leaving the suspicious evidences behind.

"But I dared not go home, and I dared not attempt to leave town before
the inquest, for I might be already under surveillance, and attempted
flight would be looked upon as an admission of guilt. In an agony of
mind impossible to describe, I stayed in town until after I had given
in my testimony before the coroner. Then, in desperation, I resolved to
flee. I must take chances of arrest. But I was not molested. I went to
a remote section of the city, telephoned to Doctor Holcomb to call for
me at a certain house next day--that was yesterday--and then resigned
myself to circumstances. The doctor came, and I explained my situation
by saying that my business affairs were badly tangled, and that, for
the benefit of all concerned, it was necessary for a few days that I
should keep away from my creditors."

"Why did you write a note to me signed 'C. R.'?" asked Nick.

"Because I wanted to stave off a discovery of John Dashwood's retreat
until the operation should have been performed."

"Have you allowed your daughter all these days to remain in ignorance
of her husband's whereabouts and condition?"

"I have relieved her mind," said Leonard impatiently and nervously. "I
met her train at Madison, while she was on her way from Chicago to St.
Louis, and I there informed her that John was all right and would show
up in a few days. Since then I have written to her, my words carrying
the same assurance. She believes in me, Mr. Carter"--the look which he
bestowed on Nick was pathetic--"and, if I have deceived her, it has
been for her own good. To-day she shall know the truth, and to-morrow
will find her at her husband's bedside."

"And you--you are going away, are you? Why, if I may ask?"

Nick's voice was not pleasant. It was sharp, severe.

"Because my business is a failure; because I am sick of St. Louis;
because, with the few thousands I have secured, I may make a fresh
start in some new section of the country; because I dislike notoriety,
and Dashwood's story will----"

"Will bring you into the lime-light, eh?"

"Yes, that's it."

Nick looked hard at Leonard.

"You are a queer man, Mr. Leonard," he said. "Shrewd in some respects,
utterly lacking in shrewdness in others. Let me see, have you explained
everything? There is the matter of Luke Filbon's boat. What did you do
with it? Turn it adrift, or scuttle it?"

"I--I scuttled it," replied Leonard, with a start.

"So I reasoned. And why did you scuttle it?"

"Because I feared that it might show blood-stains from John Dashwood's
wound. The scuttling was a necessary precaution in the justifiable game
I was playing."

"Now, let me see if I understand the case," said Nick judicially.
"Everything you have done has been mainly in the interest of Mrs.
Dashwood, your daughter. Incidentally, you have remembered yourself,
and you have taken some interest--a commendable interest, I will
admit--in Dashwood. You shun notoriety, you want to preserve your good
name, to let the dead past bury its dead; and, if in carrying out the
plan you have mapped out, your creditors suffer, what of that? It is
better so; better for the officers of the law, who will be spared work
and bother; better for Gabriel Leonard, who, amid new scenes, with at
least five thousand dollars in his pocket, may begin life over again."

"I do not intend to cheat my creditors," said Leonard, in uneasiness,
touched with anger. "I intend to pay them to the last dollar. If I
compel them to wait, they shall have full interest."

"Yes, I suppose so," remarked Nick quietly. "A very fine program; but I
am compelled to inform you, Mr. Leonard, that you will not be able to
carry it out."

"Not carry it out?" a new fear stealing into his face. "And why not?"

Nick Carter arose to his feet. "Because," he replied, in a voice that
cut Leonard like a whip, "because your little game will not work. You
have told a story which in many particulars is true. But a part of it
is false, and there are some things which you have not touched upon.
You have not prepared to leave St. Louis because your business affairs
are in bad shape. You have not concealed John Dashwood solely for the
purpose of staving off a little notoriety, which a yarn such as you
have told to me would have rendered harmless. Your alarm over the
discoveries made in your room was not occasioned by the probability
that you would be suspected of the murder of John Dashwood, for, if
arrested for that crime, you could have produced the body of the living
man, and so confounded the officers. What were your reasons, then, for
acting as you have done? I will tell you.

"You were afraid of something that now causes the blood to leave your
cheeks, your lips to tremble, and your guilty heart to beat like a
trip-hammer. You were afraid to remain longer in St. Louis lest the
river should speak; should give up its dead and brand you liar and
murderer. Know now that the river has spoken--it spoke this morning
before I came here. Know that the body of your victim has been found.
Gabriel Leonard, I arrest you for the murder of Lucia Massona, alias
Cora Reesey, alias Madame Ree."




                              CHAPTER IX.

                          THE MISSING MONEY.


Gabriel Leonard, his guilt proclaimed, uttered a cry of despair, and,
burying his face in his hands, sobbed like a child. There was pity in
the expression with which Nick Carter regarded the detected murderer.
That the crime had extenuating features he was positive.

Leonard finally attained a fair degree of composure. He raised his head
and looked at the great detective with what was intended for a smile,
but which was a ghastly failure.

"You are a smart one," he said, with a little catch in his throat,
"and I suppose, from a moral standpoint, you are to be congratulated
upon what you have accomplished. But you would have better kept out of
this case, for, though I killed that miserable wretch of a woman, she
deserved death, and I was sorely tempted."

"How did it happen?" asked Nick.

"I might refuse to answer, now that I am under arrest," replied
Leonard, "but I shall have but one story to tell if ever I am brought
before the court for trial, and I am willing to tell it first to you.
The woman struck John Dashwood, as I have previously stated. In fact,
everything I told you up to the moment I arrived on the wharf to find
her bending over Dashwood's prostrate form is true. The story I told
of the after-happenings on that wharf is not true.

"This is the truth: The woman gave me five thousand dollars, and the
incriminating documents, and then taunted me with being a fool. She
boldly declared that she was not my daughter--my supposed relationship
had much to do with my acquiescence in her suggestions--and that she
had played a fine trick on me. She said I was the easiest mark she had
ever played with. She advised me to jump in the river and give the
fishes a chance. We stood face to face. I had in my hand at the time
the section of iron pipe with which she had cracked the skull of John
Dashwood. I had picked it up for the purpose of throwing it into the
river.

"Angered beyond endurance at her words and her expression, I struck her
down. The blow killed her. When I realized what I had done, I threw the
dead body into the river. I should have secured the fifteen thousand
dollars in notes which she had thrust into her bosom, but I did not
do so. I never thought of the money. My only thought was to remove
the evidence of my crime. Then, when the waters of the Mississippi
had closed over the body, I returned to John Dashwood. My movements
from that time are known to you. Yes, I am a murderer, my daughter is
disgraced, and I shall be hanged."

His forced composure vanished now. Giving way to his feelings, he shook
like a reed. Suddenly his form stiffened, he gave a gasping cry, and
fell backward on the bed.

"Run for the doctor," said Nick quickly to Chick. "I will do what I can
while you are gone."

Nick loosened Leonard's collar, and then procured a basin of water and
bathed the stricken man's face. He was thus engaged when Doctor Holcomb
arrived.

One look at Leonard, and he shook his head.

"Too late," was his comment. "He has been a sufferer from heart-disease
for years. I have repeatedly warned him to avoid excitement. To-day's
occurrences have brought on a fatal attack."

The doctor's words proved true. Leonard never recovered consciousness,
and in half an hour he was dead.

For the purpose of carrying out a plan having for its object the
happiness of Leonard's daughter, the wife of John Dashwood, Nick Carter
took Doctor Holcomb into his confidence. To the proprietor of the
sanatorium he told the whole story of the dead manufacturer's crime,
and the circumstances connected therewith.

"Now, doctor," said the detective, "you have been Leonard's friend,
and you will agree with me, I know, that no good can result from a
publication in the newspapers of the fact that he committed murder.
The woman is dead. Leonard is dead. Society has received its meed
of protection. The living must be considered. It would break Letty
Dashwood's heart if she were to learn what you and I know. Dashwood
himself must be kept in ignorance of his father-in-law's crime. Let
John and his good wife live on in the belief that Leonard was what
the moneyed world will believe him to have been, a man unfortunate in
business, but not dishonest, not a criminal."

"You are right, Mr. Carter," said Doctor Holcomb. "The truth must be
suppressed as a matter of charity. You may depend on me. But--can you
stop the gossip that may come from an investigation of the woman's
death?"

"I hope to be able to do so. The body was found a few miles below the
city in a state that will likely prevent discovery of identity. The
face was denuded of its flesh, and nearly all the clothing had been
torn from the body. I was at the morgue when the body was brought in--I
had been expecting that the find would be made--and, but for certain
distinguishing marks which I was careful to notice when I met the woman
in San Francisco, I should not have known whose body it was. She was
almost a stranger in St. Louis, and I do not think there will be any
identification."

As he spoke, Nick thought of Carroll Slack, but not with uneasiness,
for on his way to the morgue that morning he had met Slack, who, with
suit-case in hand, was hurrying to the railway-depot to take the train
for San Francisco.

As for the chief of police, there was no fear that he would attempt to
spoil the program. He might suspect the truth, but without evidence,
without witnesses, he could do nothing.

Events turned out as Nick wished. The body of the woman found in the
river was not identified, and the coroner's jury returned a verdict of
death at the hands of some person or persons unknown.

There was a happy meeting at Doctor Holcomb's sanatorium the day
following the death of Gabriel Leonard. But the delight on the part
of Mrs. Dashwood was soon mingled with sorrow, for, though she had
found her husband, just saved from the jaws of death, she had lost her
father, whose tender solicitude for her welfare had been one of the
joys of her life.

To Nick Carter John Dashwood explained his presence on the wharf that
fatal night.

"Filbon's absence from home," he said, "alarmed me. Of course,
there was the possibility that he had fled the city, fearing that
Mr. Leonard, upon discovering the robbery, would have him arrested
and punished. But there was, also, the possibility that Filbon,
weak-natured as he was, had committed suicide. After a talk with his
mother, in which I made light of my call, saying it was on a matter
of business requiring attention early next morning, and of which
I had forgotten to speak when I parted with Filbon, I went to the
wharf, fearing that he had thrown himself into the river, yet hoping
I should find him somewhere in the vicinity, his rash design not yet
accomplished. I did not find him, but I met Madame Ree."

A few days after this conversation Nick and Chick left St. Louis for
New York.

In his comfortable den the great detective went over the case for the
benefit of Patsy and Ten-Ichi. They were intensely interested in the
recital of events, dating from the night of the disappearance of John
Dashwood.

"When did you spot the truth?" asked Patsy.

"When I found Cora Reesey's brooch on the wharf, I began to have a
dim idea of what had happened. But I did not unbosom myself to the
chief of police, for the reason that I hadn't a particle of evidence
to support the theory that the woman had been murdered and not the
man. Thereafter, however, I worked with that theory in mind. It seemed
plausible. In fact, it was the only theory which could explain many
circumstances. The disappearance of Filbon's boat was evidence to
my mind that a living body had been taken away, and not a dead one.
There would be no need to row away with a dead body; the deep, slowly
moving Mississippi could take care of that. Then, as I thought of the
possibility of somebody--Leonard, probably--taking away a wounded man
in a boat, my mind reverted to the assurance Leonard had given his
daughter that Dashwood would soon turn up all right. If he had killed
Dashwood, or knew that Dashwood had been killed by somebody else, he
would not have acted as he did.

"The finding of the rusty iron pipe settled the matter for me. Upon
that pipe, adhering to the partly detached flakes or wafers of rust,
were human hairs of the color and fineness of the hairs on the head
of John Dashwood. But they were also of the color and fineness of the
hairs on the head of Cora Reesey. I might have been confused over the
hairs had I not noticed one very long one, much longer than any that
was ever upon the head of Dashwood. It was a woman's hair, and it was
stuck to the rust with coagulated blood.

"Now, convinced that Leonard had killed the woman, and had carried away
Dashwood, who had been wounded by the woman--and I readily conjectured
in what manner and under what circumstances the wound had been
received--I instituted the search for Leonard, which resulted in the
discovery at the sanatorium. I might not have succeeded but for Chick's
assistance. Chick is a good one. He never missed a trick."

Chick, who had been in a brown study, looked up, a question in his eyes.

"Nick," said he, "we cleaned pretty well in St. Louis, but we left a
mystery behind, all the same."

"It is a matter of money, isn't it?" queried Nick, with a look of
understanding.

"Sure. Gabe Leonard saw Cora Reesey put fifteen thousand dollars in
bank-notes in her bosom that night on the wharf. Now, when her dead
body reached the morgue the money was gone. The coroner, having no idea
of the identity of the corpse, and knowing nothing of any relations of
a business nature or otherwise between a certain Madame Ree, a palmist,
and Gabriel Leonard, manufacturer, did not look for missing money when
he searched what was left of the woman's clothing. He found nothing of
value. Even the rings on her fingers were gone."

"Yes, I know that."

"Well, what do you think? Did the fishes and the crabs eat the rings
and the notes, or----"

"Or was the body robbed before it reached the morgue? It was robbed,
beyond the shadow of a doubt."

"Then the Leonard-Dashwood-Reesey case cannot be considered closed
until the mystery of that robbery shall have been solved. I have an
idea that some day you will bump up against the robber."

Nick laughed. "All sorts of things happen in this curious world," he
said.




                              CHAPTER X.

                         A WASHINGTON MYSTERY.


"No," continued Nick, "I am ready to take a short rest. The
Leonard-Dashwood case is ended. The missing bank-notes are a small
matter. Some common thief, a river roustabout, may have robbed the
body."

"I don't think so. I have no reason for my belief, so I must have an
occult hunch, for I am eaten up with the idea that you are going to
hear something regarding those notes before you are many months older."

The telephone rang before Nick could reply to Chick's last remark. The
great detective placed the receiver at his ear.

"That you, Nick?"

"Yes, inspector."

"You're wanted in Washington. Come down to the office at once, if you
can, and I'll explain."

"All right, inspector. I'll be with you inside of half an hour."

Nick was as good as his word, and, after the usual friendly greetings,
the inspector began:

"Jackson Feversham, of Washington, is an old friend of mine, and
naturally he first puts himself in communication with me, although
he wants you. He wasn't certain that you were in the city, though he
might have easily ascertained whether or not you were by wiring your
residence. If you were not in town, Chick, Patsy, or Ten-Ichi would
have answered. But I see you are impatient. You want me to come to the
point. Here it is: A murder, which is shrouded in mystery, has been
committed in the national capital; the detectives there are at sea, and
the call is for Nick Carter, the man of no failures."

"The Playfair case, isn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose you read the newspaper account this morning. Then you
know as much about the affair as I do."

"Let me see if I can recite the facts as given in the press despatch,"
said Nick. "James Playfair, a retired merchant, widower, and childless,
was found dead last night beyond the Mt. Vernon Ferry, at the foot of
Seventh Street. He had been out for a moonlight excursion down the
river, but instead of returning to his home on Maryland Avenue, nearly
a mile beyond the capitol, he saw all his fellow excursionists depart
and then walked down by the river shore. The body was found near one
of the old, disused wharfs, now nothing but rows of unsightly piles.
The only evidence of violence were finger-marks about the throat. The
police theory is that he was choked to death. Motive, robbery; for
everything of value--purse, pocketbook, watch, and rings, etc.--was
stolen. No one was seen in his company after he left the Mt. Vernon
wharf. He had no known enemies, and he had lived an upright life."

"You have stated the case correctly, Nick," said the inspector. "Of
course, there may be facts, clues, suspicions, which the reporters were
unable to cover."

"I understand. Detectives are not in the habit of exposing their
hands at the beginning of an investigation. There is a time for broad
publicity as there is also a time for secrecy. What did your friend
Feversham say in addition to what you have told me?"

"Nothing. He wants you, and that means that the mystery is a deep one.
Playfair was Feversham's close friend. They were like brothers, and
Feversham will spend a fortune, if necessary, to bring the murderer to
justice. Can you start to-night?"

"Yes, and Chick and Patsy will go with me."

The next day Nick Carter and his two assistants were in Washington.
Apprised of their coming, Jackson Feversham was at the B. & O. depot
to meet them. Nick took to the man at once. He was past middle age,
small, wiry, alert, with good humor and keen intelligence written on a
thin, smoothly shaven face and sparkling from bright, black eyes. There
was a striking resemblance in face, figure, and expression to the late
Lawrence Barrett, the popular tragedian and man of letters.

Private quarters on E Street--the great detective was disposed to shun
the publicity of the hotels--were secured, and late in the afternoon,
when the conversation could be carried on with ease and freedom,
Feversham told his story.

"The newspapers have given nearly all the facts that are in possession
of the officers. I will now disclose to you what has not been
published and also give you my own ideas concerning the murder: James
Playfair had an appointment with me for eleven o'clock that fatal
night. We were to make the final arrangements for a fishing-trip to the
Chesapeake. The excursion boat was scheduled to return at ten o'clock,
for the river ride was to be a short one, having been gotten up for the
benefit of some foreign visitors. I saw him off on the boat, and his
last words were: 'I am going on this excursion as a matter of duty'--he
was a member of the committee which had arranged the affair--'and when
I return I shall hurry to your rooms.' These words, when taken in
connection with my intimate knowledge of his private affairs, carry
with them the conviction that he left the boat to keep an appointment."

"Then that appointment must have been made after you parted with him
and before the boat left the wharf," said Nick.

"I think so, otherwise his parting words to me would have been
different. He went off alone. Several persons saw him leave the wharf
to go down toward the river shore. The person with whom he had the
appointment, therefore, must have had powerful reasons of his own for
not accompanying him. The matter is very suspicious, very mysterious,
as you must perceive."

Nick nodded his head. Then he said: "Was Playfair a man of slight, or
powerful physique? In other words, would he have been able to have held
his own with a man of ordinary strength?"

"Yes. He was of abstemious habits, remarkably well preserved, and hardy
of constitution, and, in his prime, one of the best all-around athletes
in the city."

"Then the man who murdered him must have been of more than ordinary
muscular power. That is, if Playfair were strangled."

"How could he have met his death otherwise?" replied Feversham,
regarding the detective in surprise. "The finger-marks on the throat
determine the manner of death. The inquest is set for this evening. If
there is other evidence you will learn it then."

"Have you anything more to tell, Mr. Feversham? I have been informed
that Playfair had no enemies and that he led a very quiet life."

"That is true, Mr. Carter."

"Do you think he had anything on his mind lately?"

"No. He was as cheerful as usual when I last saw him alive. If he had
been oppressed by any worry I should have known it."

"How long had he been a widower?"

"Ten years."

"No children, I believe?"

"No children of his own. His wife had a son by a former husband."

Nick pricked up his ears. "Where is that son?" he asked quietly.

"I do not know. He was a wild sort of a chap and left home before
his mother's death. I know that he was a source of great annoyance
to Playfair, who spent many thousands of dollars in paying Arthur's
gambling debts."

"Did Playfair ever mention his stepson's name?"

"It never passed his lips. For twelve years--ever since the young man
left home--he was as dead to his stepfather."

"What is the fellow's full name?"

"Arthur Mannion; and if he is alive he should be about thirty years of
age."

As Nick had no more questions to ask, Jackson Feversham went on:
"Playfair was always considered an easy mark for both the society and
the professional beggar. He had a soft heart and could rarely resist an
appeal for money, no matter whether it came from a charity committee
from his own walk in life or from the dirtiest, most whisky-sodden
hobo that ever perambulated the streets. Therefore, my opinion is that
some crime-hardened grafter accosted him just as the boat was about
to leave. The fellow, of course, must have been well dressed, of fair
intelligence, and prepossessing appearance, who, after handing out
the opening chapter of hard luck and woe, proposed the appointment by
the river shore for the conclusion of the tale. Murder must have been
intended in the first place, and murder was done."

"Have any of the residents of the locality been interviewed?"

"I believe so."

"And no one was seen about the shore that night?"

"No. Even Playfair, as I have said, was not seen after he left the
wharf."

"This shows that the people thereabouts were not out of doors that
night. But, perhaps, the ground was not thoroughly gone over. Chick,
suppose you go down there at once and interview everybody--white,
black, child, and adult."

"All right, Nick," and Chick was off.

"And now," said Nick, "for the beginning of the work. I shall require
a list of the property stolen from the body. Have the officers been
furnished with this?"

"Yes."

"Then my first visit must be to headquarters. While I am away, Patsy,
you will mingle with the people and pick up crumbs, if there are any."

The secret service men, as well as the local police, of the capital had
taken hold of the case, and from the superintendent Nick obtained a
list of the valuables stolen, as far as the same could be ascertained.
He was also put into possession of an item which imbued with new and
strange interest the remarks made by Chick at the opening of this
chapter.

"About a hundred yards from the spot where the body was found," said
the superintendent, "a crumpled one-hundred-dollar bank-note was
picked up. It may have been the property of the dead man, or it may
have belonged to the murderer, who dropped it while replenishing his
pocketbook after the robbery."

Nick looked at the note. It was upon a Chicago bank, and the number
corresponded with a number on a list of bank-notes which he had carried
away from St. Louis. Every number on the list was burned into his
memory, for they were the notes stolen from the body of Cora Reesey.

It was plain, therefore, that if this bank-note which the detective
held in his hand was not filched from the pocket of James Playfair, but
had been stowed away in the pocket of the murderer, then the murderer
was the St. Louis robber.

And who was he?

Nick had the glimmer of an idea, but that was all.




                              CHAPTER XI.

                    FEVERSHAM'S STRANGE DISCOVERY.


Having possessed himself of all the facts the local detectives were
able to give, Nick Carter had dinner and then went to his rooms to
await reports from Chick and Patsy.

Chick was the first to present himself.

"I suppose you have heard about the finding of the bank-note?" began
Chick. "Well, there is this in addition: I found a negro--a wharf
porter--who says that on the afternoon preceding the murder he had that
note in his hands."

"Who gave it to him?"

"A dark-faced man of about thirty. The man wanted the negro to go into
a grocery near the wharf and get the note changed. In explanation he
said he owed the grocer a bill and wasn't ready to pay it. Otherwise he
would go himself. The negro went to the store, but the grocer was short
of small bills and so the note did not change hands."

"How does the negro know it is the same note?"

"By the number. He was afraid it was counterfeit and scrutinized it
carefully."

"Had the negro ever seen the dark-faced man before?"

"No. He was a stranger."

"How was he dressed?"

"In a business suit of speckled brown. Derby hat. He wore a black
mustache and had a diamond in his shirt-front. That's all the
description the negro could give."

"Did you make any other discoveries?"

"Yes, one more, and an important one, Nick. There's a man on L Street,
near the river, who knows something. The negro saw him talking with
the dark-faced fellow some fifteen minutes before the note-changing
proposition was broached. The negro has just returned from a day's
absence from town, and that's why his story has not yet reached the
ears of the Washington sleuths."

"What is the name of the man who lives on L Street?"

"Prosper Craven. He is a man of family: used to keep the grocery and
has some money, though he is far from rich."

"What is his reputation? Did you learn?"

"His reputation is good. But he is a silent, reserved man and does not
mingle much among his neighbors."

"I must see him at once. Meanwhile, wire Chief Wittman at San
Francisco, asking him if he knows anything of one Arthur Mannion,
giving description."

"What's your idea?"

"I'll tell you later. It is in the hatching process. It may be a
chicken, it may be a duck."

Chick grinned. "I'll wait serenely," he said, "for I know that the
result won't show that you are a goose."

Prosper Craven lived in a small brick house near the car-line. He was
a sad-faced man of fifty years, with light-blue eyes, which blinked
continually, as if the sight were defective. His nose was long and
sharp, his mouth wide and his chin narrow and non-aggressive. Nick
sized him up when he came to the door as secretive, obstinate, and weak
in judgment. Not a man of force. He might err through weakness, but his
aspirations were in the line of good. Corner him and it would be hard
to tell what he would do.

After stating that he had important business to transact, the detective
was invited into the house.

"Mr. Craven," Nick began, "a murder has been committed and every good
citizen is expected to furnish information, if he have any, that will
assist the officers in the search for the murderer. On the afternoon
preceding the death of James Playfair you conversed with a dark-faced
young man near this house. What is that young man's name?"

A troubled look came into Craven's face. He tapped the floor nervously
with his foot.

"You don't suspect him, do you?" he asked, in affected surprise.

"You have not answered my question," returned Nick sharply. "What is
the man's name?"

A pause, and then the answer: "Arthur Mannion."

"I thought so." Craven showed astonishment. His eyes blinked with
unusual rapidity. "Now," continued Nick, in a tone which made the
ex-grocer shiver, "what do you know of Mannion? What was your business
with him?"

Craven's sallow face flushed. "I shall have to consult my attorney
before answering your questions," he said, slowly and painfully. "I
shall be guided entirely by his advice. He may advise me not to tell
you anything."

"Not if what you know has any bearing on the murder?"

Craven did not reply. His expression was enigmatical.

"Don't you know." said Nick, "that Mannion is the stepson of James
Playfair?"

"I know that, certainly; but that fact has no bearing on the matter
about which you have interrogated me."

Nick Carter vented his dissatisfaction at the man's words and attitude
by these strongly spoken remarks: "See here, Mr. Craven, you are
acting very queerly. You are concealing something at a time when it
is necessary, for the proper solution of this mysterious murder, that
every act and circumstance that may have the slightest bearing upon
the matter, as connected either with the words or movements of any
suspected party, or those of other parties having relation, remote or
otherwise, with Playfair's affairs, should be made known. You are a
stranger to me, and yet, from your countenance, I think I have derived
a sufficient knowledge of your character to say that I do not believe
your concealment of any facts which you may have discovered arises
from an unworthy motive. On the contrary, I am satisfied that you are
acting from what you consider the best of motives. But this is a case
in which personal feelings, a regard for the feelings of others"--with
a keen glance at Craven's face, which flushed slightly under the
scrutiny--"should give way before the graver public interest and the
stern demands of justice."

"I thank you for your good opinion, sir," returned Craven, with
emotion, "but my position is so peculiar, there are so many things to
be taken into account, that, at this moment, I cannot see my way clear
to a full explanation. My attorney must be the judge as to what I shall
say."

"Very well," said Nick coolly. "I can say no more than that in refusing
to explain you will be taking a rather risky course."

"I am ready to take the consequences."

Craven's eyes, blinking, strayed from the detective's countenance to
the ceiling. His mouth twitched slightly and he crossed and recrossed
his legs nervously.

There was a short silence. Nick, not yet prepared to give up the quest
for information, finally said:

"Mr. Craven, as a man of the world, as an honest man, as a detective
anxious to serve the cause of justice, I believe it will be best, in
spite of what you have said, that we come to a thorough understanding.
I have the reputation of being a man of honor. In my possession are
secrets sufficient, were they once made public property, to upheave
society from San Francisco to Skowhegan. A layman, like yourself,
is not a proper judge, in my opinion, of what is relevant and what
irrelevant in matters pertaining to cases which may be tried in court.
And, in any case, I cannot proceed with celerity if I am to be hampered
at the outset by what I conceive to be unwise concealment of facts.
Justice strongly suggests that you tell me everything. Let me be the
judge of what is material and what immaterial to the issues, resting
assured all the while that no confidence which does not touch pointedly
upon this case shall ever be violated."

"I will think over the matter," said Craven slowly, "and give you my
decision later. Will that suffice?"

Nick conned the obstinate face, and then said: "It will have to, I
suppose."

When the detective left the house it was with the determination to have
Craven's movements watched while his reticence continued.

At the inquest, that evening, the surgeon who conducted the autopsy was
first examined. He had found all the organs in a healthy condition, and
his opinion was that death had resulted from strangulation.

For reasons which the chief of the secret service men approved, Nick
Carter did not give Craven's name to the coroner. The inquest, it
was certain, could not, with positiveness, name the murderer, and,
therefore, the main purpose of the official proceeding was carried
out and in a satisfactory way. The verdict was that a murder had been
committed and that death had resulted from strangulation.

One of the employees at the railway-station--Hayman by name--nodded his
head as the verdict was read, and these words fell from his lips:

"That's right, and I am onto the man."

"What's that?" The speaker was Nick Carter.

Hayman looked up, recognized the great detective--they were old
acquaintances--and at once said: "I've got an idea, that's all."

"Then we will walk to a quiet place and you shall tell me about it,"
returned Nick firmly; and taking Hayman by the arm he led the man to
the sidewalk.

In the second story of a building a few doors below the morgue, Nick
found a place suitable for a private conversation. It was one of a
suite of rooms occupied by a lawyer of the detective's acquaintance.
The lawyer luckily was in the main office at the time, doing night
work on an important civil case on trial, and he cheerfully ushered
them into the consultation office, where they would be secure from
interruption.

After Nick and Hayman had lighted cigars, the railway man spoke:

"I wish now that I had informed the coroner of what I know."

"Why didn't you inform him?"

"Because I was afraid I might suffer Playfair's fate. I have a family.
I am anything but rich, and a man has to consider such things, you
know."

"Oh! yes," said Nick, with a faint touch of scorn.

"On the night of the murder I was occupied in the railway office up to
half-past eleven in making out my weekly statement. When I had finished
I thought I would walk down to the roundhouse and see if everything
there was all right, for one of the wipers was sick and the other
would not come on duty until midnight. I was close by the door and was
about to turn the knob, when I heard the sound of voices. Two men were
speaking. One was an American; the other's voice betrayed a slight
accent which I could not place.

"'Two hours to wait,' said the American, 'before the train pulls out.'

"There was a short pause, and then the other spoke: 'There's that
Craven business. What if the fellow squeals?'

"'He won't dare to,' said the American, 'for he has too much fear of
me. Besides, it was he who suggested that I come to Washington and
interview the old man.'

"The voices ceased, and, though I waited some five minutes, nothing
more was said. Then I stole softly away, and, reentering the office,
telephoned the police officials that I had a couple of tramps for
the boys. Fifteen minutes later the patrol-wagon arrived with three
policemen. I piloted them to the roundhouse, but the two men were gone."

"Did you tell the officers what you had heard while listening at the
roundhouse door?"

"No. I should, perhaps, have done so had I not been called to the
office by a stranger, who desired to know at what hour in the morning
the first passenger-train started."

"Had you ever seen him before?"

"Now that I think of it, his voice was the same as that of the
foreigner of the roundhouse. I must be thick-headed, for the fact
did not strike me at the time. There is little more to tell. The
patrol-wagon went off while I was talking to the stranger, and I
thought no more of the matter until next morning, when I heard of
the murder. Then I put two and two together and formed a certain
conclusion."

"Describe this foreigner!"

"He was tall, dark-featured, and wore a heavy, black beard."

"Have you no idea as to his nationality?"

"I can't be positive on the point, but am inclined to think he is a
Russian. He looked like one, all right."

A Russian! Nick recalled his experiences with the Russian thugs of San
Francisco, and wondered if by any possibility this man of whom Hayman
had spoken could have been one of the number. Dorrant, the leader, was
dead, and so were Sergius and Nicholas Wykoff. There remained only
Dimitri Goloff, whose connection with the band had been slight, and who
had evinced a desire to lead an honest life. Had he suffered a relapse?
Hayman's description fitted him as far as externals went. But did he
not possess some peculiarly distinguishing characteristic? Yes, he
did--in his voice. "Hayman," said Nick quickly, "what kind of a voice
did this foreigner have? Was it light, or heavy; harsh, or clear?"

"It was heavy and harsh, like a fog-horn."

Goloff it was, then. Nick felt his pulse quicken. How lucky it was that
he had overheard Hayman's remark at the inquisitorial hearing! "Yes,"
he said, in answer to the question that looked out of the railway man's
eyes, "I know the man, and now if only you could give me a description
of the other man it would make my work much easier. But, of course, you
can't, so I will have to go ahead on the presumption that he is the man
I most desire to meet."

Hayman smiled reassuringly. "I think I can help you out, Nick. True, I
did not see the cuss, but another man did."

Nick's face brightened instantly.

"The next morning," said the railway man, "I asked Harrington, the
wiper, who had laid off the fore part of the night, on account of not
feeling well, if he had seen, before he went home, any persons hanging
about the shops of the yard.

"'Yes, sir,' said he, 'I saw two men in front of the roundhouse when I
came out at eleven o'clock.' Asked to describe them, he said that both
were tall. One looked like a foreigner. The other, though dark-faced,
was an American. He wore a black mustache, and his hat was a derby."

Nick expressed his satisfaction. "That settles it," he said. "Hayman, I
am greatly obliged to you."

The great detective did not seek his bed that night until after he had
had a watch placed on Craven's house and had enlisted the services of
the Washington detectives in the search for Arthur Mannion.

It was Nick's opinion that Mannion had not left the city. The story
told by Hayman furnished evidence that the graceless stepson of James
Playfair had a confederate, and it would probably turn out that the two
had murderously assaulted the old man. Perhaps one had held Playfair
while the other had choked the victim to death.

The next morning brought a new surprise. Nick's first visitor, before
the detective had made ready to go out, was Jacob Feversham. He was in
a high state of excitement and his opening words were:

"I have made a strange discovery, Mr. Carter."

"Ah! And what is it?"

"James Playfair's house was robbed before the murder. I found this
out last night while overhauling the things in his rooms. I am his
executor, and I made an early investigation on account of the peculiar
manner of his death. A week before he was murdered he had, in a drawer
in his desk, over two thousand dollars. The money is gone, the lock of
the drawer is broken."

"What makes you think the robbery was committed before the murder?"

"Because Playfair told me two days before his death that he must see
a locksmith to have fixed a lock in his desk which had been broken.
Every other lock was intact."

"Did he not make any reference to the robbery?"

"No. Nothing more was said, and the impression left on my mind was that
he had himself broken the lock."

"Might he not have taken the money out of the drawer before the robber
appeared?"

"I don't think so. In fact, I am positive that he did not. I'll tell
you something about Playfair, Mr. Carter. He was a very peculiar man.
He, of course, kept the larger portion of his cash in bank, but it
was his custom to keep constantly on hand in his house two or three
thousand dollars. He paid out much money in charity, as I have already
told you, and he preferred to hand out the cash to deserving applicants
rather than go to the trouble of drawing checks. He never carried much
money in his pockets, never more than fifty or sixty dollars. No, he
was robbed, and for some reason he desired to screen the robber."

"Do you know of any person, vicious in morals, whom he would have been
likely to screen?" asked Nick, with a queer look in his eyes.

"Yes, I do. It's that scoundrel of a stepson, Arthur Mannion."




                             CHAPTER XII.

                        NICK HAS A FRIGID IDEA.


Nick told Feversham what he had discovered bearing upon the case of
Arthur Mannion, from which it became clear to Feversham that Mannion
was the murderer. "But though I am convinced," said he, "that the
stepson is the guilty man, I am puzzled over the motive. If Mannion
robbed the house and secured two thousand dollars, why should he, a few
days afterward, kill Playfair to obtain less than a hundred, or, say,
two hundred, taking into consideration the watch and rings?"

"It is something of a puzzle," replied the detective, "but it is
possible that I may arrive at a solution."

"If any one can do so, you are the man," said Feversham, with
conviction. "And can I be of any help to you?"

"You will help me by telling me all that you know about this stepson."

"I know that he is a scamp," was the emphatic response, "and I can't
conceive of a reason why Playfair should desire to shield him. Hold on
a bit, there is a reason. The mother, Playfair's wife. My dead friend
fairly idolized her, and, perhaps, his lenity in the matter of the
house-robbery may be accounted for by his regard for the memory of his
deceased wife."

"I think your explanation is a good one," said Nick. "In fact, I had
thought of it myself."

"If I could only explain the motive of the murder I would be better
satisfied, Mr. Carter, but I can't."

"Let me see if I can," rejoined Nick. "Mannion robbed the house, but
his plunder did not consist wholly of money. He stole something else,
something, I should say, of no value to any one but the original
possessor. Do you know whether the robbed drawer was used as a
receptacle of anything except money?"

"He kept letters there."

"All his letters?"

"Oh, no, for the drawer would not have held them. There was a package
of old letters which he kept there. I saw it often during his lifetime."

"Was the package there when you examined the drawer last night?"

"No. There was nothing whatever in the drawer."

"Then there is a partial explanation of the motive of the murder. Those
letters gave Mannion some sort of a hold, not a criminal one," Nick
added quickly, as he saw Feversham's brow darken, "but a hold, in the
nature of privacy, that was worth money to the robber."

"But why should murder have been done, Mr. Carter? If the hold, as you
characterize it, was strong, would not Playfair have recognized and
responded to it?"

"If I am not mistaken in my estimate of the man," replied Nick quietly,
"I think he would not have responded. He knew Mannion for a double-dyed
villain. He had suffered himself to be preyed upon for years. One
indignity had been followed by another, until at last, in the theft of
the letters, patience had ceased to be a virtue.

"He was willing that Mannion should keep the money he had stolen; he
might have schooled himself to stand the loss of the letters without
attempting legal reprisal, but the innate integrity of the man
precluded any idea of payment for the return of the letters. Mannion,
let us suppose, counting upon making a fat thing out of the letters,
asked the appointment by the river, upon the representation that he
would return them. He knew that he could not induce Playfair to meet
him in any other way. Playfair kept the appointment, but, instead of
receiving the letters as a free act of restitution, was confronted with
the demand for money as a condition of the surrender. Now, knowing
James Playfair, as you did, Mr. Feversham, what in your opinion would
he have said and done, when the real object of the night appointment
was made known to him?"

"He would have given Arthur Mannion a piece of his mind and he would
have followed it up by a positive, indignant refusal to pay one cent
for the letters."

"Precisely," said Nick, with a smile of approval, "and that, according
to my theory, is what Playfair did. What followed? The usual thing,
when an honest, virtuously resentful citizen is brought face to face
with a discomfited, murderous-minded villain. With bitter, ungovernable
rage in his heart, Mannion sprang at Playfair's throat. And he had
assistance. Alone he would have had difficulty in overcoming such a man
of science and muscle as James Playfair was. The Russian friend of his
was close at hand. Attacked suddenly by two powerful men, Playfair was
overcome. It may prove to be the fact that no other motive than revenge
for Playfair's refusal to be held up influenced the murderer when he
made his attack, and it may turn out that the motive was a mixed one,
in which revenge cut the smallest figure. The case is just opening, and
it is not the time to adopt any hold-fast theory?"

"Never mind the motive, Mr. Carter," said Feversham, almost fiercely.
"We feel sure that Arthur Mannion is the assassin. Let us catch him and
we can figure on motives afterward."

"Do you think it would be advisable to arrest Mannion now?" There was
an odd ring in the detective's voice. Feversham gave him a sharp look,
and then impatiently replied:

"Of course, I think it would be good policy. Don't you?"

"No. I would like to locate him, to keep him under surveillance until
the time is ripe to strike; but to arrest him now might prove to be a
serious mistake. We haven't evidence enough to hold him, and his first
act would be to sue out a writ of habeas corpus. If he regained his
liberty through the writ, as he probably would, he might do one of two
things--defy us, or skip the country."

Feversham's hopes instantly fell to zero. He looked as if he had
received a blow in the face.

"Then we have nothing really to go upon," he said, in an acutely
disappointed tone.

"Oh, yes, we have," said Nick cheerily. "We have made a fine start, and
I hope before many days to have ready a pit for Mr. Mannion to fall
into. As the matter now stands, we believe him to be the murderer. It's
a sure shot that he is. But what evidence have we for the consideration
of a jury? The murder was not witnessed. Mannion would deny it; we
can't prove it. The robbery is an important side issue, but what
evidence is there to show that Mannion was the robber? There is none at
hand. All we have are a few facts which, standing alone, would be of
small value, and some circumstances of strong weight in the pursuit of
an investigation, of doubtful relevancy in trying a case in court. But
patience, Mr. Feversham. We are gaining ground every day."

The dead man's friend exhibited relief, and when he departed there was
hope in his heart.

That forenoon Chief Wittman, from San Francisco answered Nick's wire in
reference to Mannion in these words: "Mannion discharged San Quentin
prison, forgery, four months ago. Was thick with Cora Reesey before
woman left for St. Louis."

One statement in the telegram Nick at the time passed over lightly,
for its significance then was not apparent. Illumination was to come
later, but the association of Mannion with Cora Reesey, the woman
murdered in St. Louis, furnished food for thought. The discovery of the
bank-note, taken in connection with Mannion's intimacy with the woman
who had possession of it, and others, at the time she was killed, was
presumptive evidence that he robbed the body. Goloff, the Russian,
had been connected with the San Francisco case in which Cora Reesey
had figured, and it was probable that Mannion had made the man's
acquaintance in San Francisco, as it was also probable that the two men
had come East together.

Patsy, who had started out early on a lone stunt, showed a bright,
eager face to the great detective shortly before noon.

"It's lucky you fixed me this morning, Mr. Carter," he said, with an
expression of profound satisfaction.

Nick smiled inwardly. He knew his skilful young assistant had found
something.

"Why, Patsy?"

"Because, with the stuff in my pocket, I was able to make good at a
critical time. With the bones you gave me I made change for a big,
green fellow. You see, it was this way"--hurrying on before Nick could
interrupt--"I was playing bootblack this morning on the sidewalk in
front of Lafayette Square, when a nobby sport with a dark face and a
black mustache walks out of the White House grounds and crosses over to
me. 'Shine?' says I. 'Sure.' he chirps, and I goes ahead and does my
work on his patent leathers. When I gets through the top-lofty guinea
flips a century rag in my face. Thought he'd faze me, maybe. But he
didn't. I fazed him. I changed the bill, though it reduced me to cases."

"Well?" looking, at Patsy quizzically.

"I have the numbers of those Reesey-Leonard notes in my block, Mr.
Carter," said Patsy, with an air of triumph, "and this note of mine
belonged to that batch."

A variety of emotions were exhibited in Nick Carter's face during the
moment that followed the young detective's statement. Joy was succeeded
by disappointment, hope took disappointment's place, anxiety at last
shadowed all.

"When did you make the discovery?" he asked, concealing his nervousness.

"The minute he plunked down the bill."

"Good, good. And when you had made the change, what did you do?"

Patsy regarded his superior in pained surprise. "Do? Why, what any
detective with a spoonful of sense would have done. I shadowed the
piker, Mr. Carter."

Nick's strong face became a sunbeam in a moment. "Of course, you did,
Patsy. I might have known that without asking. Well, and did you hole
him?"

"That's what I did. I know where he bunks, and I know that he has
engaged a room for a month--engaged it two days ago."

"Where is the place?"

"L Street, a block beyond Craven's house."

"Nearer the river than Craven's?"

"Yes."

"What is it? A lodging-house?"

"Sure, and you can't miss it, for carpenters are repairing the front,
which is all covered with scaffolding."

Chick appeared while this conversation was going on. He had been out
on a scout, and he, too, had something of importance to report. "The
Russian has not left town," he said. "I've seen him, and it's Goloff,
sure. I passed him on the street, and he did not know me from a side of
sole leather." As Nick's capable assistant had that morning chosen for
his day's disguise the part of a young German, newly arrived, it was
not likely that his identity had been suspected.

"There is some deep game on the hooks," was Chick's comment after he
had been informed of Patsy's news. "There is something in Washington
which is of powerful interest to this pair of knaves. And they are
still playing in together, for I didn't let Goloff out of sight until I
had seen him enter the house with the scaffolding on L Street. What is
the game, I wonder? It must be a golden one, or they wouldn't be taking
the risk of an arrest for murder."

"Let us look at matters from what I will assume to be their
standpoint," said Nick. "They probably think they are running no risk.
They must believe that the murder was not witnessed and that no clue
was left behind which would point suspicion in their direction. The
bank-note found near the river is a clue, it is true, but Mannion, who
lost the note, cannot regard it as such, for he does not know that I
have the list of the notes which Cora Reesey possessed. No one knows
the fact except you, Chick, Patsy, and the chief of the St. Louis
police. And it is safe to assume that he is ignorant of the fact that
the negro wharf porter memorized the number, when he was given the note
to change, for I cautioned him against repeating his story to any one
not an officer. The negro is an old resident, and his reputation is of
the best. Therefore, the loss of the bank-note would mean to Mannion
nothing more than the loss of an ordinary note."

"How about the railway roundhouse affair?" asked Chick.

"There is no reason to believe that either Mannion or Goloff suspect
that their talk was overheard, although they may have feared that
their presence there was known. Men are to be judged by their conduct.
The after movements of the two criminals show to any reasoning person
that they left the roundhouse in as calm a state of mind as when they
entered it. So, believing themselves to be, if not absolutely safe
from suspicion, yet safe enough to laugh at the idea of arrest, they
have elected to remain here to complete the work which brought them
from California. I was not surprised to learn from Patsy that Mannion
has appeared in public. I would have been surprised had he stayed in
hiding, for that act would have raised the presumption that he knew he
had not covered all his tracks, and that there was a clue which would
prove fatal to his peace, if the detectives should come upon it."

"If he finds out, as he may, that you are on his track, Nick, he will
get cold feet in a second."

"Maybe so, Chick," returned the great detective. "And, if so, the
frigidity may strike his extremities this afternoon, for I am going to
call upon him."

"What! As Nick Carter?"

"Oh, no; as Juba Johnsing, the negro who failed to change the note
for him. I can make up so that he will never spot the difference. He
saw the wharf porter but for a few moments, as you will remember, and
probably paid little or no attention to him. I'll make the ripple
Chick, and there's going to be fun."




                             CHAPTER XIII.

                          NICK CARTER'S FALL.


In the afternoon Nick, disguised as a negro porter, went to L Street.
Chick and Palsy had been instructed in the rôles they were to play. The
house described by Patsy was found, but the carpenters and painters
were not there, although the scaffolding was still in place. As the day
was Saturday, Nick found an explanation for the absence of the workmen.
According to union rules, every Saturday afternoon is a holiday. The
sidewalk had not been cleared and there were boxes, bricks, broken
boards, and odds and ends lying about. Just beyond the entrance to the
stairway, and near the edge of the sidewalk, was a large hair mattress,
the ticking which covered it being torn in many places.

Nick went up the stairs and stopped in front of a small, dingy office,
presided over by a slatternly woman of middle age.

"Is Misto Mannion stayin' heah?" he asked, with an engaging smile.

"Room eighteen, this flo'." was the short answer.

"Ah'm gretly ableeged, Mistis. Ah'll fine hit, mahse'f. Don' yo' stir
you' bones on mah 'count." As the woman made no effort to move, but
simply stared at him, the false negro's courtesy seemed not to have
been required.

Before the room, whose windows overlooked the back yard, Nick stopped,
for inside a man was singing softly to himself. The voice was a light
tenor and was pleasing to the ear.

"The fellow is in happy spirits, apparently," thought the detective.
"Hope I won't agitate him too much."

He knocked gently and presently the door opened and a tall, rather
handsome young man, with dark face, red, womanish lips, cold blue eyes
set close together, and a low forehead confronted him. Women might be
deceived in respect to his character. Men of sense would not be likely
to trust him. He was dressed in the height of fashion and seemed,
entirely at his ease.

His eyes, in cool inquiry, sought the face of the black-faced caller,
whose form trembled slightly.

"Well," he said curtly, "what can I do for you?"

"Ise--Ise de pusson yo' talked to tudder day down by de w'arf, sah,"
said Nick humbly. "Yo' gimme dat bank-bill fo' ter git changed, sah.
Don' yo' 'member dat perceedin'?"

"Yes." A change, swift as lightning, swept over Mannion's countenance.
He was no longer cool and nonchalant, but keen, alert, on his guard.
"What about it?"

"Nuffin', sah, on'y I sho' don' desiah fo' ter git inter no trubble
'bout dat bill."

"Get into trouble? How can you get into any trouble? The bill was all
right, and, anyhow, you didn't change it. You gave it back to me."

"Dat's truf, sah, but de coppers done foun' hit an' days er keepin'
hit. Dat's wat eatin' mah heart out, sah. Wat do de coppers want wid
dat bill? Lucy Miranda--dat's mah ole woman--she say dat de bill is a
hoodoo, an' dat I gotter hab dat young man wat gib hit ter me go git it
an' take de hoodoo off."

Nick, looking at Mannion closely, thought he observed signs of
perturbation.

"Have you spoken to any one about our transaction the other day?"

"No, sah. Ise bin erfraid ter speak, an' Lucy Miranda wouldn' tole de
debble ef he was ter come in an' ast her."

Mannion drew a breath of relief. "I'll go down-town and get the bill,"
he said, "so don't bother your head about it any more. To tell the
truth, I hadn't missed it, or I would have tried to find out what had
become of it."

"De coppers foun' hit near de spot whar de killin' was done." said
Nick, in an awed whisper.

Mannion regarded the false negro sharply, but any suspicion that might
have entered his brain was dissipated at sight of the honest, disturbed
countenance of the speaker.

Mannion did not say anything for a few moments. Then he asked this
question, in what was meant to be a careless manner: "Have you heard
any talk about the bill--that is, any talk in connection with the place
where it was found?"

"Yes, sah, I hab," replied Nick hesitatingly, as he cast down his eyes
and fumbled with his hat. "Ise heard a heap o' talk. Some say dat de
man wat drapped dat bill is sho' 'sponsible fo' de murder." Before
Mannion could open his mouth Nick went on: "Yo' los' dat bill, sah, an'
yo' sho' gotter fine dat killer else de coppers may git after yo', sah."

"Come inside," said Mannion, his face now as pale as death. Nick
entered and the door was closed. "Now be seated and tell me every
word you have heard. This--this is terrible"--meeting Nick's look of
innocent inquiry--"that the man who found that bill, which I carelessly
dropped, should be the murderer the officers are looking for."

The great detective had come to Mannion's room in pursuance of a
definite plan, which he had not seen fit to divulge to any one. He
might have told both Chick and Patsy, for they were to be trusted; but
every detective is human, and Nick may be pardoned for desiring to give
his assistants a surprise. Ever since he had looked upon the dead face
of the murdered man, he had had a card up his sleeve. In examining the
neck upon which the marks of cruel fingers were discernible, he had
made two important discoveries--first, that the marks on the right side
of the neck were heavier than those on the left side; second, that
between the first and second marks, the first being that of the thumb,
was a space of twice the width of each of the other spaces.

It is the business of a detective who hopes to make a success of his
vocation to seize upon what to the layman would appear as the slightest
trifles. Nick Carter's eyes, trained to see every point that would aid
him in the investigation of a criminal case, had let nothing escape him
when he entered the morgue. Now, seated in front of Arthur Mannion, he
knew that he was in the presence of the murderer of James Playfair.

The heavy finger-marks on the right side of Playfair's neck showed to
the expert that the murderer was not only left-handed, but that the
muscular power of the two hands and arms had been reversed from the
ordinary. Once, while the talk was going on at the door, Mannion had
shown that he was left-handed. Twice since entering the room he had
made a similar exhibition. He had raised the window with his left hand,
and with his left hand he dragged from a corner a heavy Morris chair.

But the most damning discovery was, that half of the forefinger of the
left hand was missing. It was not a deformity, as Nick could plainly
see. The finger had been amputated at the middle joint.

"Why don't you speak?" Mannion said irritably, for Nick, lost in his
reflections, had not answered promptly the question that had been put
to him.

"Oh, yo' wan' me ter say wat de udder pe'ple say. Dat hit, sah?"

"Yes, yes."

"Well, Ise heahed a heap o' gossip, an' all de talk is des one way. De
killer had dat hoodoo bill."

"Is any one suspected?"

"Yes, sah--dat man Craven is speculated."

"Craven? Who is he?"

There was apparent unconcern in the way the question was asked. And
there was something more. Nick Carter, shrewd student of human nature
as he was, knew that he was now treading on dangerous ground. But he
cared not. He had made his point, and in a few minutes he would prepare
to close in.

"Don' yo' know, sah?" looking at Mannion in a surprised way.

"No, I don't. Never heard of the man before."

"Den it was yo' double, sah, dat was talkin' to him de day ob de
killin'."

Arthur Mannion, with a glint in his blue eyes, which spoke of a sudden
resolution, arose to his feet and went to the wash-basin. Taking a
towel from the rack, he advanced toward the detective, who, divining
what was coming, remained seated. One hand was in his coat pocket,
the other rested on his knee. The hand had gone into the pocket while
Mannion's back was turned.

With the towel concealed behind his back, Mannion came to Nick's side.
Suddenly, without a word, the hand with the towel appeared, when, like
a flash, out came Nick's hand from his pocket, and the villain, looking
down into the muzzle of a revolver, saw sudden death and knew that his
purpose was stayed.

Retreating to the middle of the room, he hissed out these words:

"I didn't need the towel to tell me you were a cursed detective in
disguise."

"And I didn't need much more evidence to prove that you are the man
I want," retorted Nick, in his own character. "So divest yourself
of your weapons and hold out those pretty wrists. The handcuffs are
ready for them. Come, be quick about it"--the voice was now stern and
menacing--"and don't try to come any of your California tricks, for at
the first treacherous move I'll make a shambles out of the room."

Mannion gritted his teeth, cast a murderous glance at the triumphant
man-hunter, and then, from his hip pocket, produced a silver-mounted
revolver.

"It is a pity to give this up," he said surlily, as he fondled it in
his hand, without, however, turning the muzzle in Nick's direction.

"Throw it on the bed or----"

The sentence was not finished, for in an access of desperation, and in
entire disregard of his personal safety, Mannion, as swift as thought
almost, sent the weapon whirling through the air. It struck Nick Carter
squarely on the forehead, cutting the flesh, and sent him tumbling out
of the chair. The next instant, Mannion brushed past his fallen enemy,
opened the door, and rushed to the head of the stairs.

There he hesitated, for the thought struck him at the moment that the
great detective he had just left had not, probably, come to the house
alone; that there were officers down-stairs, ready to give assistance
whenever it should be needed. Therefore, turning from the stair
landing, he hurried to a vacant room fronting the street.

The door was open, and he entered the room just as Nick Carter reached
the corridor. The blow he had received had been a severe one; but the
detective had bathed his face and head, removing the black paste that
disguised him, and had not lost consciousness. Though weak and dizzy,
he was fixed in the resolve to follow and arrest the murderer, no
matter what the danger to himself might be.

Mannion crossed the room and was raising the window to step upon the
scaffolding, when a bullet from Nick's revolver cut a lock of hair from
his head. The detective could have easily killed the man, but it was
not his desire to do so. Mannion must be taken alive and must be made,
under the law's direction, to suffer for his crime. What the fugitive's
object was in seeking the scaffolding, Nick at the time could not
conjecture.

But it was evident that he believed he was taking the most available
way, both to escape from the house and from the detectives who might
be in waiting on the sidewalk. As was afterward learned, Mannion's
intention was to follow the planking of the scaffolding to the side of
the house, around which it ran for a few feet, then descend into the
garden and make his way through the grounds to the street in the rear.

The shot fired by the detective did not stop Mannion in his flight. It
accelerated it. He was out of the window and on the planking as another
bullet whizzed by his head. Chick and Patsy, who had been stationed
below, around the corner of the house, saw Mannion come out of the
window, and did a little pistol-practise themselves, but the fugitive,
who by this time must have arrived at the conclusion that bullets were
harmless, kept on his way.

He was at the front end of the scaffold when Nick Carter passed through
the window. The great detective saw his enemy, and his lips parted in
a grim smile. The man could not escape while he, Nick, was alive, and
Chick and Patsy were below. "Keep an eye on him," he shouted to Chick,
"and we'll get him, sure."

The words were spoken as the detective reached the planking, but the
next moment something happened which was not down on Nick Carter's
program. The scaffold, weakly put together, gave way, through the
breaking of one of the supports, there was a crash, and then sudden
death. It all happened in the twinkling of an eye, and Dimitri Goloff,
who was passing on the sidewalk on his way to Mannion's room, was the
victim. As the support yielded, down went Nick, his body falling with
crushing weight on the head of the Russian.




                             CHAPTER XIV.

                          BESTED BY A WOMAN.


Chick and Patsy, with eyes of horror, saw Nick Carter fall, and,
forgetful of everything save the fate of their beloved chief, hurried
to his side. Tears of joy were in their eyes when they saw that he was
not dead, nor even badly injured. His body had struck the Russian,
whose head, coming in contact with the protruding spike of a heavy
board, was now still and lifeless. But the head of the detective, as
well as the upper part of his body, had fallen against a hair mattress,
and thus been the means of saving broken bones and the preservation of
a useful life. Beyond a number of painful bruises and a temporary loss
of breath, Nick Carter was as good as ever.

It was some moments, however, before he could speak to Chick.

"Mannion? Where is he?" he asked.

"Patsy is following him," was the answer; "the boy, as well as myself,
let him go when you fell, but as soon as Patsy saw you were not dead he
rushed around the corner of the house."

"I am afraid he has given us the slip," returned Nick disappointedly.

"Never mind," said Chick consolingly; "we'll get him yet. By the way,
do you know you have cooked the goose of one of the men you were after?"

"What! Goloff?"

"Yes."

"How? Ah! I understand. He was the man I flattened to the sidewalk."

"The same hombre, Nick. And he's dead. No more shall the ear-splitting
notes of his fog-horn voice offend the senses of poor, suffering
humanity."

"Have they taken his body away?"

"Not yet. But I'm looking for the patrol any minute."

The wagon soon came and Nick accompanied the driver to the morgue,
leaving Chick behind to supplement the work of Patsy.

At the morgue, in the course of time, the body was searched, and forty
dollars in money, some letters from San Francisco, written by Goloff's
wife, and several copies of a will were the only articles deserving
attention that were found.

The copies of the will were submitted to Nick by the coroner, and, in
an instant, the detective's mind took in their vital significance.
Here was a find, indeed. There were four copies in all, and the
wording of each was the same. The only points of difference--and
they were slight--lay in the handwriting. Looking at and comparing
them carefully, Nick's correct conclusion was that each copy was
written by the same person and for the purpose of using one--the copy
as perfected--as a model upon which to draft a purported genuine
document. The reading of the words--the purport of the alleged
will--revealed the object sought. And this is what Nick Carter read:

    "This, my last will and testament, written by myself and without
    dictation, when, sound both in body and mind, disposes of all
    the property of which I may be possessed at the time of my
    death. I hereby declare that I am without wife or children,
    brothers or sisters, or any legal heirs at law. Therefore, I
    give and bequeath to the Soldiers' Home five thousand dollars;
    the Smithsonian Institute, five thousand dollars; and all the
    rest and residue of my property, real and personal, to Arthur
    Mannion, son of my deceased wife; and I hereby appoint my dear
    friend, Jackson Feversham, to serve as executor of my will, and
    desire that no bond shall be required of him.

                                                    "JAMES PLAYFAIR."

    "WASHINGTON, D. C., April 16. 19--."

For some time after he had handed back the papers to the coroner, Nick
remained in a brown study. Soon his mind was made up as to his course
of action. The finding of these copies must not be made public for a
week. Much might be done in that time, perhaps the case might be ended.

Half an hour later the detective, the coroner, the local detectives,
and secret service men, chiefs and subordinates were closeted together.
To the assembled criminal-catchers Nick exposed his hand and outlined
his plans.

"Mannion knows he is suspected," he said, "but blinded by the great
pecuniary interest at stake, he may conclude to remain in the city for
awhile. If he does he will be caught. If, however, this will business
is sprung on him through newspaper publication he will understand that
all is lost and that his life is not worth a candle."

"But, Mr. Carter," spoke up the coroner, "I don't understand what value
as evidence against Mannion these copies of the will possess. They are
evidently not copies made by James Playfair, for they would not have
been found in the possession of a Russian criminal, an utter stranger
to the old man. Looking upon them, then, as having been written by
another man, Arthur Mannion, say, they reveal nothing more than a silly
propensity to build castles in the air. If a will, worded as these
copies are, should, however, be produced by the executor as a genuine
instrument, or, what purports to be one, and which was found among
Playfair's possessions, then I could see some point to your contention."

The coroner paused. Nick, who had listened quietly and with an
impassive face, replied:

"I think I can satisfy your scruples. Will you kindly step to the
phone, call up Jackson Feversham, and ask him to step around here? His
office is not far away, and if he is in he will be with us in a few
minutes."

Feversham was in his office, and five minutes later made his appearance.

He was asked by Nick if any will had been found.

"Yes," was the answer.

"To whom is the property devised?"

"To me, that is, the larger portion of it. Playfair had no relatives.
He was an only child, and so was his father."

"What is the date of the will?"

"October seventh of last year."

"Where did you find it?"

"Among his papers, in his room."

"Had he a deposit box in any bank?"

"Yes."

"Have you examined that?"

"No. I haven't found the key, and I have concluded to procure an order
of court before having the lock forced."

"You are the executor under the will made in October, are you not?"

"I am."

Having been informed by the chief of detectives that court was then in
session, Nick proposed that Feversham go at once to the judge, state
the exigency of the case and obtain an order for the opening of the box.

"The court can act under the assumption that there is only one will in
existence, the one which is in your possession. Of course," Nick went
on, "the time is too short for the institution of regular proceedings;
but under the circumstances the court may appoint you special
administrator, and in that capacity you can go ahead."

"Yes. I think it can be done," returned Feversham, "and I'll make the
attempt at once. I sha'n't be gone long. Will you wait here, or shall
we arrange for another meeting?"

"If there is no objection," said the coroner, "we will wait."

Feversham, on account of his long residence in Washington, and his high
character as a citizen and as a man, had no difficulty in procuring
the temporary appointment from the court. A locksmith was found, and
in less than an hour after his departure from the room which held the
officers he reappeared with a bulky envelope in his hand.

Opening the envelope in the presence of the company, a number of
papers, stock certificates, tax receipts, bankbooks, etc., and a small,
sealed envelope superscribed "My last will and testament," were brought
forth.

"Before you produce the will which that small envelope holds," said
Nick Carter. "I will venture a prediction of its contents. You will
find it to be an exact reproduction in wording and handwriting of this
model."--holding out one of the will copies taken from the body of
Dimitri Goloff.

The coroner's eyes widened. But he said nothing.

Jackson Feversham opened the envelope, read the will with an amazed
countenance, and then compared it with the copy which Nick had handed
to him.

"You are right, Mr. Carter," he said. "The will I took from the
envelope is a facsimile of the one you gave me. But I--I don't
understand. The idea is abhorrent. I can't believe that James
Playfair, in his right mind, ever made that wretch, Arthur Mannion, his
heir."

"Sit down, Mr. Feversham," said Nick, with a look charged with
reassurance, "and I will try to make matters clear to you and at
the same time relieve your mind. And I will also try to satisfy the
curiosity of our friend the coroner. The will you found in the bank
deposit box is a forgery."

"But," said Feversham, "it is in James Playfair's handwriting. I would
be willing to swear to that."

"I will admit that it is an almost perfect imitation of Playfair's
handwriting," replied the detective, "and that the imitation cannot
probably be duplicated by any man in the United States--barring, of
course, Arthur Mannion--but I cannot admit that it is genuine."

"It may be hard to prove that it is not genuine," put in the coroner.

Feversham, who, since he had last spoken, had been looking closely at
the handwriting of the will, nodded his head at the coroner's words.
"It would deceive an expert," was his comment, given in a tone of
mingled sadness and disgust. "I know Playfair's handwriting--every
peculiarity of it, and there is not a flaw in this document."

"All the same," replied Nick Carter imperturbably, "we are going to
prove that it is a rank forgery. How? Mainly by these copies. Don't you
see their importance? Standing alone, the will might be unassailable,
but when it is opposed by these copies, which upon their face show
indubitable evidence of the process by which all the peculiarities of
Playfair's handwriting were reproduced--the careful steps leading from
crudity to perfection--the forgery is unmasked. Why, in the hands of
the veriest tyro in legal practise, the story of the cheat would be
primer reading to a jury even of asses.

"Four copies of a will making Arthur Mannion heir to an immense fortune
are found in the pockets of Arthur Mannion's confederate in crime. Who,
of all persons in the world, criminally inclined, would be capable
of drawing a will likely to deceive the eyes of an expert? Arthur
Mannion, who probably carried away with him when he left Washington,
years ago, specimens of his stepfather's handwriting. Perhaps they were
letters written to himself and containing words of admonition. And the
bogus will stands not only as an instrument by which Arthur Mannion
hoped to come into possession of a fortune, but also as something of
incalculable value as a weapon in the cause of justice.

"In forging that will Arthur Mannion forged the instrument of his own
destruction, for the controlling motive of the murder is now explained.
Revenge for Playfair's refusal to submit to blackmail played but a
small part in the murder. Mannion wanted the old man's fortune; he
had paved the way to obtain it, and when the time came he removed the
living obstacle from his path."

Jackson Feversham's countenance had lost its expression of gloom and
disgust. His eyes were bright and a smile hovered about his lips.

"It's all clear to me now, Mr. Carter," he said, "and I want you to
accept my apology for having seemed to doubt your judgment even for a
moment. Your explanation goes farther--it throws full light upon the
robbery of Playfair's house."

The great detective inclined his head in assent. "Yes," he said, "the
real purpose of the burglarious entrance into your friend's house is
now shown. Mannion went there to steal the key to the deposit box,
and, incidentally, to appropriate whatever articles of value he might
come across. I am inclined to think that the letters found in the
cash-drawer were letters written by his mother to his stepfather during
their courtship."

"That's it, that's it," exclaimed Feversham. "I've seen him fondling
the package many a time."

"And it was the offer of Mannion to return them that made Playfair
consent to the appointment by the river," continued Nick. "The case is
now clear of fog. The only thing is to catch Mannion."

"It is a pity the fellow Goloff could not have lived long enough to
have spoken a few words," said the Washington chief of detectives. "He
might have been able to tell us where we would be likely to find his
partner. By the way," he added, addressing Nick, "how do you account
for Goloff's possession of those will copies?"

"By discounting the old saw, 'There is honor among thieves,' Mannion,
of course, gave Goloff his confidence, told him all about the forged
will and showed him his first imitative attempts. Naturally there was
a pecuniary understanding between them. It is reasonable to conclude
that Mannion promised the Russian a goodly share of Playfair's fortune.
But Goloff was distrustful. He did not bank on his partner's word; he
wanted surety, and he found it when he filched those will copies.

"In his possession they would serve as a club to make Mannion come to
terms, in the possible event of a disposition on Mannion's part to play
the hog. It is possible, though not probable, that Mannion, in a fit
of generosity, gave the copies himself to Goloff as security for the
performance of the agreement he had made. It matters not, however, how
Goloff procured them. The plain deduction is that they were held for
the purpose I have indicated.

"And now," continued the detective, with his eyes on the coroner, "my
suggestion is that the public be left in ignorance, until we have
caught Mannion, both of the identity of the man killed by my fall from
the scaffolding and of the discovery of the will copies. Goloff came
here a stranger; it is doubtful if his name is known to any one except
myself and my assistants. It will, therefore, be an easy matter to
manage the inquest so that a verdict of accidental death of an unknown
man may be rendered."

The coroner, whose eyes had been opened by Nick's latest explanation
and exposition, promptly fell in with the suggestion.

The chief of detectives saw no objection to the plan, and it was
carried out.

"The time to look for the next move of Mannion's," were the detective's
words as the assembly was about to break up, "is at the time or shortly
alter the will is offered for probate. It must be offered," answering
Feversham's shake of the head, "for not to offer it would amount to a
declaration that its spurious character has been discovered. The offer
will be merely a formal matter; its admission to probate, of course, is
not to be thought of. Before the day set for such action arrives I will
be prepared, I hope, to produce Mr. Mannion and expose the fraud."

Shortly afterward Nick went to his rooms, hoping to find either Chick
or Patsy there. Both rose to greet him as he entered.

"Lost him, did you?" he asked, looking at Patsy, whose face wore a
black, angry expression.

"It wasn't my fault, sir," was his reply, "I was bested by a woman."




                              CHAPTER XV.

                     CRAVEN SPEAKS AND NICK ACTS.


"Bested by a woman?" repeated Nick, in surprise. "How was that, Patsy?"

"You have read of tiger cats, haven't you? Well, this woman was one.
She is a little beauty, black-haired, black-eyed, slender, supple, and
sinuous, and, oh, my! but her muscles are steel! I am no jellyfish
myself, but she waltzed away with me, all right.

"This is how it happened, Mr. Carter: After I'd made sure that you
wouldn't croak from that tumble I rushed around the corner of the house
after Mr. Mannion. He was going through the garden--a regular tangle
of all kinds of bushes--and I skinned after him. As he went over the
fence into the next street this woman--she's a young thing, not over
eighteen--hailed him and he stopped. But not for long, for, catching
sight of me, he left the woman and made a lightning sprint toward the
woods. Over the fence I went, to fall into the arms of the woman. She
was very affectionate, must have thought I was her long-lost brother,
for she caught me around the neck and gave me a hug and a squeeze that
would have made a young grizzly bear fall down with envy. Naturally I
objected, but I couldn't be as forcible in my objection as I might have
been under other circumstances, for I was dealing with a woman."

Nick smiled and Chick winked.

"First thing I knew she tripped me up. I wasn't looking for that sort
of thing, you know, and it was only when my block bumped the ground
that I realized that I was really up against a tough proposition.
What did I do? Well, I had to throw her off, but tiger cats are hard
customers to deal with. They are like rubber balls. You chuck them away
and back they come. I am ashamed to say it, Mr. Carter, but I wasted
ten minutes with that woman and only got away from her when she was
quite willing that I should do so."

"Who is she?" inquired Nick.

"Give it up. She knows Mannion, though, and I'll bet a Swiss cheese
against a plate of boarding-house hash that she knows where Mannion has
gone."

"Did you follow her?"

"I couldn't."

"Couldn't? Why not?"

"Because she did not give me a chance. She's standing there by the
fence now, for all I know to the contrary. I wanted to follow her, but
she knew what was in my mind, of course, and so she never moved."

"Did she say anything?"

"Oh, yes," said Patsy, rather sheepishly. "She said: 'Run home, little
boy. Your mother must be anxious about you.'"

Chick burst into a laugh. Nick looked at him in mock severity. Patsy
frowned and repressed an inclination to say something forcible.

"And so you lost track of your man, Patsy?" said the great detective.

"Yes, sir. I went into the woods, that is, the wooded grounds of the
War College, but could neither get sight of him nor find anybody who
had seen him. I told my story to the officer in charge, and men were
instantly detailed to make a search."

"And that's all, eh?"

"That's all."

"And it is well, Patsy. You have done all that could have been
expected." Nick patted the boy on the back. "You have not made a
winning, it is true, but it was not on account of any fault of your
own. Now," turning to Chick, "have you anything to report?"

"Only this: I know where the woman who attacked Patsy holds out."

"At Craven's, on L Street, isn't it?" suggested Nick quietly.

"Sure. But how did you discover the fact?"

"By a process of reasoning beautiful in its simplicity. The girl was
seen near Craven's house. Craven knows Mannion and had a conversation
with him the day of the murder. Craven will neither tell what that
conversation had reference to, nor what his relationship with Mannion
is. It is not a criminal relationship. I assured myself of that when
I talked with Craven yesterday. The advent of the girl near Craven's
house, her acquaintance with Mannion suggest a story which is probably
true. She lives at Craven's because she is Craven's daughter, and both
she and Craven are interested in Mannion, because she is Mannion's
wife."

"You've hit it," said Chick, with admiration in his eyes.

"If she is Mannion's wife," remarked Patsy, "he caught a Tartar when he
married her. But maybe she is only his sweetheart."

"No," said Nick, "for that relation would not explain Craven's conduct.
Craven might consent to shield a villainous son-in-law, but he would
take the opposite course if there were only an engagement to be
married. I think I'll make another trip to the Craven establishment.
I have a desire to see the girl as well as to have a second talk with
Craven." The detective looked at his watch. It was five o'clock. "I'll
start now," he announced, "and have dinner after my return. Chick, you
and Patsy may as well come along. Not to go inside the house with me,
but to stay outside on watch. The girl may take a notion to run out to
Mannion's hiding-place. If she does, Chick, you will follow her."

Prosper Craven, pale, yet composed, opened the door of his house in
response to Nick Carter's knock. "I have been expecting you," he said,
when the detective had entered the living-room and had taken a seat. "I
knew you would not be satisfied until you had learned what my attorney
had advised."

"You have seen him, then?" said Nick.

"No, I have not seen him. I came to the conclusion, after you left
yesterday, that I would hide nothing from you. I think the telling of
the truth may be the best thing for my daughter, after all."

"Your daughter is Mannion's wife, is she not?"

Craven, showing surprise at this question, quietly answered: "Yes, she
is married to that scoundrel."

"When did the marriage take place?"

"In San Francisco, two months ago. My daughter was then on a visit to
her aunt. She and Mannion met at a Mission Club dance one night and
took a shine to each other. Perhaps the discovery that they were both
natives of Washington may have hastened the intimacy."

"Did she accompany her husband to this city?"

"No, she came as far as St. Louis with him. He had some business to
transact in that city, he said, which would occupy his time for a few
weeks. It was at his suggestion that she made the remainder of the
journey alone. Now I am ready to answer any question which you may
desire to ask."

"Very well. To begin, what was your business with Mannion on the day of
the murder?"

"He wanted me to take a message to a friend of his, a Russian."

"What was the message?"

"'Nine-thirty o'clock to-night, at place agreed upon.'"

"Did you take it?"

"Yes."

"Without understanding what it meant?"

"Without understanding it at all. I asked Mannion what it meant, and
he said it was an appointment about which I could possibly have no
concern."

"Did you see Mannion that night?"

"Certainly. He stayed in this house."

"At what time did he come in?"

"About midnight."

"Did you expect him?"

"No, for he had told my daughter that he was going away for a few days
and would leave on the evening train. He changed his mind; but for what
reason, I do not know."

"You do know, I presume, that he is suspected of the murder of James
Playfair?"

"What you said to me yesterday put the idea into my head. And if he did
murder Playfair I want to see him punished. Better that he should die
a felon's death, even though the disgrace of his crime and punishment
should fall upon me and mine, than that my daughter should hereafter
link her life with his."

"Do you think your daughter would cleave to him if she knew what he had
done?"

"Yes; she is a strange girl. She has a good heart, but she is set in
her ways. She loves Mannion with all her heart and soul, and she will
love him and stay by him under any and all circumstances."

"In a way," said Nick, "her character is to be admired. Heroines have
been made out of poorer stuff. But I think as you do, Mr. Craven, that
it is better that she should suffer while she is young than live a life
of wretchedness. Mannion dead or out of the way would be a blessing
which she would appreciate in later days. The man is a deadly incubus
to her. Not only on her account, but because society demands it, he
must be caught and punished."

"If I can help you in any way I am ready and willing to do so," said
Craven eagerly. He had been impressed by the detective's words. Nick
felt that he could now be trusted.

Since entering the house he had not asked Craven as to the whereabouts
of Mrs. Mannion, neither had he lowered his voice while speaking of
Mannion and the murder. As a matter of fact, he had spoken in a louder
tone than was usual with him, in the hope that the daughter would be a
listener. It was very probable that she was somewhere about the house;
and, if so, her anxiety over her husband's flight and the pursuit
would cause her to view with suspicion the appearance of a stranger at
the door. That she would eavesdrop was to be expected. Nick, as has
been stated, hoped that she would overhear what he might say to her
father, for from the description of her character he believed that
the eavesdropping would likely be followed by an attempt to reach her
husband and warn him that he must seek the safest quarters possible.

"Let her leave the house," thought the detective, "and Chick will
shadow her wherever she may go."

For the purpose of adding interest to what he had said about Mannion,
Nick answered Craven's last question by saying:

"I shall be glad to have your assistance, as I shall also be glad to
bring about that which will in time make your daughter a happier woman
than she would be if she knew what a dastardly scoundrel her husband
is. As for her marriage, it may be annulled at any time, if, as I
believe, she was unaware, at the time she became his wife, that he had
served a term in prison."

There was a slight, a very slight movement behind the door opening into
one of the rear apartments. The detective's sharp ears detected it, and
he smiled inwardly.

"She knew nothing of it, I am sure," said Craven.

Dismissing the Mannion matter, Nick talked on general matters for about
ten minutes. Then having, as he thought, given Mrs. Mannion a chance to
escape, he arose to take his departure. It was close upon six o'clock,
but the sun had not set. It would not be dark for over an hour.

"By the way," said the detective, as he stood at the door, "I would
like to speak with your daughter a moment."

"Very well. I will call her."

Craven went to the rear, and was gone a few minutes. He returned with
the announcement that his daughter was not at home.

"She was here when you came, for I left her in the kitchen to answer
your knock. Gone to a neighbor's, probably."

"It was a small matter," returned Nick. "I can see her at another time."

Outside, a block from the house, he was joined by Patsy.

"Chick's after her, Mr. Carter," he said. "They've been gone five
minutes."

"Which way?"

"South."

South might mean a great many places. As it was likely that Mannion
would leave Washington as soon as possible to seek a place of
shelter where he might remain until he got the correct lay of the
land in Washington--and this he must count upon securing through the
intelligence and shrewdness of his wife--the most available section was
on the Maryland side, beyond Twining. That would mean the crossing of
either the Anacosta or Pennsylvania Avenue bridge, unless a boat could
be secured before the first-named point could be reached. From there
a quick landing might be made near Poplar Point. Mannion, with his
knowledge of the river, would steal a boat, if one were to be found,
and Mrs. Mannion would not scruple to do the same, if opportunity
presented itself.

"I am afraid Chick has a big job on his hands, Patsy," was the
detective's comment.

At that moment, down on Anacosta's shore, Chick and Nellie Mannion were
looking into each other's eyes and smiling. They stood by a small punt,
and Chick had just engaged to row Mrs. Mannion across the stream.




                             CHAPTER XVI.

                    STARTLING NEWS FROM BALTIMORE.


Chick, in the rôle of a street laborer, had accompanied Nick Carter
to the house on L Street. From a monster elm he had seen Mrs. Mannion
emerge from the back door of Craven's house with a small bundle under
her arm, which, he rightly judged, contained eatables. Looking neither
to right nor left, she hurried to the first corner, turned south,
and almost flew along the sidewalk. Chick followed, using all the
precautions of an expert shadower. Going through lanes and private
grounds, she at last reached the river shore.

Chick, by a detour and making lightning time, arrived at a point near
the water several hundred yards in advance of his beautiful quarry.
Looking up-and down-stream without showing himself to the woman, he
saw that there was but one boat between her and the first bridge, and
that was not far beyond the point where he stood, and within a short
distance of the river approaches to the navy-yard.

Intuitively Chick knew that Mannion's wife was looking for a boat, and
this one he had no sooner discovered than he made a run for it, using
the bushes along the shore as a screen for his body.

Reaching it, he saw it was a punt, and that it was half-filled with
water. With an old tin can found on the shore he was busily engaged in
bailing out the punt, when Mrs. Mannion, flushed and anxious-eyed, came
up to him. Chick did not turn his head at her approach, though out of
the corner of his eye he saw her coming.

She stopped and spoke.

"Is this your punt?"

"Sure, miss," was the response, in a rough voice, but with a kindly
intonation.

"I wish to get across the river. I live beyond the point, and some one
has stolen my own boat. Can I engage you to paddle me over? I will pay
you half a dollar."

"That's like finding money, miss," said Chick, looking into her face
with a broad smile. "But, as I need some coin of the realm, I'll close
with your offer, and thank you kindly for making it. Get right in, and
away we'll go."

Nick's assistant was no novice at boat-work. He was as much at home on
the water as on land. Swiftly and dexterously he paddled across the
Potomac's east branch, landing, as directed by his fair employer, a
quarter of a mile below the point in the direction of Uniontown.

On the way Chick asked a question:

"What kind of a boat is the stolen one?"

"Something odd for these parts. It's a batteau which my father brought
from Vermont."

"Isn't that it over there?" pointing to a flat, sharpnosed,
square-sterned boat on the shore toward which they were proceeding.

She looked, and, without showing any surprise, said: "Yes, that is the
one."

And now Chick was convinced that Mannion had used the batteau, and that
his wife was on the way to find him.

When she found herself on the other side Nellie Mannion paid the
counterfeit boatman, and then turned and went rapidly up the bank.
Chick saw her disappear among the trees, and cautiously followed her.
For half an hour he was able to keep her in sight. Then, all at once,
she disappeared in the thickly wooded grounds of an old residence long
deserted. The gate was gone, the fence was broken in many places, the
grass grew thick in the walks, and there was neglect everywhere.

Chick was hurrying through the wild tangle of weeds and bushes in
the garden near the house, when a scream, fraught with direst agony,
reached his ears. It came from a spot near at hand, not many yards
away, and in a moment he stood by the mouth of an old well and by the
side of Nellie Mannion, who, on her knees and sobbing as if her heart
would break, was gazing down into the black depths of the hole.

"What is it?" Chick asked, in real concern.

Mrs. Mannion looked up, partially checked her sobbing, and said, in a
despairing voice:

"He's down there."

"Who is he, and how did he get there?"

Chick had not explained his presence in the grounds, nor had the woman
expressed any surprise at his coming. It now occurred to the young
detective, while Mrs. Mannion hesitated in her answer, that he might as
well try to square himself.

"I live near here," he said unblushingly, "and I was going past the
place when I heard your scream."

She seemed to pay no attention to this explanation, but said, with a
renewal of her agitation: "He's down there, and he may be dead. Can you
not get him out?"

"How do you know any one is down in the well?" the detective asked, as
a dim suspicion crossed his mind.

"I heard his groans as I came toward the well," she replied, with every
appearance of earnestness and sincerity; "and the groans stopped just
before you came up."

Chick was but half-satisfied with this statement. Kneeling down, he
looked and listened intently. There was not a sound from below. He
struck a match and was in the act of using the light thus afforded to
ascertain what, if anything, the well contained, when a shove given
with all the force Nellie Mannion was capable of exerting--and she was
anything but a weak woman--tumbled the brave detective into the well.
There was a heavy thud, one groan, and then silence.

On her feet, her heart beating like a trip-hammer and her face, lighted
up but a moment before with murderous fire, now pale with the first
touches of remorse, Nellie Mannion listened for a few moments; then,
taking up her bundle from the ground, hastened, with shaking limbs,
from the scene of her crime.

Nick Carter waited until midnight for the return of his assistant.
Then, in no equable frame of mind, he sought his couch.

The morning came, and no Chick. Noon arrived, and still Chick had not
made his appearance. During the forenoon Patsy had been on a hunt for
the missing detective, and Nick had made a search on his own account,
beginning with Craven's house. There he learned, somewhat to his alarm,
that Mrs. Mannion had been away since the preceding afternoon. Her
father showed anxiety, though it was his opinion that his daughter had
gone to join her husband, of whose hiding-place she must be cognizant.

At noon Patsy reported the presence of two boats on the Uniontown side
of the Anacosta, and the tracks of a man and a woman on the shore and
bank. He had followed the tracks until they were lost in the grass.

In the afternoon Nick and Patsy made an attempt to pursue the clue
which Patsy had discovered. The grounds of the deserted house attracted
the great detective's attention, and he was proceeding in the direction
of the well, when he came face to face with Nellie Mannion.

"Are you Nick Carter?" she asked eagerly.

Under other circumstances, the identity might have been denied. Nick
now saw fit to give an affirmative answer.

"Then you will find your friend a few paces beyond."

Turning, she walked to the mouth of the well. Beside it lay Chick, with
a broken leg, and a face covered with blood.

"He's not dead; he's not badly hurt," explained the woman quickly. "His
skull is not injured. Bruises and cuts have caused the blood."

"She's right, all right," spoke Chick faintly; "but I'll feel better if
some one will wash my face and put my leg straight."

The great detective bent over his disabled and suffering assistant,
pressed his hand affectionately, and breathed consoling words into his
ear. Then he lifted the body in his strong arms and started for the
river. "Patsy," he said, "try to induce Mrs. Mannion to accompany us."

"I will go without compulsion," she said meekly. "I have done all the
evil that I intend to do."

Nick frowned. Perhaps she had done all that was necessary. In crossing
the river Nick and Chick used the batteau. Patsy and Mrs. Mannion took
the punt.

Chick was taken to Craven's house, and a surgeon was telephoned for. An
hour after the surgeon's arrival Chick was resting quietly, with his
limb set and the wounds on his face and head washed and dressed.

"He will be all right in a few weeks," said the surgeon. "Nursing is
all he requires."

In the evening Nellie Mannion, composed and quiet, sat before Nick
Carter as a person might sit before a prosecuting attorney.

"I have nothing to conceal," she said, "except the place where my
husband is hidden. You will never find it, and you will never see him
again."

Her tone was so positive that Nick felt a cold chill run down his
spine; but he quickly recovered his spirits, and met her look with a
smile of disbelief.

"I am sorry I threw your friend down the well," she continued, "but I
had to do it. I suspected him on the boat, and the scream was given
to test that suspicion. If he were a detective, he would follow me,
and my scream would bring him to my side. It did. The well offered the
only opportunity to rid myself of his pursuit. Rather would I myself
have died than have permitted him to follow me to my husband's place of
concealment."

Her face flushed, and Nick could not but admire as well as pity her.

"You came back to rescue him," he said, "and that action must go to
your credit."

"I did not desire his death," she replied; "and when I had accomplished
the purpose for which I had set out, I returned with a rope and
assisted him in getting out."

"You say that your husband is beyond my reach. Do you mean by that that
he will never return to Washington?"

"That is what I mean, Mr. Carter. I will say, however, that it was not
his intention to leave these parts, until I told him yesterday what I
heard you say to father. If I had not come to him with the news you
were kind enough"--here she smiled--"to furnish me, he would have made
his appearance in town within a week."

"If he was not afraid of arrest, why did he run away?" queried the
detective.

"On account of a temporary scare. After considering the matter, he
concluded that you had no hold on him that would stand in court, and he
would have chanced arrest, if I had not given him to understand that
you knew more about him than he had given you credit for knowing."

Nick scanned her face, lovely in its heightened color, saw undying
resolve in her eyes, and sighed.

"And you--you have done all that for a red-handed murderer," he said,
with severity.

"He is my husband," she said simply, her eyes meeting his without a
quiver.

"Arguments, then, would be thrown away."

"Entirely so. You look at the case from one side, I from the other. You
do not know all the facts."

"And you are in possession of them, eh? Would it be presumption to ask
you to give your side, or rather your husband's side, of the story?"

"No, it would not be presumption, but I cannot give you any
information. My story, or his, you would laugh at, so what is the use
of telling it?"

Nick made up his mind that Mannion had, in vulgar parlance, given her
a "fill," and that she, in her love and faith, had swallowed what
had been given her as gospel truth. Therefore, he did not pursue the
subject.

For several weeks after the rescue of Chick, Nick Carter used every
means within his power to discover the hiding-place of Arthur Mannion,
but without avail. Nellie Mannion never left her father's house during
all that time, except to visit a neighbor, or make necessary purchases
at near-by stores. Court action on the will had been indefinitely
postponed, Nick believing that at some time, near or far, the will
would furnish the clue that would unearth the murderer.

Chick made rapid recovery, and in less than a month was on the street.
Nick was then in New York, having been called to his home by business
demanding his attention. One afternoon, about two months after the
escape of Mannion, as he sat in his office a telegraph boy handed him
this message from Washington:

   "See afternoon papers to-day. Despatch just come Baltimore saying
   Mannion dead in hospital.

                                                           "CHICK."




                             CHAPTER XVII.

                     PETER MANNION COMES ON DECK.


It goes without saying that one of the first to buy a paper that
afternoon was Nick Carter. Eagerly he scanned the telegraphic columns
until he found what he sought. Dated from Baltimore, the item read as
follows: "Last night, at St. Luke's Hospital, a patient who had been
under the care of the doctors for several weeks passed away. Upon his
arrival he had given the name of William Jonas, but a few hours before
he died he confessed that his true name was Arthur Mannion, and that
the police wanted him for the murder of James Playfair, the Washington
millionaire. He stoutly asserted his innocence, called upon God to hear
his word, and died with the name of his wife on his lips."

The great detective very coolly folded the paper and placed it in his
pocket. He was not dumfounded over what he had read, though his brow
was wrinkled as he walked toward his residence.

He was a passenger that evening on the B. & O. train for Baltimore,
and the next morning was at St. Luke's Hospital. The superintendent
received him rather coolly, but upon hearing his name became affable at
once.

"Can I see the body of the man Mannion who died here night before
last?" Nick inquired.

"Unfortunately, no. The burial took place yesterday. It was an
aggravated case of typhoid, and we got him underground as soon as
possible."

"Did he leave any personal property behind?"

"Yes. Two hundred dollars in bank-notes, each of one hundred dollars,
several letters from his wife, addressed to him under the name of
Jonas, and a few other pocket articles."

"Will you allow me to read the letters?"

"Certainly. They are in my drawer here. I am waiting to hear from his
wife. She was notified yesterday morning, and an answer signed by her
father came back, which stated that the blow of her husband's death had
prostrated her, and that she was threatened with brain-fever."

The letters were three in number, and all were written within the
fortnight preceding the death.

The one bearing the earliest date Nick read with amused interest:

    "MY DEAR HUSBAND: Each day is more lonesome since your
    departure. I shall go mad if things do not turn out as you have
    planned. Get well quick. Make those nasty doctors take a special
    interest in your case. Offer them the highest inducement, and if
    you can't fulfil any agreement you make with them, let me know
    and I will help you, if I have to sell the gown off my back.
    That hateful Mr. Carter is here yet, but from what he told
    father the other day, I think he will leave for New York in a
    day or two. We've pulled the wool over his eyes so thoroughly
    that he is as harmless as a dove. Chick, poor man, is about
    well. He is a good fellow, and I don't think he bears any grudge
    against me. But Patsy--you remember Patsy, don't you? He's the
    boy I told you about--he takes no stock in me. He told me so the
    other day. He had the impudence to say this to my face. 'Young
    woman,' said he, 'I wouldn't trust you farther than I can sling
    a cat.' I laughed at him. I could afford to. Now, do as I tell
    you. Get well and--you know what our plan is.

                                        "Lovingly your own NELLIE."

The second and third letters showed the writer's anxiety over her
husband's condition, which had become serious. In the last letter she
said, if he was not better at the end of a week, she would take him to
Philadelphia and place him under the care of a noted specialist.

Nick returned the letters to the superintendent, and then asked for the
bank-notes. As he had expected, they belonged to the batch stolen from
the body of Cora Reesey. "With what was Mannion afflicted when he came
to the hospital?" was his next question.

"A complication of diseases, brought on by exposure. He looked like a
tramp when he arrived, and said that for many days he had been sleeping
in barns, sheds, and on the ground. Typhoid set in a week ago."

"Can you give me a description of his person, not omitting any physical
peculiarity?"

"Yes. He was tall, thin, dark-featured, black-haired--he wore no
mustache, had shaved it off, he said--and half of the forefinger of his
left hand was missing."

Nick's brow clouded for a moment. Then from the innermost corner
of his brain crept an idea. "Doctor," said he, "have you given me a
complete description of the dead man? Was there not some artificial
mark on his left arm?"

"Yes; I had forgotten," replied the superintendent apologetically.
"There was a castle tattooed on his arm."

"I thought so. One more question, and I am done. Did Mannion have any
visitors, friends, while he was in the hospital?"

"One, his uncle, who came a few days before the typhoid symptoms
appeared. Mannion said the uncle was the only blood relative he had."

"Did they hold long conversations?"

"On the first visit they had a long talk. After that they had not much
to say to each other."

"Was the uncle an old man?"

"Sixty, at least, though he has no gray hairs. An old soldier, I should
say, for he was as straight as an arrow, and had but one arm, taken off
close to the shoulder."

"What name did he give?"

"Peter Mannion."

"Were you prepossessed in his favor?"

"Very much so. He was, or appeared to be, a perfect gentleman."

That evening Nick was in Washington. After a long talk with Chick, he
retired to pass a restless night. The next morning Chick left the city,
taking the Baltimore train, but getting off at Beltzville. Patsy, by
another route, left Washington in the afternoon.

A few days afterward, while Nick was at Prosper Craven's house, at
which he had been a constant visitor, a tall, handsome, elderly man was
ushered in by Nellie Mannion, who, the day before, had risen from a
sickbed.

"Father," said she, "this is the uncle of Arthur. He lives near
Baltimore, and has come to see me."

Nick Carter did not remain in the house but a few moments after the
uncle's arrival. Excusing himself, he went out to give utterance to a
soft whistle.

The uncle bore no resemblance to Arthur Mannion outside of his eyes.
There was some similarity in shape, position, and expression. But
Mannion's hair was black. This man's was light-brown. Mannion had full,
red lips. This man's were thin and bloodless. Mannion had a sharp
nose; this man's was broad and full. This man's voice was heavy and
harsh. Mannion's was a light, musical one. There were other points of
dissimilarity, but still the relationship might exist. Nick noticed
that the uncle wore no sleeve to hide the loss of his arm. From
appearances, the arm had been amputated at the shoulder-joint. "And
yet, and yet," muttered the detective, under his breath, but without
going further.

Chick returned three days later.

"Got it?" asked Nick, with no endeavor to hide his eagerness.

"Yes. Luck was with me. I traced Mannion from the time he left
Beltzville until he arrived in Baltimore."

Chick did not remain in Washington but a few hours. Another mission of
importance took him away. After his departure, Nick called on Jackson
Feversham. He did not tell the murdered man's friend all he knew and
suspected, for the detective was a stickler for the preservation of the
dramatic unities. But he did say this:

"Arthur Mannion is not dead. Preparations are making for the attempted
perpetration of a monstrous fraud. If the conspirators knew what we
know about the will, the attempt would never be made. But, thanks to
the coroner and the local officials, the secret of the copies has been
kept, and before many days somebody representing Arthur Mannion will
appear in court and ask, first, to have that bogus will admitted to
probate, and second, to have some person--I can name him--appointed
administrator of Mannion's estate; the estate, of course, being the
property which is mentioned in the will drawn in his favor."

"Who is this person who will represent Mannion?"

Nick told Feversham about the uncle. "Peter Mannion is the man. He came
to Washington to see his nephew's wife, of course, but principally for
the purpose of getting hold of the Playfair property. Playfair himself,
being wanted for murder, could not appear, so the scheme that he should
die was concocted."

"He is in hiding somewhere not far from here, I suppose?"

"That is my opinion. And he will know every move that will be made
in his behalf. It's a pretty plot, a bold plot, but it hasn't the
slightest chance to win."

"How did you discover it? And are you sure that the person who died in
the Baltimore hospital was not Arthur Mannion?"

"When I read the announcement of the death," said Nick, "my suspicions
were aroused. Frauds of this kind are no new thing. The criminal
records, both of America and Europe, are full of them. I had been
waiting for Mannion or his friends to make some move, and the death
scheme, under the circumstances, seemed just the thing. I went to
Baltimore puzzled as to the manner in which the fraud had been
accomplished, but, after my visit to the hospital, I had the whole
thing before me as clear as day. Some of the details are, as yet,
unknown to me, but the fraud itself, the purpose for which it was
perpetrated, the plan of conduct which it suggests, all were revealed.

"Peter Mannion, acting for Arthur Mannion, arranged the cunning
deception, and I must say his work shows the hand of a master artist.
The fellow who died was a petty thief, Knocker Jilson, whom I had
known in New York, and who of late years has been hoboing it about the
country. He must have fallen in with Arthur Mannion while Mannion was
journeying under cover from Washington to Baltimore. Jilson fell sick
and went to the hospital; went there, of course, with Mannion's money.
But the scheme to trick the officers and the public was not broached
to Jilson until he saw death in the near distance. It must have
suggested itself to Mannion when he saw that Jilson, like himself, had
half of his left forefinger missing, and that there was a resemblance
between the two men in height, color of hair, and general appearance.
What inducements were offered I can only guess. But I don't think
I will be far out of the reckoning when I say that the offer meant
pecuniary assistance to some relative of Jilson's; probably an old
mother, whom he had neglected in her days of adversity.

"As it might be unsafe for Arthur Mannion to appear at the hospital and
see that the fraud was carried out, the work fell upon the shoulders
of Peter, who appears to possess all the qualifications necessary for
the purpose. But there was one thing that escaped the notice of the
conspirators--the tattooing on Jilson's arm. It could never have been
observed, otherwise there would have come a hitch in the proceedings.
But the tattooing kills the fraud, for, with the missing finger, it
positively identifies the dead man as Jilson."

"When do you propose exposing the plot, Mr. Carter?" asked Feversham.

"On the day set by the court for hearing the application which I feel
assured Peter Mannion will make. Probate day is to-morrow. We must be
in court when it opens, but not where Peter Mannion can see us. If I am
not mistaken, he will appear to-morrow, for he is not the man to permit
the grass to grow under his feet."

Nick's prediction came true. The next forenoon, after court opened,
Peter Mannion, accompanied by a lawyer of shady reputation, appeared.
A will purporting to have been made by Arthur Mannion and witnessed by
Prosper Craven and Emma Newton, a neighbor of Craven's, was presented
for probate. By the terms of this will all the property possessed by
the alleged decedent was bequeathed to Nellie Mannion, the wife, Peter
Mannion, the uncle, being named as sole executor. As the instrument was
in due form, it took the usual course, being set for hearing on the
next court day. Then the matter of Playfair's will was taken up at the
suggestion of Peter Mannion's attorney, and the hearing set, also, for
the next court day.

On reaching his room after the court-room incidents, Nick found Patsy.
"And your mission. Did it succeed?" questioned the great detective.

"It was too easy," replied Patsy.




                            CHAPTER XVIII.

                            NICK IN A TRAP.


"I got in with a mob of hoboes at Patapsco," said Patsy. "I know their
holes, and when I left the train at Patapsco town and went toward the
river, I felt sure I'd strike 'em. And what do you think? The main
hiker is Snub-nosed Johnny, who used to be train-boy on the Boston and
Albany. The minute I lamped him I knew the game was mine. Inside of
five minutes he handed me out a dope about Jilson and Mannion that put
me on velvet. Both these guineas were with the gang, Mannion for a few
days, Jilson for several weeks.

"Johnny said Jilly and Mannion--the hoboes called him Serious
Silas--had their blocks together about all the time. One day he
saw Serious writing a letter for Jilly. The letter, he afterward
discovered, was to Jilly's mother, who lives at Hagerstown. Did I go
to Hagerstown? Cert. And I found the old lady. She is over seventy,
sickly, and a washerwoman. Had she heard from her son lately? Her
old, honest, patient face lit up with a smile that was heavenly in
its sweetness. Yes, indeed, she had heard from the dear boy, who had
forsaken his evil ways and was now at honest work in Baltimore.

"He had not forgotten his old mother, for during the past month he had
sent her one hundred dollars. And, what was better still, he was on
the way to making a lot of money all in a heap, and when he had made
it, he intended to send enough to keep her for the rest of her life.
Then she broke down and cried, but the tears were tears of joy. My eyes
were wet, too, and I could not say a word to undeceive her."

"You are a good boy, Patsy," said Nick, with a look of approbation,
"and I'll see that Mrs. Jilson gets the money she is expecting."

The days came and went. Chick appeared, remained a day, and went off
again. Patsy made several trips out of the city. Nick remained, like
a spider watching its web. On the afternoon of the day preceding the
probate day, upon which so much depended, the detective and Patsy were
sitting in the E Street room, talking over matters pertaining to the
morrow's program.

The windows of the room overlooked the street. The detective, while
talking to Patsy, was seated near one of the windows, and he had
occasionally looked out. As Patsy was preparing to go out, Nick's eye,
turning toward the street, fell upon the form of Peter Mannion, who,
cane in hand and with soldierly dignity, was walking along the opposite
sidewalk. He glanced up once, saw Nick's face, and then quickly turned
his head.

The appearance of the man in that quarter, while it might not mean
anything, yet gave rise in Nick's mind to a suspicion that the uncle
was out for a purpose. Although Peter Mannion might think that the
scheme upon which he was working was perfect in all its details, yet
the presence in Washington of the noted detective, Nick Carter, on the
day preceding the calling of the probate cases would have a disquieting
effect upon his nerves. Nick said a few quick words to Patsy, who at
once put on his hat, left the room, and went down the stairs.

The boy did not follow Peter Mannion, but went unconcernedly up the
street toward the railway depot. He walked slowly, and Nick, without
showing his face to passers-by in the street, saw that the uncle had
taken note of Patsy, had turned about and was now following him. The
detective's face showed satisfaction. What the next act on the program
would be he could not guess, but that there was an act scheduled for
near performance he would have staked his existence.

The day passed without incident. Toward dark Nick went out and had
dinner in a Pennsylvania Avenue restaurant. After his refreshment he
walked about, enjoying his cigar and the calm, soft night. He was
standing on the marble walk of the little triangular square at the
corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Seventh Street, listening to a
colored quartet, the singing adjunct of an outdoor gospel meeting,
when Peter Mannion passed him. Nick did not turn his head, and he was
satisfied that the uncle was going on under the impression that he had
not been observed. Where was he going?

Nick became a shadower, and when he saw the uncle disappear through the
double doors of the Metropolitan Hotel, a look of disappointment crept
into his face. All at once an idea, containing a queer suggestion,
came to him. Egress from the rear of the hotel would take a person
either on to John Marshall Avenue or C Street, and by either route
there was a short and easy walk to the detective's quarters on E Street.

Hurrying around the corner, Nick saw no sign of his quarry on the
avenue. He then hastened to C Street. Peter Mannion was nowhere in
sight. Perhaps he had not had time to get there. The detective in the
dark shade cast by the sidewalk trees waited for ten minutes, his
observation covering both ways of departure from the hotel premises.
Then he went to the hotel, entered the office, which held only the
clerk and several colored attachés, and asked if a person, describing
Peter Mannion, had been in that evening. The reply of the clerk was
that the gentleman referred to had engaged a room for the night, and
had then gone out.

"By the front way?"

"Yes."

"I may have been making a mountain out of a mole-hill," thought Nick,
as he went out, "but I don't like the look of things. Peter has a card
to play, and I will confess that he is a deeper man than I imagined."

Arrived at the stairway leading to his rooms, he scrutinized it
carefully from top to bottom. No trap was there. In the corridor above
his searching eye again came into play. All was as it should be. Before
his own door he paused and listened. Silence within. Then with his
pass-key he unlocked the door and threw it open, but did not enter.
The lights inside were out, but the illumination from the street
enabled him to see that everything appeared to be as he had left it.
True, he could not see into the closet, but, stooping, he could see
under the bed.

He was in this posture, when the door of a room on the opposite side
of the corridor opened quickly; a man sprang out, and, with uplifted
sand-bag, struck the detective a powerful blow on the head. Nick
flattened out and did not move. Swiftly the body of the unconscious
detective was dragged into his room, and the door closed and locked.
Fifteen minutes later Nick opened his eyes, to find that he could
neither move nor speak. His enemy had restored him to consciousness,
but had taken the precaution to bind and gag him.

The room was now full of light, and Nick, with aching head but with
clear sense, saw that he had fallen a victim to the wiles of Peter
Mannion.

The uncle, seated in an easy chair, looked at the disgruntled
man-hunter with an evil smile.

"You did not realize what you were up against?" the harsh voice jeered.
"Thought you had a farmer in tow, I suppose? Well, you might have made
the proper crack at Arthur, if he had been alive, but you are no match
for the mature individual who is now before you."

Nick clenched his hands. It was all he could do. He would have gritted
his teeth, but the gag was in the way.

"I don't know as this move of mine was required," Peter Mannion went
on, "for I think the game is in such shape that even Nick Carter could
not have checkmated it. But it's best to have the ground entirely
clear. You were obnoxious; the sight of you at Craven's the other
day offended my sense of proportion. You don't fit into the picture.
To-morrow is my day, and butters-in are barred."

The uncle lighted a cigar, and, stooping over, deliberately blew smoke
into his captive's face. Nick blinked his eyes, but the glance he gave
his tormentor was cool and defiant.

"You are probably consoling yourself with the idea," pursued Peter
Mannion, with easy assurance, "that your smart friend, Chick, will play
your hand in case you are unable to do so. Don't think it. It's not
on the program. Chick may come here to-morrow--I reckon he will--but
he will not find you here. He will, however, find a note in your dear
handwriting, informing him that you have struck a clue which clinches
the whole business beyond the possibility of a doubt, and that he must
come to your assistance without the delay of a moment. The note will
further state that you are to be found on the outskirts of Georgetown,
about a mile below the big bridge and at a boat-landing, with boat
all ready for a sail. Will Chick bite? Of course, he'll bite. Chick
is impulsive. Even if he suspected a trap he would go, for Chick is
devoted to you, and would brave any danger for your sake. How do I know
this? Through Nellie, my niece-at-law. Chick talked himself nearly
blind while he was staying at Craven's house. He did not give anything
away, but he said lots of nice things about you. Wish I could do the
same, but I can't. You are not nice in my eyes."

There was a soft expression on the great detective's face. His thoughts
were of Chick. But when this passed, alarm did not follow. On the
contrary, a calm, deadly look shone in his eyes.

"As for Patsy," resumed Peter Mannion, with a contemptuous wave of the
hand, "he's a boy and doesn't count. Besides, he's out of the way, for
I was at the depot to-day, and saw him buy a ticket for New York. And
if he does come back here within a week, it will be an easy job to fix
him. This is the note which will settle Mr. Chick," he concluded, as he
took from his pocket a folded paper and held it, opened, before Nick's
eyes.

It bore evidence of having been written hurriedly, but the handwriting
was a masterly imitation of the great detective's.

"Don't imagine that I did it," said Peter Mannion, "for such tricks are
beyond me. But there's a smart little girl down at Craven's who spent
a whole day in dressing up the document. How did she get a specimen of
your fist? your eyes ask. Luck gave it to her. Chick's clothes, when
they were changed, shed a note which you had written to him, and Nellie
picked it up from under the bed after he had left the house. There was
nothing in the note of value to us outside the handwriting."

The uncle might be lying, or he might be telling the truth. Nick had
his own opinion on the matter, but he could not express it, and he
would not have expressed it if he could.

"I suppose you are wondering what fate is in store for you?" showing
his teeth in a diabolical smile. "It is the fate of the interferer.
To-morrow morning you will sleep at the bottom of the Potomac. The
prospect doesn't seem to frighten you. Well, I'll give you credit for
being a thoroughbred. Pity you hadn't been born with a little more
sense. Yes, you're booked for fish-bait, all right, and this is how
I'll do the job. That big trunk, there in the corner"--pointing to
a Saratoga--"will hold you fast and sure. A little after daybreak
to-morrow morning an expressman will come for it. He will deposit it
near the Mt. Vernon wharf, from which it will be conveyed to a small
launch. On board that launch will be your humble servant, and, after an
hour's trip down the river, the launch will return without the trunk.
Am I explicit enough for your understanding?"

Nick nodded his head, and Peter Mannion thought he saw his face blanch
with fear and dread.

"Everything," the villain went on, as he blew a wreath of smoke toward
the ceiling, "has been arranged with care. The landlady of this flat is
unsuspicious. She is a German, and she is resting under the belief that
I am your elder brother. She did not see me as you see me now. Oh, no,
Nicholas, not for your honey-boy. She talked with a very old man, with
two arms--thanks to this wig and these whiskers"--fishing them from
his pocket--"and this wooden arm"--picking it up from the floor--"and
if she sees me go out, she will again see the same aged abuser of
trusting innocence. I have nothing more to say at this moment, except
to remark that I shall remain here with you until just before daylight.
Then I shall put you into the trunk, stuff the blank places with
pillows and sheets, lock the trunk, take away the key, and leave you
for the kind offices of the expressman."

And so the night passed. Nick Carter suffered, how much he never told,
for he was not one to expose his scars. The cords hurt his wrists and
ankles, and the gag was a source of torture. But he bore it all without
a sign of distress, and there was nothing of the craven in his pale
face when at daylight he was lifted and doubled up into the Saratoga
trunk.

Peter Mannion's words as he left the room were these:

"We shall never see each other again. I leave you with this reflection
to make more bitter your last hours on earth: For the first time in
your life you have bumped up against a smarter man than yourself. Ta!
ta!"




                             CHAPTER XIX.

                        OUT OF DEATH'S SHADOW.


A well-dressed man, with white hair and whiskers, occupied a stool in
front of a fruit-stand opposite Nick Carter's rooms from eight o'clock
until half-past nine on the morning following the trunk episode. The
man was Peter Mannion, and he was making sure that Chick was not in
town at the time of the opening of court. At half-past nine a telegraph
boy appeared. He went quickly up the stairway of the house where Nick
had lodged, and before his return to the street he was stopped by Peter
Mannion. "If you have a telegram for Mr. Carter," he said, "I'll take
it and sign for it. Here is my authority," and he produced a card upon
which was written: "Deliver to bearer all letters, notes, and telegrams
for me that may come to-day"--giving the date. "Nicholas Carter." The
boy, without hesitation, gave up an envelope containing a telegram.
When the book had been signed, Peter Mannion opened the telegram, which
was dated Frederick, Md., and read: "Will be with you seven o'clock
to-night. C. Carter."

"Good! good!" and the villain rubbed his hands gleefully. "Everything
is coming our way. Nick Carter is at the bottom of the river, and
Chick, who will go to join him will not be here to interfere with the
court business. The prospect could not be better. And now to prepare
for court."

At ten o'clock Peter Mannion and his lawyer entered the court-room.
They were followed by Prosper Craven and Elmer Newton, the witnesses to
Arthur Mannion's will. There were but few spectators present, for there
had been no public intimation that the proceedings that day would be of
special interest.

Just as the calendar was being called Jackson Feversham, accompanied
by two smart-looking business men, both strangers to Peter Mannion,
entered and took seats just outside the bar.

The first matter taken up was that of the will of Arthur Mannion.
Craven and Newton were sworn and the fact elicited that the will had
been signed at Craven's house, in the presence of the witnesses and
of Arthur Mannion. It had been delivered into the keeping of Nellie
Mannion.

There being no objection, an order was made admitting the will to
probate.

"So far so good," thought Peter Mannion. "And now for the will as is a
will; the will that means millions to Nellie Mannion and her dear ones."

Rising to his feet, the uncle's attorney now made a motion that the
matter of the will of James Playfair be taken up. "It must be judged by
itself, as the court is aware," said the attorney, somewhat pompously,
and glaring at Jackson Feversham, "for it is an olographic will, one
which does not require the signature of witnesses. Having once proved
that the will is in the handwriting of the deceased Washingtonian, the
court must admit it to probate."

The attorney sat down, and the judge took up the will, examined it,
turned it over, and then said:

"Produce your witnesses."

"To prove the handwriting?"

"Of course. What else?" asked the court sharply.

"Then," said Peter Mannion's attorney, "I will ask Mr. Feversham to
take the stand."

James Playfair's friend looked surprised, but he came forward, was
sworn, and the will was placed in his hands.

"Examine it carefully, Mr. Feversham," said the attorney, "and then
state whether or not, in your opinion, the body of the instrument and
the signature, all the writing, in fact, is in the writing of James
Playfair."

"If this is not his handwriting," answered Feversham, after a pause,
"it is a perfect imitation."

"Can you say it is not his handwriting?" questioned Peter Mannion's
attorney, with sternness.

There was a pause. Feversham looked at the judge, then at the two men
who had accompanied him to the court. Finally he said slowly, but
with emphasis: "I can say, with a conviction that almost amounts to
certainty, that this will is not in the handwriting of my deceased
friend."

Peter Mannion started violently. His face grew gray. A sense of danger
suddenly possessed him; but he gripped the sides of his chair and
waited.

The attorney for the moment was nonplussed. He had not expected the
answer. But he speedily recovered his wits, and, in a blustering
manner, said:

"Is it because the will leaves you nothing, while a previous one leaves
you heir to the fortune, that you are unwilling to state what must be a
patent fact to any man of intelligence?"

Feversham's fine face darkened with anger. He was about to reply, when
the judge spoke with severity.

"You must not insult your own witnesses. If I hear anything of the kind
again I shall be compelled to fine you for contempt of court. Have you
any more questions to ask?"

"Yes," was the surly reply. "I wish to ask Mr. Feversham why he is
positive that this will is not what it purports to be?"

"My attorney, who has just arrived, will answer for me," said the
witness.

Both Peter Mannion and his attorney turned to see advancing toward the
bar the tall, courtly figure of Colonel Seaman, one of the leaders of
the Washington bar.

"It is our intention," said the colonel to the court, "to contest the
probate of this alleged olographic will. I have in my hands copies of
the same document, which I respectfully ask the court to examine before
I proceed to explain where and how they were found, and what they
mean."

Thus saying, he stepped within the bar, approached the bench, and
handed to the judge the four copies found on the body of Dimitri
Goloff, the Russian accomplice of Arthur Mannion.

The judge examined them, first with perplexity, then with understanding.

"As supplementing them," continued Colonel Seaman, "I will offer for
your inspection a copy of the indictment under which Arthur Mannion was
convicted in a California court of forgery." This document was passed
to the judge.

Peter Mannion shifted uneasily in his seat. His brow began to ooze cold
perspiration.

"Anything more?" asked the court pleasantly.

"Yes, your honor. Here are four affidavits declaring that on the date
of the alleged will in favor of Arthur Mannion that young man was in
St. Louis."

"Well, what of that?"

"If you will hold up the will and the copies, you will see that the
water-mark is 'St. Louis Mills.'"

The judge did so, with the remark: "You are right, Colonel Seaman;
and, while the circumstance taken alone is of little consequence, when
considered with other circumstances it may prove to have weight."

"I think the weight will be shown when we produce reliable witnesses
who will swear that for years James Playfair used but one kind of
paper, and that of Baltimore make."

"Where were these will copies found?"

"Ask Mr. Feversham, your honor. He is on the stand, and he has been
sworn."

The question was asked, and Feversham answered: "In the pockets of a
dead man."

"His name?"

"Dimitri Goloff, who was the criminal associate of Arthur Mannion,
and who accompanied Mannion from San Francisco. They were together in
Washington until Goloff met his death by accident."

Peter Mannion could scarcely breathe, so great was his agitation. It
was in his mind to rise and make a bolt from the room, but his limbs
seemed to have lost their power of motion.

"The proceedings thus far have been somewhat irregular," remarked
the court. "I presume that you are ready to proceed, unless there is
objection from the other side."

Peter Mannion's attorney cast at his client a look full of disgust, and
said nothing. He was ready to throw up the case.

"Before doing so," said Colonel Seaman suavely, "I desire to say that
we shall need a subpœna for a Baltimore witness, Doctor Haswick, the
superintendent of St. Luke's Hospital."

"What do you expect to prove by him?" asked Peter Mannion's attorney,
in marked curiosity.

"We expect to prove that the man who died there a short time ago and
who was buried as Arthur Mannion was not Arthur Mannion, but one Jonas
Jilson, a petty thief and tramp. By other witnesses we shall prove that
Arthur Mannion is still alive."

The colonel ceased speaking. Peter Mannion, shaking as if with the
ague, his eyes bloodshot, and his lips blue and trembling, arose to
his feet and staggered toward the door. No one stayed him until he
neared the two men who had entered with Jackson Feversham. Both rose
when the discomfited villain was within a few feet of them. Then acting
simultaneously, they stepped forward and each seized a wrist of the
fleeing man.

"Don't go," said one of them, in a voice that made the wretch's heart
stop beating, "for you may consider yourself under arrest, Mr. Arthur
Mannion, for the murder of James Playfair."

The speaker was Nick Carter, and his assistant was Chick.




                              CHAPTER XX.

                           HOW NICK WON OUT.


Arthur Mannion, splendidly disguised as he was, utterly collapsed at
Nick Carter's denunciation, and he said not a word as he was led away,
handcuffed, to the police-station.

Jackson Feversham, who had been kept in the dark regarding the identity
of the one-armed man, could not believe that the murderer of Playfair
was the soldierly person who had represented himself to be the
murderer's uncle.

"Why, he's one-armed, there's no sham there, his hair is light, his
features are different, and he speaks in a different voice. I remember
Arthur Mannion well, and this man bears no resemblance to him."

"All the same," said Nick stoutly, "I can prove that he is Arthur
Mannion, and before twenty-four hours he will confess that he is!"

Playfair's friend and executor was now in Nick's rooms. The other
persons present were Chick and Patsy.

The detective spoke with such conviction that Feversham was impressed.

"How did you get at the secret?" he asked.

"By work, by using the powers which nature gave me and which
experience has sharpened, and by the invaluable assistance of Chick and
Patsy. I suspected the uncle when I heard of his visit to the hospital,
my suspicions were deepened when I first met the man at Craven's house.
He had but one arm, that is true, but it struck me as a singular
circumstance that the missing member should be the left one, the arm
to which, upon Arthur Mannion, when I had last seen him, was attached
a hand with half a finger missing. An accident would account for the
amputation, and if an accident to Mannion had occurred within a radius
of one or even two hundred miles, the fact could be easily ascertained,
both through telegraphic and private inquiry. I tried the private way
first, and within a week Chick lit upon the surgeon who amputated
Arthur Mannion's arm. While on his way, traveling mainly by night,
from Alexandria to Baltimore, Mannion fell under a freight-train. He
was stealing a ride with some hoboes, and, being awkward at brake-beam
work, slipped and fell. The accident happened near a station--I had
looked for the very thing--and a railway surgeon removed the arm and
had the patient, who gave an assumed name, removed to St. Luke's
Hospital, Baltimore. In the hospital Mannion met Knocker Jilson, a
tramp he had struck up an acquaintance with while both were on the
road. Do you begin to see, Mr. Feversham?"

"Yes, light is breaking fast. You are a very shrewd man, Mr. Carter.
Hereafter I shall take whatever you say as the law and gospel."

"Before leaving the hospital Mannion arranged his deal with Jilson. The
fellow was booked for an early death, and as he grew weaker he thought
of his mother, whom for years he had shamefully neglected. Mannion
saw his chance. He offered to send Mrs. Jilson money, and to provide
for the few years she has yet to live, if Jilson, on his part, would
consent to a harmless deception. Jilson listened and consented. He
would have done more, if it had been necessary, than was asked of him,
for the promise to relieve his mother's necessities was an inducement
that would have made him swallow any kind of bait.

"After Mannion was discharged as cured, he proceeded to make the next
move in the game. I suppose you know, Mr. Feversham, that there are
now many surgeons, professionals and quacks, who make a specialty of
changing facial appearance. Twenty years ago the thing was almost
unheard of. Now there have been so many demonstrations that the
practise is carried on to an extent that would amaze you were you to be
furnished with the statistics. There is one of these practitioners in
Baltimore. I sent Chick to investigate. He proved the correctness of my
theory, and he brought back these."

The detective from his pocketbook took two small photographs and handed
them to Feversham. One was a counterfeit full-length presentment of
Arthur Mannion as he appeared before the disguise, but after the
amputation, and, facially, as Nick had seen him at the house on L
Street; the other was a reproduction of the person of the so-called
Peter Mannion.

"'Before taking,' and 'After taking,'" said Nick, with a smile. "Do you
understand? And do you notice that each picture is of a one-armed man?"

"Yes. One was taken when the patient arrived; the other when the
operation had been performed. If I used slang I should say it is a dead
give-away." said Feversham.

"It is nothing else. Surgery fixed the features and changed the
workings of the vocal chords, while chlorine or peroxide of hydrogen
altered the color of the hair and eyebrows. Besides all this, I have
other evidence of a minor nature which goes to cement the case against
Arthur Mannion."

"What you have offered is sufficient, Mr. Carter. It is evidence
overwhelming in its nature. Confront your prisoner with it and he must
confess."

That is what Nick did. The next day he called at the jail, had an
interview with Mannion, told him what proofs had been gathered, both of
the impersonation and of the murder, and the result was that the wicked
stepson of James Playfair threw up his hands and made full confession.

He had, as the great detective supposed, robbed Playfair's house in
order to obtain the key to the bank deposit box. He found the key,
and he found something more--the money and a package of his mother's
letters in the locked drawer. The letters were used as a lure for the
appointment by the river, and the murder was committed with deliberate
intent, Goloff assisting by holding Playfair's arms while Mannion
choked the old man to death.

The scheme of the bogus will had been concocted in St. Louis, where
Mannion had, by previous arrangement, met Goloff, who had left San
Francisco a week before the departure of Mannion and his wife from
that city. The forgery had not been a difficult task, for Mannion was
an expert in that line, and he had some of Playfair's old letters as a
guide.

Asked about the notes taken from the body of Cora Reesey, Mannion
answered: "I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, so I'll say
that I robbed the body. I was the first to discover it. I was rowing
along the shore when I spotted it. There was no one in sight, and so I
took all the valuables I could find. Goloff was with me, and I whacked
up with him.

"And now," said Mannion, when he had finished his confession, "it's up
to you to do a little explaining. How in the name of Satan did you get
out of that trunk?"

Nick Carter smiled. He could afford to. "I wasn't in that trunk more
than two minutes," he said. "But it was lucky for me that help came
when it did, else I should have suffocated. Do you suppose that I was
such a ninny as to run blindfold into the trap you had set for me?
You spoke rather sneeringly of my boy Patsy, while you had me at a
disadvantage in the room. Let me tell you now that you owe Patsy an
apology, for he is responsible for my presence in the court to-day
and your arrest. When I sent him out in the daytime, it was not for
the purpose of taking a train out of the city, but to pipe you. Now
you begin to see? He bought a ticket for New York, but he rode only
a few blocks, then jumped off the train and carried out my other
instructions. He saw you go up the stairs--he was concealed across the
street--and he saw me go up. Then he followed suit. With ear at the
keyhole he overheard every word you said to me. He was too shrewd to
go out and procure assistance, for he saw that the only way to block
your game would be to let you fancy that you had really sent me to the
bottom of the Potomac. You did send something--a trunk that cost sixty
dollars, and a couple of pillows and a lot of bricks that I threw in to
give the proper weight."

Mannion bit his lips till the blood came. But he soon assumed a
devil-may-care expression.

"I was too anterior: I see it now. And I suppose that telegram from
Chick was a plant?"

"Of course. Chick was only a few miles away, I had him at the phone
before eight o'clock, and his part was soon arranged. I presume you
thought the boy who gave you the telegram was a regular employee of the
company?"

"Wasn't he?"

"Oh, no. He was only Patsy."

"Patsy!" And what the checkmated villain said about Patsy would not
look well in print.

Arthur Mannion was never tried for his crime. Pneumonia carried him off
within a fortnight after his arrest. His widow still mourns for him,
but Nick Carter believes that her eyes will soon brighten, and that
there are happy days in store for her.

The three detectives left Washington showered with congratulations.

Jackson Feversham's last words were: "Nick, I can't tell you what I
think about your work in this case, but I can say one thing. I wouldn't
have believed any man could have done what you have done. I don't know
how you've done it, but it's great, and so are you!"


                               THE END.


With thrills from the first page to the last is told No. 1232, of the
NEW MAGNET SERIES, entitled, "A Voice from the Past," by Nicholas
Carter.




                          BOOKS FOR YOUNG MEN

                           MERRIWELL SERIES

                        ALL BY BURT L. STANDISH

                  Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell


                   Fascinating Stories of Athletics

A half million enthusiastic followers of the Merriwell brothers will
attest the unfailing interest and wholesomeness of these adventures of
two lads of high ideals, who play fair with themselves, as well as with
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of immense benefit to every boy who reads them.

They have the splendid quality of firing a boy's ambition to become a
good athlete, in order that he may develop into a strong, vigorous,
right-thinking man.


                     _ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

    1--Frank Merriwell's School Days
    2--Frank Merriwell's Chums
    3--Frank Merriwell's Foes
    4--Frank Merriwell's Trip West
    5--Frank Merriwell Down South
    6--Frank Merriwell's Bravery
    7--Frank Merriwell's Hunting Tour
    8--Frank Merriwell in Europe
    9--Frank Merriwell at Yale
    10--Frank Merriwell's Sports Afield
    11--Frank Merriwell's Races
    12--Frank Merriwell's Party
    13--Frank Merriwell's Bicycle Tour
    14--Frank Merriwell's Courage
    15--Frank Merriwell's Daring
    16--Frank Merriwell's Alarm
    17--Frank Merriwell's Athletes
    18--Frank Merriwell's Skill
    19--Frank Merriwell's Champions
    20--Frank Merriwell's Return to Yale
    21--Frank Merriwell's Secret
    22--Frank Merriwell's Danger
    23--Frank Merriwell's Loyalty
    24--Frank Merriwell in Camp
    25--Frank Merriwell's Vacation
    26--Frank Merriwell's Cruise
    27--Frank Merriwell's Chase
    28--Frank Merriwell in Maine
    29--Frank Merriwell's Struggle
    30--Frank Merriwell's First Job
    31--Frank Merriwell's Opportunity
    32--Frank Merriwell's Hard Luck
    33--Frank Merriwell's Protégé
    34--Frank Merriwell on the Road
    35--Frank Merriwell's Own Company
    36--Frank Merriwell's Fame
    37--Frank Merriwell's College Chums
    38--Frank Merriwell's Problem
    39--Frank Merriwell's Fortune
    40--Frank Merriwell's New Comedian
    41--Frank Merriwell's Prosperity
    42--Frank Merriwell's Stage Hit
    43--Frank Merriwell's Great Scheme
    44--Frank Merriwell in England
    45--Frank Merriwell on the Boulevards
    46--Frank Merriwell's Duel
    47--Frank Merriwell's Double Shot
    48--Frank Merriwell's Baseball Victories
    49--Frank Merriwell's Confidence
    50--Frank Merriwell's Auto
    51--Frank Merriwell's Fun
    52--Frank Merriwell's Generosity
    53--Frank Merriwell's Tricks
    54--Frank Merriwell's Temptation
    55--Frank Merriwell on Top
    56--Frank Merriwell's Luck
    57--Frank Merriwell's Mascot
    58--Frank Merriwell's Reward
    59--Frank Merriwell's Phantom
    60--Frank Merriwell's Faith
    61--Frank Merriwell's Victories
    62--Frank Merriwell's Iron Nerve
    63--Frank Merriwell in Kentucky
    64--Frank Merriwell's Power
    65--Frank Merriwell's Shrewdness
    66--Frank Merriwell's Setback
    67--Frank Merriwell's Search
    68--Frank Merriwell's Club
    69--Frank Merriwell's Trust
    70--Frank Merriwell's False Friend
    71--Frank Merriwell's Strong Arm
    72--Frank Merriwell as Coach
    73--Frank Merriwell's Brother
    74--Frank Merriwell's Marvel
    75--Frank Merriwell's Support
    76--Dick Merriwell at Fardale
    77--Dick Merriwell's Glory
    78--Dick Merriwell's Promise
    79--Dick Merriwell's Rescue
    80--Dick Merriwell's Narrow Escape
    81--Dick Merriwell's Racket
    82--Dick Merriwell's Revenge
    83--Dick Merriwell's Ruse
    84--Dick Merriwell's Delivery
    85--Dick Merriwell's Wonders
    86--Frank Merriwell's Honor
    87--Dick Merriwell's Diamond
    88--Frank Merriwell's Winners
    89--Dick Merriwell's Dash
    90--Dick Merriwell's Ability
    91--Dick Merriwell's Trap
    92--Dick Merriwell's Defense
    93--Dick Merriwell's Model
    94--Dick Merriwell's Mystery
    95--Frank Merriwell's Backers
    96--Dick Merriwell's Backstop
    97--Dick Merriwell's Western Mission
    98--Frank Merriwell's Rescue
    99--Frank Merriwell's Encounter
    100--Dick Merriwell's Marked Money
    101--Frank Merriwell's Nomads
    102--Dick Merriwell on the Gridiron
    103--Dick Merriwell's Disguise
    104--Dick Merriwell's Test
    105--Frank Merriwell's Trump Card
    106--Frank Merriwell's Strategy
    107--Frank Merriwell's Triumph
    108--Dick Merriwell's Grit
    109--Dick Merriwell's Assurance
    110--Dick Merriwell's Long Slide
    111--Frank Merriwell's Rough Deal
    112--Dick Merriwell's Threat
    113--Dick Merriwell's Persistence
    114--Dick Merriwell's Day
    115--Frank Merriwell's Peril
    116--Dick Merriwell's Downfall
    117--Frank Merriwell's Pursuit
    118--Dick Merriwell Abroad
    119--Frank Merriwell in the Rockies
    120--Dick Merriwell's Pranks
    121--Frank Merriwell's Pride
    122--Frank Merriwell's Challengers
    123--Frank Merriwell's Endurance
    124--Dick Merriwell's Cleverness
    125--Frank Merriwell's Marriage
    126--Dick Merriwell, the Wizard
    127--Dick Merriwell's Stroke
    128--Dick Merriwell's Return
    129--Dick Merriwell's Resource
    130--Dick Merriwell's Five
    131--Frank Merriwell's Tigers
    132--Dick Merriwell's Polo Team
    133--Frank Merriwell's Pupils
    134--Frank Merriwell's New Boy
    135--Dick Merriwell's Home Run
    136--Dick Merriwell's Dare
    137--Frank Merriwell's Son
    138--Dick Merriwell's Team Mate
    139--Frank Merriwell's Leaguers
    140--Frank Merriwell's Happy Camp
    141--Dick Merriwell's Influence
    142--Dick Merriwell, Freshman
    143--Dick Merriwell's Staying Power
    144--Dick Merriwell's Joke
    145--Frank Merriwell's Talisman
    146--Frank Merriwell's Horse
    147--Dick Merriwell's Regret
    148--Dick Merriwell's Magnetism
    149--Dick Merriwell's Backers
    150--Dick Merriwell's Best Work
    151--Dick Merriwell's Distrust
    152--Dick Merriwell's Debt
    153--Dick Merriwell's Mastery
    154--Dick Merriwell Adrift
    155--Frank Merriwell's Worst Boy
    156--Dick Merriwell's Close Call
    157--Frank Merriwell's Air Voyage
    158--Dick Merriwell's Black Star
    159--Frank Merriwell in Wall Street
    160--Frank Merriwell Facing His Foes
    161--Dick Merriwell's Stanchness
    162--Frank Merriwell's Hard Case
    163--Dick Merriwell's Stand
    164--Dick Merriwell Doubted
    165--Frank Merriwell's Steadying Hand
    166--Dick Merriwell's Example
    167--Dick Merriwell in the Wilds
    168--Frank Merriwell's Ranch
    169--Dick Merriwell's Way
    170--Frank Merriwell's Lesson
    171--Dick Merriwell's Reputation
    172--Frank Merriwell's Encouragement
    173--Dick Merriwell's Honors
    174--Frank Merriwell's Wizard
    175--Dick Merriwell's Race
    176--Dick Merriwell's Star Play
    177--Frank Merriwell at Phantom Lake
    178--Dick Merriwell a Winner
    179--Dick Merriwell at the County Fair
    180--Frank Merriwell's Grit
    181--Dick Merriwell's Power
    182--Frank Merriwell in Peru

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New
York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.


                   To be published in January, 1928.

    183--Frank Merriwell's Long Chance
    184--Frank Merriwell's Old Form


                  To be published in February, 1928.

    185--Frank Merriwell's Treasure Hunt
    186--Dick Merriwell Game to the Last


                    To be published in March, 1928.

    187--Dick Merriwell, Motor King
    188--Dick Merriwell's Tussle
    189--Dick Merriwell's Aero Dash


                    To be published in April, 1928.

    190--Dick Merriwell's Intuition
    191--Dick Merriwell's Placer Find


                     To be published in May, 1928.

    192--Dick Merriwell's Fighting Chance
    193--Frank Merriwell's Tact


                    To be published in June, 1928.

    194--Frank Merriwell's Puzzle
    195--Prank Merriwell's Mystery




                        RATTLING GOOD ADVENTURE

                             SPORT STORIES

                     _Stories of the Big Outdoors_


There has been a big demand for outdoor stories, and a very
considerable portion of it has been for the Maxwell Stevens stories
about Jack Lightfoot, the athlete.

These stories are not, strictly speaking, stories for boys, but boys
everywhere will find a great deal in them to interest them.


                     _ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

    1--Jack Lightfoot, the Athlete
    2--Jack Lightfoot's Crack Nine
    3--Jack Lightfoot Trapped
    4--Jack Lightfoot's Rival
    5--Jack Lightfoot In Camp
    6--Jack Lightfoot's Canoe Trip
    7--Jack Lightfoot's Iron Arm
    8--Jack Lightfoot's Hoodoo
    9--Jack Lightfoot's Decision
    10--Jack Lightfoot's Gun Club
    11--Jack Lightfoot's Blind
    12--Jack Lightfoot's Capture
    13--Jack Lightfoot's Head Work
    14--Jack Lightfoot's Wisdom




                       BOOKS THAT NEVER GROW OLD

                             Alger Series

                   Clean Adventure Stories for Boys

                   The Most Complete List Published


The following list does not contain all the books that Horatio Alger
wrote, but it contains most of them, and certainly the best.

Horatio Alger is to boys what Charles Dickens is to grown-ups. His
work is just as popular to-day as it was years ago. The books have a
quality, the value of which is beyond computation.

There are legions of boys of foreign parents who are being helped
along the road to true Americanism by reading these books which
are so peculiarly American in tone that the reader cannot fall to
absorb some of the spirit of fair play and clean living which is so
characteristically American.

In this list will be included certain books by Edward Stratemeyer,
Oliver Optic, and other authors who wrote the Alger type of stories,
which are equal in interest and wholesomeness with those written by the
famous author after which this great line of books for boys is named.


                     _ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_


                         By HORATIO ALGER, Jr.

    12--Chester Rand
    13--Grit, the Young Boatman of Pine Point
    14--Joe's Luck
    15--From Farm Boy to Senator
    16--The Young Outlaw
    17--Jack's Ward
    18--Dean Dunham
    19--In a New World
    20--Both Sides of the Continent
    22--Brave and Bold
    24--Bob Burton
    26--Julius, the Street Boy
    28--Tom Brace
    29--Struggling Upward
    31--Tom Tracy
    32--The Young Acrobat
    33--Bound to Rise
    34--Hector's Inheritance
    35--Do and Dare
    36--The Tin Box
    37--Tom, the Bootblack
    38--Risen from the Ranks
    39--Shifting for Himself
    40--Wait and Hope
    41--Sam's Chance
    42--Striving for Fortune
    43--Phil, the Fiddler
    44--Slow and Sure
    45--Walter Sherwood's Probation
    47--The Young Salesman
    48--Andy Grant's Pluck
    49--Facing the World
    50--Luke Walton
    51--Strive and Succeed
    52--From Canal Boy to President
    53--The Erie Train Boy
    54--Paul, the Peddler
    55--The Young Miner
    56--Charlie Codman's Cruise
    57--A Debt of Honor
    58--The Young Explorer
    59--Ben's Nugget
    62--Frank Hunter's Peril
    64--Tom Thatcher's Fortune
    65--Tom Turner's Legacy
    66--Dan, the Newsboy
    67--Digging for Gold
    69--In Search of Treasure
    70--Frank's Campaign
    71--Bernard Brook's Adventures
    73--Paul Prescott's Charge
    74--Mark Manning's Mission
    76--Sink or Swim
    77--The Backwoods Boy
    78--Tom Temple's Career
    79--Ben Bruce
    80--The Young Musician
    81--The Telegraph Boy
    82--Work and Win
    84--The Cash Boy
    85--Herbert Carter's Legacy
    86--Strong and Steady
    87--Lost at Sea
    89--Young Captain Jack
    90--Joe, the Hotel Boy
    91--Out for Business
    92--Falling in with Fortune
    93--Nelson, the Newsboy
    94--Randy of the River
    96--Ben Logan's Triumph
    97--The Young Book Agent
    168--Luck and Pluck
    169--Ragged Dick
    170--Fame and Fortune
    171--Mark, the Match Boy
    172--Rough and Ready
    173--Ben, the Luggage Boy
    174--Rufus and Rose


                         By EDWARD STRATEMEYER

    98--The Last Cruise of _The Spitfire_
    99--Reuben Stone's Discovery
    100--True to Himself
    101--Richard Dare's Venture
    102--Oliver Bright's Search
    103--To Alaska for Gold
    104--The Young Auctioneer
    105--Bound to Be an Electrician
    106--Shorthand Tom
    108--Joe, the Surveyor
    109--Larry, the Wanderer
    110--The Young Ranchman
    111--The Young Lumberman
    112--The Young Explorers
    113--Boys of the Wilderness
    114--Boys of the Great Northwest
    115--Boys of the Gold Field
    116--For His Country
    117--Comrades in Peril
    118--The Young Pearl Hunters
    119--The Young Bandmaster
    121--On Fortune's Trail
    122--Lost in the Land of Ice
    123--Bob, the Photographer


                            By OLIVER OPTIC

    124--Among the Missing
    125--His Own Helper
    126--Honest Kit Dunstable
    127--Every Inch a Boy
    128--The Young Pilot
    129--Always in Luck
    130--Rich and Humble
    131--In School and Out
    133--Work and Win
    135--Haste and Waste
    136--Royal Tarr's Pluck
    137--The Prisoners of the Cave
    138--Louis Chiswick's Mission
    139--The Professor's Son
    140--The Young Hermit
    141--The Cruise of _The Dandy_
    142--Building Himself Up
    143--Lyon Hart's Heroism
    144--Three Young Silver Kings
    145--Making a Man of Himself
    146--Striding for His Own
    147--Through by Daylight
    148--Lightning Express
    149--On Time
    150--Switch Off
    151--Brake Up
    152--Bear and Forbear
    153--The "Starry Flag"
    154--Breaking Away
    155--Seek and Find
    156--Freaks of Fortune
    157--Make or Break
    158--Down the River
    159--The Boat Club
    160--All Aboard
    161--Now or Never
    162--Try Again
    163--Poor and Proud
    164--Little by Little
    165--The Sailor Boy
    166--The Yankee Middy
    167--Brave Old Salt




Transcriber's Notes:

1. Spelling has been retained as in the original book.

2. Punctuation has been standardized.

3. Italics is given as _italics_.





End of Project Gutenberg's Out of Death's Shadow, by Nicholas Carter