MAGNET LIBRARY    No. 304
         A weekly publication devoted to Detective literature.
                           September 2, 1903.




                           THE TWIN MYSTERY;
                                  OR,
                            A Dashing Rescue


                                   BY
                            NICHOLAS CARTER
                               AUTHOR OF
“A Chance Discovery,” “At the Knife’s Point,” “Lady Velvet,” “A Game of
        Craft,” “A Klondike Claim,” “A Blow for Vengeance,” etc.


                                NEW YORK
                       STREET & SMITH, Publishers
                           238 William Street

                            Copyright, 1903
                           By STREET & SMITH




                                CONTENTS


  I. The Brown Robin                                                   5
  II. The Way of the Robin                                            14
  III. A Blind Chase                                                  24
  IV. The Real Thing                                                  33
  V. The Brown Robin Dines                                            43
  VI. An Audacious Visitor                                            53
  VII. Chick’s Great Discovery                                        61
  VIII. A Deep Game                                                   71
  IX. The Trap                                                        81
  X. How the Trap Was Sprung                                          90
  XI. At the Dog Show                                                101
  XII. Dead in Her Carriage                                          111
  XIII. Possibilities                                                123
  XIV. A Change of Front                                             132
  XV. Closer to Masson                                               146
  XVI. Ida in Trouble                                                154
  XVII. A New Side                                                   164
  XVIII. In Durance Vile                                             172
  XIX. A Dashing Rescue                                              180
  XX. Patsy’s Triumph                                                190
  XXI. The Murderer                                                  200




                           THE TWIN MYSTERY.




                               CHAPTER I.
                            THE BROWN ROBIN.


  “Mr. Nick Carter: I have come to town to do business. I give you
  notice before I begin, because I am quite certain you will be informed
  immediately after I commence operations. It really makes little
  difference; you cannot reach me. Really, my dear Nick, I have a
  contempt for the so-called detective ability. You, with your Ida,
  Chick and Patsy, are a little better than the rest, but you are in the
  same running when you undertake to stop me.

                                                      “The Brown Robin.”

This letter Nick Carter found in his mail one morning a short time ago,
on coming to his breakfast table.

He read the letter with some interest, noting that it had been mailed
late the afternoon before, and in the sub-district in which he lived.

Tossing it over to his wife, Edith, to read, he said:

“That might be taken for a challenge, I suppose.”

Edith read it, and replied that she should take it for an impertinence.

“Who is the Brown Robin?” she asked.

“Ah! That is the great mystery,” answered Nick.

“A woman?” asked Edith.

“When you ask that question in that way,” replied Nick, “you mean to
make the statement that you believe it to be a woman.”

“Well, yes; I judge the writer of this is a woman.”

“Why?”

“The writing, in the first place.”

“That will hardly do. It might be taken for the writing of a woman a
little more masculine than is usual, or of a man a little more feminine
than is usual. I carefully examined the writing before I gave you the
letter, and could not determine satisfactorily to myself which it was.”

Edith again examined the letter, and said that she should be afraid,
after a second look, to stand on either side.

“The truth is, Edith,” said Nick, “it is an assumed hand, not the
natural one of the person who wrote it, and is not always employed by
that person. That is my belief.”

Again Edith studied the letter.

“There is something about the whole thing,” she said, “that impresses me
with the notion that the writer of this is a woman. But if you were to
ask me why, I could not tell you.”

Nick laughed.

“It is the same old story of puzzling mystery.”

“Then you know something of the Brown Robin?”

“I know that the Brown Robin puzzled and mystified the police of Chicago
two winters ago. I was appealed to then to go to Chicago, take up the
case, and ferret out the mystery, but then I was engaged in an important
matter here and could not go.

“Suddenly the Brown Robin disappeared from Chicago and turned up in
Boston, where the police were put at their wits’ end in an endeavor to
detect the person.

“As suddenly he, she or it flitted to Philadelphia, with a like result,
and then back again to Chicago. Now it would seem that the Brown Robin
is making New York its roosting place.”

“But who is the Brown Robin, and what does it do?”

“As I said, who the Brown Robin is—whether a he, she, or it—is a
mystery. What the Brown Robin does is to extort money from various kinds
of people, and most successfully, by blackmail.

“The Brown Robin moves about so skillfully and shows up in so many
guises, that he, she or it has always escaped detection, and has left
the police of each place where it has operated in doubt whether it is a
man, or a woman, or a lot of men and women, moving under the directions
of a very skillful person.

“That is all I can tell you, for I have not looked deeply into the
matter.”

“This is a direct challenge to you.”

“Yes, but I shall not accept it, unless I am retained by a victim of the
Brown Robin’s arts, and then only if the victim will consent to be
guided wholly by me in the matter.”

He tossed the letter aside and finished his breakfast. He had hardly
time to open his morning paper, when the servant entered with a note,
which, she said, had been brought by a messenger boy.

Opening it, Nick read:

  “My Dear Carter: Very shortly after receiving this you will have a
  call from Mr. Alpheus Cary. He is my first victim in New York. I
  should judge by this experience that New York is very easy to work.
  The incident afforded me a good deal of amusement, for Mr. Alpheus
  Cary hates to give up.

  “He was in a panic when he did, but regretted it a minute after.
  Indeed, my operation came perilously near robbery, for his hesitancy
  began before he really handed the money over.

  “The only regret I have is that the sum was so small. In that sense it
  was not a brilliant beginning in New York. But you can complete the
  operation by getting a stiff retainer out of him. Then, if you choose
  to “whack up,” why, you can send me half. That proposition is the
  reason why I write.

  “Really, Carter, there is quite a stroke of business to be done by us
  in this way. I know you pose as an honest man, but, pshaw! let there
  be no nonsense between us.

                                                      “The Brown Robin.”

The first sensation Nick experienced on reading this letter was that of
anger. Then the audacity of the writer excited his sense of humor.

“You thought the other letter was impertinent,” said he, handing the
last one to Edith, “but what do you think of this one?”

Edith read it with flushed face, but, inspired by an idea, she said:

“Nick, if I were you I would capture that person, no matter what I did
to accomplish it.”

“What would you do?”

“I’d pretend to enter into a bargain with the Brown Robin, such as is
here proposed.”

Nick did not reply at once. When he did, he said:

“Do you know, Edith, I am under the impression that this is an impudent
and audacious beginning of an effort to blackmail me.”

“Nick Carter!”

“Yes, a trap is being laid for me to walk into, of which this is only
one of the strings.”

“But why should they attempt to blackmail you?”

“I suppose my money is as good to them as that of any other person. But
what a triumph it would be to have the boast that Nick Carter had been
trapped that way!”

“True.”

“Edith, let me warn you to be prepared for any trick. Whether I will or
not, the Brown Robin has thrown down the gauntlet.”

“Do you know Mr. Alpheus Cary?”

“I only know that there is a person of that name, who is a man of wealth
and the president of a bank in this city—a man of some prominence, but
that is all I do know of him.”

“Where does he live?”

“Somewhere in Central Park West, but just where I don’t know. What are
you thinking of?”

“I was thinking that perhaps the Cary whom you are told will call on you
might be the Brown Robin made up, and that it would be well to send
Chick or Patsy to find if he is at home.”

“Good, Edith,” cried Nick, with a laugh, “you are getting to be a great
detective. Well, I shall act on your suggestion, only I shall send Ida
to Mr. Cary’s house, for she is near by.”

He went to the ’phone and rang up Ida, and received an immediate
response. But Edith, closely watching, saw him start as a look of deep
suspicion came over his face.

He made a quick signal to his wife. Asking through the ’phone whether he
was talking to Ida, he received an answer which brought again the
suspicious look to his face. But he continued, as usual, though his
message was a surprise to Edith. He said:

“As soon as you can, Ida, I want you to go to Herman Hartwig, and,
giving him the word ‘Passen,’ tell him to give you his report. Then
bring it to me. Do you understand?”

Waiting for a response, he said:

“Then repeat what I have said.”

He listened, and, as he did, a broad smile came over his face. He hung
up the ’phone and rang off, turning to his wife with a queer light in
his eyes.

“Why, Nick,” asked Edith, “who is Herman Hartwig?”

“I don’t know.”

“And what is the word ‘Passen?’”

“Never heard of it before.”

“Then what is the meaning of your message?”

“Nothing. It was diamond cut diamond. That was not Ida on the other end
of the line.”

“Who, then?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the Brown Robin. The wires have been tampered
with in some way. It was not Ida for, if it had been, she would have
wanted to know where Herman Hartwig was to be found, since she had never
heard of him before, because I invented the name at the moment.”

“Then your suspicions were excited at once?”

“Yes; it was a good imitation of Ida’s voice, but a certain trick of
Ida’s speech was wanting, and I was watching for it.”

Nick thought a moment; then, hastily stepping to the ’phone, he cut the
connecting wires.

“It is the safest way,” he said. “Now, Edith, hurry to the drug store on
the corner and send for Chick, Patsy and Ida.”

As Edith went out, Nick sat down to his paper again, but he had read a
short time only when the servant entered with a card, saying that a
caller was in the parlor.

He read the card. The name on it was Mr. Alpheus Cary.

Bidding the servant to tell the gentleman that Mr. Carter was engaged
for the present, but would see him presently, he continued to read his
paper.

His intention was not to see his caller until his aids should arrive,
for he meant that Chick should be present at the interview, and Patsy
should shadow the caller when he left.

He was thus engaged when Edith returned.

She bore in her hand a card and note, and, as she entered the room, she
was about to speak, but Nick checked her with a gesture.

She handed Nick the card and note. Reading the card, Nick looked up with
surprise and compared it with one he had just received. It was the same
exactly.

Tearing open the note, he read:

  “Dear Mr. Carter: I beg you will call on me at the Zetler Bank, on a
  matter of importance, at your earliest convenience. I do not call on
  you for the reason that I fear the call would become known to a person
  I desire to keep in the dark. Respectfully,

                                                          Alpheus Cary.”

“Where did you get these?” whispered Nick.

“At the drug store,” returned Edith, also in a whisper. “I was about
going out when the druggist called me by name. An elderly gentleman,
standing near, started and spoke in a low tone to the druggist, asking
if I was Nick Carter’s wife.

“Being told that I was, he came to me, handing me his card and this
note, with the request that I should give it to you.

“He said that he had intended to call, had even driven past the door,
but, on second thought, believed it were not best, and had gone to the
drug store, where he was known, and had written the note there.”

“And you came directly back with it?”

“Directly.”

“Where did Mr. Cary go?”

“He got into a cab and drove down Columbus Avenue.”

Nick thought a moment, and said, in a whisper:

“This must have occurred about the time my caller handed in the other
card.”

He sprang to his feet and hurried to the parlor.

But it was empty. The waiting caller had left without a word.

Nick, calling the servant, inquired if she had seen the caller leave,
but she had not, nor could she give any information.

Pursuing his inquiries, all that he could learn was that a moment after
Mrs. Carter was seen to enter the front door an elderly-appearing man
had darted from it and had gone down the street, hastily, to the west.

Satisfied that a spurious Mr. Cary had called on him that morning, and
that the genuine Mr. Cary had accosted his wife in the drug store, Nick
returned to his room to await the arrival of his assistants, Chick,
Patsy and Ida.




                              CHAPTER II.
                         THE WAY OF THE ROBIN.


Nick’s passage to the Zetler Bank to see the real Mr. Alpheus Cary was
in the nature of a procession.

He had been impressed with the idea that the caller who had announced
himself as Mr. Alpheus Cary, had, by some means, come to know that the
real Mr. Cary was in the neighborhood, and had fled because of that.

His fleeing seemed to Nick to suggest that in some way this person was
either the Brown Robin or some one connected with that person.

The audacity of the effort to impersonate Cary in an interview with Nick
further suggested that the person had much confidence in his own skill,
and was rather conceited about it.

He thought it probable that he would be put under observation in his
next attempt to leave the house.

So he directed Chick to go out and post himself so that he could shadow
Nick and see whether he was followed. And, having respect for the skill
of this Brown Robin, he sent Patsy out charged with the duty of
following Chick, and Ida later to follow Patsy.

Thus it was that when, an hour later, he went out into the street, his
passage to the Zetler Bank was in the nature of a procession.

Nick’s passage, however, was not direct, for he received a signal from
Chick that the latter thought a person was on the track of his chief.

Consequently he took a devious route, turning into many strange places,
doubling on his track and doing a number of strange things.

All this time he paid not the slightest attention as to whether or not
another person was doing these strange things, for he was relying upon
Chick to determine whether any one was on his track.

“Gee!” said Patsy, when, in these doubling turns, he came upon Ida,
“what is this game we’re getting this morning?”

However, Chick had seen a young man about twenty-five or six, who had
made his appearance only as Nick had shown on the street, and whose
route was the same as that of the chief.

When Nick had taken to his devious ways on hearing a peculiar huckster’s
cry behind him, which he knew to be from Chick, this young man had taken
to the same devious ways.

When Nick started straight for the bank, this young man had followed,
and Chick saw him walk to the very door of the Zetler Bank to watch Nick
enter.

Summoning Patsy by signal, he sent him on the trail of this young man,
while he awaited the appearance of Nick from the bank.

The wait was a long one.

When Nick presented his name, Mr. Cary came forward in such excitement
that Nick thought he would betray himself to every one within hearing.

“I am glad to see you, Mr. Carter,” he said. “My business is most
important, yet I have been warned——”

“I know,” said Nick, calmly, “the Brown Robin. You have been told not to
dare to talk to me.”

“Why,” exclaimed Mr. Cary, “how do you know that?”

“I guessed it,” said Nick, with a smile. “But take me somewhere where we
can talk aloud and unheard.”

Mr. Cary led the way into an inner room, closing the door after him.

“Now,” said Nick, “there are certain things I know of this case, but I
want you to tell me everything, concealing nothing, not even when it
tells against yourself. I shall regard it as a confidential
communication. Make neither excuses, nor apologies, but tell the plain
truth.”

“But I have been warned not to talk to you at all.”

“By whom?” asked Nick.

“By some one who signs the letter ‘The Brown Robin.’”

“Let me see that letter,” demanded Nick.

“Well, I don’t know that I ought.”

“Now, Mr. Cary,” said Nick, sternly, “you were blackmailed last night;
indeed, it was more nearly like robbery, for the money was taken from
your hands while you were hesitating whether you would pay it over or
not.”

“You know that? How?” asked Mr. Cary.

“Never mind how I know,” replied Nick, sternly. “It is my business to
know a great many things. But I want to say this: I mean to investigate
this matter to the bottom. If you help me by giving me all the
information in your possession, so much the better, but whether you do
or not I shall find all out. Now choose which you will do.”

“Well, I had intended to retain you, but this letter——”

“Let me see it,” demanded Nick, in a decided tone.

Mr. Cary yielded, and, taking the letter from his breast pocket, handed
it to Nick.

At a glance the famous detective saw that it was the same handwriting,
on the same kind of paper, as the two letters he had received in the
morning. It read:

  “Dear Papa Cary: I want to warn you against a very bad man. His name
  is Nick Carter. You will only get yourself into trouble if you don’t
  take my warning. You are in a good deal of trouble now, for you stand
  in danger of exposure. Fie! Such a naughty Papa Cary! But you must not
  talk to Nick Carter. You must not talk to him of our pleasant
  experiences last night. And, Papa Cary, you must come again, and bring
  some more of the stuff that makes the mare go. I shall tell you when
  and where. And you must, or there will be pretty photographs sent to
  Mamma Cary and the little Carys, and to the bank officials, and so
  there will if you talk to Nick Carter.

                                                      “The Brown Robin.”

Nick folded up the letter and placed it in his pocket, saying:

“This letter will be safer with you than with me. Now tell me how you
met the woman.”

“How do you know——”

“I would rather you would answer my question,” interrupted Nick,
sternly, “and please waste no time with questions. You met a woman last
night. Where? How? When?”

“Well, it was in the Rideau restaurant—that is a——”

“I know—in Fourth Avenue. How came you to be there?”

“Some business took me on the East Side yesterday afternoon, on which I
was delayed beyond my own dinner hour. I had heard of this place and
thought I would like to visit it. So I went there to dine. It was
crowded, few seats being vacant.

“As I passed down the rows of tables I came to one at which was seated a
young woman of attractive appearance, dressed like a lady, in brown, on
whose hat was a robin.

“The seat opposite her was vacant, and, bowing, I asked if I could
occupy it. She consented by saying that she could not prevent me, as it
was free to any one to take.

“Seating myself, it was not long before I was in conversation with her.”

“I see,” said Nick. “Did she know who you were?”

“Why, no.”

“Then how did she come to know?”

“That is where I was a fool. I told her.”

“On her inquiry?”

“No, confound it. A bottle of wine and a pretty woman let loose my
tongue, and I babbled like an infant.”

Nick had difficulty in keeping a straight face over this frank
confession and the disgusted face that accompanied it.

“Of course you didn’t know her?” asked Nick.

“No; she told me she was but recently from Chicago; that she was
married; that her husband had been detained at the last moment, but
would soon follow her.”

“Well, what then?”

“It ended in my paying for her supper, and we arose from the table
together, leaving the restaurant together.

“In the street I asked her direction, and proposed to accompany her as
far as her door.”

“It would seem as if, then, you took the lead in this thing.”

“That is true in a way, yet she encouraged every step.”

“Of course. Go on.”

“She took me into Seventeenth street, and toward the east, to a
respectable-looking house, which she said was one in which she was
staying, and asked, indeed coaxed, me to enter.

“Well, like a fool, I consented. She took me into the front parlor, and,
asking me to be seated, went off, saying that she would return in a
moment.”

“She did, having changed her street dress for a flowing wrapper. Seating
herself, she began a series of questions about myself that I, fool that
I was, answered.

“Suddenly, and without intimation of her purpose, she arose, and, coming
to me, threw her arms about my neck, seating herself on my lap.

“I was so astonished at this for a moment I was helpless, and in that
moment there was a flash of light that blinded me.

“The woman laughed gayly, and, jumping up, ran into the other room. A
moment later she returned, saying:

“‘Come, Papa Cary. I don’t give my pleasant company for nothing. You’ve
enjoyed my society for two or three hours. You must pay for it. Come!
Shell out!’

“‘What is this?’ I cried, ‘blackmail?’

“‘Some unpleasant people call it that, I believe,’ she said. ‘But
whatever it is, you must submit.’

“‘Not by any means,’ I said. ‘You have attacked the wrong person.’

“Again she laughed, and, springing up, ran into the next room, to return
in a moment, bringing with her a photograph plate.

“‘You may look at that,’ she said, holding it up before me. Over the rim
she pointed a small revolver.

“I looked to see that a photograph of myself, with her on my lap, her
arms about my neck, had been taken.

“I fairly staggered back in alarm, and with a merry, mocking laugh, she
hurried with the plate into the other room. When she came back, she
said:

“‘I’m a business woman, Papa Cary. A short horse is soon curried. Out
with your money, or, as soon as these photos are printed they will be
sent to decorate your home and your office.’

“In my first fright over this threat I took some money from my pocket,
but the thought came that payment wouldn’t end it, and that I ought to
bargain with her in a way that would secure me.

“While I hesitated, thinking what to do, by a quick movement she
snatched the money from my hand, crying, with a laugh: ‘Thank you.’

“I protested—demanded its return. But she said:

“‘Oh, no! You have given me this, and it will not be the last that you
will give me, either. This is only the beginning. And I will pay you for
it by always keeping those photographs.’

“All this time she was laughing, but I could see in her right hand her
revolver. I suddenly jumped forward to seize her revolver arm, when she
sprang back and in an instant everything was dark. The lights went out.

“Then I was pushed forward and out of the room by more than one, through
a hall and into the street.

“In my anger I threatened that I would put you, Mr. Carter, on her
track, and when I was in the street I rushed about, trying to find a
policeman.

“By and by, however, my common sense came uppermost, and I saw that by
appealing to a policeman I should only make public what I should, in my
own interests, keep quiet.

“So, determining to see you as soon as I could, I went home.

“This morning, on reaching the bank, I found the letter which you now
have in your possession.”

“How much money did she take?”

“A little less than a hundred dollars—I cannot tell exactly; between
ninety and a hundred.”

“Did you see any one else then?”

“No.”

“You could go again to that house?”

“No doubt of it.”

“Have you told me everything that occurred?”

“Everything, reserved nothing. Now, I want those photographs, Mr.
Carter. I want you to get them. I’ll pay for them; but I won’t be
blackmailed.”

Nick was silent a moment or two, thinking. Then he said:

“On your recital it seems to be merely a vulgar panel game. But I think
there is more back of it than that. However, I will take the case. I
will think it over. Do nothing, however, until you see me again. I shall
probably be back again in an hour or two, possibly with my plan of
action worked out.”

Nick left the banking house, and, going into the street met Chick and
Ida.

“Was I followed?”

“Yes,” replied Chick. “Followed to these doors by a young fellow of
twenty-five, stylishly dressed. He was like a woman more than a man;
that is, his face was so fine and handsome.”

“What became of him?”

“He went off after seeing you, with a curious smile on his face. Patsy
is on his trail.”

“Then that is all right,” said Nick. “Come with me. I think we have got
a case well worth looking on. We will go somewhere where we can talk it
over.”

The three then went to a neighboring hotel.




                              CHAPTER III.
                             A BLIND CHASE.


When Patsy took the trail of the young man who had followed Nick to the
doors of the bank, the only purpose of it was to find out who he was and
with whom he had connection.

In taking up the trail Patsy was wary. His first effort was to determine
whether the young man feared shadowing, and, if he did, whether he
believed himself to be shadowed.

For the first ten minutes there were no indications of any kind on the
part of the young man.

He took up a bee line for Broadway, and, turning into that thoroughfare,
walked to the south with a rapid gait and a businesslike manner, turning
neither to the right nor the left, nor giving any heed to persons behind
him.

Thus they went, the followed and the follower, down Broadway, when, the
building of the New York Life being reached, the young man suddenly
turned into it with quickened pace.

Patsy broke into a sharp run. He quickly appreciated the danger he was
in of losing his man. It seemed to him that these great big buildings,
with their numerous elevators, many stairs and entrances and exits, were
especially contrived to favor escaping crooks.

As he dashed through the entrance, he saw his man turning, on a run,
into the rotunda, which is circled by elevators.

“The deuce!” cried Patsy. “My one chance is that he can’t get an
elevator before I get to him.”

He ran like a deer down the long corridor, to the amazement of those who
were passing.

He turned the corner just in time to see the gates of the elevator
close, as it shot upward, and in it was the man he had followed.

This was almost too much for Patsy, and he gave an exclamation of
chagrin. But he rapidly took in the fact that the elevator that had just
gone up was the one that did not stop short of the tenth floor, and that
one was to follow, stopping at each.

Into this he plunged, concealing himself from view, but in such a way
that he himself could watch.

Passing the ninth floor, he saw the young man eagerly watching the
elevator that followed.

Patsy could not get out on the ninth, but he did on the tenth, and
hurried down the stairs. Some one was descending the stairs to the
eighth floor. Leaning over the balustrades, Patsy saw a man descending
rapidly.

This one wore a dark beard and mustache, and his hair was of the same
color. The man he had followed had been beardless and his hair was quite
light. But there was something in the carriage of the shoulders of the
man descending the steps that suggested the one he had followed down
Broadway.

Springing to the head of the stairs, Patsy flung himself on the
balustrades, sliding down thence to gain time.

The man followed quickened his pace and fairly flew down the steps two
at a time. Patsy was gaining on him, for he was more reckless in his
pursuit than the man was in his flight—taking more chances.

Thus the chase continued until the floor on which the great offices of
the insurance company were reached, when the followed man plunged into
them, with Patsy close on his heels.

Then the man stopped, faced about and waited for Patsy to come up. To
the lad’s astonishment, he was not in disguise. He looked at Patsy with
a sarcastic smile, and asked:

“Are you following me?”

“Yes,” replied Patsy, carefully sizing up his man.

“You could be in better business,” replied the other. “What are you
doing it for?”

“You know very well,” replied Patsy.

“Now that you have got up to me, what are you going to do?” he asked.

That was just exactly what Patsy was asking himself. What was he going
to do? But he made a bluff, and said:

“I am going to find out who you are, and what your name is.”

“That’s easy,” replied the other. “But what do you want to know for?”

“That’s my business,” replied Patsy.

The fact was, Patsy didn’t really know why he had been ordered to follow
the man. He suspected that it was because the man had followed Nick, and
that there was a desire to know who he was.

“Of course, that is your business,” replied the other. “Very well, my
name is George Vernon; I am one of the secret inspectors of this
company. I followed Nick Carter this morning, thinking he touched the
case I am on, until I found he did not. Then I sheered off. I take it I
am a good deal in the same business you are.”

All the time he was talking this way he had been edging toward a door.

This seemed to be so straight that Patsy could not deny it, though he
believed the fellow was lying. He looked around to the clerks for
confirmation, but they were all behind high desks and railings, and he
could not get to them except by leaving his man.

A high official of the company approached, one Patsy knew well.

Patsy hailed him, and asked him if the man calling himself Vernon was in
the employ of the company.

“Well, that’s a hard one for me,” said the official, good-naturedly. “I
should be greatly puzzled to identify all of our employees.”

The man said, respectfully:

“I am in the inspectors’ department.”

The official, however, became suddenly serious, and asked:

“But what is it? Anything wrong with him, Patsy?”

The other now turned on the lad with a start, his eyes intently fixed on
Patsy, and the lad, as much as he respected the high official, could
have kicked him for letting out his name.

But the high official did worse. Saying to the one who called himself
Vernon to stand where he was, he seized Patsy by the arm to lead him to
a gentleman sitting at a desk within a railing.

The impulse was a kindly one, for the high official wanted to serve
Patsy, but it was a mistaken one, since the other, seizing his
opportunity, dashed through the door, near which he was standing, into a
big office beyond.

Patsy broke from the grasp of the high official and jumped after him.
There was a second’s delay as the door swung back on him, but when he
had passed through he saw the other running down the long room.

The sight of a man flying frantically through the room, with another
plunging along as frantically, followed closely by a high official of
the company, excited all the clerks, and they thronged into the narrow
way, so impeding Patsy’s pursuit that, by the time he had reached the
door at the end of the room through which the other disappeared, his man
was nowhere to be seen.

He ran hither and thither toward all the outlets, but quickly recognized
the futility of further effort.

He went back to the high official, who had followed him out of the room.
Patsy was considerably nettled, but, choking down his anger, said:

“He’s a crook, all right, or he wouldn’t have wanted to get away from
me. But now I want to ask you whether there is a George Vernon in the
employ of the company.”

“What department does he say he is employed in?” asked the official.

“In the inspector’s department.”

“Come with me,” said the official.

Patsy was led to a room where a man, busily engaged, was seated at a
desk. He arose immediately on the approach of the high official,
answering promptly the question whether there was a George Vernon in his
employ.

“Yes; there is such a person, and he is in the next room at this
moment.”

“Call him,” said the official.

A tall, thin, intelligent-looking young man, the very opposite in
appearance of the one whom Patsy had followed, reported.

What was apparent was that the man followed had known of this George
Vernon, and had seized on his name to throw Patsy off.

When the real George Vernon was told of the occurrence and of the man
who had taken his name, he said that on the day previous he had fallen
in with a man of the description given in an uptown hotel, who had
expressed a wish to take out a policy on his life. The real Vernon had
talked with him on that line and given him his name and department.

“Well,” said Patsy, to the high official, “my man got away, but one
thing is settled, he’s a crook, and the other thing is that I have him
so well sized up that I’ll know him, I don’t care how he is disguised.”

Patsy left the offices of the company, and as he did so, he said to
himself:

“My man carries his shoulders as not one man in a thousand does. He has
a short step and a knock-kneed gait; he has no beard and a small mole
under his chin, on the left side.”

He stopped in the corridor suddenly, slapped his thigh with his hand,
stood still a moment, thinking earnestly. Finally he exclaimed aloud:

“Holy smoke! I’ll bet that’s the way of it.”

Seeking a retired spot, in a corner, he made a rapid change in his
appearance.

He had entered the building a smartly dressed young fellow. He left it
looking like a broken-down man of sixty, limping in gait and with bowed
shoulders, racked with a cough.

But he did not leave it until he had stood some time in the entrance
holding out his hands and asking for money of every one that entered nor
until he had been fairly driven from it by the officer in charge.

Then he stood on the sidewalk, still begging, and continued to do so
until the officer drove him away by threatening him with arrest.

All the while he was thus engaged his eyes had been busy, and he saw a
man standing on the opposite side of the street, occupying a position
that commanded a view of the main entrance.

When driven from the sidewalk in front of the building he crossed the
street and took up a position near this man.

A moment was sufficient to satisfy Patsy that he was disguised. Half an
hour passed, during which Patsy begged, when he could without being
discovered by policemen, and still shadowed the disguised man, who was
watching the main entrance.

Finally this man strolled away like one who did so reluctantly. Patsy
watched him with a thrill of delight.

He had found his man again.

The man went to a hotel, where he sat down in the writing-room and,
taking paper and envelope from his pocket, began to write letters.

Patsy slipped away and made another change in his appearance, and,
coming back, set out to write letters himself.

When the other had written two letters, he got up and went out, followed
by Patsy.

This time he went to an American District Telegraph office, handing the
letters in and paying the fee.

Leaving the office he went directly back to the hotel where he had
written his letters, and, calling for the key of room ninety-eight, said
to the clerk:

“I am tired and shall lie down for a nap. Call me by two o’clock. Not
later.”

He went to his room. Patsy turned over the register and found the name
of Harold Stanton, and opposite the number ninety-eight.

“How long has Stanton been staying with you?” asked Patsy.

“Only since last night.”

“What do you know of him?”

“Nothing. He paid for his room for two nights. But he wasn’t in his room
last night.”

Patsy went away, saying:

“What next? I’ve run him down to this place, and know he figures as
Harold Stanton.”

He went back to the American District Telegraph office and persuaded the
man in charge to give him the names of the persons to whom Stanton had
written letters.

One was Nick Carter, the other was Alpheus Cary.

Patsy gave a long whistle, and set out to find his chief.




                              CHAPTER IV.
                            THE REAL THING.


After Nick had talked over the case with Chick and Ida, he had sent
Chick to the house in Seventeenth Street to take stock of it and to make
inquiries.

“Chick,” he had said, “I don’t think you will learn much, for I fancy
the house has been abandoned by these people. However, you may learn
something in looking it up.”

He then went to his house, to find a caller awaiting him. Nick looked at
the card, but did not recognize the name. It was Richard F. Mountain.

He sent for the caller to come to his own room.

Mr. Mountain was one who showed in his movements that he was a man of
business, and accustomed to affairs.

“Are we alone, Mr. Carter?” he added, on entering. “What I have to say
is strictly confidential.”

“We cannot be overheard here,” replied Nick.

“Then the next question is, can I rely upon you to take my case?”

“I never decide to take a case until I hear the story,” said Nick, “but
whatever confidence you give me will be respected.”

“It’s a case of attempted blackmail,” replied Mr. Mountain.

“The Brown Robin?” asked Nick.

Mr. Mountain stared a moment before he replied:

“Yes, that name has cropped up in the case.”

“Then I take your case,” said Nick, “for I am already engaged. Go on
with the story.”

“I am an insurance agent and real estate broker,” said Mr. Mountain,
plunging at once into his story, “and frequently have sums of money in
my hands for investment belonging to other people. My reputation is good
and my standing high.

“Some time ago I was caught in a speculation in which I had ventured
rather recklessly. I reached a point where, unless I could put up a very
considerable sum, I was likely to lose all I had ventured—lose
everything.

“In this strait I used the money of an estate I was managing, and saved
myself for that time. It was wrong and was something that people did not
believe I would be guilty of.

“After I had passed this money out of my hands an accounting was
suddenly and unexpectedly demanded of me. I was in a corner, likely to
be exposed and ruined. The facts were not suspected, however, and a day
or two intervened. I tried to extricate myself, but could not.

“In my distress I determined on suicide, and drew up a statement which
was a confession, placing it in my desk, to be found when my death was
announced.

“On the day I had fixed for my death—the day of accounting, I was given
a respite by a postponement for one week.

“During that week the speculation I was engaged in was brought to an
unexpected and successful conclusion and realization. I was in funds
again—in fact, a rich man.

“During the few days left me before the accounting, I was so busy in
preparing for it and buying back securities that I had used, that the
confession passed from my mind.

“After I had passed through the accounting triumphantly, I looked for
it. It was gone. I searched and inquired, but without success.

“For a long time it worried me greatly, but as time went on and nothing
came of it, I began to think that I must have destroyed it and forgotten
I had done so.

“But yesterday a copy of it was presented to me, and I was told that I
could have the copy and the original for fifty thousand dollars.

“I temporized and put off further negotiations until to-morrow. Now,
that is the whole story. And, Mr. Carter, I am here to say that I will
not pay the sum. I will not be blackmailed. I don’t want to be exposed,
either; I do not want the disgrace that would follow. My business would
be ruined. That is a small matter in one way, for I am a wealthy man,
but I do not want to lose the respect and confidence I enjoy.

“In my whole business life I have made this one false step. But, all the
same, I will not be blackmailed.

“Now, with handing you this letter, received this morning, I have stated
my case.”

He took a letter from his pocket and handed it to Nick. At a glance Nick
recognized the paper and the handwriting. It read:

  “Mr. Richard F. Mountain: Contrary to my custom, I gave you two days
  to comply with my demands. Then I thought you asked for time to gather
  the money required. Reviewing our talk, I see now that you made no
  promise. I have been lax. I shall not be again. To-morrow you must be
  prepared to comply. I shall call you to a place to pay the money. Be
  prompt in your coming. But heed this. Do not call in the services of
  Nick Carter. Do not talk to him at all.

                                                      “The Brown Robin.”

Holding the letter in his hand, Nick asked:

“How was this demand made?”

“By a young man who called on me at my office yesterday afternoon.”

“What name did he give?”

“None. He approached when I was engaged with some people I was doing
business with, merely saying:

“This is a copy, but important enough to demand your immediate
attention.”

“I read it, of course, and, getting up from my seat, took him aside,
demanding to know what was wanted.

“His answer was that he was acting for another person, who wanted fifty
thousand dollars for the original. Situated as I was, surrounded by
people who were at the time placing financial trust in me, I could do
nothing but fight for delay and postponement.”

“I see,” said Nick. “Now, have you any idea who this young man was?”

“No.”

“Nor who it is he says he represents?”

“No knowledge.”

“Do you suspect any one?”

“Well, I hardly know how to reply. I had a typewriter—a young woman in
my employ, who left me suddenly just before I missed that paper. Time
and time again my mind has gone back to her in suspicion with nothing to
support it. Her name was Alberta Curtis.”

“Have you heard of her since she left you?”

“In a way, immediately after her disappearance. She was a Southern girl
of a good but impoverished family. She eloped with a married man. That
was the cause of her leaving me. I heard of it from her family, who cast
her off for the act.”

“With whom did she elope?”

“I only know his name—Charles Stymer.”

Just then Patsy came in, and Nick sent for him.

“This is Patsy Murphy, Mr. Mountain,” said Nick. “One of my most trusted
aids. I want to question him on some business he has on hand.”

Turning to Patsy, he asked:

“Did you follow your man?”

“Yes. He gave me a chase, too.”

“Did you get close to him—close enough to know what he looks like?”

“I had a talk with him.”

“Describe him to me?”

Patsy gave an elaborate description of the man that had figured before
him both as George Vernon and Harold Stanton.

As Patsy talked, Nick, closely watching Mr. Mountain, saw him show signs
of increasing excitement, until he finally burst out:

“Why, he is describing the very man who called on me yesterday.”

“Then,” said Nick, with a smile, “the Brown Robin is both a man and a
woman.”

“I do not understand you,” said Mr. Mountain.

“Probably not,” said Nick. “I am not far enough in the case to
understand it myself. We are already engaged on one case of blackmail in
which the Brown Robin figures as a woman. Now you give us one in which
it figures as a man.

“The Brown Robin has given a good deal of trouble in Chicago, Boston and
Philadelphia without being detected.

“It has just begun operations in New York. I imagine your case is the
first one of its operations, and the other we have the second.

“Whether it is a he or a she, or a gang, it is bold, audacious and
skillful, working in a new way.”

“By the way, chief,” asked Patsy, “have you received another letter from
the Brown Robin?”

“Yes; why do you ask?”

“Because this fellow I followed sent you one.”

Nick picked a letter from the table and handed it to Patsy. It read:

  “My Dear Uncle: Really, you are much better than I supposed. It is
  worth while working against you. You’re not easy, but keep me at work.
  What a dance you gave me this morning. And your Patsy is a regular
  laloo. He ran me down and cornered me this morning. If he had dared to
  arrest me he would have done so, but he had no right to do that, so,
  of course, he didn’t. I slipped away from him only by accident. The
  above is only by the way. I write to say that you are not serving Papa
  Cary well. Drop him for his own sake. Even if you do stop him from
  giving me more, I’ll ruin him. That is my rule. His safety is in
  submitting to me.

                                                      “The Brown Robin.”

Patsy folded the letter, and handed it back to Nick, saying:

“He wrote another to the other.”

“Who?”

Patsy wrote the name of Alpheus Cary on a slip of paper, handing it to
Nick.

“Ah! I must know what it said,” said Nick, as he glanced at it.

Turning to Mr. Mountain, Nick said:

“One of the peculiar features of this affair is the frequent and
impudent letters that are written to me.

“Until you came with your story, I was at a loss to understand the
reason of them. I do now. Your case is the big one. While it is being
worked the Brown Robin would have us think that the other case is the
only one it is working on.

“It is quite ingenious and a new way of working. Leaving a trail open on
the second, they will carefully make those to the first blind.

“Now, Mr. Mountain, return to your office. Another aid of mine will call
on you as soon as he can. His sole business will be to study your
appearance. Give him every opportunity.

“If you receive another letter, let him have it. If you receive a notice
from the Brown Robin to go to any particular place, tell him of it. That
I must know of at the earliest moment.

“Now, Patsy, Chick is over somewhere in Seventeenth Street. Find him and
send him to Mr. Mountain’s office. Now get away, please, both of you,
for I must go out.”

Mr. Mountain returned to his office, feeling a weight off his shoulders,
since the celebrated Nick Carter had the case in hand.

Patsy hurried off to find Chick.

Nick himself made his way to the Zetler Bank to find Mr. Cary almost in
a state of collapse.

A messenger had brought him a letter from the Brown Robin.

It read:

  “Dear Papa Cary: Your little present of last night only went a little
  way. I want more for some expenses I have. You must be at the corner
  of Fourth Avenue and Twenty-eighth Street this afternoon at five
  o’clock. Be prompt, now, because there will be some one there to bring
  you to me. And bring some money. A nice good lot. Don’t fail, if you
  do——

                                                      “The Brown Robin.”

When Nick had read this letter, Mr. Cary handed him a photograph which
he said had been brought in but a short time before, carefully wrapped
up.

Nick saw that it was one taken by flashlight. It showed a woman sitting
on Mr. Cary’s knee, her arms about his neck, his face showing plainly.

Nick thought it was about as compromising a picture as a respectable
elderly gentleman of family could be tortured with, and one of which
clearly no explanation could be given to offset or contradict the story
it told. He studied the woman’s face, or so much as she showed. There
was art in the way it was shown, yet concealed.

“Tear it up and burn it,” he said. “You must not have it lying about
your desk.”

And while Mr. Cary was engaged in the work of destroying the damaging
photograph, Nick was busily thinking.

Finally he asked:

“Have you nerve enough to keep this engagement with the Brown Robin and
carry her another hundred dollars?”

Against this Mr. Alpheus Cary protested warmly, declaring that he never
again would voluntarily see the woman.

But Nick’s persuasive powers must have been great, for shortly after
four o’clock Mr. Cary was seen to leave the bank, and had he been
followed, it would have been seen that his way was up Fourth Avenue.




                               CHAPTER V.
                         THE BROWN ROBIN DINES.


As the hour of five approached, an elderly gentleman who would have been
recognized by any of the directors of the Zetler Bank as Mr. Alpheus
Cary, its president, could be seen on the corner of Twenty-eighth Street
and Fourth Avenue.

He was looking in every direction, and peering into the face of every
man who approached him, exhibiting a nervousness and an anxiety which
showed that he regarded his mission at that place as everything but
pleasant.

Frequently he took out his handkerchief and mopped his face; altogether,
he made himself rather conspicuous on the corner.

Finally, as five o’clock was reached, a young man Patsy would have
recognized as the one who went to sleep in the hotel after writing two
letters, came up from some unknown place, for Mr. Alpheus Cary thought
he sprang from the earth.

“Mr. Cary, I believe,” said this young man, addressing the elderly
gentleman.

“That is my name,” replied Mr. Cary, nervously.

“I thought that I recognized you,” said the young man.

“Are you the one——”

But he was interrupted.

“How is the market to-day, Mr. Cary?” asked the young man. “My eye has
been off the tape to-day, and I am carrying a lot of U. P.”

Could any one have been close enough, they would have seen that while
the young man was asking this question, and others, and receiving
nervous and embarrassed answers to them, he was closely watching the
elderly man.

If Mr. Cary had been a sharp detective, he would have thought that these
sharp looks meant something, but as he was not, of course, he apparently
did not observe them.

Finally the young man said:

“Are you prepared to follow me?”

“Why, yes; that is why I am here, I suppose. Are you the one who was to
meet me here?”

“Mr. Cary, are you acting in good faith?”

“Why, yes, what do you mean?”

“Did you come here alone?”

“Entirely so.”

“Did any one know of your coming here besides yourself?”

“Not a single person.”

“Will you give your word that Nick Carter is not in concealment here to
see us go off together and to follow us?”

“I will swear that I am here alone; that neither Nick Carter nor any one
else is in concealment here to follow us.”

“Very good; I’ll take your word for it. But let me tell you that if you
have deceived me in any way, that you will be punished in a way that you
will not like.”

“I have not deceived you. No one is with me, and no one could suspect
that I was to be here.”

“Come along, then.”

The young man led Mr. Cary down Twenty-eighth Street to Lexington
Avenue, and, turning the corner, hurried him into a nearby doorway.

“I do not disbelieve you, Mr. Cary, but I am going to be satisfied.”

They stood there a while. Evidently satisfied that they were not
followed, he motioned for Mr. Cary to follow him.

Their way now was to a rather plain house at the other end of the block.

Reaching it, they mounted the steps, the young man tapping at the door.
It was opened immediately, and the young man motioned for Mr. Cary to
enter.

Then he followed, closing the door after him.

“Enter the parlor, Mr. Cary,” he said, “and I will call the one you came
to see.”

He disappeared, running up the stairs.

Mr. Cary had a long time to think over the wisdom or unwisdom of his
step in again putting himself in the power of the woman who had, the
night previous, played him such a scurvy trick.

For one who wanted to see him so badly as she had written, the Brown
Robin was slow in making her appearance.

By and by, however, there was a movement on the stairs, in the hall, and
Mr. Cary anxiously waiting, heard the Brown Robin’s voice saying, rather
commandingly:

“You will be here promptly at nine in the morning?”

The voice of the young man who had brought him to the house was heard in
reply.

“Yes, my sister; but you will not see me until that time.”

The other door opened and closed with a bang.

Mr. Cary grinned on hearing this. But whether in satisfaction of the
departure of the young man, or in pleased anticipation of a
_tête-à-tête_ with the Brown Robin, did not appear.

His face, however, was perfectly composed when the Brown Robin, very
cool and elegant in appearance, entered the parlor.

“How good of you, Papa Cary, to come and see me again,” she cried. “You
may kiss me.”

She offered her cheek to Mr. Cary, who hesitated a moment and then, as
if he could not resist the temptation, awkwardly kissed her, to her
great amusement.

She sat down opposite him, saying:

“I was afraid that you would be angry with me for playing that trick on
you.”

“Then you mean to give me back that money?” said Mr. Cary.

“Oh, dear no,” she cried. “I couldn’t do that. You see, I have spent all
that money. We had to move this morning, and then my brother, Harold,
had some debts that I had to pay. New York is an awfully expensive
place, and I want money. You have brought me some, haven’t you?”

“I should suppose your husband would supply your needs?” said Mr. Cary.
“When does he reach here from Chicago?”

“I hope not soon, Papa Cary, for then I would have to stop seeing you.
And I mean to see a good deal of you. Do you know what I am going to do
this afternoon? I am going to give you a nice dinner. You gave me a nice
one yesterday. Only you’ll pay for this one, just as you did for the one
yesterday. That is, if you have brought me some money. Have you?”

“Have I?” asked Mr. Cary. “Well, yes, I have brought you some. Here is a
hundred dollars.”

He handed the roll to her.

“Only a hundred,” she said, as she took it. “That is not handsome, Papa
Cary. I thought it would be five times as much. But I’ll take this, and
you will have to give me more money five times as often, if you only
give it in such little bits.”

“I’ll give you a good deal more if you will do something for me I want
you to.”

“What is that?”

“Give me that photograph plate and the pictures you have had printed.”

The Brown Robin laid her shapely head back on the cushions of her chair
and laughed long and heartily. Then she said:

“Oh, that poor little trick! You want to bargain with me, Papa Cary.
Now, what will you give for them?”

“What would you have the heart to demand?”

“Well, Papa Cary, I have such a soft heart that I am afraid I must let
you put the figure on them.”

“I will give you a thousand dollars for them.”

“Have you the money here?”

“No. I have no more than I gave you. But I would give it on delivery of
the plate and pictures.”

“And do you think I would give up the pleasure of seeing you for a
thousand dollars?”

“That isn’t the question.”

“Oh, yes it is. Don’t you see that it is owing to my having those
pictures that you are here to-day? If I hadn’t them, you wouldn’t be
here now, would you?”

“Yes, I think I should, if you had sent for me to come.”

The Brown Robin threw her head to one side and eyed the elderly
gentleman shrewdly for a while.

“I am afraid you are fibbing, Papa Cary,” she said. “And I am getting
afraid of you, too. I fear instead of being a respectable, elderly
gentleman, ready to give aid and protection to unprotected females, you
are a gay old dog.

“No, I can’t sell that pretty picture for a thousand dollars. It’s too
cheap. It cost me too much pains to get it. And then, how do I know but
that you will take it to your club, show it around to other gay old
dogs, as your last conquest?”

Mr. Cary grinned delightedly over being called a gay old dog, but shook
his head and protested with his hands.

“But come,” said the Brown Robin, as a servant entered from the rear.
“Come to dinner all by our two selves.”

She led the way, and Mr. Cary followed into a rear room, where a dinner
table was laid.

The dinner was a good one, and Mr. Cary evidently enjoyed it, for he ate
heartily, getting quite gay over it.

Of wine, however, he was sparing in use, though urged often to drink.

When the dinner was over Mr. Cary renewed his efforts to get the
photographic plate, but the Brown Robin was not to be cajoled into a
bargain.

She evaded in every way coming to close quarters, laughing and joking.

Finally she put an end to it all by saying that she must go out, and
that Papa Cary could accompany her a part of the way.

She went to the upper part of the house, and while she was gone Mr. Cary
seemed to show a most inexcusable curiosity as to the room he was left
in and what it contained, for he examined everything in it, picking up a
few things which he put in his pocket.

When the Brown Robin returned she was dressed for the street.

“Am I pretty enough to walk with you?” she asked.

“I don’t know in which costume you are the prettiest,” replied Mr. Cary,
“but there is a strange thing,” he continued. “I do not yet know your
name.”

“You shall call me Mrs. Clymer,” she said, as she led him out of the
door.

She walked with him up Lexington Avenue as far as Thirtieth Street, into
which street she turned, going toward Fourth Avenue. She stopped before
a certain house and looked at its front carefully.

“Let us go in here,” she said.

“What for?”

“To look at it. It is empty. One of those furnished houses to rent. I
like to look at them.”

Mr. Cary followed her up the stoop. The door was opened by a caretaker
who had seen them ascend the steps. Mrs. Clymer, if that was her name,
was contented with looking at the parlors.

She went out, and, walking up to Fourth Avenue, turned to the south, Mr.
Cary obediently following her.

At Twenty-third Street she turned the corner, going to a real estate
office, where she entered into conversation with the broker. Mr. Cary,
meantime, looked out of the window into the street.

If he had known them, he would have recognized in the two men standing
on the pavement near the door, Chick and Patsy.

But the Brown Robin called him to her, saying:

“I must have twenty-five dollars. I want to pay it to this man.”

“I haven’t that amount with me,” replied Mr. Cary.

“Give me your check, then.”

“Oh, I can’t do that. But wait a minute. I can get the money.”

He hurried out, going quickly to the corner. Here he stopped, sounding a
signal. Chick and Patsy, hearing it, went quickly to the corner.

As they came up, Mr. Cary said:

“Follow when I come out of the real estate office.”

He went back, handing to the Brown Robin twenty-five dollars.

Finishing her business, she went out, followed by Mr. Cary. On the
sidewalk she said:

“Now, Papa Cary, you must leave me. But you must come promptly when I
send for you. Perhaps it will be to-morrow. Our fun is only beginning.”

She asked Mr. Cary to stop a Lexington Avenue car for her and got aboard
it when it came, bidding the elderly gentleman good-by at the car, very
sweetly.

Mr. Cary, regaining the sidewalk, turned the corner, walking down Fourth
Avenue to Twenty-second Street.

There he stopped, waiting for Chick and Patsy to come apace, and, when
they did, he said:

“I want to get this makeup off as soon as I can.”

“It’s a pity to take it off,” said Patsy. “It’s great.”

“Boys,” said the elderly gentleman, “that woman is the Brown Robin.”

“The devil!” exclaimed Patsy.

“I am the only detective, or police officer, that has ever spoken to the
Brown Robin, knowing it to be her. I have her measure.”

“Why didn’t you nab her, then, chief?” asked Chick.

“Because she has worked the Cary matter so skillfully that I could not
convict her. I want to get her foul on the Mountain case. But the Brown
Robin is a woman.”

“Then who the devil is Harold Stanton?” asked Patsy.

“I’ll tell you that later. There are others, and we must capture them.
But come with me.”

They hurried to a neighboring hotel, where the Alpheus Cary who had
dined with the Brown Robin quickly came out as Nick Carter, the famous
detective.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                         AN AUDACIOUS VISITOR.


After he had removed his disguise, Nick said to his two aids:

“The Cary case will give us little trouble after this. I shall probably
continue to play his part in it, but it will amount to little more than
shelling out some money. She thinks she has captured him.

“She is a wonderfully clever woman, and is using the Cary incident
merely as a cover to the big strike on Mountain.

“Now, Chick, tell me what you found in Seventeenth Street?”

“That the house was empty; that it had been occupied but two or three
days; that the rent had been paid for a month; but possession has not
been given up.”

“Do you know who rented it?”

“A woman who gave the name of Mrs. Stanton.”

“Hum! I fancy that she has rented another house this evening, the one in
Thirtieth Street. In my way of thinking, that house is to be the scene
of the strike on Mountain.

“That is a job for you, Patsy,” continued Nick. “Watch that house from
early to-morrow morning and settle who goes in and all about it. Nothing
will be done there to-night.

“I must go to Cary’s club and quiet him for the night. He is nearly in a
collapse. How about Mountain, Chick?”

“I saw him. He is game, chief. Nothing came for him from the Brown Robin
up to the time of his leaving his office. He will not yield. He is going
to the theatre to-night.”

“Do you know where?”

“Yes; at the Empire.”

“Ah, ha! Be in the neighborhood, boys, and keep him under watch if you
can. He is quite as likely to get his notice there as anywhere.”

Nick went home satisfied that if there was any movement made that night,
it would be only in the way he indicated.

“A lady is waiting to see you in the parlor, Nick,” said Edith, as he
entered.

“Who is it?”

“She would give no name,” replied Edith. “She is young, pretty, and has
asked me a lot of questions about you.”

“Of course you gave me a good character,” laughed Nick.

“I told the truth about you, and you can guess what it was, for I won’t
tell you,” laughed Edith, in reply. “But hurry and get rid of her, for I
want you to go out a ways with me.”

Nick went to the parlor.

No man ever had a greater control of his features than the famous
detective. He always maintained his self-control under the most trying
circumstances. He had more than once looked certain death in the face
without blinking.

But he had as narrow an escape from betraying himself as he ever met
with, when, on opening the parlor door, he saw the Brown Robin occupying
one of his sofas.

The shock was momentary and not observed by the other.

Nick crossed the room, bowing before his visitor, gravely, and said:

“I am Mr. Carter, madam.”

The Brown Robin arose from her seat and looked most keenly and curiously
into his face. Nick would have been dull indeed, if he had not also seen
the look of admiration that grew on the face of his visitor.

But it did not affect him. Indeed he was just then striving to guess
what the game of the Brown Robin was in seeking him at his own home.

“I should be much pleased, Mr. Carter,” said the Brown Robin, “if you
would listen to what I have to say and give me your advice.”

“I certainly will listen to you,” replied Nick, “but as to the advice I
cannot tell yet. But, be seated and begin.”

The Brown Robin sat down, and, taking from her pocket a letter, she
said:

“If you will read that it will be a good beginning.”

She handed it to him, and at a glance Nick saw that it was one of the
kind with which now he was familiar. He read it:

  “Mrs. Ansel: I have named my figures. I have only this to say further:
  If the money is not at the place to be mentioned, and at the time,
  your letters will be in the hands of your husband in the evening.

                                                      “The Brown Robin.”

Nick handed the letter back and waited for the Brown Robin to speak.
Apparently she was much embarrassed, and Nick, studying her, thought she
was an admirable actress.

Finally she burst out:

“You are not at all sympathetic, Mr. Carter. Cannot you help me by
asking questions?”

Nick smiled. Her acting pleased him, it was so good.

“I presume I can,” he said. “I suppose this is a case of blackmail.”

“Horrid blackmail.”

“What are the letters referred to?”

“Mine, written before I was married.”

“Why, then, should you fear to have your husband see them?”

“Well, they are compromising—that is, some of them—that is, in a way.
They were written while I was engaged to the one who is now my husband,
to a man of whom my husband is now and always has been desperately
jealous.”

“Who is this Brown Robin?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I was asking if you knew.”

“I only know that it is a name under which some one is making my life
miserable. Who and what is the Brown Robin?”

“A blackmailer, evidently. I have heard of the name as used by a person
in various cities, and latterly in New York.”

“Is it a man or a woman?”

“The Brown Robin, I should judge, is a name used by a man and a woman,
working together.”

A faint smile flitted over the face of the lady.

There was a moment’s silence. Then Nick asked:

“How did these letters get into the possession of the Brown Robin?”

“They were stolen from Mr. Collins.”

“The man to whom they were written?”

“Yes.”

“By whom?”

“By the Brown Robin, I suppose.”

“How much money does she want?”

“One thousand dollars.”

“And you cannot pay it?”

“I have no more money than my husband gives me, and he would find it
difficult to raise so large a sum.”

“Now, then, what is it you wish from me?”

“Well, what am I to do?”

“I think I should say that it is simply impossible—that you would find
it difficult to raise a thousand cents. Convince these people of your
inability to raise the money, and, as a rule, they drop the thing. It is
the hope of getting money that makes them hold on.”

“But cannot you give me some way of getting back those letters?”

“Frankly, Mrs. Ansel, for that I take to be your name,” said Nick, “I
don’t think the game is worth the candle.

“If I were in your place, I should take a detective of the regular force
with me to the appointed place, and when the blackmailer appeared, put
him, or her, or them, under arrest. They would give up the letters to be
released.”

“Wouldn’t you go with me?”

Immediately Nick thought he saw through the purpose of the call. It was
the audacious effort of which he had spoken to Edith, of leading him
into a compromising trap.

It did not anger him, for he rather admired the boldness and audacity of
it.

However, his first impulse was to refuse, but his second thought was to
see it out. He said:

“I am a very busy man just now, and cannot control my time. What is the
hour of this meeting, and where is it to be?”

“The hour is eleven to-morrow, but I am to be informed early to-morrow
morning of the place.”

“Very well, I will go with you, if you inform me early enough.”

The Brown Robin arose, apparently much pleased with the success of her
visit, and shortly after left.

Nick went back to Edith, telling her to prepare herself for her walk and
saying that he wanted to go in the neighborhood of the Festus Club, for
a moment’s word with one of his clients.

When she came back, ready for her walk, she asked:

“Who was your caller, Nick?”

“The Brown Robin.”

“Nick! You don’t mean that that pretty woman is the Brown Robin?”

“No doubt of it!”

“How do you know?”

“I called on the Brown Robin to-day, disguised as Alpheus Cary.”

“And she had the audacity to come and see you, knowing you are retained
to expose her?”

“Boldness and audacity are her weapons.”

“What did she want?”

“She pretended that she was a Mrs. Ansel, who was being blackmailed by
the Brown Robin.”

“She came to measure you, Nick, to size you up, as you call it.”

“Perhaps that was her game. She has never seen me, I suppose. But,
Edith, I think she was laying the trap of which I spoke this morning.”

“How?”

“She wanted me to accompany her as Mrs. Ansel to meet the Brown Robin
and compel the giving up of the letters.”

“Ah! and you do not walk into the trap.”

“But I will. Something of value may come out of it. I will escape it,
never fear. Chick and Patsy will not be far off, I can tell you.”

Edith made no reply. Quite evidently she did not like it, but she knew
it was useless to combat Nick when he had made up his mind.

So she held her peace and went out for her walk with him.

During their walk they stopped at the door of the Festus Club, where
Nick told Mr. Cary that he had his case so well in hand that the old
gentleman could go home and sleep in comfort.




                              CHAPTER VII.
                        CHICK’S GREAT DISCOVERY.


When Nick had left Chick and Patsy at the hotel, where he had taken off
the disguise of Mr. Cary, the two young detectives discussed their own
details for the night.

“We’re to keep a watch over Mountain,” said Chick.

“He seems able to watch over himself,” replied Patsy.

“Oh, he’s able enough,” said Chick. “It isn’t that. The chief wants to
know the moment he gets the word from the Brown Robin. He believes that
the Brown Robin will show up to-night.”

“Then we must be on,” said Patsy. “It’s up to us to decorate the lobby
of the Empire with our beauty. Say, Chick, it’s the old story. We’ve
swung about the Tenderloin so much lately that too many know us.”

“And we’ll have to look different. Well, Patsy, let’s swing out as swell
Willie boys.”

Patsy laughed heartily, pounding the pillar against which he had been
leaning.

“A sweet Willie boy you’ll make Chick,” he said, after a while, “with
those broad shoulders of yours. No, no, Chick. Do your own act. Swing
out as a regular swell.”

Chick looked at his watch, and said:

“It is nearly time to rig, then. But come with me first. I want to look
over that Seventeenth Street house again. Though the people in the
neighborhood say the folks who were in it for three days have left it,
I’ve a notion it’s still in the game.”

The two moved off in the direction of the house in question, and had
reached the corner of Twenty-third Street and Lexington Avenue on their
way, when a young man in a blue flannel shirt and a coil of wire about
his shoulder, stopped Chick and asked:

“Ain’t you Chickering Carter?”

“Yes,” replied Chick, eying the young man keenly.

“Well, say,” said the young man, “it’s up to me to tell you something.
Say, I’ve been chewing on it all day, and just as soon as I was cleaned
up I was going to hunt up Nick Carter and give it away, if it did fling
me out of a job.”

“Can you tell me?” asked Chick.

“That’s what I hollered whoa on you for. You’ll do just as well.”

“Step aside, then,” said Chick.

Chick led the way to a place near the corner, where they could talk
unobserved, followed by both Patsy and the young man.

“Now, then, what is it?” asked Chick

“I’ve been dead wrong,” said the young man, “and I’m going to square it,
even if you fling me over to the company. It’s this way. I’m lineman for
the telephone company. See?

“I know all about Nick Carter, and you, and Patsy and Ida. See? Well, I
was working on the line up by Ida’s house this morning, where a break
had been reported, and I had to go on to the top of a house right by
hers.

“Well, I found a wire had been rung in on it, and I followed it to see
that it run over the gutter and to a window on the third floor. See?

“I went down to that room, and there was a young woman, and she was a
peach, all smiles. See?

“‘You’ve found it,’ she says, ‘and caught me. Now don’t give me away,
’cause there’s nothing in it. I was only trying to get on to my best
feller.’ See?

“Anyhow, she give me the great jolly and I went in up to my neck. I was
soft as butter. When she flung up a fiver at me, hanged if I didn’t do
what she wanted, and fixed the wire to an old ’phone she had in the
room.

“She jollied me into it. See? After I got away from her, I began to
think, and the more I thought the more wrong it was to me, and I saw
what mush I’d been in the hands of a pretty woman.

“So, after I’d been thinking an hour, I went back to unfix it. Say! Just
as I got to her door I heard her say: ‘All right, chief, this is Ida.’
Then I took a big tumble. I listened and heard her say over what the one
at the other end had been saying, something about ‘Herman Hartwig’ and
‘Passen.’ She had got on to Nick Carter’s talk and was a crook playing
Ida.

“I took a sneak up to the roof, cut the leak wire, and switched the
other over so that the crook couldn’t get at it again.

“That’s all there is of it. I’ve squared it with you, and, if you want
to, you can report me to the company and get me sacked. I won’t squeal.”

“Well,” cried Chick, “I wouldn’t do that, anyway. And now that you’ve
squared yourself this way, I wouldn’t think of it.

“It was the chief she was talking with over the wire, but there wasn’t
any harm done, for he dropped right away that it wasn’t Ida on the other
end, and gave the other a throw-off. He cut the connections with his own
’phone.

“If you want to square it right with the chief, go to his place
to-morrow morning and put the connections on. I’ll see him to-night and
square you with him.”

The young man, expressing satisfaction with this arrangement, went off,
after shaking hands with both Chick and Patsy.

But he had gotten no farther than the corner when he stopped short,
peered forward eagerly, and came back to the young detectives on a run.

“Say,” he cried. “Come. The young woman is going down the av’noo. Sure,
it’s her.”

“Who?” asked Patsy.

“The one who worked me on the wires.”

The two followed quickly to the corner, where the man pointed out a
woman moving along at a brisk gait down Lexington Avenue.

“Come on, Patsy,” cried Chick.

The young man evidently thought he was in it, too, for he followed
after.

The woman, plainly unconscious that she was followed, went on until she
reached Twenty-first Street, when she was stopped by Grammery Park.

She turned to the right, or toward the west, and went around the park to
Twentieth Street, and so down to Irving place.

Into this short street she turned, continuing on to Seventeenth Street.

“Hide!” cried Chick, just as she reached the corner, springing over the
fence into a courtyard.

Patsy obeyed immediately and the lineman caught on quickly enough to
prevent himself from being seen.

As Chick had anticipated, the woman had stood still on the corner and
looked back.

As no one was to be seen, she was apparently satisfied that she was
unobserved, for she turned to the left and went out of sight.

The three came from their hiding places, and, at Chick’s suggestion,
Patsy stole up to the corner, peering around it.

He signaled for Chick to come, and dashed across Seventeenth Street.

The woman was pursuing her way toward Third Avenue on the upper side of
Seventeenth Street.

“Keep back, out of sight,” said Chick to the lineman.

The young man fell back, and Chick advanced cautiously, taking advantage
of every obstruction of which he could make use.

Patsy was pursuing the same tactics on the other side of the street.

When within a few doors of Third Avenue, the woman again stopped and
looked back.

This had been anticipated by Chick, too, and he was out of sight when
she turned.

Nor was Patsy to be seen. The only one in the vista was a man—the
lineman—and his back was turned, as if he were walking toward Irving
Place.

Hastily she ran up the steps of the house in front of which she had
stopped, and disappeared through the door.

Chick and Patsy both appeared at the same instant. Chick sounded a
signal, and Patsy came running to him.

“Is it the house, Chick?” he asked.

“The same one, Patsy,” replied Chick.

“Then it is the Brown Robin.”

“Perhaps. We’ll pipe off the house for a while.”

The lineman came back to them, and learning what they were about to do,
concluded to go off, but Chick persuaded him to stay.

While he had every reason to believe that the young fellow was honest,
yet he would not take the chance of having him give warning.

The wait was half an hour in length, during which time the three were
completely concealed under the areaway of a vacant house.

About the time that Patsy expressed the opinion that the woman was
settled for the night, a form was seen to appear on the stoop from
within the house they were watching.

“Here she comes!” cried Patsy.

The figure descended the steps.

“It’s a man,” said the lineman, “not a woman.”

The figure turned from the house toward the west, approaching closely to
the spot where the three were hidden.

As the man passed them, the light of a street lamp fell upon him.

Patsy caught the arm of Chick in a firm grip, and held it until the
figure of the man passed far enough along to be beyond the possibility
of hearing.

“It is the one I followed this morning,” he whispered.

“The deuce!” exclaimed Chick. “The one who wrote the letter—who went to
sleep in the hotel?”

“Yes; in the disguise he put on after he ran away from the insurance
building.”

“Get out and watch him,” said Chick to the lineman.

The young fellow did as he was told, and presently reported that the man
was crossing Irving Place and going up Seventeenth Street to the west.

“Patsy,” said Chick, “go and rig yourself for the night’s work. I’ll
take up the shadow and will give you the trail.”

Patsy was about to go off, but he waited to hear Chick say to the
lineman:

“It isn’t worth your while to follow us longer.”

But at the moment the lineman said:

“The fellow is coming back.”

Again the three went into hiding to see that the young fellow stopped at
the corner of Irving Place.

He stood there a moment or two, looking down the street, and passed out
of sight.

Patsy stole up to the corner, and lightly leaping into the courtyard of
the house on the corner, threw himself on the ground and wriggled to the
corner, to see the man standing nearby, leaning against the fence.

Patsy wriggled back, and signaled to Chick that the man was there yet.

Chick gave the return signal to keep up the watch, and himself stole
down the street to the house whence the man had come.

Looking up at it, there were no indications that it was occupied.

Pulling from his pocket a false mustache and a wig, he donned them
quickly, keenly alive to any signal Patsy might give, and, mounting the
steps, rang the bell.

Chick had a notion in his head that he wanted to satisfy.

There was no response, though he rang several times.

Then he tried the outer door. It opened to him, and he found himself in
a vestibule. The inner doors were locked.

He picked the lock quickly and stepped into a dark hall. There were no
signs or sounds of life within the house, but all was darkness.

Chick drew his revolver, and then took from his coat pocket his lantern.

Feeling for the parlor door, he entered that room and listened. Then he
flashed his lantern. It was empty. By the light he located the stairs,
and shutting it off, cautiously climbed them to the second floor, where
he listened again.

There was no sound of anything. Again flashing his light, he found an
open door in front of him.

He entered. On the bed was a lot of women’s clothes. He examined them.
It was a complete woman’s costume.

On a chair was some men’s apparel.

Chick went back to the woman’s clothes and muttered:

“It is just what I thought.”

He gave a hasty glance at the bureau. On it was a lot of paint and
cosmetic; several false beards, mustaches and wigs.

“I’ve got this for a certainty.”

He bounded out of the room, going hurriedly into every part of the
house. It was empty; not a soul in it.

He went to the front door, and as he did so he heard some one on the
outside.

He darted into the parlor and not a moment too soon, for some one
entered and hastily ran upstairs in the dark.

Quick as a flash and as a light shone forth on the second floor, Chick
slipped out of the front doors and down the steps.

Reaching the sidewalk, he sounded a low whistle.

Promptly came the response; Chick bounded in its direction.

Patsy appeared from under a stoop; Chick went to him.

“Who went into that house?” he asked.

“The same one who came out. He came back all of a sudden, as if he had
just thought of something, nearly catching me. Who came out just now?”

“I did.”

“The devil!”

“Yes; I’ve been through the house. There wasn’t a soul in it.”

“But the woman who went in?”

“Patsy, I’ve tumbled to a big thing. The woman who went in and the man
who came out are the same person. But hurry off, Patsy, rig up and find
my trail. There’s business on hand.”

Patsy dashed away and was hardly out of sight, when Chick saw the young
man come from the house and hurriedly pass up Seventeenth Street.

Chick was after him quickly, a piece of red chalk in his hand. The
lineman had disappeared.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                              A DEEP GAME.


For some time, as a matter of convenience for making changes and as a
meeting place for himself and aids, Nick had maintained a room in the
hotel where, in the late afternoon of the day in which these events took
place, he had taken off his makeup as Mr. Cary.

It was to this place that Patsy hurried to make the change that would
prevent him from being recognized by the Brown Robin.

It did not take him long, and when he turned out into the street again,
in his dress suit and mustache, he looked like a veritable young man
about town—a handsome swell.

He had supposed when he left the room where he made the change that he
would have to return to the neighborhood where Chick had made his great
discovery, to pick up Chick’s trail.

But he had barely stepped through the main entrance to the hotel when he
saw, on the pavement directly in front, a roughly-drawn arrow in red
chalk, the head pointing to the north.

It was Chick’s trail.

“Great luck!” exclaimed Patsy to himself, as he hurried up to the
corner. “I’m on as the flag falls.”

At the corner the sign showed that Chick had crossed the street to the
west side of Broadway, but on reaching the corner on that side, Patsy
could see nothing that indicated further direction.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Patsy. “They have taken a car.”

He went back to the middle of the street, and, looking about carefully,
saw some pieces of paper.

He looked for a trail of them, but the wind had evidently blown them
away.

Searching further, Patsy’s eye was caught by an upright form which
fluttered a small red flag, a signal of some kind, used in the operation
of the street railway.

This upright was a slender rod of iron, but about it was tied a small
bit of red cloth.

Patsy went to it, to recognize it as one of Chick’s signs.

A railroad man came up, warning Patsy away from the signal.

“Now, who the deuce did that?” he exclaimed, tearing off Chick’s signal.

But Patsy had seen it, and knew that Chick had taken an upbound car.

So he mounted the next one, quite certain that Chick’s destination was
the Empire Theatre.

But, all the same, he kept a sharp lookout for any signal that might
have been left by Chick on the way.

He saw none, however, until in passing the Empire Theatre, his eye
caught a strip of red cloth, a foot long, fluttering from the billboard
of the theatre.

“Chick’s there,” he muttered.

At Fortieth Street he got out and walked back to the theatre, taking off
the strip of cloth which had been fastened by a pin, as he entered,
placing it in his pocket.

As he entered the lobby, a man in ordinary clothes passed out, making a
signal to Patsy.

Even before Patsy saw the signal he had recognized Chick, though he was
disguised by a false mustache and wig.

He followed Chick out, and when he came up, Chick said:

“My man, who is a woman—the Brown Robin—is in there, looking at the
play. The second act is on.

“Mountain is in there, too. The Brown Robin talked with Mountain after
the first act. What was said between them I don’t know, but whatever it
was, the Brown Robin asked something from Mountain which he refused to
give or do.

“I couldn’t get to him before he went back to his seat.”

“Catch him after this act,” said Patsy.

“That’s what I want to do,” said Chick, “and I have been thinking it
over and how to do it. You see, if we talk with Mountain in the open,
the Brown Robin will drop, and that is what we don’t want.

“Say, Patsy, you know the manager, don’t you?”

“Yes; he’s all right—nice fellow.”

“Well, can’t you see him now, and ask him to let us into a room and send
for Mr. Mountain?”

“Sure.”

Patsy went off, and in a few moments was back again, saying it was all
arranged. He led Chick into a room opening off the lobby, and when the
door was closed Patsy laughed and said:

“This job was easy enough, Chick, but the hard part was to convince our
friend that I was the one I said I was. He knows Mountain, so that is
all right.”

At this moment the door opened, and a short, rather stout man, with a
sharp, bright, masterful face, entered, looking keenly about.

“The great mogul over all here,” whispered Patsy.

It was indeed the great theatrical manager of the day.

“Which one is Patsy?” he asked.

Patsy stood up, and the great manager looked him over keenly.

Then he laughed heartily, and shook hands with the lad.

“Patsy,” he said, “I think I shall have to engage you to teach makeup to
my young people. Yours is a triumph of art.”

Directing the boy in attendance to make the two comfortable, he went
out.

Shortly after, a bell sounded in the room.

“The act is over,” said Chick; “now for Mountain.”

They did not wait long, for the door soon opened and Mr. Mountain, in
evening attire, entered.

He looked at the two with the air of one who had expected to find
acquaintances and had met strangers.

“Mr. Mountain,” said Chick, “we are two of Nick Carter’s men.”

“The woods are full of them, then,” said Mr. Mountain, seriously, “for
this is the second time I have been accosted by them.”

“Do you mean,” asked Chick, “that the one who spoke to you after the
first act said he was one of Nick Carter’s men?”

“That’s what he did.”

“For Heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Chick. “I hope you gave him no
confidence.”

“I did not. I told him that I did not know whether he was or not, and I
would not talk to him until I knew or he proved it. Then I told him that
when I knew him to be one of Nick Carter’s men I would have nothing to
do with him, or Nick Carter, either, for I had been warned against all.
And that’s what I say to you.”

“You do not recognize me, then, Mr. Mountain?”

“I do not.”

Chick stood up, and quickly removed his mustache and wig.

“How now, Mr. Mountain?”

“There’s no doubt of it now,” laughed Mr. Mountain.

“I am Patsy, Mr. Mountain,” said the lad, “but I can’t take off my
makeup so quickly or put it on again.”

“Well, boys,” said Mr. Mountain, “what’s in the wind?”

“We have been detailed by the chief to watch over you, Mr. Mountain,”
said Chick. “He had a notion that you would get your notice to-night.”

“He was right. I did.”

“When?”

“See here, Chick,” said Mr. Mountain, “Carter told me that if I was
questioned I must deny having anything to do with him or his men.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Mountain,” said Chick. “The chief has a notion
that they do not know that you have retained him, and he wants to keep
the thing quiet. I hope you did not let on to that young man that you
had relations with us.”

“Why?”

“Because that was the Brown Robin.”

“The devil! I saw Nick Carter only a couple of hours ago, and he told me
the Brown Robin was a woman.”

“The person speaking to you after the first act was a woman.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Certain. Now, then, what did she want?”

“Say, Chick,” exclaimed Patsy. “Hold on! Mr. Mountain has seen her in
the makeup she had when she left Seventeenth Street.”

“That’s all right, Patsy, but she made a change on her way up here. Now,
Mr. Mountain, what did she want?”

“Well, after telling me she was one of Nick Carter’s men, she asked if I
had got my notice. I refused to say anything to her on the subject, and
when she talked Nick Carter I told her, as Mr. Carter had instructed me,
that I had nothing to do with him, and wanted to have nothing to do.

“He—that is, she, if it is a she—began to threaten me with Nick Carter’s
power, but I wouldn’t have it. I stood pat on Mr. Carter’s
instructions.”

“That is first-rate,” said Chick. “I see the game through and through.
It was an effort to be satisfied whether or not Nick Carter is employed
by you.”

“Well, then, she is satisfied that he is not, for I lied like a
trooper.”

“Good! Now, then, you have got your notice?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“By letter. It was thrust into my hand as I entered the theatre here.”

“May I see it?”

Mr. Mountain took a letter from his pocket, handing it to Chick, who,
after reading it, passed it to Patsy. It read:

  “Mr. M.: To-morrow at 5 P. M. Be at the entrance of the Park Avenue
  Hotel, prepared to do business, as I require. Make no mistake as to
  the amount. You will be met by one who will bring you to me. If you
  are accompanied by any one, or, if any one is concealed there to watch
  and follow, I shall know it, and if you play tricks the game will be
  up. Be prompt.

                                                      “The Brown Robin.”

“So it’s business to-morrow,” said Chick.

“It seems so,” replied Mr. Mountain. “I want to see Carter on this
business; I meant to go to him after the theatre.”

“Don’t; let him go to you,” said Chick. “You will be seen and followed
if you go. He will get to you unseen.”

“I suppose that is so,” said Mr. Mountain, thoughtfully. “You will
inform him then?”

“Yes; I will take this letter to him.”

Chick was thoughtful a moment, then handed the letter back, saying:

“On second thoughts, Mr. Mountain, keep that letter in your pocket. You
may be required to show it, and it may be well to do it, if so.”

“How?”

“The man who first came to you may show up before the evening is over.”

“I see.”

“A lot may be done to find out whether you are acting in good faith
before they put their heads in the trap.”

“I follow you. Good! I am to act as I meant to come down in earnest.”

“That is it.”

The bell sounded again to notify of the raising of the curtain.

“Go back, Mr. Mountain, as if nothing had occurred here,” said Chick.

Mr. Mountain went into the lobby, and Chick asked an attendant if there
was a way out of the room except through the lobby.

An unknown way was pointed out, and through it Chick and Patsy went out
to Broadway.

Here Chick said:

“Now, Patsy, go into the theatre and keep up the watch. I think Mountain
will be shadowed home; follow if he is. I shall hunt up the chief.”

Patsy obeyed, and went into the theatre, paying his admission, to see
the man he had followed earlier in the day, in the same disguise in
which he had come from the Seventeenth Street house; that is to say, the
Brown Robin, standing just within the audience hall.

He took up a standing position near her.

Chick hurried across town to Nick’s apartments and arrived a few minutes
after Nick had returned from his walk with Edith.

The famous detective listened intently to what Chick had to tell.

“This is great work of yours, Chick,” he said. “You have proved
satisfactorily what I have suspected ever since I was at the Brown
Robin’s house as Mr. Cary.

“The suspicion that the man that followed me this morning and was
followed by Patsy afterward was a woman came to me when he took me to
the Lexington house.”

“I was looking for the knock-kneed gait that the keen-witted Patsy spoke
of, and then it struck me it was a woman, well padded and made up.”

“But, chief, you saw the man go out of the Lexington Avenue house just
as the Brown Robin came to you.”

“No, I didn’t, Chick,” replied Nick, with a smile. “I heard it. But I
dropped then, or thought I did, that the two voices were from the same
person—a little play played for my benefit.

“She is a great actress, Chick, and a thundering smart woman. She has
the energy of the devil. When she left me, as Mr. Cary, in Twenty-third
Street, she must have come straight over here. Leaving here, she made
for the Seventeenth Street house, to make her change for the night’s
work.

“That was a great piece of work of yours to go into that house. It
proved the fact, and shows up her game.

“I can see now how she baffled all the others. She has three houses to
work in, and in the Lexington Avenue house she is seen only as a woman,
except as she ordered it to-day.

“She is great on makeup, and she plays the game herself. Well, she makes
the big strike to-morrow, and we’ll have her.

“We’ll meet her with her own cunning.

“But come, we’ll go to Mr. Mountain’s house, to be there before he gets
back from the theatre.

“Take my word for it, Chick, the Thirtieth Street house is to be the
scene of the big strike.”

With this, the two detectives set out for Mr. Mountain’s residence.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                               THE TRAP.


Patsy arrived early the next morning to report to Nick that on the night
previous the Brown Robin, still in male attire, had followed Mr.
Mountain to his home, after that gentleman had left the theatre with his
family.

She had been around the front of the house for some little time, and
then, as if satisfied that Mr. Mountain was housed for the night, had
left, going directly to the corner of Thirty-fourth Street and Sixth
Avenue, where she met two men, evidently awaiting her coming.

Only a word or two was exchanged between them, and they then set off at
a quick pace, going straight to the Thirtieth Street house, where the
Brown Robin had unlocked the doors and let the two men in.

She did not enter the house herself, but now hurried to Lexington
Avenue, where she took the car, getting off at Twenty-third Street, and
going to the Seventeenth Street house, which she entered some time after
midnight.

She was there but a short time, when she came out clad in woman’s
clothes, and went straight to the Lexington Avenue house, evidently her
day’s work done.

“Well,” said Nick, “it was a hard day’s work, and she filled in all her
time.

“She was arranging her programme for to-morrow. We have arranged our
programme, too. Those two men that she let into the Thirtieth Street
house are there to help her in the strike on Mr. Mountain.

“I doubt if there will be any others on hand. You need not watch it this
morning. My plans have been slightly changed since my talk with Mr.
Mountain last night.

“But I want you to put yourself in a place outside where you can follow
me this morning when I go out: I suppose the Brown Robin will try to
spring her trap on me this morning.”

Patsy had been gone but a few moments when a messenger boy arrived with
a letter for Nick.

It was signed by Mrs. Ansel, and said that the place appointed for her
in which to meet the Brown Robin was in Seventeenth Street at eleven
o’clock, and it asked if Mr. Carter would meet the writer at a
well-known department store in Sixth Avenue at 10 A. M., naming the
entrance at which Mrs. Ansel would be waiting.

Nick carefully examined the letter and noted several things. The
stationery was not the same as that which had been used for the former
letters; the handwriting was not the same, and the letter was framed so
skillfully that it was made to look like the letter of a woman asking an
assignation with a man.

Nick called Edith and asked her to read the letter. As Edith was doing
so he took some papers from his pocket, and from these selected a blank
sheet and an envelope.

“Compare this blank paper and the paper on which this note is written,”
said Nick.

“It is the same,” said Edith.

“Even the most cunning make their slips,” said Nick. “I found this blank
paper on a table in the parlor of the Brown Robin in Lexington Avenue,
as I did also a sheet of the other paper. Keep them, and the letter as
well.

“I am off to meet this very cunning person and see what her little game
is. I confess I can’t quite see through it.”

He went away, and promptly at ten appeared at the entrance of the
department store named.

The Brown Robin was waiting, and, as he approached, Nick did not fail to
observe a flash of triumph in the eyes of that person.

She arose to meet him, and welcomed him cordially.

“I was very much afraid that you would fail me,” she said.

“Oh, no,” he said, carelessly. “I am quite anxious to see this Brown
Robin.”

“Why, indeed!”

“She must be an attractive person. An old gentleman who ought to know
better was caught by her, and rushed off to me to get him out of his
trouble. But before I could get to work, he backed out of the matter,
and, I think, because she has entangled him in her charms.”

The one beside him looked up quickly at Nick, but she could not read his
face.

“They say,” said she, “that there is no fool like an old fool. I suppose
you could not be caught that way.”

“A man is very foolish to boast of his ability to resist the charms of a
pretty woman,” said Nick, gravely. “I have seen too many strong men
caught to be boastful myself.”

“Perhaps it is the story of her charms that makes you so willing to go
with me?”

“Perhaps,” replied Nick, “but I think it is more out of curiosity to see
the woman who has baffled the police forces of so many large cities. It
might be useful, you know, to me some time. There’s no knowing how soon
a case in which she is operating may be given me.”

To this the pretended Mrs. Ansel made no reply.

After a moment Nick said:

“Ought we not to go?”

“As it draws near to the time, I am a little frightened,” she said.

Nevertheless she made preparations to start.

They went out of the store, walking down Sixth Avenue to Eighteenth
Street, and then through that street to Fifth Avenue.

On the corner of that street the pretended Mrs. Ansel suddenly gave a
little scream, clung tightly to Nick for a moment, and then leaped into
a doorway, hiding herself.

Nick did not follow her, but stood still, watching her. The woman peered
out cautiously; finally she came with a greatly frightened air to him,
gasping out:

“My husband! He just crossed the street.”

“What then?” asked Nick.

“Oh, if he had seen you with me there would have been such a row. He is
so jealous—so suspicious!”

“Come along and point him out to me.”

He fairly pulled her to the corner, but, reaching it, the pretended Mrs.
Ansel could not see her husband.

“That frightens me,” she said. “He may have seen me. He may be hiding to
watch me. Oh, come away!”

She hurried across the street, Nick following her.

From that time on she kept up her nervous, frightened manner, until the
door of the Seventeenth Street house was reached.

“What an admirable actress she is!” thought Nick. “She is wasting great
talents in a dangerous game when she might win fame on the stage.”

At this house, looking up at the number, she said:

“This is the place. Shall we go in?”

“That is what we came for, isn’t it?” asked Nick.

Without another word, the pretended Mrs. Ansel mounted the steps and
rang the bell. Nick followed her up leisurely.

The door was opened promptly by a large, stalwart woman dressed as a
servant.

To this person the pretended Mrs. Ansel said:

“Mrs. Ansel and Mr. Nicholas Carter, to see the person named on this.”

She handed a small slip of paper to the servant.

The servant closed the door and ushered them into the parlor, going out
into another part of the house.

She was back again in a few moments to say that the lady of the house
was engaged for the present, but would see them shortly.

Nick said to himself:

“All this is well done, but what is the game?”

In the meantime the pretended Mrs. Ansel showed every evidence of the
natural nervousness that a woman placed in the position she pretended to
be in might show.

Nick had seated himself at a little distance from her, but shortly she
beckoned him to a seat beside her on the sofa.

“I don’t think I can stand this suspense,” she said. “It is all I can do
to keep from fainting.”

And no sooner had she said this than she reeled over, falling completely
into Nick’s arms.

At that very moment, a man whose face was blazing with anger, rushed
into the room, crying:

“So, I have tracked you at last. I have you with your paramour, in fact.
You wretch!”

To all appearances the woman had fainted dead away and did not hear the
angry words.

Nick lifted her up and laid her on the sofa where she lay as he put her,
and stood up.

“Who are you?” asked Nick.

“Who am I?” repeated the other. “The deceived husband.”

“Is your name Ansel?”

“Yes. I am the husband of that wretched woman.”

“Well, is the fact that a woman faints evidence against her?”

“Don’t trifle with me, sir. I have followed you here. I knew she had an
appointment with some one this morning. I watched and have found her in
her guilt.”

“In the house of the blackmailer known as the Brown Robin?” sneered
Nick.

At this moment the pretended Mrs. Ansel opened her eyes, started up, and
cried out:

“My husband! I am ruined!”

Again she toppled off into a faint.

“I suppose this is a well-worked game?” said Nick. “Well, play it to the
end. How much do you want? Make it as easy as you can. I can’t afford
much, but I can’t afford a scandal about my name.”

As he said this, Nick carefully watched the Brown Robin, and was certain
he saw first a look of surprise and then of triumph on what was supposed
to be an unconscious face.

“Money,” cried the man, “I want no money. Would money restore my
wretched home, my happiness, the mother of my children?”

Nick could hardly restrain a smile, for the man was clearly over-acting.
But Nick kept up the pretense, for he wanted to see where the game was
to lead to.

“No; but you shall sign a confession. You shall give me the proof. You
shall give me the means of tearing asunder these bonds that have now
become hateful to me.

“Here, sign this!”

He drew a paper from his pocket, and, spreading it on a table, gestured
in the most melodramatic manner to Nick to sign it.

Nick crossed the room and took up the paper.

As he lifted it to read he saw that the pretended Mrs. Ansel had
recovered consciousness, and was sitting upright on the sofa.

As soon as she saw Nick had observed her, she began to play her part.

“Oh, my husband!” she cried; “be merciful. I know appearances are
against me, but you are mistaken. I have done no wrong. Listen to
reason. This is not a lover. It is Mr. Carter, the great detective.”

“I care not who he is,” cried the other, in a great pretense of fury.
“You met him by appointment. I watched you send the letter. I saw him
meet you. I tracked you here. I saw you in his arms. I have witnesses.
Sign you, sir!”

It was very cheap acting, but through it all Nick had read the paper,
and saw that it was an effort to make him compromise himself by signing
it.

“I shall sign nothing of this kind!” he said, quietly.

“You won’t. You won’t give me justice!” cried the man, in a very tempest
of fury.

“I won’t sign this ridiculous document,” said Nick, “for it is not
true.”

“Then I will take action at once. You must stay here. What, ho, my
friends!”

Three men, thorough ruffians, looking like dissipated prize-fighters,
appeared.

“You will watch this man until I return. I go for my lawyer and a
magistrate. Hold this man until I return. Come with me, you faithless
woman!”

He sprang at the pretended Mrs. Ansel, and, seizing her by the arm,
whirled her out of the room.




                               CHAPTER X.
                        HOW THE TRAP WAS SPRUNG.


Nick sat down and laughed. The over-acting of the cheap actor, hired for
the occasion, was ludicrous. But the three ruffians, armed with
revolvers, were ugly facts.

He now saw the game. The trap had been sprung. It was a device to get
him under control while the big strike on Mountain was being worked.

Either the Brown Robin feared he had been retained by Mr. Mountain, or
she had learned, despite his efforts to the contrary, that he really had
been.

“Well,” he said, looking at the three brutes, “what is your game?”

“To keep you here all day,” replied one of them.

“Oh, is it?” asked Nick. “What has become of the woman that was here?”

“She has gone out with her husband.”

“Oh, drop that, my lads,” said Nick. “That was the Brown Robin. I knew
that when I came in here with her.”

The three men grinned, and one said to the other:

“I told her she couldn’t fool him.”

“I suppose you mean to earn your money by keeping me here?” said Nick.

“Yer right, guv-ner.”

“Well, I don’t know that I can blame you,” said Nick, “but I want to
know for sure that the woman is gone.”

“She’s gone, all right.”

“Well, take me through the house, and let me be certain.”

“There can’t be any harm in that,” said one. “Go ahead quietly, me and
Smithy’ll go behind.”

Thus escorted, Nick went through and made sure the Brown Robin had fled
the house.

After all, it was a vulgar trap which had been laid for him.

He returned to the parlors and sat down a while. Then he asked one of
the men to open a window and let a little air in.

When this was done, he took some cigars from his pocket and handed them
to his guards.

Then he went to the piano, and, seating himself, to the great pleasure
of the three brutes, he sang:

  “Come to me, darling, I’m lonely without thee,
  Daytime and nighttime I’m dreaming about thee.”

He knew Patsy, and probably Chick, were without and would take his song
as a call for them.

Nor was he mistaken. But a few minutes passed when his quick ears heard
a sound at the front door that told him the lock was being picked.

Again he seated himself at the piano, and began to sing and play. The
brutes were attentive upon him.

But, through the corner of his eye, he saw Chick at the hall door.

Wheeling about on the piano stool, he sprang to his feet, and, drawing
his revolver, cried out:

“Down, you dogs!”

Chick sprang into the room from the front door and Patsy came in from
the rear room, revolvers up.

The brutes, taken by astonishment, could not rally in time, and, seeing
they were powerless, threw up their hands.

“Take their guns, Patsy,” said Nick.

This the lad quickly did, while Nick and Chick covered them.

“Boys,” said Nick, “I’m sorry to treat you so, but I must. You must be
bound and gagged, but I’ll let you loose in time.”

The three did not dare to make resistance, and, making them as
comfortable as circumstances would permit, the three detectives took
care to carefully lock the house up. Then they quietly departed.

“It was a stupid way,” said Nick to Patsy and Chick, as they walked
away, “and more like a cheap melodrama than anything else. Really, I
believe the Brown Robin has been an actress some time in her life.”

                            * * * * * * * *

Shortly before five o’clock that afternoon Mr. Mountain, with a small
package under his arm, appeared on the steps of the Park Avenue Hotel.

He had not been there long before the young man who had first called on
him came up.

It was, of course, the Brown Robin. Her tactics were precisely the same
as they had been with Mr. Cary the day before, that is, with Nick
disguised as Mr. Cary.

And the same questions were put to him as to any person being in
concealment.

When these had been answered as the person desired, Mr. Mountain was
asked if he was ready to go and see the Brown Robin.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Mountain, “if it is to be done, let us do it right
away. But first let me go into the hotel with this.”

The young man was reluctant, but yet he followed and Mr. Mountain, going
to the desk, asked the clerk to place it in the safe and give it to no
one but himself.

This done, the two walked out of the hotel.

As Nick had foreseen, their way was up to the Thirtieth Street house.
What the young man did not see was a trick played by Mr. Mountain, a
trick taught him by Nick.

Every three or four steps they took, a small piece of paper fluttered
from Mr. Mountain’s hand. It was thus Nick could ascertain that the
Thirtieth Street house was their destination.

Everything moved precisely as it had the day before. The young man
showed Mr. Mountain into the parlor and disappeared to call the person
Mr. Mountain had come to see.

There was a wait for some time, and then the Brown Robin swept into the
room.

“I am very glad to renew your acquaintance, Mr. Mountain,” said the
Brown Robin.

Mr. Mountain fairly staggered in his surprise.

“Why! Why!” he exclaimed. “Alberta Curtis!”

“The same,” said the Brown Robin. “Although I have had many experiences
since I was your typewriter, my name has remained the same through it
all.”

“Then it was you, after all, that stole the confession,” blurted out Mr.
Mountain.

“Stole is an ugly word, my dear old employer,” said the Brown Robin. “Be
more polite. Say I confiscated it when I found it among loose papers.”

Mr. Mountain, though he had suspected this, yet, when he learned that it
was so, seemed amazed and stupefied.

But the Brown Robin soon brought him to his senses by asking if he had
come to do business.

In her dealings with Mr. Mountain, there was none of the coquetry she
had displayed with Mr. Cary.

Thus aroused, Mr. Mountain said:

“Your terms are outrageous!”

“Let us be plain and brief, Mr. Mountain. You have become a very rich
man. Fifty thousand dollars will not even embarrass you. I have informed
myself exactly as to your financial condition.

“You can afford to pay that to preserve your good name and your
reputation.

“Now, read this.”

She took from her pocket a typewritten roll of paper, and extended it to
Mr. Mountain.

“You will see that it is a carefully-prepared newspaper article, which
embraces your confession.

“If you refuse to pay what I believe is the value of that confession, in
your handwriting, to you, that will be published.”

Mr. Mountain read it over, and saw with what skill it was prepared, and
how eagerly a paper would seize on it.

“You would not have the cruelty to do that?”

“You are mistaken,” said the Brown Robin, coldly. “I would have and will
do what I say I will. Make not the least mistake about that.”

“But you will do it for less?”

“Fifty thousand or nothing.”

This was said with the utmost firmness. Then she added:

“But why shuffle? The very fact you are here shows that you are here to
comply.”

“I am to have the original confession for that payment?”

“Yes.”

“Must I trust to your honor to get it?”

“Show me the money and I will show you the document.”

“Very well.”

“Understand,” said the Brown Robin. “I am well guarded. I can defend
myself with this.”

She displayed a revolver.

“I stand on a push-button,” she went on, “and the slightest pressure
will summon to my aid, if you attempt any tricks, those who will defend
me.”

“Very good!”

Mr. Mountain placed his hand in his pocket, and, taking out an envelope,
took out a check, holding it in his hand.

The Brown Robin, in the act of drawing a paper from the breast of her
dress, stopped.

“A check! Is this a trick, or is it your ignorance?”

“Why, yes, a check drawn to my own order for fifty thousand dollars, and
indorsed by me. You did not tell me in what shape you wanted it.”

“True. But you must have understood.”

Suddenly she flew into a violent passion, in which she declared that she
would ruin him, really frightening Mr. Mountain.

He tried to soothe her, and in doing so admitted that he had thought a
check would not do.

“I did bring fifty thousand in bills with me. It is in a package that I
left in the Park Avenue Hotel. I can destroy this, and get the package
in ten minutes.”

“And bring a horde of officers down on me?”

“No; you can accompany me, or that young man who brought me here can.”

“That young man was myself, you fool.”

“Then go with me yourself.”

The Brown Robin thought a moment, and finally said:

“I will.”

She called for her hat and coat, which was brought by a servant, and to
that servant she handed the confession, to retain until she returned.

She led the way out of the house in an energetic way, and, when they
reached the hotel, entered the office with the broker.

“Now get it,” she said, stopping within twenty feet of the desk. “No
tricks. I shall watch, and my punishment will be swift, no matter what
occurs to me.”

Mr. Mountain went off and passed into the private office behind the
counter or desk, and for a brief second was lost to sight to the Brown
Robin, as he passed behind a high safe.

But she saw him go with the clerk to the safe and receive a package, and
return with it to her.

Without a word she led the way out of the hotel and back to the house
they had just left.

Entering the parlor again, Mr. Mountain tore off the wrapper to show the
bills within, and held it out to her.

She called for the confession, and, receiving it from the servant, held
it out to Mr. Mountain, who took it as she took the package of bills.

Mr. Mountain assured himself it was the original by a hasty glance. The
Brown Robin was tearing the wrapper from the package.

When she opened it and shifted the bills she fairly screamed.

The package was a dummy, only one bill being on the top.

She sprang forward, but she faced two revolvers leveled at her.

“You are my prisoner, Brown Robin. I am not Mr. Mountain, but Chick
Carter, the detective. Mr. Mountain stayed at the hotel that he went to
with you. I came in his place.”

The woman stepped on the button she had boasted of, and bells sounded in
the house.

At the same instant Chick gave a shrill whistle.

A door crashed in and the plate glass of a front window was broken by
the heavy blows of a hammer.

Patsy sprang through the window, with revolvers up, and Nick Carter
through the door, followed by Mr. Mountain.

Nick met two men dashing down the stairs, the first one of whom he
struck in the face with the butt of his revolver, knocking him
senseless, and grappled with the other.

Patsy had sprung at the servant woman, who had shown fight, to find she
was a man in woman’s clothes, and he found his hands full.

Chick had easy work in overcoming the Brown Robin.

It was a fight soon over, however. The two men Nick had attacked in the
hall, finding the door open, fled through it.

The other man, in woman’s clothes, was overcome by Patsy, and, with
Nick’s aid, bound.

Though beaten, the Brown Robin was game.

“Well, Mr. Carter,” she said, “I have come to the end. I was told you
would overreach me if I met you. You have. I did not think you would. I
thought myself smarter than you.”

“You were very easy,” said Nick, quietly. “I could have taken you
yesterday, when I dined with you, in the Lexington Avenue house, as Mr.
Cary.”

“You?” she cried. “You did that?”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Clymer. You do not offer your cheek to me to-day.”

He imitated perfectly Mr. Cary’s voice.

This was too much for the Brown Robin. She seemed to feel worse over
this deception than over her arrest and defeat. Nick saw that she had
been wounded in her conceit. Finally she said:

“Well, if I am no better than that, I deserve to fail. Lock me up.”

The Brown Robin and her servant were taken to the station house and
locked up.

“Your imitation of me,” said Mr. Mountain to Chick, “was so good that
when I passed behind that safe and saw you there waiting for me I was
startled, though I expected to find you there. It was capitally done. I
congratulate you.”

“Congratulate the chief, Mr. Mountain. It was his play from start to
finish, and he made me up.”

The compromising photographs of Mr. Cary, together with the plate, were
easily recovered in the house in which they were taken.

Nick’s inquiries into the life of the Brown Robin showed that she had
been engaged in a criminal career almost from the moment that she had
eloped with the man Stymers from Mr. Mountain’s employ, though at one
time she had been on the stage and at another time a newspaper writer.

Stymers was a bank burglar, who had led her into crime. Her criminal
career had been most successful, and the first check called in it was
when she met Nick Carter and his faithful band.

She received a long sentence, and it is hardly likely that she will ever
again embark on a career of wickedness.




                              CHAPTER XI.
                            AT THE DOG SHOW.


Next day was “blue Monday” with Nick, and he decided to try the Dog Show
at Madison Square Garden as a cure for the “dumps.”

After luncheon he set out to visit the Garden, little dreaming what
fresh adventures were in store for him as the result of that visit.

He had barely entered the hall than a prominent banker, known for the
keen interest he took in the development of the dog, and who was one of
the officers of the society under whose auspices the dog show was held,
greeted him with the remark:

“Of all men, Mr. Carter, you are the man I most wish to see. Some
miscreant is poisoning our dogs here. The fourth animal is just now
dying from a dose—all valuable animals.”

“Have you suspicions?” asked Nick, scenting mystery at once, and nothing
loath to tackle another puzzle now that he had placed the Brown Robin
behind prison bars.

“Not the slightest suspicions,” replied the banker, “although the owner
is making wild charges and threats, but, then, that is from her grief.”

“Her?” asked Nick, in surprise.

“Yes; Mrs. Constant—poor Al Constant’s widow.”

“Were all the dogs poisoned owned by her?”

“All of them.”

“Do you think it possible that rivalry or jealousy could be at the
bottom of it?”

“In the contest here for prizes, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot believe it.”

Nick asked no more questions, and looked over the room.

“Come with me and look at the dog,” said the banker.

Nick nodded, and the banker led the detective to a rear room, where he
saw a noble setter dog writhing in agony on a blanket on the floor.

A well-known veterinary surgeon was laboring over the dog, and a
beautiful woman of thirty, regardless of her costly raiment, was
kneeling at the dog’s head, soothing and petting him, the tears
streaming from her eyes, while she murmured:

“My old Don! My poor old Don!”

The dog’s eyes were glazed, and Nick saw at a glance as he came up that
the dog was dying.

But from time to time, the poor beast would turn a look of deep
affection on the beautiful woman and lick the hand that soothed and
petted him.

“Mrs. Constant.” said the banker, “here is Mr. Carter, the celebrated
detective. I have hopes that I can persuade him to look into this case.”

“It is too late to save my poor old Don,” said Mrs. Constant, looking
up. “As for the miscreant, I know him. He is——”

“One moment,” hastily interrupted the banker. “What you have to say as
to charges and suspicions say to Mr. Carter alone. He is to be trusted,
and his advice will be well worth following.”

Mrs. Constant looked up at Nick, smiling through her tears, and said:

“Very well. When can I talk to you, Mr. Carter?”

Handing her his card, Nick said:

“Come to my house when you can.”

“I will do so,” said Mrs. Constant, “as soon as I have seen poor old Don
cared for and my other dogs out of harm’s way.”

Now the dog had another spasm, and it proved to be his last. He
stiffened out and died.

Nick turned away and went into the show room to inquire as to the manner
in which the dogs on exhibition were guarded and cared for, and in doing
so passed half an hour inspecting the dogs.

At the end of that time, as he approached the center division, he saw
Mrs. Constant standing beside a dog with her hand upon its head.

He lifted his hat in salutation, and was surprised to see her state of
wonder and doubtful return of the recognition.

He smiled as he thought swift forgetfulness of himself was not
flattering. Excusing it on the ground that she was troubled over the
death of her favorites, he passed on into the street and went home,
where he related the peculiar occurrence that had successfully driven
away his fit of the “blues.”

A short time after his arrival the servant announced Mrs. Constant.

Nick directed that the lady should be shown into the room he was
occupying.

Edith, Nick Carter’s wife, who was also in the room, arose to go, but
before she could leave the apartment, Mrs. Constant entered, and
exclaimed:

“Why, Edith!”

Edith responded by running across the room to Mrs. Constant, crying:

“Why, Blanche!”

All this was very surprising to Nick, who could not imagine how it was
that his wife knew his client.

But, as he listened, he found that before Edith’s marriage Mrs. Constant
had been a member of the same theatrical company with Edith, and, like
Edith, had left the stage when she married.

Then that which had before puzzled him was made plain.

He knew that he had seen Mrs. Constant before when presented to her by
the banker at the dog show. It was all explained. He had seen her on the
stage as Blanche Romney.

When at length the ladies had finished their renewal of old times, Mrs.
Constant turned to that which had brought her to Nick.

“I hardly know how to begin my story, Mr. Carter,” she said, “but I will
tell you how I came to be an exhibitor of dogs at the show. My late
husband was much interested in developing a certain strain of setters.

“As I am a great lover of dogs, I took a vast interest in the kennel,
and soon came to know quite as much about it as he, taking my part in
the management and supervision of it.

“I came to know what he was striving to do, and so, when he died and
left all his dogs to me, I determined to carry out his plans and
continue the kennel.

“Mr. Constant died very suddenly. The doctors called it apoplexy. He was
in good health and was stricken down without warning.

“It is too late now to determine it, but I cannot rid myself of the idea
that foul play was at the bottom of his death.”

“When did he die?” asked Nick.

“Nearly two years ago.”

“At his home?”

“He was brought home, but was taken ill at his club. I had gone over to
Philadelphia early in the morning, not to return until the next day, so
he dined at his club. The doctors insisted that he had been imprudent at
the table, eating and drinking too much.

“Mr. Constant was a free liver, and that gave a basis for their
decision. But if I tell you that Mr. Constant was a wine-drinker, do not
believe that he used it in excess. He did not.

“Now I come to that which is unpleasant. His marriage to me was not
agreeable to his family. They opposed it bitterly.

“I did not know that until after marriage. Whether it would have changed
my course if I had, I don’t know. His family is very aristocratic, and I
was a poor girl, of humble origin, working for wages on the stage.

“We were happy in our life together, but our marriage separated him from
his family. He was independent in having a small competence, and a share
in the income of a large estate, held in trust, his for life and to be
his children’s after him, if he had them, which, by the way, he had not.

“I was telegraphed for, and reached him in time to have him die in my
arms, but he never recognized me.

“When he was dead I found that he had left his own small fortune to me,
but his share in the income of the estate did not become mine.

“I have been advised that I have a right to it, but to get it would mean
a lawsuit, and I am comfortable and in plenty without it.

“Now, then; at the time of my marriage there was a man, Eric Masson,
moving in the same club and social circle with my husband, who, while
pretending to be on friendly terms with him, was his bitter enemy.

“He wanted to marry me. From the first I had disliked him. It was not
indifference to him; it was positive dislike for him on my part.

“I had rejected him before I met Mr. Constant. When he learned that Mr.
Constant was attentive to me, and that I was likely to marry, Masson
warned me not to do it, saying it would be well for neither Albert nor
myself.

“He circulated stories as to myself, which had much to do with my
husband’s family’s opposition, and one of them reaching my husband’s
ears, who was then my _fiancée_, resulted in a violent quarrel between
the two, ending in Albert giving Masson a thrashing.

“Though the differences were afterward healed, I know that he worked to
my husband’s injury always.

“Masson was one of the party with whom my husband dined on his last day.

“My husband had not been dead two months when he renewed his attentions
to me, declaring that he had been waiting for Albert’s death to step
into his shoes.

“I drove him away from me angrily, telling him that I loved the memory
of my husband too well to insult it by taking Masson as his successor.

“Since then he has been my vindictive enemy, making trouble for me when
and where he could, starting scandals as to myself.

“He tried to take my kennel of dogs from me, declaring that Albert had
sold them to him on the day of his death.

“He began a suit at law to obtain the dogs, going so far as to intrigue
to get me to hire some creatures of his about the kennel, so that they
might steal the dogs for him.

“In short, I have been persecuted by him ever since my husband’s death.
He is the only enemy in life that I have, and I know he is at the bottom
of the poisoning of my dogs.”

“I suppose,” said Nick, “that this Eric Masson is the broker of that
name—the yachtsman?”

“The same person,” replied Mrs. Constant.

“Are you prepared to tell me the nature of his persecutions of you?”

“Yes; at any time.”

“I do not want them now,” said Nick, as Mrs. Constant showed signs of
attempting to recite them. “Now, as to the injuries he attempted to do
your husband. Can you prove those charges?”

“Yes; after my husband’s death I found among his private papers a
package, which tells it all. My husband must have gathered them for a
purpose that his death defeated.”

“Can you let me have that package?”

“Yes; whenever you like.”

“Will you let me have it at once?”

“I will bring it to you to-night.”

“Very well, Mrs. Constant. Say nothing to anybody that you have given
the case to me.”

“Masson will know it.”

“Why?”

“If he does not know now, he will in a short time, that I have come to
see you. He has me under espionage—every step I take he has followed.”

“So bad as that?” asked Nick.

With this Mrs. Constant went away, after saying to Edith, who had been
an interested listener, that now, having met again, they must not lose
sight of each other.

“What do you think of it, Nick?” asked Edith.

“A rather strange story, but there is more behind it than she has
told—perhaps more than she really knows. When you knew her what sort of
reputation did she bear?”

“The very best,” declared Edith. “Blanche was a good girl, Nick. She was
so light-hearted and full of spirits in those days, so gay, that
sometimes she was misunderstood, but there was not the least harm in
her.”

“Well, Edith, I fancy you will have some detective work to do.”

“In what way?”

“She knows more than she thinks she does. You must get her to talk
confidentially to you, and these things may crop out.

“Again, there are things she shied away from telling me, especially when
you were present, but she will tell them to you.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

After dinner that evening Nick went out for a short time, and,
returning, as he was about entering his house a carriage drove up and
some one, leaning from it, called him by name.

Turning back, he saw Mrs. Constant. He went to the carriage door, and
the lady thrust out a package to him, saying:

“I am so glad to have seen you here. I am so hurried—so little time.
It’s the package—Blanche, that is, Mrs. Constant, you know. By-bye, I
must hurry. Please tell the driver to go on.”

Nick did so, wondering at her haste, and as the carriage drove off
entered his house.




                              CHAPTER XII.
                         DEAD IN HER CARRIAGE.


Nick sat down to study the package Mrs. Constant had given him, having
some knowledge of the persons the package was supposed to tell about.

He knew Albert Constant had been a man of no occupation in life, living
on his income; that his family was wealthy, and about the most exclusive
in the city.

That his marriage to Blanche had been violently opposed by it, not alone
because she was an actress, but because she was of that rank of life
which his family believed was much below his own.

He also knew that Albert Constant had quarreled with his family because
of this marriage, and as a consequence had withdrawn from society.

Of Eric Masson he knew less. That he moved in the same social circle as
that in which the Constants were leaders he did know, and that he was
not a popular member of it.

He also knew that he was a broker in Wall Street, and, if there were not
charges of sharp practice against him, there were mutterings of them,
while it was whispered that at poker with his friends he won too
steadily and too heavily.

There were scandals also rumored about as to his private life, all of
which, however, had not as yet affected his standing in the social
world.

The papers of the package were not easy of understanding, nor did they
tell a complete story.

Among them were letters from Masson to Albert Constant and copies of
replies from Constant to the same. But the package was principally made
up of memoranda in the handwriting of Constant, which was disjointed and
seemed to be mere guides for the memory of Constant to be used at some
future time.

It all indicated, however, as Mrs. Constant had said, that at some prior
time Masson had done Constant an injury, and that, though Masson denied
it, Constant was gathering the proof of that injury.

Nick spent the evening over the package, and at bed-time laid it away
with a dissatisfied feeling that it did not confirm the charges Mrs.
Constant had made.

The next morning, on coming down to the breakfast table, he found Edith
sitting horror-stricken over the newspaper.

In answer to his anxious inquiry, his wife extended to him the
newspaper, pointing to an article, the mere glance at which informed him
that Mrs. Constant had been killed in her carriage the night previous.

Reading the account attentively, Nick found that it was a murder, but by
whom it was not even suggested.

Beyond the fact that when the driver arrived at the destination he had
been given, he discovered that the person he had driven was dead within
the carriage, and that the surgeon, on being called, had quickly
discovered that death was the result of a bullet from a small revolver
entering the brain immediately back of the left ear. None of the
circumstances were given.

Comparing the time, Nick concluded that the murder must have been
committed between thirty minutes and an hour after she had driven up to
his door to give him the package of papers over which he had spent the
time just prior to going to his bed the night before.

The account was not informing, and was but little more than mere
announcement of the discovery of the murder, except that it told who the
dead woman was and who her husband had been.

Edith was much distressed over the fact that death should have come in
such shocking form to her friend, and so shortly after her old
associations had been renewed.

Nick devoted some time to soothing and calming Edith, and then sat down
to his breakfast, determining that as soon as it was over he would begin
an investigation.

But before his breakfast was over he received another shock, though of a
different kind.

A note was brought him, evidently written that morning, from Mrs. Albert
Constant, asking him to call upon her at once to consult with her on the
new horror that had come into her life.

He was astounded. He picked up the paper again to read the article
telling of Mrs. Albert Constant’s murder. There was no mistake. He had
read aright.

It was distinctly stated that the murdered woman was the widow of the
late Mr. Albert Constant, and even the poisoning of her dogs at the dog
show was talked of. And yet he held in his hand, written that morning, a
letter from the woman the paper said had been murdered in her carriage
the night before.

“It is incomprehensible, Edith,” he said. “There can be no doubt about
this letter, and it speaks of a new horror.”

“Perhaps,” said Edith, “she was not killed, but only wounded.”

“The newspaper account particularly says that the ball entered the brain
behind the ear,” said Nick. “Any one receiving such a wound as that
could not write a letter within twelve hours, if she ever could. No; it
is not to be accounted for on that ground. I fear this letter was
written prior to her murder, for early delivery this morning, on the
discovery of some new happening like that of the poisoning of her dogs.”

He arose from the breakfast table, saying:

“I shall go to her home at once and try to reconcile what now seems to
be a mystery.”

He went out of the house at once, and to the residence of Mrs. Constant,
which was in the lower part of West End Avenue.

Arriving, there were unmistakable evidences of a tragedy within the
house.

In front of it, on the pavement, were a number of people gazing with
idle curiosity at the front of the house.

Drawn up at the curbing was the undertaker’s wagon, sure testimony that
some one within the house was dead.

As Nick mounted the steps, the door opened and the coroner came forth.

“Ah, Mr. Carter,” said that official, “you are expected. I have done all
that I can do here at present. I presume you will begin an
investigation. I hope that you will.

“At present it is a dense mystery. I cannot give you a single point. All
that we know is that the woman was killed somewhere between nine and
half-past nine last night; that she was shot in the back of the head,
and that death followed immediately. But who shot her we have no more
idea after working all night than we had in the beginning.”

“What are the circumstances?” asked Nick.

“Very meager,” promptly responded the coroner. “The lady came from a
dressmaker’s establishment, and before entering her carriage told her
driver to drive directly home to this place.

“As soon as he heard the door close, he drove off, making but one stop
on his way here, and that at Fifty-eighth Street, where his carriage was
blocked for a minute or two.

“Arriving here, as the lady did not get out, he got down from his box
and opened the door, to find her unconscious. He gave the alarm; the
woman was carried into her home, and a doctor soon coming pronounced her
dead.”

“No one was known to have been in the carriage with her?” asked Nick.

“No. That is the great mystery. I was disposed at first to look upon it
as suicide. I have not abandoned that idea entirely yet, though all the
physicians and surgeons who have examined the body say it is not
probable.

“However, the body lies in the parlor. Go and look at it, and after you
have made your first investigation, I shall be obliged if you will come
and talk with me about it.”

The coroner stepped back and opened the door for Nick to pass through,
closing the door after him and going his way.

Nick passed into the parlor, and there found Mrs. Constant lying in the
box the undertaker had provided.

He stood looking down upon her face, thinking that death had brought its
changes and sharpened peculiarities of features that he had not noticed
in life.

While he looked, the undertaker came from a rear room, looking at him
inquiringly. Nick said, quietly:

“I am Mr. Carter, the detective.”

“Oh, yes; Mrs. Constant is expecting you. Indeed, she is very anxious to
see you.”

Nick looked up in great surprise, saying:

“Mrs. Constant?”

He pointed to the body lying within the box.

The undertaker smiled in a melancholy way, and said:

“That is what has puzzled and confused people so. But let me take you to
Mrs. Constant. She has been asking every minute if you have come.”

Nick followed the undertaker up the stairs to the door of a room in the
front of the house, at which the undertaker rapped lightly.

A maidservant opened the door, and when the undertaker said that Mr.
Carter was there, flung it wide open, saying:

“Come, Mr. Carter, Mrs. Constant will be glad to see you.”

As Nick stepped into the room, the maidservant spoke to a lady sitting
in the corner, telling her that Mr. Carter was there.

The lady arose immediately, and advanced to meet Nick.

At once Nick saw that she was Mrs. Constant in the life. Her face showed
the distress she was suffering, for it was pale and haggard, and its
lines deeply marked.

The resemblance between the woman before him and the one lying still in
death in the room below was astonishing.

Mrs. Constant took Nick’s hand, attempting to speak, but broke into
uncontrollable sobs.

However, she controlled herself in a few minutes, and said:

“This is the end, Mr. Carter. It is the last. It can go no further.”

“I cannot understand it,” said Nick. “The paper said it was you who was
killed.”

“I wish it was myself who had been killed,” cried Mrs. Constant. “It was
my twin sister, Ethel. But it was I he intended to kill.”

The word twin sister explained everything that had bewildered him, as in
a flash.

“I did not know that you had a twin sister,” said Nick.

“Yes, I had,” said Mrs. Constant, sadly. “She came to live with me a
week ago. She was so happy to come, and this is the end. She died for
me.”

“Prior to her coming to live with you,” asked Nick, “where did she
live?”

“In Philadelphia.”

“Had she spent much time in New York with you?”

“Not much time,” replied Mrs. Constant. “Only for short visits at long
intervals.”

“Did she have many acquaintances in this city?”

Mrs. Constant, as in a flash, saw the end toward which Nick’s questions
were tending, and said, hurriedly and impatiently:

“Waste no time on that, Mr. Carter. Ethel had no acquaintances in New
York, except a very few that she had made within the past week. She was
killed because the one who killed her thought it was I who was in the
carriage.”

“I know that you think so,” said Nick. “But I was trying to explore the
possibility of the other view.”

“It is wasted time, Mr. Carter. Ethel knew no one in New York, nor had
relations with any one who would do such a thing.”

“Could any one have followed her from Philadelphia?”

“No,” said Mrs. Constant, earnestly. “Ethel was a good girl; she had no
secrets apart from me, and no man had entered into her life in any way.
She lived a very quiet life at home, and if there had been any love
affair of hers or any one persecuting her, I should have known it. My
secrets were hers and hers were mine.”

“It was not you, then,” asked Nick, “who came to me with that package
last night?”

“No. I was detained at home by a caller, and as Ethel was going over to
a dressmaker’s in Sixth Avenue, I asked her to take that package to you
first.”

“What time did she leave here to go?”

“It must have been nearly eight o’clock. We were going out last evening,
but the dress Ethel was to wear had not been sent home as promised, and
Ethel wanted to go for it.”

“When she gave me that package,” said Nick, “she said she was much
hurried. But all the time I thought it was you.”

“Yes, the resemblance between us was so great that all our lives we have
been mistaken for each other, even by intimate friends. This resemblance
is the cause of the announcement in the papers this morning that it was
I who had been killed.”

“There was no one in the carriage with her when I saw her,” said Nick.

“And no one when the carriage arrived home,” replied Mrs. Constant. “But
a man did get into that carriage, supposing I was in it, and killed her.
I know who it was, and so do you.”

Nick raised his hand, warningly, and said:

“Mention no names, Mrs. Constant. Charge no one with so awful a deed.
Trust to me. I will investigate that line to the end, but let your
suspicions be unsaid, or, if you must talk of them, talk only to me.”

Mrs. Constant first turned impatiently away, but as impulsively turned
back and placed her hand in Nick’s, saying:

“You are Edith’s husband as well. I will trust everything to you.”

“That is good,” said Nick. “Now a practical question. The driver of that
coach, who was he?”

“The same as my own coachman. I have an arrangement with a livery stable
near by, by which I have the same carriage, horses and driver by the
month. The carriage is used by no one but me, and the coachman drives
nobody but me.”

Securing the address of this livery stable and the name of the driver,
Nick hurried to the stable, telling Mrs. Constant that he would return
soon.

He found the driver without difficulty, and from him learned the course
taken by Ethel Romney and the places she had called at.

The story he told was a straight one.

He had been summoned shortly before eight o’clock, and had turned out so
quickly that he was at the Constant residence a few minutes before eight
o’clock.

He had first driven Miss Romney to the dressmaker’s, in Sixth Avenue,
where she had got out. She was gone but a few minutes, and, coming out,
said that she would have to return to that place. Then she had
instructed him to drive to Mr. Carter’s house, where she had seen Mr.
Carter without getting out of the coach.

After that she had driven back again to the dressmaker’s, where she
remained possibly twenty minutes, and, coming from there, she had seemed
quite vexed.

She told him to drive directly home, and he had followed Sixth Avenue,
intending to go up by way of Fifty-ninth Street.

She had made no stop on the way thither, and the carriage had not
stopped except for a minute or two at Fifty-eighth Street, where the way
had been blocked.

Arriving in front of the Constant residence, as she made no effort to
get out, he had got down to see what the matter was.

Then he thought she had fainted, and, making an outcry, people had come
from the house. They had carried her in, and he had driven off to the
stable.

The man, whose name was Rawson, was positive that no man talked to Miss
Romney, except Nick himself, during the ride. He was positive that no
one had entered the coach with Miss Romney at any time.

“Are you certain,” asked Nick, “that while you were standing in front of
the dressmaker’s the second time that some one did not enter the coach?”

The man replied that he had seen no one attempt to.

“But it is possible, isn’t it,” asked Nick, “that a man might have got
in there and you not know it?”

“It might be, sir,” said Rawson, “but it isn’t likely.”

Nick turned away. The man had evidently given all the information he
had.

He went back to Mrs. Constant, with no light shed on the mystery.




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                             POSSIBILITIES.


Nick had summoned his faithful aids, Chick, Ida, and Patsy, to meet him
at his apartments on his arrival. He found them awaiting him when he got
home, and, without waste of time, sat down to tell them the incidents of
the new case they were engaged on.

“Of course,” he said, in conclusion, “you will see that in the
occurrence of this murder, the poisoning of the dogs slips away into
minor importance.

“Yet, if Mrs. Constant’s suspicions are correct, the same person is
responsible for both.

“In that way, or that view of it, it becomes important to trace out that
poisoning.”

“The thing stands this way, then,” said Chick. “If Mrs. Constant is
right about the murder of her sister, she is right about the dogs; if
she is wrong about the dogs, she is wrong about the murder.”

“As usual, Chick,” said Nick, “you state the whole thing in a nutshell.
So, as the dog business is more easily followed than anything else, we
will get into that investigation first.”

“Don’t treat Mrs. Constant’s suspicions too lightly,” said Ida. “I think
you will find that she has kept back her strongest reasons for
suspecting Masson. She has wanted you to guess them. Edith, as her
friend, could get them from her.”

Nick looked up at Ida, sharply, and said:

“That is very shrewd, Ida.”

Turning to Patsy, he went on:

“I want you to take up the dog end of this case, Patsy.”

“I am aching for that,” replied Patsy. “I’d rather run down a man who
would kill a dog like that than anything else. But I say, chief, put me
next to that swell banker. He’s one of my kind.”

Chick and Ida laughed at this, and Nick said:

“You shall have a note to him. As for you, Ida, you must go to
Philadelphia.

“There is this possibility, that the murder of Ethel Romney came out of
her life in that city, before she came to New York—some trouble that she
had there.

“You must look into that, and we must know all about the life, habits,
and even the romances, if any there are, of Ethel Romney. Here is a list
of people who would be likely to know about her.”

He handed her a slip of paper he had prepared for her, and went on:

“There are other possibilities that we must look into. There is that of
suicide.

“It is possible, but not probable.

“Unless the girl had something back in her life, Ethel was more likely
to look to the future with pleasure than otherwise.

“She had come to live in plenty and elegance with a sister to whom she
was much attached.

“Then, there is the possibility that the murder was the outcome of an
attempt by some fellow, bolder than usual, who managed to get into the
carriage, supposing that the woman in it had money or jewelry with her.

“All these possibilities must be examined and run down before I am
willing to take up the suspicions of Mrs. Constant as to Masson. But
that does not mean that we shall not keep Masson in view.

“These things will be undertaken by Chick and I.”

Nick now went to the desk, and, writing a letter, handed it to Patsy,
saying:

“You want to get to work at once, Patsy, while the trail is warm.”

Patsy hurried away, and Ida, saying that, unless the chief had further
instructions, she would go, too, followed the lad out of the apartment.

“Now, Chick,” said Nick. “To send Edith to Mrs. Constant, and then you
and I will take up the most difficult part of the work.”

In a few moments these two shrewd detectives were on their way to the
neighborhood of the Constant residence. As they were riding uptown in
the car, Nick said:

“Mrs. Constant’s theory is that Ethel was killed by a person who had
intended to kill her, but was misled by the strong resemblance between
Ethel and herself.

“That resemblance is great,” admitted Nick. “I was misled by it myself
twice—once shortly after I had been introduced to Mrs. Constant, and
again when Ethel brought that package to me from Blanche Constant.”

“But, chief,” said Chick, “you did not know at that time that Mrs.
Constant had a twin sister; the mistake was a natural one. But if Masson
was as well acquainted with Mrs. Constant as he seems to be it would be
strange if he did not know of that twin sister.”

“And would not have been easily misled,” said Nick. “You have struck a
point that must be investigated.”

“And there is a point on the other side,” said Chick. “The hard thing in
adopting the theory of Mrs. Constant is that a man of the kind Masson is
should commit murder, especially in cold blood.

“Now, suppose that Masson did not know of the twin sister, suppose he
climbed into that coach under the notion that Mrs. Constant was in it.
Since it was Ethel Romney, she, of course, denied that she was Blanche
or that she knew Masson, perhaps, to his anger, leading to the murder
and the reason for it.”

“That is,” said Nick, “supposing it to have been Masson, and that he
lost his temper, he lost control of himself, in that denial.”

“Yes, that is what I mean,” said Chick.

“Well,” said Nick, “it all means that we have plenty of work to do and a
lot of vexatious little inquiries. Whoever it was that got into that
coach, whether it was Masson or some one else, in my opinion crept into
the coach while it was standing in front of that dressmaker’s
establishment to which Ethel Romney went.”

This conversation had occupied the greater portion of their trip uptown.

As they stepped off the car, Nick saw the man Rawson, who was the driver
for Mrs. Constant. He appeared to be looking for some one.

Rawson brightened up as Nick approached, and said:

“I have been looking for you, Mr. Carter, because I have got something
to say. I have been thinking over that ride last night, and especially
since you asked me to-day about its being likely that any one got into
that carriage.”

“Yes, have you thought of anything more?” said Nick.

“Well, yes,” said Rawson. “It isn’t much, but, then, I ought to tell
you. You see, I didn’t think much when you asked me that question, but
since I have.

“The lady was in a great hurry to get back home, and as soon as she got
into the carriage from that dressmaker’s I touched up the horses and
started off at a good gait.

“I didn’t think much then of it, but I am thinking now that as the lady
got into the coach I heard a sort of cry or scream from her, but the
door slammed shut right after it, and I was off at once.”

Nick looked at Chick, and the latter said:

“It looks, chief, as if you were right as to when the person got into
the coach.”

“Yes,” said Nick; “that would look as if the man was already in the
coach, and the noise that Ethel made was a cry of surprise at finding
some one there.”

Turning to Rawson, he said:

“It looks like a very important point, Rawson, and I wish you would keep
up thinking about it. Any little thing about the whole matter tell me
of.”

What answer Rawson might have made to this was prevented by a man who
was evidently a stableman, coming up and addressing Rawson, not knowing
who the two were the coachman was talking to. He said:

“I say, Rawson, it’s true, isn’t it, that you drove the woman that was
killed in the coach yesterday?”

“Yes, it’s true; worse luck,” said Rawson.

“Well, say,” said the man, “the papers say there wasn’t any man with the
woman in that coach. I say there was. What do you say?”

“I say there wasn’t,” said Rawson.

“Well, you’re wrong there.”

Rawson was about to deny this somewhat strongly, but Nick stopped him,
and said to the man:

“What do you know about it?”

“I know there was a man ridin’ with her.”

“How do you know it?” asked Nick.

“Why,” said the man, “I was standin’ in Sixth Avenue talkin’ with a
friend when I saw my friend here, Rawson, pulled up in front of a swell
dressmaker’s.

“Then I see his lady, the one he drives for, get out and go into the
dressmaker’s.

“Well, ’twan’t any of my biz, and I wasn’t lookin’ sharp. By and by I
happened to look at the coach, and there was a swell in it.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked Chick.

“Sure. But, anyhow, my friend breaks away and I gets on the trolley to
go to the stable. When I gets up to Fifty-eighth Street I goes into a
saloon.

“When I had put away a couple of beers, I comes out and I stands in
front lookin’ at a block a big truck loaded with iron had made, when I
see Rawson pulled up.

“Then I see my swell guy in the coach open the door on the other side,
get out, shut the door after him, and slip over to the other side.”

“What’s your name?” sharply asked Nick.

“What’s that to you?” replied the other.

“Johnny,” said Rawson, “this is Mr. Carter, the celebrated detective.”

The man started, a little frightened, and immediately became far more
respectful.

“My name is Johnny Moran,” he said.

“What is your business, Moran?” asked Nick.

“I am a stableman, sometimes drivin’ for a livery stable right near
where Rawson works.”

“He’s all right,” said Rawson. “We worked together in the same stables
before, and he is a good man.”

“I have no doubt of that. He looks like it,” said Nick. “Now, Moran,
what did this man you saw in the coach look like?”

“Well, he was a swell.”

“Describe him as near as you can.”

The man seemed to be embarrassed, and hung his head, as if trying to
think hard.

“I didn’t just see his face,” he said, at length. “He had on a shiny
hat, and whiskers all around his face, that were dark, and the clothes
he had on were swell.”

“Would you know him again if you were to see him?”

The man shook his head doubtfully, and finally said:

“I don’t know about that. You see, I didn’t think anything was wrong
then, and I wasn’t stagging him off for anything. If he was dressed just
the same maybe I would, but I wouldn’t want to swear to it.”

He thought a little while, and then said:

“He was about as tall as him,” he pointed to Chick.

Then he went on:

“Seems to me, as he went across the street with his back to me, he had a
trick of hitching up his right shoulder.”

“How hitching it up?” asked Chick.

“It was more than that—it was a kind of a jerk.”

“Is that all you can tell us?” asked Nick.

“It is all that I can think of now.”

“If we should want you to go with us some time, where could we find
you?” asked Nick.

“You can find me at the stable most any time, and I’ll go with you
whenever you want me to.”

“What you have already told us, Moran,” said Nick, “is very important.
It has settled one question that we were in great doubt about.”

The two detectives turned away, and, as they walked off in the direction
of the Constant house, Nick said:

“Chick, luck’s with us.”

“Nick Carter’s luck,” Chick said, with a laugh.

“It’s luck, whosever it is,” said Nick, “for we might have hunted a long
time before we got such direct evidence of the correctness of our
theory, that the man entered that coach when it stood in front of the
dressmaker’s.”

“I suppose that we must assume that he did enter there,” said Chick,
“but we are weak on that evidence.”

“We have direct evidence as to how he left the coach after the murder,”
said Nick. “I think we can safely assume that there is where he did
enter the coach. However, there is something for you to do, and that is
to go down into that neighborhood and see if you can establish the fact
for a certainty that he did enter there.”

“Then I had better do it without loss of time,” said Chick. “I will go
right away.”

Thus it was that the detectives separated at that point.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                           A CHANGE OF FRONT.


Patsy had made his way to the Madison Square Garden at once, and
presented his letter to the prominent banker.

“I should think,” said the banker, as he folded up the letter, after
reading it, “that Mr. Carter would devote his energies rather to finding
out who killed Mrs. Constant than to finding out who poisoned her dogs.”

“Oh, Mrs. Constant is all right,” replied Patsy. “She wasn’t killed.”

“Not killed?” replied the banker. “The papers said so.”

“All a mistake,” said Patsy. “Mrs. Constant is well, though she ain’t
happy, for the reason that it was her sister who was killed.”

“That beautiful girl!” exclaimed the banker, eager to know all that
Patsy could tell him.

Though the lad was anxious to get to work, he was compelled to delay
while he satisfied the banker’s curiosity.

When he was finally released, which he was with full authority to go to
all parts of the huge building, he hurried out into the space where the
dogs were benched.

As fond as he was of the animals, however, he paid little attention to
them, for he was anxious to make himself acquainted with the attendants.

It was the last day of the show, and the attendance, especially at that
hour in the afternoon when Patsy reached the building, was very large.

If thereby movement about the building was made difficult, it was all
the better for Patsy, for he was less likely to be recognized.

He spent an hour of close examination without hitting upon anything
which could serve as an opening to him.

Finally he engaged in conversation a well-known kennelman of a prominent
breeder, leading it to the poisoning of the dogs by degrees.

“Yes,” said the kennelman, in answer to Patsy’s question, “there was a
nasty case of poisoning here. You can bet that it was outside of the
bunch.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Patsy.

“I mean it was none of the doggy men that did it, and it wasn’t for any
show reasons. A breeder, or a man in the business, thinks too much of a
dog to do him in that way.

“Setters are not my line. We were only competing in the fox-terriers. So
we hadn’t especial interest in setters. But I felt as bad over the
deaths of those setters as if they had been the dogs I had brought up
and cared for.

“It’s a mean man that can kill a dog, anyhow—dogs as gentle and
sweet-tempered as setters are.

“So I say some one was trying to get square on the lady that owned those
dogs, and for reasons away from this show.

“Say, if they ever get down to the truth of it, see if it don’t turn out
to be a woman that did the business.”

This was a new idea to Patsy, and he stood still thinking of it.
Suddenly a voice fell on his ear.

“It’s him, I’m telling you. Sure. Get out of sight!”

Patsy looked around, without seeing whence came the voice, though two of
the attendants were walking off hastily.

Rather from curiosity than from any other reason, Patsy followed them,
carefully preventing himself from being seen by them.

When they had reached the end of the aisle, they turned, taking up a
position behind a bench, where they thought they were concealed from
view.

Patsy crept up as closely as he could, and under the pretense of petting
one of the dogs, then listened to their further talk.

“I heard that Nick Carter was onto the case,” said the voice Patsy had
heard before. “Now his young assistant, Patsy, comes around on the
sneak.”

“But you ain’t sure he’s onto the case. Likely he’s only come in to have
a look at the dogs.”

“Look nawthin’! He’s here for biz. I am going to get out.”

“If you do, you lose your pay. If you drop out now, you get nothing.”

“The whack on the other thing is good. Anyhow, I don’t want that fellow
to get his peepers on me.”

“You haven’t got the whack, an’ I’m ready to bet that we’ll get t’rown
down yet.”

“Go wan,” said the other, incredulously.

Patsy cautiously climbed upon the bench and peeped over the division.

Two men in the dress of the hired attendants stood with their backs to
him.

As he looked, trying to fix upon some peculiarity by which he could
recognize them when in a position to see their faces, a man, who was in
his manner and dress of some consequence, approached.

He eyed the two keenly, and the two straightened up as if they expected
recognition from the person.

Apparently this person was about to pass by, but he suddenly halted,
turned from his path, and went quickly to the bench near where the two
were standing, pretending to be much interested in the dogs there.

All of this was seen by the keen-eyed Patsy, and he also saw that as
this consequential-appearing person reached the bench, he slipped
something deftly into the hands of the two standing ready to receive it.

Not a word was spoken between the three. The passage made, the
consequential-appearing man turned from the bench and sauntered on.

Dropping from his perch and keeping his eye on this person, Patsy
followed him down, keeping in his own aisle.

As the end was reached, Patsy hurried forward, and, getting close to
this person, kept him in sight until he met an acquaintance.

“Who is that person?” asked Patsy, pointing out the man he had been
following.

“Don’t know,” replied the one he accosted. “There’s Herrick over there.
He knows everybody, and if you want to know badly I’ll find out for
you.”

“Do,” said Patsy. “And hurry!”

Patsy’s acquaintance hurried off and came back in a moment, saying:

“The man’s name is Eric Masson.”

Though Patsy was rather expecting that reply, yet when he received it,
it was with a sort of a shock.

However, firmly fixing in his memory the features of the man Masson by a
close inspection of them, he hurried back to the part of the building
where he had left the attendants.

They were still in the places where they had stood when Masson came to
them and passed to them the mysterious something.

He made a wide circle so that he could come in front of them to observe
their faces.

Then he worked up to them gradually, using the passing people skillfully
as a screen for himself.

Thus he obtained an excellent view of their faces, and it seemed to him
that he recognized one of them, but it was difficult for him to fix it.

He was about to turn away, in an effort to learn who they were, how and
under what circumstances they had obtained employment there, when he saw
Masson again approaching.

This time he seemed to be stopping for an instant before each of the
dogs, but yet steadily edging along to where the two men stood.

Patsy took a chance and moved closer, concealed only by a lady and
gentleman, whose next movements might disclose him to the very persons
of whom he was trying to keep out of sight.

Finally Masson reached the spot where the two men were standing.

“This dog is not a prize winner,” he said, to the one nearest him, who
proved to be the one whose features were somewhat familiar to Patsy.

“No; he didn’t win anything,” replied the man.

Then, in a lower tone of voice, Masson said:

“I want to see you.”

“When?” replied the attendant, in the same tone.

“Right away.”

“Where?”

“Follow me out and to a place I shall go to.”

“Say, boss,” replied the other, “if we skip the place now we lose our
bones for the four days’ hustle.”

“Never mind that. I’ll make it good. You must get out to me. There’s
trouble.”

“All right,” said the other, who had not yet spoken. “If you make good,
what you say goes. But it’s a ten-case note for each of us.”

“All the same. Get off those clothes and get to me.”

As the two made a movement as if to go away from the spot, Patsy fell
back to a point where he could observe without being seen.

The two went off toward the rear of the hall, and Eric Masson sauntered
off toward the main entrance.

There he took a stand as if he was merely watching the passing show.

At once Patsy took in the situation. The men had gone to change their
clothes, and Masson was waiting for them to return.

“I must follow them,” muttered Patsy. “To do so I must make a change,
and I’ve got to make it quick.”

Near where he stood was a door which he thought led into the offices of
the kennel club. He dodged through it to find he was correct in his
surmise as well as to face the prominent banker.

“What now, Patsy?” asked the banker.

“Only a little makeup,” replied Patsy. “I think I’m on to something, and
am going to try it.”

Much to the interest and amusement of the banker, he drew from his
pocket a wig, which he slipped on, and a false mustache, using some
color to change his face and eyebrows.

“Oh, for another coat and hat!” cried Patsy, casting longing eyes on
those worn by the banker.

“I’ll swap with you, Patsy,” cried the banker, laughing heartily, as he
threw off his coat.

The exchange was quickly made, and as Patsy dashed out, the banker,
following, cried out:

“I shan’t swap back, Patsy, because as it stands now I got the best of
the trade.”

Patsy laughed, but made no reply. Hurrying out, he found Masson still in
the place where he left him.

He passed close to him, and went into the hallway, standing just within
the gate, waiting until Masson appeared.

As this person showed up, Patsy sauntered through the gate and down to
the outer doors.

Looking back, he saw the two men, now in their street clothes, following
at a respectful distance.

Patsy went out on the sidewalk.

When Masson reached it, he turned toward Twenty-seventh Street and
rounded the corner.

Patsy was close behind him. Walking at a brisk gait, which he quickened
to pass Masson, he saw that that person was going to Fourth Avenue.

Nearing the corner of Fourth Avenue, Patsy put himself in concealment,
quite certain that he had not been observed by Masson or the two men.

And from that point he saw Masson turn up Fourth Avenue, followed by the
two men.

Now Patsy trailed in behind them.

The way was up Fourth Avenue, only a few blocks, when Masson turned into
a saloon on the corner, making a signal for the two men to follow him.

The young detective passed in close behind the two.

A hasty glance about the room showed him that it was well thronged by
customers, something he had hoped for.

It also showed him that a partition formed a small room in the corner on
the side on which was the bar.

At the end of the bar, nearest this small room, was a large and rather
ornamental icebox. At the end of the box, furthest from the bar, and out
of sight of it, was a door leading into the hall by which the upper
floors of the house were reached.

This door was open and swung back against the partition, leaving a space
behind it.

Masson made his way through the customers to this small room, followed
by the two men.

He ordered drinks for them, and when they had been served and paid for,
he closed the door, shutting himself up with them.

Patsy slipped behind the hall door. He could hear nothing, however.

By dint of climbing upon the door, resting a foot on the door-knob, he
brought his ear on a level with the top of the partition.

The effort paid him.

“There’s a lot of trouble,” said Masson’s voice, quickly recognized by
Patsy. “In the first place, Nick Carter has been put on the case.”

“That’s bad,” said one of the others.

“Why bad?” asked Masson.

“Because he’s a wizard to get at the bottom of things.”

“Well, it isn’t likely he’ll spend much time on this matter, for he’s
got something bigger on hand. But that isn’t what I am after just now.
Listen to me.

“Nick Carter was put on the case. The woman has charged me with being at
the bottom of the thing. However, there was a change, and that gives me
a chance to do a thing I want to have done.

“Nick Carter won’t pay much attention to this thing for a while.”

“That’s where you’re off,” interrupted the voice Patsy had first heard.
“One of his best men was in the Garden this afternoon. He’s there now on
the snoop.”

“You’re wrong, old man,” muttered Patsy to himself. “I’m here, on the
sneak.”

“Who?” asked Masson, anxiously.

“Patsy Murphy,” replied the other. “I dropped to him as soon as I saw
him.”

“Are you sure?” asked Masson.

“You bet he’s sure,” said the other. “He’s been through Patsy’s hands,
and he knows him.”

“That’s so,” said the first one, “and he left his mark on me so he’d
know me again. I sneaked when I saw him.”

“Well, if that’s so,” said Masson, “it makes it all the more necessary
that the thing moves as I have planned.

“This woman’s sister was killed last night.”

“No; the woman herself,” said one of the voices.

“Don’t contradict me,” said Masson. “It was the woman’s sister. I’ve got
it straight. That may make some little trouble for me, but not much. It
will make more if they get onto the other job.

“But I want you two out of the way to make sure that they don’t get on.
Take a trip to Chicago, St. Louis, or the devil, for four or five weeks.
I’ll pay for it.

“Now, then, you see what I mean. Will you get out right away? I’ll stake
you well.”

“I’m game to go on the next train,” said one of the two.

“I ain’t so ready to go,” said the other, “but if it cuts any ice I’ll
do it.”

“Well,” said Masson, “it will cut a good deal of ice with me. I can’t
afford to take any chances now. I wish now that I’d never gone into the
job, seeing what turn things have taken.

“But the thing is, are you ready to go?”

“Yes.”

“When will you go? To-night?”

“Yes.”

“Where to?”

“Chicago, if you say so.”

“Well, I do. It is now near five o’clock. Meet me at half-past seven at
the Forty-second Street Station, and I’ll hand you the tickets and the
stake. Is that settled?”

There was a movement of chairs as if the three men were rising, and
Patsy slipped down from his perch and from behind the door.

He was out in the saloon in a position to see them when they came from
the room.

“I needn’t worry about Masson,” said Patsy to himself. “He can be picked
up at the station. I’ll follow the others to find out who they are.”

His chase after these two was not a long one, though it did carry him to
the Bowery, to which place the two hurried.

The two toughs, for such, indeed, they were, reaching that famous
thoroughfare, quickly made for a saloon which was well known to Patsy
through frequent visits to it in the way of business.

So skillfully had his shadow work been done that neither of the two
toughs had even seen him.

Entering this place close behind them, Patsy was surprised and not
gratified to see within it an old acquaintance, Bally Morris.

But what had rather annoyed him he quickly saw was likely to turn out to
his advantage.

No sooner had this Bally Morris seen the two Patsy was following enter,
than he went up to them and began a quarrel with them, charging them
with having gone back on him in some matter.

It was clear to Patsy that the two had no wish for a quarrel at the
time, and he saw them get out of the place as soon as they could.

And he changed his tactics at once. Slipping out, he tore off his beard
and false mustache, letting the two go where they would, believing that
he would get trace of them at half-past seven at the Grand Central
Station.

Having got into his own proper person, he went back into the saloon to
find Bally Morris.

That amiable young person recognized Patsy at once, and was not,
apparently, anxious to see the young detective.

“Oh, ho,” thought Patsy. “He’s afraid of me. He’s been up to something
and thinks I am on.”

Asking Morris to take a drink with him, he said:

“Who were the two guys you were wanting to scrap wid, Bally?”

“I don’t know who dey is. I hed a muss wid ’em las’ night to a rag
spiel.”

“Oh, come off, Bally. Don’t play me dat way. Gimme it straight.”

“Honest, I don’t.”

“Say, Bally, you couldn’t be honest if you tried. Well, I ain’t on to
anythin’ you’ve been doin’, but I want to know who dose fellers are,
see! If you don’t give it, why——”

He stopped, looking Bally in the face, steadily and threateningly.

“Well,” at length said the East Side tough, “dey ain’t no fr’en’s of
mine. Dere names is Al Crummie and Bill Graff.”

“Crooks?”

“Well, dey ain’t straight goods.”

“Where is dere hang-out?”

“On de block below. What dey been doin’?”

“Poisoning dogs, I guess.”

Bally looked up at Patsy with a laugh, as if he did not believe him.

“Dat’s all I know,” continued Patsy. “Up to the dog show. Dey was hired
there.”

“Well,” said Bally, “de’re mean enough.”

Patsy had now gotten all he wanted, and he hurried off to find Nick
Carter and to report.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                           CLOSER TO MASSON.


Chick was present when Patsy made his report of the afternoon’s work,
and listened with interest to the remarks Nick made on it.

“Patsy has settled one end of the case in pretty short order,” said
Nick. “The dogs were poisoned by these two men, Crummie and Graff, who
were hired to do it by Masson. What further work there is to be done on
that line is only that of making the proof strong. Patsy’s work was
quickly done, and well done.”

“I had a good deal of luck with me,” said Patsy, modestly, though much
pleased with the praise of his chief.

“Luck, Patsy,” said Nick, “usually comes from the right use of your
head, and seizing hold of opportunities when they present themselves.”

“Well, chief,” asked Chick, “how does this triumph of Patsy hitch on to
the murder end of the case?”

“There is where the puzzle is,” remarked Nick, thoughtfully.

“This morning,” said Chick, “we said that if we found that Masson was
not responsible for the death of the dogs it would go far toward putting
Masson out from under the suspicion of murder. Does it work the other
way when we find that he is responsible for the poisoning?”

“I am afraid that is the way we figured this morning,” said Nick, with a
smile. “But after hearing Patsy’s report, I am even more puzzled as to
Masson.

“If he was guilty of that murder, he is a cool-blooded wretch to talk of
it, as Patsy reports he did.”

“Yes,” said Chick, “his nerve is great. It seems he knew it was not
Blanche, but Ethel Romney that was killed.”

“Don’t forget, Chick, that at the time he was talking to these men all
the world knew. The evening papers by that time had corrected the error
of the morning.”

“True enough,” said Chick, “I had forgotten that. So there is no point
in that.”

“But, chief,” cried Patsy, “what are we to do about the lads that are
going to Chicago to-night?”

“Let them go,” replied Nick, quietly.

“Let them go?” repeated Chick and Patsy in the same breath.

“Yes; it will be easy enough to get them when we want them. The chief
thing is that I want Masson to think that he is right; that we are not
paying any attention to the dog end of the case; and, to convince him,
if we can, by our action that we have no suspicion as to him as the
murderer.”

“And then?” asked Chick, who was at a loss to follow his chief, who was
laying out a plan so different from his usual course.

“Then I shall have every step he takes shadowed and every move he makes
watched.”

“And yet you do not believe that Masson killed Ethel Romney?”

“It will not do to say that, Chick. I have told you that I am more
puzzled over this case than any I ever had to do with. I will admit to
you that, starting with the suspicions of Mrs. Constant, and her
reasons, all the indications are just as she suggests—that Ethel Romney
was killed by Eric Masson, supposing her to be Blanche Constant. But
when it is all done, I cannot make up my mind that he did do it.

“Now, I propose to settle that question beyond dispute.”

“Patsy,” said Chick, suddenly, “what sort of looking man is Eric
Masson?”

“About your height,” said Patsy, “brown beard and hair, straight nose,
pretty high, eyes close together, so dark as to look black, set well
back in his head, dresses very swell.”

“Good!” exclaimed Chick. “Now, chief, a man of exactly that description
appeared in front of that dressmaker’s place in Sixth Avenue, to which
Ethel Romney went, just after Ethel was there the first time, and hung
around there so long that three people had their attention attracted to
him.

“One of them saw the carriage drive up a second time, saw the lady it
carried get out a second time, saw this man dart out of an adjoining
doorway and follow her as she passed through into the place, speak to
her, come out again and get into that carriage.

“This same person saw the lady come out and attempt to enter the
carriage, heard a little cry from her as she stepped in, and saw the man
hurriedly close the door of the coach.

“There is something for you to crack, chief.”

“That is what you picked up this afternoon when you left me?” calmly
asked Nick.

“Yes.”

“It confirms the stories of both Moran and Rawson. It makes the
indications point all the stronger toward Masson.

“Now, I’ll give you something stronger than that. Ten minutes after
Ethel Romney drove away from home, Eric Masson called at the Constant
residence, asking to see Mrs. Constant.

“The servant who opened the door told him the lady had just driven away
in her carriage.

“The servant supposed she was telling the truth, for she had mistaken
Ethel for Mrs. Constant. In response to the question as to whether Mrs.
Constant had gone out for the evening, the servant replied she thought
not, as she had heard Mrs. Constant was going to her dressmaker.”

“Knowing all this you still have doubts, chief?” asked Chick.

“Patsy,” asked Nick, “does Eric Masson walk with a hitch or a jerk to
his right shoulder?”

“I saw nothing of it?” replied the lad.

“Chick,” said Nick, “Masson was in his club from six o’clock in the
evening until ten at night. Three men stand to swear to it.”

“What time did Ethel Romney leave her home last night?” asked Chick.

“About eight o’clock.”

“It’s a puzzle; more puzzling the deeper you get into it,” said Chick.
“If these three men stand firm, Masson can prove an alibi, if charged.”

“Chick, one man stands ready to swear that he saw Eric Masson in
Fifty-eighth Street at nine o’clock, for he had just looked at his watch
as he saluted Masson.

“Another stands ready to swear that he met and spoke to Eric Masson at
about half-past nine, at the corner of Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth
Avenue.”

“And this is the result of your inquiries since I parted with you?”
asked Chick.

“You think that instead of clearing things they are worse muddled.”

“It would look that way.”

“Well, you’re right. I can’t even imagine an explanation of these
contradictions.”

Further conversation on this line was interrupted by the coming of Mrs.
Carter, who had been spending the afternoon with Blanche Constant.

She was quite excited, saying:

“It has been a distressing afternoon. Blanche’s grief is almost robbing
her of her senses. She blames herself so much that she did not guard
Ethel against the dangers she was exposed to.”

Turning suddenly to her husband, she said:

“Nick, how is it that you can doubt for a moment that Masson is the man
that murdered Ethel, thinking she was Blanche?”

Chick was about to speak, but Nick checked him, saying:

“Edith, you know, I usually want proof before I believe a man guilty.”
Continuing, he said:

“When, having been rejected, Masson learns that Blanche Romney was about
to marry Albert Constant, he tells her it will be well neither for
herself nor for Constant if she does. It was not nice or manly, yet
there is nothing in that to justify a belief in murder.”

“But——”

“Blanche thinks he injured her husband. That is only suspicion. She
hints at foul play in Constant’s death, but it is based only on the fact
that Masson dined at the same table. At the very best, it is only
suspicion.

“She thinks that Masson killed her dogs, but she has no proof. It is
only suspicion.”

Patsy looked up in great surprise at Nick when he said the last words.
Then he saw that Nick had a purpose in the way he was replying to Edith.

“Well, it is not suspicion when he entices Blanche into an empty house,
where he is alone, is it?” cried Edith, quite heatedly.

“What is that you are saying?” asked Nick.

“I didn’t mean to speak of it,” said Edith, “for Blanche is so afraid of
the scandal of it. But the grass was hardly green over the grave of her
husband when Masson renewed his attentions to Blanche. That was bad
enough in itself.

“She drove him away angrily, and yet he persisted in writing to her
until she returned his letters unopened.

“Then one day, having by some means learned that Blanche was befriending
a poor family, he enticed her to go to see that poor family at a certain
house.

“When she entered the house the poor family was not there, but Masson
was, and he was alone.

“Then he told her that she was compromised by entering that house, for
every one in the neighborhood knew that a bachelor lived there, and had
seen her enter.

“Blanche only got out of the house by drawing her revolver and fighting
her way out.

“One day, when Blanche was giving a reception, for which she had issued
cards, five or six most notorious women entered, having received cards,
to scandalize her, and one acknowledged that she had been hired by
Masson to go there.

“Then, when Blanche sent for him and threatened him with arrest and
prosecution if he continued the persecutions, he declared that he would
continue them until she married him; that if she wanted to live it could
only be as his wife——”

“Now,” said Nick, springing to his feet, “we have something substantial
to go upon. I knew there was something back of all this indefinite
suspicion of Mrs. Constant.

“It required Edith’s sympathy to get it out.

“What an infernal scoundrel the fellow is!

“What is true,” he continued, “is that we have for the first time
knowledge of a threat on the part of Masson to kill Mrs. Constant.

“That becomes serious. Now we have a new motive for work.

“Patsy, you must be at the Grand Central Station to see your friends,
Crummie and Graff, off to Chicago. Let them go, thinking that nobody
suspects them.

“Then take up Masson’s shadow. That is to be your work for the present.

“In the meantime, I am growing alarmed about Ida. She was to wire me
before this from Philadelphia.”

“Don’t worry, chief,” said Chick. “Ida knows how to take care of
herself. If she has not wired you, it is because she means to turn up
from that city this evening.”

“I hope so,” said Nick, uneasily.

Then the four went to dinner.




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                            IDA IN TROUBLE.


When Patsy set out to be present at the departure for Chicago of his two
new acquaintances, Crummie and Graff, Nick and Chick accompanied him to
the station, in order that they might become familiar with the
appearance of Masson.

Under Edith’s recital of the tale told her by Blanche Constant of
Masson’s persecutions, the latter person had assumed a new importance in
Nick’s eye.

Arriving at the station, Patsy quickly espied the two East Side toughs.

They were roaming about the large room, evidently looking for some one,
and not finding him.

“It begins to look,” said Patsy, “as if Masson had thrown ’em down.”

“Yet,” said Nick, “when you heard him talking to them, he seemed to be
most anxious to have them get out of town, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” replied Patsy. “It was his idea. He proposed it to them.”

“There may have been a new turn in the game,” said Nick.

He had hardly said this when a man stepped out from a group of persons
and walked over to the two, speaking to them.

Surprise was plainly shown on the faces of the two toughs when they were
addressed, but the expression quickly changed to one of recognition.

This man was about the height of Chick, but he was smooth-shaven.

The three detectives, moving up more closely, saw this smooth-shaven
stranger hand a small envelope to one of the two. Then he took from his
pocket two small packages, handing one to each.

Patsy, who had edged away, so that he could get a clear view of the
stranger’s face, came back to Nick, saying:

“Great Scott! The fellow has given himself a clean shave.”

“Shaved off his whiskers and mustache?” asked Nick.

“Sure,” said Patsy.

Nick made no reply, but Chick said:

“If the fellow looked no better before than he does after shaving, I
pity him.”

“He looks a lot worse,” said Patsy.

Chick laughed, and Nick remarked:

“He is a foolish man.”

The doors leading to the train shed were now thrown open, and the
gatemen began to call the train.

The two toughs shook hands with Masson and passed through the gate, on
their way to the train they were to take.

Masson turned to go to the exit to the street, and in doing so passed
close to the three detectives, apparently without recognizing them. If
he did, he made no sign of it.

He had gone but a few steps beyond this little group of detectives when
he encountered a party of travelers, consisting of two ladies and two
gentlemen. To this party he lifted his hat.

All of the four looked with some surprise upon him, and then one of the
gentlemen broke into a laugh, saying:

“Why, you have made an astonishing change in your appearance, Masson.”

“Yes,” replied Masson, fully at ease. “And not for the better, I
imagine.”

To this remark no one made reply, but the other gentleman said, lightly:

“It was a reckless thing to do—making such a complete change.”

“It was forced on me,” said Masson. “A fellow that looks like me has
been going about town representing himself to be me, and causing me a
good deal of trouble. The only way in which I could stop him was to
destroy the resemblance.”

“Perhaps he will shave, too,” said one of the ladies.

“But he will not restore the resemblance,” replied Masson. “It was the
whiskers that did the trick.”

Their conversation was changed with this, and Nick said to his
companion:

“Was that said by Masson for our benefit, think you?”

“It sounded like a throw off,” said Chick.

The three detectives passed out of the building, and stood on the
sidewalk in front of the main doors, waiting for Masson to make his
appearance.

“You must follow Masson when he shows up, Patsy,” said Nick.

Patsy moved away, to be prepared for this duty, and Chick said:

“If Masson’s words were not intended for us, then they were important in
showing that there is another man on the carpet who might be confused
with him.”

“And,” added Nick, “it would afford an explanation of the contradictions
that now bother us.”

At this moment Masson came through the door and walked briskly up
Forty-second Street, Patsy following.

Nick made a signal to Chick, and started after.

Thus Masson was followed to Fifth Avenue, when he turned to the south,
going down that avenue, to all appearance unconscious that he was
followed.

At Thirty-seventh Street Nick stopped, Chick halting with him.

“I have followed as far as I want,” said Nick. “I wanted to see whether
he walked with a hitch or jerk of his shoulders.”

“Did you notice it?” asked Chick.

“No,” said Nick. “I noticed nothing in the man’s habits of movement that
indicated it.”

The two now turned to the west, leaving Patsy to continue his shadow of
Masson alone.

This shadow led to a club some distance down Fifth Avenue, in front of
which stood two men, one of whom respectfully saluted Masson as he came
up.

Masson walked directly to the man, and said, abruptly:

“There will be nothing doing, Denton, until to-morrow night. Then I want
steam up and everything ready for a three or four weeks’ cruise. I want
the launch to be at the old pier as early as eight o’clock, although I
may not be there to meet it until ten.

“Now, Denton, I want no mistakes. The same men manning the launch that
we have had before. I want the crew off the deck when I go aboard. You
alone are to have the watch from nine to twelve.

“I shall be here at the club until midnight. After that I shall be at
home until to-morrow. You can reach me any time to-morrow here at the
club if you have need to.”

Masson was about to go into the clubhouse, and the two men to whom he
was talking had moved off a short distance, when a third man came
running up, saying:

“There is a mistake, Mr. Masson. The funeral does not take place
to-morrow, but the day after.”

“Are you sure,” asked Masson.

“Sure. I got it from the undertaker in charge.”

Masson hurriedly called the two men back, and said to them:

“Wait! There may be a change of orders.”

Turning to the third man who had come up, he asked:

“What are the arrangements?”

“The funeral is at eleven, and the burial will be at Greenwood as soon
thereafter as it can take place.”

“Hum!” exclaimed Masson, thoughtfully. “Day after to-morrow then. That
changes all arrangements.”

He walked off to the two men who had come back and were patiently
waiting for him to speak. To them he said:

“The orders I gave you are all off. Come to me to-morrow here for
further orders. In the meantime, you can continue preparations for a
long cruise. That’s all for the present.”

The two men went away, and Masson, taking the other by the arm, led him
into the house.

Patsy had overheard the whole of this conversation by slipping out into
the middle of the street, behind the four persons and climbing into a
cab standing empty before the door.

When all had disappeared, he crawled out again and crossed to the other
side of the street.

“Now, what does all that mean?” said Patsy to himself. “The first two
men were from his yacht. That’s clear. And Masson is going on a long
cruise. That’s clear, too. But who was the other man, and what’s that
about a funeral?”

He stood thinking a little while, and then suddenly exclaimed:

“Gee! what if it’s the funeral of that Miss Romney? Well, I’ll shadow
him for a while if he comes out, for Masson’s going to stay in the
club.”

Shortly after the man who had entered with Masson came out, and
leisurely walked off into the direction of Broadway, closely followed by
Patsy. It soon became apparent that he had no particular business on
hand, nor any special place to go to, but was lounging from saloon to
saloon.

“It’s eating up time for nothing following this chap,” said Patsy, to
himself. “I’ll give him the drop, and start after the chief to find
him.”

Acting upon this thought, Patsy hurried to his chief’s residence, to
find that Nick had just come in with Chick.

He reported the conversation between Masson and the three men that he
had overheard, to the great interest of the two elder detectives.

When he was through, Nick said:

“Masson has shipped off to Chicago the two men who were his instruments
in the dog poisoning affair. Now he is going away for a long cruise
himself.”

“But, chief,” said Chick, eagerly; “how about that funeral? His going
away seems to be tied up with that.”

“I was coming to that,” said Nick, “and it is the most important thing.
The undertaker, having been given full charge, had appointed to-morrow
as the day of the funeral, but Mrs. Constant, having learned this,
postponed the funeral another day, on the ground that it seemed like
hurrying Ethel into the tomb to have the funeral so soon.

“Now compare this fact with what Patsy overheard between Masson and that
third man who came up, and we can conclude that the funeral Masson is
interested in is that of Ethel Romney.

“It appears, then, that Masson is determined to begin his cruise on the
day of that funeral. Why?”

“It is very strange,” said Chick, “and I take it we will have to find
that out. It can’t be, chief, that it is to be explained on the simple
ground that Masson wishes to attend that funeral?”

“Dismiss that idea, Chick,” said Nick. “Masson will not attend in any
event. No, we must look deeper than that for an explanation.”

The three were silent a moment, each busy with his own thoughts, when
Nick said:

“This calls for action. We may be forced to show our hands before we are
quite ready.”

“We can hardly let Masson go out of sight,” said Chick.

“And yet,” said Nick, “we have not enough basis on which to detain him.
We have got to meet this another way.

“The name of his yacht is the _Derelict_. When he is not aboard, it lies
in the East River, off Twenty-third Street. Patsy, there is some work
for you to do.”

The famous detective got up from his chair, and began pacing up and down
the apartment, keeping it up for a long time. When he stopped he dropped
again into his chair, and said:

“I am satisfied that this move of Masson’s bears some relation to the
case we have in hand. What, I am not able to figure out. But we must get
‘onto’ it, to use Patsy’s words, and Patsy, you must be the one to get
‘onto’ it.”

“All right, chief,” said Patsy. “But you must tell me how.”

“Didn’t you tell me once that some summers ago you were on a yacht as a
steward for a little while?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I think you will have to try and hire out as a steward on the
_Derelict_.”

Patsy laughed, and replied:

“Or as an able seaman?”

“Any way, so long as you get aboard,” said Nick. “That’s the most
important thing we have to do at present. And you haven’t much time to
do it in, either.”

“And it isn’t an easy thing to do,” said Patsy; “but I’ll start the ball
rolling to-night.”

The little clock on the mantel of the room struck the hour of ten, and
Chick said:

“If you are going to start the ball to-night, you’ll have to start it
very soon, for it’s ten o’clock now.”

At that moment the servant entered the room with a telegram, which she
handed to Chick.

Tearing off the envelope and opening the folded paper within, Chick read
aloud:

“‘Am in trouble.’”

Chick hastily glanced at the top of the dispatch, and exclaimed:

“Philadelphia! The deuce! It’s from Ida.”

“How do you know?” asked Patsy. “Is it signed by her?”

“There’s no signature,” said Chick. “But I know it’s from her.”

Nick was already on his feet, and he said:

“And she wants help or she never would have sent the message. Chick, you
and I start for Philadelphia now. We have just got time to catch the
next train that leaves for that city.”

“Do I go, too?” asked Patsy.

“No,” said Nick. “We leave you in charge of the case. Get on to that
yacht if you can. I fancy that that’s where the work must be done. We
can’t tell how long Chick and I will be away. But, if anything important
turns up, wire me to the old place in Philadelphia.

“Now, Chick, we must be off.”

Nick and Chick hurried away, and Patsy went off to start his own
difficult work.




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                              A NEW SIDE.


Ida met with an experience unusual to her on her trip to Philadelphia.

While riding on the cars she perceived that a man and woman,
fellow-passengers, were eying her with no little curiosity.

What had attracted their attention she was at a loss to know, and for a
time it irritated her.

But, turning to the window, she, by interesting herself in a magazine,
tried to forget it.

And, becoming interested in her story, she did forget it, and was only
started from her interest by seeing a man seat himself in the chair next
to her.

For a time she paid no attention to this person, except to observe that
he was a man apparently of thirty-five, wearing a closely-clipped brown
beard and brown mustache, his hair cut very short.

Her book slipping from her lap gave this man the opportunity for which
evidently he had been looking.

Picking it up, he returned it to Ida, receiving her thanks for his
courtesy, and then attempted to enter into conversation with her.

However, making no reply to his remarks, when he persisted she swung her
chair about so that she presented her back to the man.

She was aware that the man was angry, but she gave little heed to that,
merely turning to satisfy herself that the man was not the one who, with
the lady, had a little time before annoyed her by their close
watchfulness of her.

She had not sat in this position but a little time, when the lady before
mentioned arose from her seat, and crossing the car, sat down in the
empty seat which Ida was now facing.

“Pardon me,” said the lady; “I take this seat and speak to you for two
reasons. One is rather a kindly one, and the other wholly selfish and
curious.

“I perceive that you are being annoyed by the man on the other side of
you. I saw that by sitting beside you and talking with you I could put
an end to his annoyances.”

This the lady said in a low tone that could not be heard by the man at
the back of Ida.

When Ida had thanked her for the interference the lady went on, but now
in a much louder voice.

“My selfish and curious reason is one not so helpful, but I hope you
won’t think it impertinent.

“My husband has recognized you as the celebrated Ida, the aid of the
famous Nick Carter, of whose exploits I have frequently read.

“I have long admired you, wondering how a woman could do such brave
things as I have known you to do. So I wanted to know and talk with
you.”

Though much annoyed at thus having her identity revealed in a public
place, Ida could not refrain from meeting the lady pleasantly, for in
the lady’s speech and manner there was, after all, much that was
complimentary.

Yet it was an uncommon experience for Ida. She knew that Nick, Chick and
Patsy were subject to such happenings, and were often compelled to
resort to disguises to prevent accidental recognitions.

She did not care to be so conspicuous as recognition made her, but a
moment’s thought told her that, after all, no great harm was done, since
her mission to Philadelphia could hardly be called a secret one; that
is, secrecy was not required in doing her work.

But, what gave her the most annoyance was that she was conscious that
the man on the other side of her had heard the lady, had started into
unusual interest, showing a little agitation and had swung his chair
around so as to bring his ears nearer to the two.

However, he soon got up, going to the other end of the car.

After this the lady and Ida chatted pleasantly until the train drew into
the great station in Philadelphia, when the lady rejoined her husband,
and Ida left the car.

The first thing that Ida did on reaching the street was at once to set
out for the house in which the family of Blanche Constant and Ethel
Romney lived.

As she passed the City Hall she saw, standing on the lower step of the
main entrance, looking at her intently, the man who had attempted to get
her into conversation on the cars.

Making no sign, and thinking that it was an accident, Ida hurried along,
keeping a sharp lookout behind her. It seemed to her that the man was
following her at a distance.

And when she reached the street, where she was to take the street car,
she thought that she saw the man concealing himself in a neighboring
doorway.

Of this she could not be certain, but, when mounting the car, which was
a good deal crowded, she had the uncomfortable feeling that the man was
on the same car.

“All this may be accidental,” said Ida to herself, “but I don’t think it
is.”

Arriving at her destination she left the car hastily, and, reaching the
curbstone, turned to watch the people descending from it.

The man who had seemed to follow her was not among those who got off at
the corner, but, as she watched the car roll up the street, a man
dropped off about midway of the block above, and Ida thought it was the
man in question.

This man hurriedly walked up the block in the same direction the car was
going, and disappeared around the same corner.

Ida now looked at her memoranda, and found that the house occupied by
the family of the murdered girl was in the street on the corner of which
she was standing. It was not her intention to visit this house, but she
had intended to inspect it from the outside.

It was clear that the houses of that neighborhood were not occupied by
the wealthier residents of Philadelphia, but it was also clear that it
was a thrifty neighborhood, and that the people living there were at
least in comfortable circumstances.

Most of the people whose names Nick had put down on the list he had
given her lived thereabouts.

One, however, was a detective friend of Nick’s, who, Nick said, would
give Ida such assistance as she might need were she to require it.

Ida, however, had determined that she would not call upon this detective
unless she were compelled to, by failing to secure what she was after in
applying to the other people.

Having observed the house, Ida passed on, intending to call on a woman
living on the block below, whose name had been given her by Nick.

As she reached the next corner, to her surprise, as well as to the
surprise of the other, she came face to face with the man who had
annoyed her previously, and who had just turned the corner.

In his surprise and embarrassment the man lifted his hat and went on.

Ida continued her way, a good deal troubled by the encounter.

Her call on the lady in question resulted in a success that she could
not have hoped for.

In fact, she secured information which was complete, and was only
confirmed, not added to, by those whom she subsequently visited.

And in this information were revelations of which Nick had not dreamed.

From this woman, who was familiar with the history of the family, Ida
learned that Blanche and Ethel were twin daughters of an old actor and
actress; that the father had died when the girls were about twelve years
of age, and that the mother, after continuing on the stage for some two
years thereafter, had married again and left the stage.

The man she had married was a superior mechanic, who had invested his
savings in the purchase of a saloon, which quickly became a sporting
haunt; he was a widower, with a son aged about eighteen years at the
time of his father’s marriage.

When his father engaged in the liquor business he had taken the son into
the store, who, under the influences, grew to be rather sporty in his
tastes and practices.

As the two girls developed they did not get along well with their
stepfather, and Blanche, the more spirited of the two, left her home
when eighteen to become an actress.

Ethel, however, who had neither a taste nor an aptitude for the stage,
remained at home, enduring an unpleasant life.

After Blanche had made what was considered to be a wealthy marriage, the
conditions at the Romney home were utterly changed.

George Macrane, the stepbrother, under the suggestion of Donald, his
father, became a suitor for the hand of Ethel.

There seemed to be an idea on the part of the father and son that a good
deal of money must come from Blanche to Ethel, and that the husband of
Ethel must benefit by it.

Ethel, from the first, had resisted these efforts, and was compelled to
fight the battle almost alone.

Her mother was evidently a weak woman, completely under the rule of her
husband, and joined her husband and his son in their effort to force
upon the girl the unwelcome suit.

The girl Ethel had shown more spirit in this resistance than she had
displayed in all her life before. It became persecution, for her life
was made miserable during the four years that it lasted.

All sorts of annoyances were put upon her. She was not permitted to go
out, or to receive company, and, if she talked with any one, especially
a man, a great row was made with her.

As the time went on these persecutions were increased.

Finally the girl Ethel, in her distress, had carried her troubles to the
lady talking to Ida.

This lady had advised Ethel to tell all her troubles to her sister
Blanche, something which Ethel had not done, because of the urgency of
her mother not to trouble Blanche with the family affairs.

At length the matter had become so bad that Ethel had permitted Blanche
to know how unpleasant was her life at home, with the result that
Blanche had insisted that Ethel should come to live with her.

The decision to do so had been met by a terrible row at home, and was
only accomplished by Blanche coming over to Philadelphia and actually
carrying Ethel off in spite of the opposition of the stepfather and son,
which became so much of a quarrel that the elder Macrane, losing his
temper, attempted to strike Blanche, and was only prevented by the
interference of the mother and son.

Blanche had carried Ethel off, but not until both father and son had
threatened that it would not end with that.

Further inquiry on the part of Ida showed that the elder Macrane was a
man of almost ungovernable passion, while the son was in much better
control of himself, but was sullen, determined and vindictive.

Ida left this lady intending to confirm this story by further inquiries,
and, indeed, did so in parts by three subsequent calls.

She said to herself, that at the present rate of progress she was
making, she would be able to return so as to arrive in New York by
midnight at least.

It was now just growing dark when she set out for the next name on the
list.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                            IN DURANCE VILE.


Ida was led a little distance from the neighborhood in her next call,
and to a part of the city that differed in appearance from that in
which, up to this hour, she had spent her time.

It was more sparsely settled, the houses further apart and the buildings
larger.

As she reached the address of the person she was next to call on, she
was met by a rather rough-looking young man, who asked her who she was
looking for.

Ida did not like the looks of the fellow, and, as she answered, her hand
stole to her pocket where her trusty revolver, which had served her well
in the past, safely lay.

Having given the name of the person she wanted, the young tough told her
to enter the hall door, climb the stairs and knock at the first door she
came to.

She entered the hall as directed, but found it wholly dark.

Stopping a moment to strike a match, so as to see her way, the first
faint glimmering of the light showed her the forms of three men
crouching at the foot of the stairs.

Instantly the match was knocked from her hand, and, in the intense
darkness that followed, she found herself seized both from before and
behind.

Though she struggled, she was powerless in the grasps of the scoundrels.

Then something was pulled over her head which seemed like a bag.
Naturally much frightened, nevertheless Ida did not lose her wits, and
keenly noted every move of the rascals who had seized her, carefully
watching for some sign of the brown-bearded man, whom she immediately
suspected of being at the bottom of the attack on her.

She was now lifted from her feet and carried farther into the hall. Then
she was certain she was borne into the open air. Then again into a
narrow passage, up some stairs and into a room, where she was placed on
a chair.

The men left her alone, but she could hear them close and bolt the door
behind them.

All was as silent as the grave. Outside, from the distance, she could
hear dimly the roll of wheels and the noise of the trollies, but that
was all.

She tried to tear off the covering that had been put on her head, and
found she had no difficulty in drawing it off.

There was no light in the room save that which entered through the
windows from the street.

It was little, but sufficient to see that the room she was in was barely
furnished. There was a table and two chairs. That was all.

She went to a window and saw that it looked out on the street, but could
see no one there.

She examined her pockets and her dress. There had been no attempt to
take anything from her. Her revolver still rested safely in her pocket.
She felt more secure when she found this had been left to her.

She also drew from her pocket what she had forgotten she had—a blank
form for a telegram and the stump of a pencil. Her pocketbook was secure
also.

Hearing a noise without the window she went to it again to see that a
young lad was crawling along the coping.

Trying to throw up the sash, she found it was nailed fast. Winding her
handkerchief about her hand, so that it would not be cut, she broke a
pane of glass and thrust her head through it.

The boy was startled and seemed as if he were going to crawl back.

“Who are you?” asked Ida.

“Did they lock youse up there?” asked the boy.

“Yes; how did you know?”

“I was on the stairs and seed ’em.”

A thought occurred to Ida. She asked:

“Will you do something for me?”

“If I kin.”

Ida took out her pocketbook, and, handing a bill to the lad, said:

“Here’s a dollar. I want you to take a telegram for me. It will cost a
quarter. The rest of the money shall be yours. Will you take the paper
to the telegraph office?”

“Sure. Where’s de paper?”

“I’ll write it.”

Ida hurried to the table and filled in the address of Chick, at Nick
Carter’s, in New York. Then she wrote these words: “Am in trouble.”

She had only gotten so far when she heard quick steps in the hall
without, approaching her door.

Without waiting further she rushed to the window and thrust the telegram
she had written out of the window to the boy, who snatched it and
crawled away in a hurry.

Ida went back to the table, her hand on her revolver.

The bolts were withdrawn and a man entered the room.

At a glance Ida saw that he was disguised, and not skillfully at that.

He crossed the room to where she was standing, the table between them,
and stood looking at her intently a moment or two.

Ida returned his gaze. Neither spoke for a while. Then the man said:

“You are Nick Carter’s Ida. What is your business here?”

“I have none,” said Ida. “I was brought here against my will.”

“I mean in Philadelphia.”

“That is my business.”

“Answer me, or it will be worse for you. You are here on the Ethel
Romney case.”

“Suppose I am, what then?” asked Ida, boldly.

“Well, you won’t do much locked up here, will you?” asked the man.

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Ida. “You can’t tell.”

The man did not know what to make of that answer and did not reply for a
moment or two. Then he said, roughly:

“Nick Carter thinks that the one who did the girl came here.”

Ida made no reply, but she was thinking hard.

“He’s wrong. It was a New York swell. You’re working on the wrong lay.”

Still Ida made no reply.

“Who does Nick Carter think did it?”

Ida continued her silence.

“What have you got onto since you’ve been here?”

Ida did not answer that question.

“Why don’t you answer?” said the man, roughly. “I’ll make you answer
mighty quick.”

Still Ida did not speak.

The man, losing his temper, attempted to reach her by passing around the
table, but Ida edged away until their positions were reversed, and she
stood where the man had, and the man was where she had stood.

The door was open behind her. She made a dash for it. The man seemed
prepared for that, for he violently pushed the table aside and sprang
after her.

Ida, drawing her revolver, whirled about, and, leveling her gun, called
out:

“Don’t come. I’ll shoot!”

The man laughed, sneeringly, and advanced.

Ida fired. The ball carried high, knocking off his hat. But it halted
the scoundrel.

Ida sprang through the door, dashed along the hall, finding the head of
the stairs and rushed down them.

The man followed, shouting at the top of his voice, apparently calling
the name of some one.

Descending the stairs Ida found an open door and rushed through it to
see that she was in a small yard.

Hastily glancing about she saw a door in the fence. She sprang to this
and found it unlocked. In a moment she was in the street.

But she was hardly through the gate than the man was upon her.

Ida drew her revolver again, but this time, as she leveled it, it was
knocked from her hand by a man who had come from behind a tree.

She was overpowered again. In the struggle she tore the disguise from
the man who had followed, and the hasty glimpse she had satisfied her
that he was the man who had accosted her on the cars—the brown-bearded
man.

This time they tied a handkerchief over her eyes.

“She’s the devil’s own,” said the voice which Ida thought was the voice
of the one from whom she had just escaped.

“You say she belongs to Nick Carter?” said another voice. “So she is.”

“She won’t get away this time,” replied the other.

The two attempted to pick her up again.

While her eyes were being bandaged, Ida had seemed to make no
resistance, but was busy in taking something from her pocket.

But when the two lifted her up, she wriggled out of their grasp, sinking
to the pavement, where she tried to do something with her hand.

The two pounced on her again, and this time lifted her clear from her
feet, and not gently, either.

It did not appear that they carried her again through the gate by which
she had escaped, but up the street a short distance and into another
hallway.

But she struggled with every step, throwing out her right arm and
bringing it into contact with everything she could strike.

She did this so regularly that it seemed as if she had a purpose in it,
though what it was, was by no means clear.

She was carried up a pair of stairs and put in a room again, and, as
before, seated in a chair.

“There,” said a voice that she recognized as that of the brown-bearded
man, “I reckon you’ll stay here for a while.”

Ida lifted her hands, which had been left free, and tore the bandage
from her eyes.

She was not in the same room, and it was lighted so well that she could
see that she had made no mistake in supposing that one of the men was
the one who had traveled from New York at midday with her, and that the
other was the tough who had, in accosting her, induced her to enter the
dark hallway.

She had not spoken a word.

“She’s game,” said the tough.

“I should say so,” replied the other. “But we’ll take some of the
gameness out of her before we get through with her.”

The two withdrew, locking and bolting the doors behind them, leaving Ida
alone in the dark to think over her strange plight, and whether her
telegram would reach Chick, and, if it did, if Chick would find her.




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                           A DASHING RESCUE.


It was after midnight before Nick and Chick reached the streets of
Philadelphia.

Before they drew into the station, Nick had said:

“We’ll waste no time, but go directly to the neighborhood in which Ida
was to do her work.”

“If it’s not in the main streets, the people will have been asleep these
two hours,” said Chick.

“All the same,” said Nick, “if Ida is in trouble, as we believe, I don’t
know the girl if she won’t find some way of letting us know where she
is, if we get into our neighborhood.”

So it was that when they left the station, they followed the route that
had been taken by her earlier in the afternoon, getting off the car at
exactly the same corner that she had done.

Here Nick stopped a moment, to think of the memorandum he had given Ida
as his guide to their further movements.

“Chief,” said Chick, “if we are now on the ground where Ida has been
working, we ought to be careful how we move around, for fear some one
will drop to us.”

“You are right about that, Chick,” said Nick, leading the way down the
street—the same one Ida had gone.

As he got opposite a house, about the middle of the block, he stopped
short, and said, in a low tone, to Chick: “That’s the house Ethel Romney
left to go to New York, where she met her death.”

“The old home of Blanche Constant, then?” asked Chick.

“Yes,” replied Nick. “I only know it by the fact that this is the street
and that is the number.”

At that moment there was a noise, as if the door of the house was being
opened, made distinct by the silence which reigned in the street.

The two detectives immediately slipped into concealment of the first
doorway, and watched.

The man came out, carefully closing the door after him, and, coming down
the steps, stopped a moment on the sidewalk, where the light from the
arc lamp fell full on his face.

“Brown-bearded and brown-haired,” remarked Nick, in a whisper.

The man under watch finally turned and walked off toward the lower
corner. Chick slipped out and across the street, directly in his rear.
He did not attempt to follow the man, but watched him walk away. Then he
slipped back to Nick on his tiptoes, saying, eagerly:

“By thunder, chief, that man walks with a hitch and jerk of his right
shoulder.”

“I thought I saw that myself,” replied Nick. “Under other circumstances
we’d follow that man, but now our business is to find Ida.”

As a matter of fact, they did follow the man, but only because their
ways were the same.

At the corner below they saw this man pass through a door, which Nick
and Chick sized up to be the back door of a drinking saloon.

They let him go, and Nick led the way to the house of the woman on whom
Ida had first called.

This was not guesswork. He recalled that he had advised Ida to see that
woman immediately on arriving in Philadelphia.

It was with some difficulty that the woman was aroused, and when she
was, her means of communication with them was through the window of her
bedroom. It did not take long for Nick to learn that Ida had called on
her, and that she did not know whither Ida had gone on leaving her.

“The first point is made,” said Nick to Chick, “for we have found that
Ida reached here and began work. Now we will follow her up.”

Taking a position under the arc light near by, Nick took from his pocket
some papers, and, after examining them, said:

“I fancy we can travel Ida’s course pretty straight for a while. Come
along.”

Thus, without delay, they called at each of the next three places Ida
had gone to, and in the order that she had, compelled in each instance
to arouse people from their beds to answer their questions.

But at the end of this journey they were, to use the words of Chick, “up
against it.”

What line Ida had traveled, and to what address she had gone, they had
no way of judging.

Although Nick had given her the name of a person to call on, he was
unable to tell where that person lived, and had advised Ida that she
would have to find out on her arrival in the city. He could only tell
that it was in a certain neighborhood, information which he had obtained
from Blanche Constant after the murder.

However, assuming that this was her next direction, they went thither in
what Chick felt to be a rather hopeless search.

Reaching that part of the town, they traveled the streets in all
directions without hitting upon any indications of Ida’s tracks.

Coming to one corner, which they had passed several times. Nick said:

“Here’s a street that we have not been over yet; let’s try it.”

“I am afraid,” said Chick, as he followed his chief down the street
indicated, “that we will find other streets that we will travel until
daylight.”

He had hardly gotten the words out of his mouth than he stopped short
and dropped down on his knees, looking at something intently on the
pavement.

Nick halted, looking with great interest at what his aid was doing. He
saw him take from his pocket a small lantern he always carried with him,
and turn the light on a particular spot of the pavement.

“What is it, Chick?” said Nick.

“Red chalk marks,” said Chick.

“Signs?” asked Nick.

“Not our signs,” said Chick, “though they seem to look as if there had
been an attempt to make one. But, chief, I’ll bet my life that this is
the same chalk we use.”

Nick bent down over the spot, and saw that the pavement was made of red
brick; that it would have been difficult to have made one of the signs
that they used between them, and that in this case the marks only seemed
to have been hastily made without any form whatever.

He stood up erect, looking at Chick.

“Could those marks have been made by Ida?” asked Nick.

“I am guessing that they were,” said Chick. “Anyhow, I gave Ida a piece
of that chalk, and told her she ought to always carry it with her, for
she could not know how useful it might become.”

“Let’s look a little farther,” said Nick.

“Wait a minute,” said Chick. “If any one comes, play drunk.”

Backing up against a tree, Chick suddenly lifted that fine, manly voice
his friends knew he had, in a popular song of the day, that rang out on
the night air as clear as a bell.

He had sung but a verse, when two men suddenly appeared at the corner
beyond them, say a hundred feet away, and Nick began to urge him to come
home and not make a holy show of himself in the street, saying that
they’d have the cops down on them if he didn’t stop it.

He could hear one man say to the other that it was only a couple of
drunks, and saw them turn back and go out of sight.

Chick sang another verse, and then both listened.

There was an answer, indistinctly, yet clear enough for them to hear
every note. They heard the third verse of the song sung through.

“Ida’s here,” said Chick.

“Are you sure?” asked Nick.

“Sure!” replied Chick. “I’d know her way of singing in the wilds of
Africa.”

“Then you have found her,” said Nick. “And the next thing is to get to
her.”

On looking up, he saw nearly opposite where the marks on the pavement
were, a door in the fence opposite to where they were standing.

Both he and Chick carefully examined this door and the fence for further
marks without finding any.

Then Nick followed up the pavement, until he came opposite the door of
the first house to be reached, and there beckoned to Chick, pointing
with as much excitement as the great detective ever showed, to long red
marks on the brickwork of the door.

“That’s the house she is in,” said Chick.

Nick tried the door, and found it was locked. It took him but a minute
to pick the lock, but this did not open the door, for it was soon
apparent that it was barred from within as well as bolted.

Chick was preparing to put his strength against it, when Nick checked
him, and said:

“Let’s try if there is an entrance from that yard.”

Hurrying to the door in the fence and through it, they closed it after
them and began an examination of the yard in which they found
themselves.

The brick wall of the house, on the door of which were the red marks,
made one side of the yard, and at the rear of this side was a door to
which they went. This door opened to them on the first trial, and
Chick’s lantern came into play again to show a hallway with stairs
leading up.

They mounted these stairs revolvers in hand, and on reaching the
landing, found an open door opposite them.

Turning into this room, the first thing that they saw was a large black
cloth bag on the floor, the next a woman’s handkerchief, which Chick
said belonged to Ida.

It was the handkerchief which Ida had wound around her hand with which
to break the pane of glass, through which she had talked to the boy who
had helped her.

A hasty examination of the adjoining rooms satisfied the two shrewd
detectives that the house was not occupied regularly.

Out into the hall they went again, to follow it to an angle, where it
turned sharply to the rear, examining each door that they came to.

Finally, at the extreme end of the hall, they found a door which was not
only bolted, but barred as well. Chick went to this door, and tapped on
it lightly, but in a peculiar manner.

The signal was so light as to be almost unheard, but it was immediately
responded to.

“She’s here,” said Chick. “Cover me while I take these fastenings off.”

In a twinkling the bar was wrenched off and the bolts withdrawn and the
door flung open.

Nick and Chick sprang through, with revolvers up and were met with a
merry laugh.

“There’s no one to fight here but me,” said Ida.

She soon satisfied the anxious inquiries of the two that she was
unharmed and uninjured in any way, and then Nick said:

“Not another word now until we get Ida out of this place.”

“Give me a gun,” said Ida. “I lost mine early in the evening.”

Chick handed her one, saying that she’d find it a little heavier than
the one she was used to having.

“Now,” said Nick, “I will lead, Ida follow and Chick behind. Come on.”

They passed through the hall and to the stairs, and down them without
anybody interfering. But, as they reached the door, it was opened and a
man made his appearance.

Ida immediately recognized him, even in the dim light, as the tough who
had misdirected her into the dark hallway where she had been seized.

“That is one of them,” she said.

The tough, with an oath, called on some one behind him and sprang at
Nick.

Possibly if he had known the ready use the famous detective could make
of his fists, he would have thought twice over his action.

As it was, he received a blow straight between the eyes which sent him
out of the door and on his back to the pavement.

Nick sprang forward through the door at once to meet the second coming
up. He did not wait for any action on the part of that fellow, but sent
him to keep company with the other, who was endeavoring to get on his
feet.

Chick caught Ida and swiftly carried her out of harm’s way, through the
door and into the street, through which now she had passed for the
second time that night.

Nick followed them closely, and in a moment they were out on the corner.

“Take notice of the place, Chick,” said Nick. “We may want to come back
here again.”

The two rascals who had been so severely dealt with by Nick made no
attempt to follow them, and it was not long before they were in the
street where they could take the cars that would take them to the hotel
where they usually stopped when in that city.

It was not until then that Ida told the story of her experience of the
night, and of the information she had gained.

After he had listened to it intently, Nick said:

“What you tell us puts an entirely new look upon our case. Chick has
picked up a point to add to it, and together they give us some work that
will keep us in Philadelphia to-morrow. That brown-bearded man has got
to be investigated.”

“Yes,” said Chick, “and we have got to know where he spent the last
three days.”

“But what was the meaning of their peculiar treatment of me?” asked Ida.

“They meant to keep you a prisoner,” said Nick, “to prevent you from
doing work which they had already found was getting too close to them.”

Nick got up from his chair, and turning to Chick, said:

“Come, Chick, Ida wants rest after her rough experience, and you and I
have got to size up something. Come with me.”




                              CHAPTER XX.
                            PATSY’S TRIUMPH.


While these events were transpiring in Philadelphia Patsy was
endeavoring to set out as a yachtsman.

Chick said that Patsy was like a cat, since he always fell on his feet,
no matter how you threw him.

Leaving Nick and Chick starting for their Philadelphia trip, he wandered
over to Broadway and from caprice turned into the hotel café where he
had left the man who had brought to Masson the news of the change in the
arrangements for the funeral of Ethel Romney.

Rather to his surprise than otherwise, he found this man drinking with
acquaintances.

Among them was one with whom Patsy was slightly acquainted.

This man knew Patsy had some connection with Nick Carter, but how much
he knew Patsy could not tell.

As Patsy was standing near the bar, this man looked up and recognized
the lad.

He arose from his seat and crossed to where Patsy was standing,
addressing the young detective rather familiarly.

His purpose of rising appeared to be to light his cigar; but he said:

“I want to shake that crowd. They drink too fast for me, and I don’t
like the gang.”

The man who was in relations to Masson called out:

“Are you going, Jensen? Well, don’t forget to send me a handy boy for
the cabin, as you promised.”

“Who is that?” asked Patsy.

“His name is Moore. He is a sort of a hanger-on of Masson, the broker.
Don’t know what, exactly. But does things for him.”

“What does he want of a handy boy?”

“Some one to go as a steward on Masson’s yacht.”

“I wish you would get me the job.”

“You?”

The man called Jensen looked curiously at Patsy for a moment, and then
asked:

“Do you mean it?”

“Sure.”

“You would take the place?”

“Try me.”

“By George! What a go. I’ll try it. Ever had any experience that way?”

“I was on the _Gay Flirt_ one season.”

“Good.”

He called Moore aside and whispered to him a while. Moore came to Patsy,
saying in an off-hand way:

“My friend backs you for the place. Wages twenty dollars a month and
board. Report on board the _Derelict_ off Twenty-third Street, at nine
to-morrow morning.”

He handed Patsy a slip of paper, on which he had written some words, and
went back to his companions.

Looking at it, Patsy saw it was an order to the chief steward to put him
to work.

Hailing the man Jansen, Patsy prepared to leave, but Jansen followed him
out to say:

“I’d give an old button to know your game. But I’ll wait to hear the
story until I meet you again.”

Patsy went off with a laugh, and to bed.

The next morning, promptly at nine, he reported on the _Derelict_, and
was promptly set at work.

He was heartily sick of his job before the day was over, for it was hard
work he was at, with nothing occurring to relieve the monotony.

About six o’clock in the evening the man he had seen the night before
waiting for Masson in front of the club house came aboard.

Patsy soon learned that he was the sailing-master and he had not been on
board long before there were orders to pull up and steam down the river.

The yacht was taken around Governor’s Island, into Gowanus Bay, and
brought to anchor not far from, but out of the track of boats of, the
Thirty-ninth Street Ferry.

All things were settled for the night.

The next morning there was much work done in preparation of sailing that
afternoon with the owner on board.

Patsy kept a keen eye open for signs of the things Nick expected to
occur, for he felt that whatever did occur must happen before the yacht
set sail on its cruise.

At twelve o’clock the man who had engaged him as steward the night
previous, Moore, appeared on board and entered at once into an earnest
talk with the sailing-master.

What the subject of their talk was Patsy was unable to discover,
although he made all sorts of efforts to get within earshot.

Whatever it was, was not to the liking of the sailing-master, for he
shook his head doubtfully over what Moore was saying. The other was
persistent.

Finally, the sailing-master arose, saying in a tone easily heard by
Patsy:

“Well, all right, I’ll do it. But I tell you, Moore, I don’t like it.
There will be trouble for some of us, if it keeps up.”

“There’ll be no more,” said Moore. “The Mogul has his mind set on this
and——Well, if we don’t help in it, some one will be out of a job.”

“And some of us take a chance of being in—somewhere else,” replied the
other, with a bitter laugh.

As he turned away Moore detained him, and there was a further whispered
conversation, during which Patsy could see that they frequently looked
at him.

Finally the sailing-master called him over and asked:

“Do you know how to obey orders and keep your mouth shut and your eyes
closed for an extra wad?”

“For that I do,” replied Patsy.

“I size him up as right, Moore,” said the sailing-master. “Give him your
orders.”

He walked away.

“There’s something on this afternoon that’ll make dollars for you,” said
Moore.

“All right,” said Patsy.

“Well, then,” said Moore, “in twenty minutes you’ll go ashore and be
posted in a certain place, where you can see all around you. And there
you’ll stand. See?”

Patsy nodded.

“By and by, up on a hill that will be shown you, a man will wave a red
cloth. If there are no policemen in sight you will wave a white
handkerchief. If there are you’ll wave a green one. See?”

“I see, all right.”

“Then you’ll feet for the launch, and, getting aboard, shut your eyes.
See?”

“All right.”

“Then you’re game for it.”

“Game for anything.”

Moore went away, but was back again shortly, telling him to follow.

A steam launch lay alongside, into which Moore dropped, telling Patsy to
follow.

This launch ran off to a part of the beach rather out of sight and
retired.

A broken-down wharf stretched out into the water, and the launch ran up
to it.

At a signal Patsy went ashore. Four other men went ashore also, leaving
two men aboard, one at the wheel, and the engineer.

Patsy noticed that none of the other men seemed to be of the yacht’s
crew.

The six picked their way over the wharf or pierway and reached the land.

It was a lonely spot, a large, unbroken waste, few houses or buildings
near.

They all followed Moore for some three hundred yards, when he stopped,
saying to Patsy:

“This is your post. Now keep your eyes open for policemen. Up on that
hill yonder the man will be with the red flag. If the way is clear and
nobody down there where we landed, wave this.”

He handed Patsy a napkin.

Moore took the other men away. Just then a bell tolled in the distance.

“The devil!” exclaimed Patsy. “We’re not far from Greenwood Cemetery.”

Then he said again:

“And the funeral is to-day.”

He sat down on a stone and did some thinking.

The result of this was that he took off his coat, turned it inside out
and put it on again, looking as if he had another coat on. From his
pockets he drew a wig and put that on. He rolled up his cap and put on a
slouch hat.

Then he stole up in the direction the others had gone. He passed the man
stationed on the hill unrecognized.

Arriving at the avenue where the cars ran, he looked around for Moore.
By and by he saw him standing in front of a drinking saloon.

He edged up close to him and saw he was anxiously waiting for some one.

That some one appeared shortly in the person of Masson, from a carriage
which was driven up to the place.

“Well?” said Masson.

“It’s all right, so far,” replied Moore.

“The funeral carriages will be along in a moment.”

“Is the driver fixed?” asked Moore.

“Yes; to be knocked off his box, and one of our men to take his place.”

“Does she ride alone?”

“No; hang it. There’s a woman with her.”

Patsy went out and sat on the curbstone. Something—an outrage of some
kind—was on foot.

A funeral procession came up—a small one. In the carriage immediately
behind the hearse were two women. One he recognized at once.

It was Edith, Nick Carter’s wife.

The other was Blanche Constant. He was sure of that from the description
he had had of her and a photograph he had seen.

Something of the villainy on foot came to him. He hurried back to his
post and again became a steward of the _Derelict_.

His wait was a long one. By and by he saw the red cloth waved by the man
on the hill.

He gave the signal of the white cloth—indeed, gave it without care as to
whether or not there was any one near or not.

A minute later a carriage came dashing over the hill.

Four men sprang out, one seizing the horses, while one knocked the
driver from the box and climbed up himself.

Two others climbed into the coach from either side.

Then the coach made straight for the landing where the launch was.

Patsy started on a run for the little pier, and at the land end waited,
well hidden.

As the coach whirled up, he could see within it.

Edith was there, and so was Blanche Constant, but both were unconscious.

Masson and Moore were both there also. The two men—the signal man and
the one who had stopped the horses—were left behind.

Masson had planned to seize Blanche Constant as she was returning from
the funeral of her sister and carry her off in his yacht.

Edith had been with Blanche, contrary to expectation, and she had been
dosed to prevent her from interfering, but was to be sent back to the
city.

Patsy’s plan was made in an instant—a plan to spoil the plan that had
been carefully laid.

He waited until Masson got out of the coach and had lifted Blanche out.

Then he sprang into full view, both revolvers leveled.

“Hold!” he cried. “Put that lady down!”

“What!” shouted Masson. “What the deuce! Moore, look to that fellow!”

The driver made a movement as if to get off his box.

“Jim Grady!” cried Patsy; “if you stir, I’ll put a ball into you and
pull you in beside for that job of two nights ago!”

“Heavens!” cried the driver, “it’s Patsy Murphy!”

He jumped from his box and ran like a deer. Meanwhile Masson was raving
like a madman, calling on Moore to shoot the young detective.

Moore did start for Patsy, and with revolver in hand.

Patsy was in no humor for fooling and, as Moore approached, he fired,
striking the scoundrel in the shoulder and sending him to the ground
with a groan.

Masson, seeing his lieutenant down, dropped Blanche to the ground and
rushed like a maniac at Patsy, shouting for help.

The engineer and the wheelman, hearing the shot and the cries of Masson,
climbed out of the launch and came rapidly over the rickety wharf.

Patsy saw at a glance that he was likely to be attacked from behind,
and, taking deliberate aim, fired at Masson, hitting him in the upper
right arm.

Yelling with pain and rage Masson dropped to the ground and Patsy,
whirling around, shouted to the two coming over the rickety pier:

“Back, you curs! I’ll serve you as I have the others. I’m Patsy Murphy!”

Whether they knew the name, or were satisfied that he would do what he
said he would, the fact is that they stopped, and at Patsy’s command
dropped to the pier.

Dashing up to the carriage, Patsy picked up Mrs. Constant, put her in
the coach, and, springing on the box, whipped up the horses.

He was not a minute too soon, for the signal man, the driver and the
other one were approaching as fast as they could run.

Indeed, as Patsy drove toward them they made an effort to stop his way,
but Patsy, standing up in his box, fired his revolver, right and left,
in a way that made them believe that caution was the better part.

So he dashed on toward the avenue.

The shots had attracted attention, of course, and several policemen
came.

“I’m Patsy Murphy, of Nick Carter’s staff of detectives,” cried Patsy.
“This is a case of abduction that I have spoiled. The ladies in the
coach are Mrs. Constant and Nick Carter’s wife. Seize those men of that
yacht lying out there.”

But, looking out on the water, they could see the yacht was moving out
into the harbor under full steam.

Patsy was disappointed, for he would have liked to arrest Masson, but he
had saved the women, and that was the important thing.

He first drove them to a drug store, where they were quickly restored to
consciousness, and then to the city, having first engaged a driver at a
livery stable.

Edith took Blanche home with her, and Patsy was a hero in the eyes of
both. But Patsy, getting home, was inconsolable that he had no
prisoners.




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                             THE MURDERER.


Events developed rapidly in Philadelphia while Patsy was having his
fight with Masson and defeating the abduction scheme.

Before they had discussed Ida’s information long both Nick and Chick had
arrived at the same conclusion.

They believed they had found the murderer in Philadelphia, and that
Nick’s instinct that Masson was not the person guilty of the murder of
Ethel Romney had been right from the first.

“We must move without delay, Chick,” said Nick. “Our rescue of Ida will
inform this man that we are in town, and he will run.”

“To make our conclusions a dead certainty,” said Chick, “we ought to
prove that George Macrane was in New York on the day of the murder.”

“We’ll take the chances, and prove it afterward,” said Nick, grimly.
“Come.”

“Where?” asked Chick.

“To see the chief of police.”

“At this hour? It is three in the morning.”

“He’ll have to stand for it.”

They went out and woke up the chief of police, who, understanding the
situation, summoned two officers, whom he put at the disposal of Nick.

The four then set out for the house of Macrane, arriving there a little
after four in the morning.

They approached the house cautiously, concealing themselves where they
could watch it.

A light was burning in the third-story window, which Nick fancied was
the window of the room occupied by George Macrane.

As they watched, two men came down the street, and, rapping at the door
of the Macrane house, asked for George.

They were told that he had not yet returned home.

Chick’s sharp eyes recognized one of these men as one of those that had
opposed their rescue of Ida.

These two men sat down on the lower step of the Macrane house.

“They mean to wait for George Macrane,” said Nick.

They did not wait long, for in ten minutes’ time a man was seen
approaching from the opposite direction.

The two men stood up to meet him.

What they told him could not be heard by Nick and Chick, but it was
followed by a frightful explosion of oaths and curses from George
Macrane.

So frantic, indeed, was this outburst, that Nick thought it proceeded
from a craven fear of the result.

Touching Chick, and, bidding the officers to follow, Nick slipped across
the street, closely approaching the three men before they were seen.

Laying his hand on the shoulder of Macrane, Nick said:

“George Macrane, you are my prisoner. I want you for the murder of Ethel
Romney.”

The shock was so sudden that Macrane dropped to the pavement in a heap.

If the other two had been disposed to make a resistance they were too
much astonished at the charge made against their employer to offer any.

They stared in open astonishment, and made no show of objecting when the
officers took them in charge.

George Macrane soon recovered possession of himself, and, rising, said
rather tremblingly, to be sure:

“You must be wild to charge me with that. Ethel Romney is in New York.”

“She is in Greenwood by this time,” said Nick.

“I couldn’t have done her—she in New York and me here,” said Macrane,
growing bolder as he talked. “She’s been there a week or more.”

“It is useless, Macrane,” said Nick. “We know the whole trick. You were
in New York yourself. You laid the game up well, but we know it.

“You knew there was a man in New York who was following Ethel’s sister;
you were told you looked like him; you saw him, and you trimmed your
whiskers to be exactly like him.”

Nick stopped and looked at Macrane. What he had been saying was purely
guesswork, but he saw that he had hit home.

“You called at Mrs. Constant’s home at eight o’clock on the night of the
murder, giving the name of Masson. You were told that Mrs. Constant had
gone out to the dressmaker’s.

“You knew that wasn’t so—you knew it was Ethel who had gone out, but
thereby you found out where she had gone to.

“You went to the dressmaker’s and waited till she came. You tried to
speak to her as she went in. Then you went into the coach and waited.

“When she came to enter it she saw you and screamed, but you pulled her
in and shut the door.

“The coach drove rapidly up the avenue, and during that drive you shot
her, for she had told you that she was done with you forever, and meant
to live with her sister.

“When the coach was checked, at Fifty-eighth Street, you stepped out,
crossed the street, and, going down Fifty-eighth Street, you bowed to a
man at nine o’clock, who spoke to you as Masson.

“Half an hour later, on the corner of Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth
Avenue, you talked for a few minutes with a man who stopped you and
called you Masson.

“You made yourself conspicuous in other places when you thought
suspicion could be thrown on Masson.

“Then, when you thought you had done enough you started back to
Philadelphia, but one of my aides was on the train. We were on your
track. We were bound to land you as we have landed you.”

Turning to the officers, Nick said:

“Take us to the lockhouse. Chick, have you hand-cuffs?”

Chick had not, but one of the officers had, and Macrane was ironed.

It was daylight when Nick and Chick returned to their hotel to snatch a
brief sleep.

Early in the morning they were out, making the proof strong that Macrane
had been in New York.

They wired for Patsy to come on, with Moran and the storekeeper of Sixth
Avenue that Chick had dug up, by an early train.

On their arrival they positively identified Macrane as the man seen
entering and leaving the coach.

Patsy, on his arrival, reported his experiences with Masson and the
rescue of Mrs. Constant and Edith.

Though Patsy told it with all modesty, Nick knew that Patsy had
performed a most gallant and heroic deed, and so said, but it was not
until he returned to New York that he learned how gallant and brave the
deed was.

Speaking of the curious development of the case, Nick said:

“From the first I felt that Mrs. Constant’s natural bitterness toward
Masson had misled her judgment. I never did believe that he did the
murder.

“The strange thing is that Mrs. Constant did not give greater importance
to the feeling of Macrane toward Ethel.

“However, she has a hold on Masson now, and if she will follow my
advice, Masson will see the inside of a prison for his evil deeds. He
deserves it.”

But he did not.

When Mrs. Constant learned that she had unjustly charged Masson with the
murder of her sister, she seemed to feel that she had done him an injury
which she could atone for only by refraining from following up the
advantage she possessed.

Masson fled to Europe, so that Mrs. Constant is now free from his
persecutions.

Macrane lies under conviction of murder in the first degree, and awaits
execution.

He has confessed, saying that he visited New York to force Ethel to
return with him, and, finding that he had lost her and all control of
her, in a fit of anger he killed her.

Mrs. Constant devotes herself to her kennel, but her grief for the death
of her sister is so great that she is a broken woman.

When Patsy wants to be particularly swell, he sports a fine diamond ring
that Mrs. Constant gave him in recognition of his bravery when he
prevented her abduction by Masson.

The case is referred to by Nick Carter’s outfit as “Patsy’s Triumph,”
and as such is not easily forgotten.


                                THE END.


      The Biggest Line of Copyright Detective Literature Published

                          _The Magnet Library
                   of_ Fascinating Detective Stories

This line has become famous for its excellent stories of the detection
of crime. Of late, it has taken truly remarkable strides in the public’s
favor. The reason for this is, that every book is a marvel of its kind.
They are high-class tales, not of the “blood-and-thunder” order, but
with plausible plots which hold the reader fairly captivated with
breathless expectation. Among these are the stories of the adventures of
Nick Carter and his clever assistants: of “Old Spicer,” the clever
private detective, whose exploits are among the most remarkable ever
performed by any detective. If you are in search of good, interesting
matter, a decided change from that to which you have been accustomed,
purchase a few of these titles. They will not only please and interest
you, but will give you a clear insight into the methods of the various
classes of criminals.

  307—A Desperate Game                                   By “Old Spicer”
  306—The Ring of Dust                                By Nicholas Carter
  305—The Telltale Tattoo                                  By Jack Sharp
  304—The Twin Mystery                                By Nicholas Carter
  303—The Branded Hand                                  By Maro O. Rolfe
  302—Under False Colors                              By Nicholas Carter
  301—The Wall Street Swindlers                            By Jack Sharp
  300—A Blow For Vengeance                            By Nicholas Carter
  299—The Sleepless Eye                                 By Warren Miller
  298—A Masterpiece of Crime                          By Nicholas Carter
  297—The Shadow of Guilt                                By “Old Spicer”
  296—The Guilty Governor                             By Nicholas Carter
  295—Tracked by a Pin                              By Richard Hackstaff
  294—The Blood-Red Badge                             By Nicholas Carter
  293—On the Stroke of Midnight                         By Maro O. Rolfe
  292—A Great Conspiracy                              By Nicholas Carter
  291—In Terror’s Grasp                                 By Warren Miller
  290—The Hole in the Vault                           By Nicholas Carter
  289—The Crippled Hand                                  By Frederick S.
                                                                 Stewart
  288—The Council of Death                            By Nicholas Carter
  287—A Dead Witness                                     By “Old Spicer”
  286—A Bonded Villain                                By Nicholas Carter
  285—A Rascal’s Nerve                                  By Maro O. Rolfe
  284—A Blackmailer’s Bluff                           By Nicholas Carter
  283—The Crimson Glove                                 By Warren Miller
  282—A Race Track Gamble                             By Nicholas Carter
  281—The Stroke of a Knife                          By Burnham F. Mason
  280—The Seal of Death                               By Nicholas Carter
  279—On the Brink of Ruin                               By “Old Spicer”
  278—A Sharper’s Downfall                            By Nicholas Carter
  277—An Eye for an Eye                                 By Maro O. Rolfe
  276—A Checkmated Scoundrel                          By Nicholas Carter
  275—The Banker’s Millions                             By Warren Miller
  274—Paid With Death                                By Nicholas Carter.
  273—The Rogue With a Past                            By Robert Wesley.
  272—The Chain of Evidence                          By Nicholas Carter.
  271—A High-Class Swindler                             By “Old Spicer.”
  270—The Fatal Prescription                         By Nicholas Carter.
  269—The Man Who Knew                                 By Maro O. Rolfe.
  268—Hounded to Death                               By Nicholas Carter.
  267—An Unfortunate Rogue                             By Warren Miller.
  266—A Stroke of Policy                             By Nicholas Carter.
  265—The Three Finger Marks                            By “Old Spicer.”
  264—Two Villains in One                            By Nicholas Carter.
  263—The Loaded Orange                               By Gilbert Jerome.
  262—A False Combination                            By Nicholas Carter.
  261—A Matter of Thousands                             By “Old Spicer.”
  260—At the Knife’s Point                           By Nicholas Carter.
  259—The Band of Mystery                              By Maro O. Rolfe.
  258—Man Against Man                                By Nicholas Carter.
  257—The Man Who Made Diamonds                        By Warren Miller.
  256—The Vial of Death                              By Nicholas Carter.
  255—The Sport of Fate                                 By the author of
                                                           “Old Spicer.”
  254—Behind a Mask                                  By Nicholas Carter.
  253—The Fatal Request                                 By A. L. Harris.
  252—The Man and His Price                          By Nicholas Carter.
  251—The Nine of Hearts                               By B. L. Farjeon.
  250—A Double-Handed Game                           By Nicholas Carter.
  249—Old Stonewall, Detective                      By Judson R. Taylor.
  248—The Toss of a Coin                             By Nicholas Carter.
  247—The Results of a Duel                                By Fortune Du
                                                              Boisgobey.
  246—Nick Carter’s Death Warrant                    By Nicholas Carter.
  245—A Victim of Villainy                           By F. L. Broughton.
  244—A Trusted Rogue                                By Nicholas Carter.
  243—The Man and the Crime                           By Harry Rockwood.
  242—Run to Earth                                   By Nicholas Carter.
  241—From Thief to Detective                            By Fergus Hume.
  240—Weaving the Web                                By Nicholas Carter.
  239—The Man from the South                        By Judson R. Taylor.
  238—The Claws of the Tiger                         By Nicholas Carter.
  237—A Kidnapped Millionaire                              By Richard A.
                                                             Wainwright.
  236—A Move in the Dark                             By Nicholas Carter.
  235—True Detective Tales                             By Maurice Moser.
  234—The Telltale Photographs                       By Nicholas Carter.
  233—The Secret of the Missing Checks                By Harry Rockwood.
  232—The Red Signal                                 By Nicholas Carter.
  231—The Crime of the Golden Gully                     By Gilbert Rock.
  230—A Race for Ten Thousand                        By Nicholas Carter.
  229—The Dexter Bank Robbery                         By Harry Rockwood.
  228—A Syndicate of Rascals                         By Nicholas Carter.
  227—From Clew to Climax                             By Will N. Harben.
  226—A Deal in Diamonds                             By Nicholas Carter.
  225—Tracked by Fate                                    By Fergus Hume.
  224—Played to a Finish                             By Nicholas Carter.
  223—Found Dead                                         By Hero Strong.
  222—A Prince of Rogues                             By Nicholas Carter.
  221—Other People’s Money                            By Emile Gaboriau.
  220—The Dumb Witness, and Other Stories            By Nicholas Carter.
  219—A Hidden Clew                                  By Ernest De Lancey
                                                                Pierson.
  218—The Man from London                            By Nicholas Carter.
  217—Baron Trigault’s Vengeance                      By Emile Gaboriau.
  216—The Count’s Millions                            By Emile Gaboriau.
  215—The Seal of Silence                            By Nicholas Carter.
  214—The Missing Cashier                            By Ernest De Lancey
                                                                Pierson.
  213—Millions at Stake, and Other Stories           By Nicholas Carter.
  212—A Mystery Still                                      By Fortune Du
                                                              Boisgobey.
  211—In Letters of Fire                             By Nicholas Carter.
  210—An Excellent Knave                                By J. F. Molloy.
  209—A Triple Crime                                 By Nicholas Carter.
  208—The Condemned Door                                   By Fortune Du
                                                              Boisgobey.
  207—The Blow of a Hammer, and Other Stories        By Nicholas Carter.
  206—The Portland Place Mystery                     By Ernest De Lancey
                                                                Pierson.
  205—A Bogus Clew                                   By Nicholas Carter.
  204—Hunted Down                                      By Richard Ashton
                                                             Wainwright.
  203—The Price of a Secret                          By Nicholas Carter.
  202—The Lady of the Lilacs                         By Ernest De Lancey
                                                                Pierson.
  201—The Steel Casket, and Other Stories            By Nicholas Carter.
  200—Detective Against Detective                           By Donald J.
                                                               McKenzie.
  199—The Man at the Window                          By Nicholas Carter.
  198—Stairs of Sand                                 By Ernest De Lancey
                                                                Pierson.
  197—The Coleraine Tragedy                         By Eugene T. Sawyer.
  196—The Queen of Knaves, and Other Stories         By Nicholas Carter.
  195—Sealed Lips                                     By Scott Campbell.
  194—The Tiger’s Head Mystery                      By Eugene T. Sawyer.
  193—The Missing Cotton King                        By Nicholas Carter.
  192—A Dangerous Quest                              By Ernest De Lancey
                                                                Pierson.
  191—The Murray Hill Mystery                        By Nicholas Carter.
  190—The Fate of Austin Craige                       By Scott Campbell.
  189—The Man of Mystery                             By Nicholas Carter.
  188—A Strike of Millions                          By Eugene T. Sawyer.
  187—The Wall Street Wonder                                By Donald J.
                                                               McKenzie.
  186—A Desperate Chance                             By Nicholas Carter.
  185—A Supernatural Clew                             By Scott Campbell.
  184—The Secret of the Diamond                      By Ernest De Lancey
                                                                Pierson.
  183—Hands Up                                         By J. H. Bethune.
  182—The Bottle with the Black Label                By Nicholas Carter.
  181—The Man Outside                                 By Scott Campbell.
  180—The Watertown Mystery                           By Harry Rockwood.
  179—Caught at Last                                    By Dick Donovan.
  178—The Handkerchief Clew                           By Harry Rockwood.
  177—A Scrap of Black Lace                          By Nicholas Carter.
  176—The Tragedy of Ascot Mills                      By Scott Campbell.
  175—The Secret of the Marionettes                      By E. De Lancey
                                                                Pierson.
  174—A Princess of Crime                            By Nicholas Carter.
  173—The Honor of a Black Sheep                      By Scott Campbell.
  172—Linked to Crime                                   By Barclay North
                                                         (W. C. Hudson).
  171—The Silent Passenger                           By Nicholas Carter.
  170—The Doctor’s Secret                             By Scott Campbell.
  169—The Black Carnation                                By Fergus Hume.
  168—Brought to Bay                                 By Nicholas Carter.
  167—The Links in the Chain                          By Scott Campbell.
  166—Dr. Villagos                                         By Fortune Du
                                                              Boisgobey.
  165—Held for Trial                                 By Nicholas Carter.
  164—The Reporter Detective’s Triumph                By Scott Campbell.
  163—Phil Scott, the Detective                     By Judson R. Taylor.
  162—Nick Carter’s Star Pupils                      By Nicholas Carter.
  161—A Plot for Millions                             By Scott Campbell.
  160—Harry Williams, New York Detective             By F. L. Broughton.
  159—A Framework of Fate                            By Nicholas Carter.
  158—The Lion of the Law                             By Scott Campbell.
  157—By a Hair’s Breadth                              By Edith Sessions
                                                                 Tupper.
  156—A Victim of Circumstances                      By Nicholas Carter.
  155—Mrs. Donald Dyke, Detective                     By Harry Rockwood.
  154—Driven to the Wall                              By Scott Campbell.
  153—Nick Carter’s Clever Ruse                      By Nicholas Carter.
  152—Fifteen Detective Stories                       By Police Captains
                                                            of New York.
  151—The Disappearance of Mr. Derwent                   By Thomas Cobb.
  150—Lady Velvet                                    By Nicholas Carter.
  149—A Mystery of the Fast Mail                         By Byron Adsit.
  148—Gypsy Blair, the Western Detective            By Judson R. Taylor.
  147—Nick Carter’s Retainer                         By Nicholas Carter.
  146—The Stevedore Mystery                            By Barclay North.
  145—The Railway Detective                           By Harry Rockwood.
  144—The Twelve Wise Men                            By Nicholas Carter.
  143—An Exchanged Identity                                By Fortune Du
                                                              Boisgobey.
  142—A Seven Days’ Mystery                               By Frederic R.
                                                                 Burton.
  141—Nick Carter Down East                             By the author of
                                                        Nicholas Carter.
  140—Detective Reynolds’ Hardest Case                By Gabriel Macias.
  139—Fritz, the German Detective                   By Judson R. Taylor.
  138—Crossed Wires                                  By Nicholas Carter.
  137—Donald Dyke, the Yankee Detective               By Harry Rockwood.
  136—In Peril of His Life                            By Emile Gaboriau.
  135—The Crime of the French Café                   By Nicholas Carter.
  134—By Whose Hand?                                   By Edith Sessions
                                                                 Tupper.
  133—The Piccadilly Puzzle                              By Fergus Hume.
  132—Nick Carter’s Girl Detective                   By Nicholas Carter.
  131—The Dugdale Millions                             By Barclay North.
  130—A Millionaire’s Folly                             By L. E. Smyles.
  129—The Man Who Stole Millions                     By Nicholas Carter.
  128—The Caruthers Affair                            By Will N. Harben.
  127—The Severed Hand                                     By Fortune Du
                                                              Boisgobey.
  126—A Game of Craft                                By Nicholas Carter.
  125—The Pomfret Mystery                               By A. D. Vinton.
  124—The Trail of the Barrow                           By James Mooney.
  123—The Elevated Railroad Mystery                  By Nicholas Carter.
  122—The Mystery of Orcival                          By Emile Gaboriau.
  121—The Man from Manchester                           By Dick Donovan.
  120—The Twelve Tin Boxes                           By Nicholas Carter.
  119—The Reporter Detective                                By Donald J.
                                                               McKenzie.
  118—Old Quartz                                    By Eugene T. Sawyer.
  117—A Herald Personal                              By Nicholas Carter.
  116—520 Per Cent.; or, The Great Franklin            By Barclay North.
  Syndicate
  115—The Detective Tales of Edgar Allan Poe.
  114—The Man Who Vanished                           By Nicholas Carter.
  113—The Man with a Thumb                             By Barclay North.
  112—The Garden Court Mystery                      By Burford Delannoy.
  111—The Stolen Race Horse                          By Nicholas Carter.
  110—The Workingman Detective                              By Donald J.
                                                               McKenzie.
  109—Blackmail                                         By Harrie Irving
                                                                Hancock.
  108—Nick Carter’s Clever Protégé                   By Nicholas Carter.
  107—The Passenger from Scotland Yard                    By H. F. Wood.
  106—Shadowed by a Detective                                By Virginia
                                                               Champlin.
  105—A Bite of an Apple                             By Nicholas Carter.
  104—A Past Master of Crime                                By Donald J.
                                                               McKenzie.
  103—Old Mortality                                     By Young Baxter.
  102—Bruce Angelo, the City Detective              By Judson R. Taylor.
  101—The Stolen Pay Train                           By Nicholas Carter.
  100—The Diamond Button                               By Barclay North.
  99—Gideon Drexel’s Millions                        By Nicholas Carter.
  98—Tom and Jerry                                  By Judson R. Taylor.
  97—The Puzzle of Five Pistols                      By Nicholas Carter.
  96—No. 13 Rue Marlot                                   By Rene du Pont
                                                                   Jest.
  95—Sealed Orders; or The Triple Mystery            By Nicholas Carter.
  94—Vivier, of Vivier, Longman & Co., Bankers         By Barclay North.
  93—Adventures of Harrison Keith, Detective         By Nicholas Carter.
  92—Van, the Government Detective                  By Judson R. Taylor.
  91—The Great Money Order Swindle                   By Nicholas Carter.
  90—On the Rack                                       By Barclay North.
  89—The Detective’s Pretty Neighbor                 By Nicholas Carter.
  88—The North Walk Mystery                           By Will N. Harben.
  87—Nick Carter and the Green Goods Men.            By Nicholas Carter.
  86—Brant Adams                                    By Judson R. Taylor.
  85—A Dead Man’s Grip                               By Nicholas Carter.
  84—The Inspector’s Puzzle                          By Charles Matthew.
  83—The Crescent Brotherhood                        By Nicholas Carter.
  82—The Masked Detective                           By Judson R. Taylor.
  81—Wanted by Two Clients                           By Nicholas Carter.
  80—The Poker King                                   By Marline Manley.
  79—The Sign of the Crossed Knives                  By Nicholas Carter.
  78—The Chosen Man                                 By Judson R. Taylor.
  77—The Van Alstine Case                            By Nicholas Carter.
  76—Face to Face                                           By Donald J.
                                                               McKenzie.
  75—The Clever Celestial                            By Nicholas Carter.
  74—The Twin Detectives                                  By K. F. Hill.
  73—Two Plus Two                                    By Nicholas Carter.
  72—Sherlock Holmes Detective Stories                By A. Conan Doyle.
  71—The Diamond Mine Case                           By Nicholas Carter.
  70—Little Lightning                                  By Police Captain
                                                                  James.
  69—Detective Bob Bridger                              By R. M. Taylor.
  68—The Double Shuffle Club                         By Nicholas Carter.
  67—The Mystery of a Madstone                            By K. F. Hill.
  66—The Detective’s Clew                                By O. L. Adams.
  65—Found on the Beach                              By Nicholas Carter.
  64—The Red Camellia                                      By Fortune Du
                                                              Boisgobey.
  63—The Chevalier Casse-Cou                               By Fortune Du
                                                              Boisgobey.
  62—A Fair Criminal                                 By Nicholas Carter.
  61—The Maltese Cross                              By Eugene T. Sawyer.
  60—A Chase Around the World                          By Mariposa Weir.
  59—A Millionaire Partner                           By Nicholas Carter.
  58—Muertalma; or, The Poisoned Pin                   By Marmaduke Dey.
  57—The Vestibule Limited Mystery                    By Marline Manley.
  56—At Thompson’s Ranch                             By Nicholas Carter.
  55—His Great Revenge, Vol. II.                           By Fortune Du
                                                              Boisgobey.
  54—His Great Revenge, Vol. I.                            By Fortune Du
                                                              Boisgobey.
  53—An Accidental Password                          By Nicholas Carter.
  52—The Post Office Detective                       By George W. Goode.
  51—The Los Huecos Mystery                         By Eugene T. Sawyer.
  50—The Man from India                              By Nicholas Carter.
  49—At Odds with Scotland Yard                      By Nicholas Carter.
  48—The Great Travers Case                         By Dr. Mark Merrick.
  47—The Mystery of a Hansom Cab                         By Fergus Hume.
  46—Check No. 777                                   By Nicholas Carter.
  45—Old Specie, The Treasury Detective               By Marline Manley.
  44—The Blue Veil                                         By Fortune Du
                                                              Boisgobey.
  43—Among the Nihilists                             By Nicholas Carter.
  42—The Revenue Detective                             By Police Captain
                                                                  James.
  41—John Needham’s Double                             By Joseph Hatton.
  40—The Mountaineer Detective                            By C. W. Cobb.
  39—Among the Counterfeiters                        By Nicholas Carter.
  38—The Matapan Affair                                    By Fortune Du
                                                              Boisgobey.
  37—The Prairie Detective                                 By Leander P.
                                                             Richardson.
  36—The Crime of the Opera House, Vol. II.          By F. Du Boisgobey.
  35—The Crime of the Opera House, Vol. I.           By F. Du Boisgobey.
  34—The Society Detective                            By Oscar Maitland.
  33—The Convict Colonel                                   By Fortune Du
                                                              Boisgobey.
  32—Mysterious Case                                      By K. F. Hill.
  31—The Red Lottery Ticket                                By Fortune Du
                                                              Boisgobey.
  30—The Bag of Diamonds                              By George Manville
                                                                   Fenn.
  29—The Clique of Gold                               By Emile Gaboriau.
  28—Under His Thumb                                        By Donald J.
                                                               McKenzie.
  27—The Steel Necklace                                    By Fortune Du
                                                              Boisgobey.
  26—File No. 113                                     By Emile Gaboriau.
  25—The Detective’s Triumph                          By Emile Gaboriau.
  24—The Detective’s Dilemma                          By Emile Gaboriau.
  23—Evidence by Telephone                           By Nicholas Carter.
  22—The Champdoce Mystery                            By Emile Gaboriau.
  21—A Deposit Vault Puzzle                          By Nicholas Carter.
  20—Caught in the Net                                By Emile Gaboriau.
  19—A Chance Discovery                              By Nicholas Carter.
  18—The Gamblers’ Syndicate                         By Nicholas Carter.
  17—The Piano Box Mystery                           By Nicholas Carter.
  16—A Woman’s Hand                                  By Nicholas Carter.
  15—The Widow Lerouge                                By Emile Gaboriau.
  14—Caught in the Toils                             By Nicholas Carter.
  13—The Mysterious Mail Robbery                     By Nicholas Carter.
  12—Playing a Bold Game                             By Nicholas Carter.
  11—Fighting Against Millions                       By Nicholas Carter.
  10—The Old Detective’s Pupil                       By Nicholas Carter.
  9—A Stolen Identity                                By Nicholas Carter.
  8—An Australian Klondike                           By Nicholas Carter.
  7—The American Marquis                             By Nicholas Carter.
  6—A Wall Street Haul                               By Nicholas Carter.
  5—The Crime of a Countess                          By Nicholas Carter.
  4—Tracked Across the Atlantic                      By Nicholas Carter.
  3—A Titled Counterfeiter                           By Nicholas Carter.
  2—The Great Enigma                                 By Nicholas Carter.
  1—A Klondike Claim                                 By Nicholas Carter.




                          Detective Stories...
                         Worthy of the Name....


We desire to call our readers’ attention to the four series of tales in
the Magnet Library, reciting the extremely interesting adventures of the
following detectives.

  Nicholas Carter
  Nat Tyler
  Seth Hunt
  Old Spicer

These tales are all that detective tales should be. They are bright,
up-to-date, and full of adventure. Just the kind of stories that make
you feel that what you paid for them was well spent.




                             ...._The_....
                       New Secret Service Series


A new line of high-class copyrighted stories, detailing principally the
adventures of men of brain and muscle employed by our Government to
ferret out and prevent federal crimes. These sleuths are stationed in
every city, and the zeal which they display in the pursuit of their
vocation, is nothing short of marvellous. In many instances, the stories
in which these detectives figure are based upon their actual
experiences. There are tales of Treasury and Mail robberies,
Counterfeiting and Anarchists’ plots and Smuggling. They are of such
fascinating interest that it is indeed a pleasure to read them.

  43.—The Man in Mail. By Lieutenant Carlton.
  42.—The Smuggler’s Ally. By Bernard Wayde.
  41.—The Test of Anarchy. By E. C. Derby.
  40.—The Piccadilly Puzzle. By Fergus Hume.
  39.—After the Bribe Takers. By Lieutenant Carlton.
  38.—The Tracker Tracked. By Bernard Wayde.
  37.—The Empty Mail Bags. By E. C. Derby.
  36.—The Handkerchief Clue. By Harry Rockwood.
  35.—The Haunt of the “Queer” Makers. By Lieutenant Carlton.
  34.—In the Secret Vault. By Bernard Wayde.
  33.—A Master Stroke. By E. C. Derby.
  32.—A Government Spy. By Lieutenant Carlton.
  31.—A False Claim. By Bernard Wayde.
  30.—A Counterfeiter’s Roguery. By E. C. Derby.
  29.—By Whose Hand? By E. S. Tupper.
  28.—A Golden Clue. By Bernard Wayde.
  27.—The Filibuster’s Warning. By Gilbert Jerome.
  26.—The Man Who Made Money. By Bernard Wayde.
  25.—The Moonshiners’ Dupe. By Lieutenant Carlton.
  24.—The Convict Colonel. By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
  23.—The Hand On the Window Sill. By Bernard Wayde.
  22.—A Nihilist’s Vengeance. By E. C. Derby.
  21.—The Money Jugglers. By Bernard Wayde.
  20.—The Bank Note Plates. By Lieutenant Carlton.
  19.—A Mysterious Case. By F. K. Hill.
  18.—The Coiner’s League. By Bernard Wayde.
  17.—The Silent Stranger. By Henry G. Harper.
  16.—The Red Lottery Ticket. By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
  15.—The Crooked Inspector. By Bernard Wayde.
  14.—Foiling a Counterfeiter. By E. C. Derby.
  13.—The Bag of Diamonds. By George Manville Fenn.
  12.—An Anarchist’s Pluck. By Bernard Wayde.
  11.—The Man in Stripes. By Lieutenant Carlton.
  10.—The Clique of Gold. By Emile Gaboriau.
  9.—A Privateer’s Defiance. By Bernard Wayde.
  8.—The Mail Robbers’ Syndicate. By E. C. Derby.
  7.—A Custom House Fraud. By Bernard Wayde.
  6.—The Raid on the Mint. By Frank H. Putnam.
  5.—The Untaxed Whiskey. By Bernard Wayde.
  4.—The Arm of the Law. By Lieutenant Carlton.
  3.—The Treasury’s Millions. By Bernard Wayde.
  2.—The Man on the Coach. By E. C. Derby.
  1.—A Government Trust. By Bernard Wayde.




There is but one Secret Service Series that deals with the adventures of
Government detectives, and its titles are enumerated above. No more
exciting and interesting tales can be had anywhere. If you want good
reading, buy it weekly....




                                 _The_
                            Columbia Library


A series of rattling good stories of marvelous adventures on land and
sea. It contains an unrivalled collection of tales, by famous authors,
calculated to interest the most indifferent reader. A glance at the
names of these will be sufficient to convince anyone that the books are
well worth reading. There are tales of searches for lost and stolen
treasure; tales of queer people unknown to the world at large; tales of
hair-breadth escapes from savages in the heart of South America; in
fact, no matter what kind of a tale of absorbing interest the reader may
desire, it can be found in this line.

  44. The Year of Miracle. By Fergus Hume.
  43. The Hidden City. By Walter McDougall.
  42. Number 19 State Street. By David Graham Adee.
  41. A Creature of the Night. By Fergus Hume.
  40. Marked for a Victim. By Stuart C. Cumberland.
  39. The Lost Inca. By I. P. Ozollo.
  38. The Sheik’s White Slave. By Raymond Raife.
  37. The Dalton Boys. By W. B. Lawson.
  36. Rube Burrows’ League. By Marline Manly.
  35. The Younger Brothers. By Henry Dale.
  34. Madame Midas. A story of Australian Life. By Fergus Hume.
  33. King Solomon’s Mines. By H. Rider Haggard.
  32. Roanoke of Roanoke Hall. By Malcolm Bell.
  31. His Fatal Success. By Malcolm Bell.
  30. Scarabæus. The Story of an African Beetle. By Marquise Clara Lanza
              and James Clarence Harvey.
  29. A Strange Secret. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
  27. She. By H. Rider Haggard.
  26. Ivan the Serf. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
  25. A Queer Race. By William Westall.
  24. The Council of Ten. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
  23. Cell No. 13. By Edwin H. Trafton.
  22. The Wreck of the South Pole. By Charles Curtz Hahn.
  21. The King’s Talisman. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
  20. The Swordsman of Warsaw. By Judson R. Taylor.
  19. The Golden Eagle; or, The Privateer of 1776. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
  18. Ben Hamed. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
  17. The Soldier Monk. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N.
  16. Fighting Against Odds. By Douglas Wells.
  15. The Charge of the Blockhouse. By Douglas Wells.
  14. The Hero of the Brigade. By Douglas Wells.
  13. Wolves of the Navy. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N.
  12. A Soldier’s Pledge. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N.
  11. Holding the Fort. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N.
  10. A Gauntlet of Fire. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N.
  9. For Spanish Gold. By Douglas Wells.
  8. Saved By the Enemy. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N.
  7. On the Firing Line. By Douglas Wells.
  6. Court-Martialed. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N.
  5. A Secret Service Detail. By Douglas Wells.
  4. A Prisoner of Morro. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N.
  3. A Courier to Gomez. By Douglas Wells.
  2. The Fighting Squadron. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N.
  1. The Yankee Lieutenant. By Douglas Wells.




 TALES REDOLENT WITH FUN, ADVENTURE AND ROMANCE ARE TO BE FOUND IN THE

                            COLUMBIA LIBRARY

                GET A COPY AND BE INTERESTED AND AMUSED


                _Popular Information at a Popular Price_




                                 _The_
                        Diamond Hand-Book Series
                          OF RELIABLE MANUALS


Herein is contained an unrivalled collection of useful and valuable
information. The books treat upon subjects that everyone is desirous of
knowing about. The authors, well versed in the subjects they treated,
have spared no time or pains to make these books authentic and
thoroughly interesting. New subjects will be added as rapidly as they
can be prepared. Glance over the titles given herewith and see if you do
not want to know something about at least one of the subjects mentioned.

  1. Sheldon’s Letter Writer.                           By L. W. Sheldon
  2. Shirley’s Lovers’ Guide.                           By Grace Shirley
  3. Women’s Secrets; or, How to Be Beautiful.          By Grace Shirley
  4. Guide to Etiquette.                                By L. W. Sheldon
  5. Physical Health Culture.                       By Professor Fourmen
  6. Frank Merriwell’s Book of Physical              By Burt L. Standish
  Development.
  7. National Dream Book.                                 By Mme. Claire
                                                               Rougemont
  8. Zingara Fortune Teller.                            By a Gipsy Queen
  9. The Art of Boxing and Self-Defense.            By Professor Donovan
  10. The Key to Hypnotism.                                 By Robert G.
                                                        Ellsworth, M. D.
  11. U. S. Army Physical Exercises.                          Revised by
                                                       Professor Donovan
  12. Heart Talks With the Lovelorn.                    By Grace Shirley
  13. Dancing Without an Instructor.                        By Professor
                                                               Wilkinson




                                 _The_
                              Eagle Series
                          _of_ Popular Fiction


                         PRINCIPALLY COPYRIGHTS

                         ELEGANT COLORED COVERS

This is the pioneer line of copyright novels. Its popularity has
increased with every number, until, at the present time, it stands
unrivalled as regards sales and contents.

It is composed, mainly, of popular copyrighted titles which cannot be
had in any other lines, at any price. The authors, as far as literary
ability and reputation are concerned, represent the foremost men and
women of their time. The books, without exception, are of entrancing
interest and manifestly those most desired by the American reading
public. A purchase of two or three of these books, at random, will make
you a firm believer that there is no line of novels which can compare
favorably with the Eagle Series.

  337. Dear Elsie                                     By Mary J. Safford
  336. Rose Mather (Double Number),                      By Mrs. Mary J.
                                                                  Holmes
  335. We Parted at the Altar                       By Laura Jean Libbey
  334. Miss MacDonald                                    By Mrs. Mary J.
                                                                  Holmes
  333. Stella’s Fortune                               By Charles Garvice
  332. Darkness and Daylight (Double Number),            By Mrs. Mary J.
                                                                  Holmes
  331. Christine                                     By Adeline Sergeant
  330. Aikenside                                         By Mrs. Mary J.
                                                                  Holmes
  329—My Hildegard                                         By St. George
                                                               Rathborne
  328—He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not (Double Number)    By Charles Garvice
  327—Was She Wife or Widow?                             By Malcolm Bell
  326—Parted by Fate                                By Laura Jean Libbey
  325—The Leighton Homestead (Double Number)             By Mrs. Mary J.
                                                                  Holmes
  324—A Love Match                                      By Sylvanus Cobb
  323—The Little Countess                                 By S. E. Boggs
  322—Mildred                                            By Mrs. Mary J.
                                                                  Holmes
  321—Neva’s Three Lovers (Double Number)                By Hrs. Harriet
                                                                   Lewis
  320—Mynheer Joe                                          By St. George
                                                               Rathborne
  319—Millbank                                           By Mrs. Mary J.
                                                                  Holmes
  318—Staunch of Heart                                By Charles Garvice
  317—Ione                                          By Laura Jean Libbey
  316—Edith Lyle’s Secret (Double Number)                By Mrs. Mary J.
                                                                  Holmes
  315—The Dark Secret                               By May Agnes Fleming
  314—A Maid’s Fatal Love                                By Helen Corwin
                                                                  Pierce
  313—A Kinsman’s Sin                                  By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  312—Woven on Fate’s Loom                            By Charles Garvice
  311—Wedded by Fate (Double Number)                     By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  310—A Late Repentance                               By Mary A. Denison
  309—The Heiress of Castle Cliffe                  By May Agnes Fleming
  308—Lady Ryhope’s Lover                               By Emma Garrison
                                                                   Jones
  307—The Winning of Isolde                                By St. George
                                                               Rathborne
  306—Love’s Golden Rule                            By Geraldine Fleming
  305—Led by Love                                     By Charles Garvice
  304—Staunch as a Woman                              By Charles Garvice
  303—The Queen of the Isle                         By May Agnes Fleming
  302—When Man’s Love Fades                                By Hazel Wood
  301—The False and the True                           By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  300—The Spider and the Fly                          By Charles Garvice
  299—Little Miss Whirlwind                              By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  298—Should She Have Left Him?                     By William C. Hudson
  297—That Girl from Texas                                 By Mrs. J. H.
                                                                Walworth
  296—The Heir of Vering                              By Charles Garvice
  295—A Terrible Secret                             By Geraldine Fleming
  294—A Warrior Bold                                       By St. George
                                                               Rathborne
  293—For Love of Anne Lambart                         By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  292—For Her Only                                    By Charles Garvice
  291—A Mysterious Wedding Ring                          By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  290—A Change of Heart                                By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  289—Married in Mask                                    By Mansfield T.
                                                                Walworth
  288—Sibyl’s Influence                                  By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  287—The Lady of Darracourt                          By Charles Garvice
  286—A Debt of Vengeance                               By Mrs. E. Burke
                                                                 Collins
  285—Born to Betray                                By Mrs. M. V. Victor
  284—Dr. Jack’s Widow                                     By St. George
                                                               Rathborne
  283—My Lady Pride                                   By Charles Garvice
  282—The Forsaken Bride                                 By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  281—For Love Alone                                    By Wenona Gilman
  280—Love’s Dilemma                                  By Charles Garvice
  279—Nina’s Peril                                         By Mrs. Alex.
                                                          McVeigh Miller
  278—Laura Brayton                                     By Julia Edwards
  277—Brownie’s Triumph                                  By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  276—So Nearly Lost                                  By Charles Garvice
  275—Love’s Cruel Whim                                By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  274—A Romantic Girl                                 By Evelyn E. Green
  273—At Swords’ Points                                    By St. George
                                                               Rathborne
  272—So Fair, So False                               By Charles Garvice
  271—With Love’s Laurel Crowned                         By W. C. Stiles
  270—Had She Foreseen                                    By Dora Delmar
  269—Brunette and Blonde                                  By Mrs. Alex.
                                                          McVeigh Miller
  268—Olivia; or, It Was for Her Sake                 By Charles Garvice
  267—Jeanne                                          By Charles Garvice
  266—The Welfleet Mystery                               By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  265—First Love is Best                                By S. K. Hocking
  264—For Gold or Soul                              By Lurana W. Sheldon
  263—An American Nabob                                    By St. George
                                                               Rathborne
  262—A Woman’s Faith                                   By Henry Wallace
  261—A Siren’s Heart                                  By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  260—At a Girl’s Mercy                              By Jean Kate Ludlum
  259—By a Golden Cord                                    By Dora Delmar
  258—An Amazing Marriage                                 By Mrs. Sumner
                                                                  Hayden
  257—A Martyred Love                                 By Charles Garvice
  256—Thy Name is Woman                                    By F. H. Howe
  255—The Little Marplot                                 By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  254—Little Miss Millions                                 By St. George
                                                               Rathborne
  253—A Fashionable Marriage                         By Mrs. Alex Frazer
  252—A Handsome Sinner                                   By Dora Delmar
  251—When Love is True                                 By Mabel Collins
  250—A Woman’s Soul                                  By Charles Garvice
  249—What Love Will Do                             By Geraldine Fleming
  248—Jeanne, Countess Du Barry                        By H. L. Williams
  247—Within Love’s Portals                             By Frank Barrett
  246—True to Herself                                      By Mrs. J. H.
                                                                Walworth
  245—A Modern Marriage                                   By Clara Lanza
  244—A Hoiden’s Conquest                                By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  243—His Double Self                                  By Scott Campbell
  242—A Wounded Heart                                 By Charles Garvice
  241—Her Love and Trust                             By Adeline Sergeant
  240—Saved by the Sword                                   By St. George
                                                               Rathborne
  239—Don Cæsar De Bazan                                  By Victor Hug.
  238—That Other Woman                                   By Annie Thomas
  237—Woman or Witch?                                     By Dora Delmar
  235—Gratia’s Trials                                    By Lucy Randall
                                                                 Comfort
  234—His Mother’s Sin                               By Adeline Sergeant
  233—Nora                                               By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  232—A Debt of Honor                                   By Mabel Collins
  230—A Woman’s Atonement, and A Mother’s Mistake      By Adah M. Howard
  229—For the Sake of the Family                        By May Crommelin
  228—His Brother’s Widow                                  By Mary Grace
                                                                 Halpine
  227—For Love and Honor                               By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  226—The Roll of Honor                                  By Annie Thomas
  225—A Miserable Woman                                    By Mrs. H. C.
                                                                 Hoffman
  224—A Sister’s Sacrifice                          By Geraldine Fleming
  223—Leola Dale’s Fortune                            By Charles Garvice
  222—The Lily of Mordaunt                               By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  221—The Honorable Jane                                 By Annie Thomas
  220—A Fatal Past                                       By Dora Russell
  219—Lost, A Pearle                                     By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  218—A Life for a Love                              By Mrs. L. T. Meade
  217—His Noble Wife                                  By George Manville
                                                                    Fenn
  216—The Lost Bride                                    By Clara Augusta
  215—Only a Girl’s Love                              By Charles Garvice
  214—Olga’s Crime                                      By Frank Barrett
  213—The Heiress of Egremont                            By Mrs. Harriet
                                                                   Lewis
  212—Doubly Wronged                                   By Adah M. Howard
  211—As We Forgive                                 By Lurana W. Sheldon
  210—Wild Oats                                          By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  209—She Loved but Left Him                            By Julia Edwards
  208—A Chase for a Bride                                  By St. George
                                                               Rathborne
  207—Little Golden’s Daughter                             By Mrs. Alex.
                                                          McVeigh Miller
  206—A Daughter of Maryland                          By G. Waldo Browne
  205—If Love Be Love                                  By D. Cecil Gibbs
  204—With Heart So True                               By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  203—Only One Love                                   By Charles Garvice
  202—Marjorie                                           By Katharine S.
                                                                MacQuoid
  201—Blind Elsie’s Crime                                  By Mary Grace
                                                                 Halpine
  200—In God’s Country                                      By D. Higbee
  199—Geoffrey’s Victory                                 By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  198—Guy Kenmore’s Wife, and The Rose and the             By Mrs. Alex.
  Lily                                                    McVeigh Miller
  197—A Woman Scorned                                  By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  196—A Sailor’s Sweetheart                             By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  195—Her Faithful Knight                             By Gertrude Warden
  194—A Sinless Crime                               By Geraldine Fleming
  193—A Vagabond’s Honor                             By Ernest De Lancey
                                                                 Pierson
  192—An Old Man’s Darling, and Jacquelina                 By Mrs. Alex.
                                                          McVeigh Miller
  191—A Harvest of Thorns                                  By Mrs. H. C.
                                                                 Hoffman
  190—Captain of the Kaiser                                By St. George
                                                               Rathborne
  189—Berris                                             By Katharine S.
                                                                MacQuoid
  188—Dorothy Arnold’s Escape                            By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  187—The Black Ball                                 By Ernest De Lancey
                                                                 Pierson
  186—Beneath a Spell                                  By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  185—The Adventures of Miss Volney                      By Ella Wheeler
                                                                  Wilcox
  184—Sunlight and Gloom                            By Geraldine Fleming
  183—Quo Vadis                                                By Henryk
                                                             Sienkiewicz
  182—A Legal Wreck                                  By William Gillette
  181—The Baronet’s Bride                           By May Agnes Fleming
  180—A Lazy Man’s Work                              By Frances Campbell
                                                                Sparhawk
  179—One Man’s Evil                                   By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  178—A Slave of Circumstances                       By Ernest De Lancey
                                                                 Pierson
  177—A True Aristocrat                                  By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  176—Jack Gordon. Knight Errant                           By William C.
                                                         Hudson (Barclay
                                                                  North)
  175—For Honor’s Sake                                  By Laura C. Ford
  174—His Guardian Angel                              By Charles Garvice
  173—A Bar Sinister                                    By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  172—A King and a Coward                              By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  171—That Dakota Girl                                  By Stella Gilman
  170—A Little Radical                                     By Mrs. J. H.
                                                                Walworth
  169—The Trials of an Actress                          By Wenona Gilman
  168—Thrice Lost, Thrice Won                       By May Agnes Fleming
  167—The Manhattaners                                  By Edward S. Van
                                                                    Zile
  166—The Masked Bridal                                  By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  165—The Road of the Rough                         By Maurice M. Minton
  164—Couldn’t Say No                                   By the author of
                                                          Helen’s Babies
  163—A Splendid Egotist                                   By Mrs. J. H.
                                                                Walworth
  162—A Man of the Name of John                         By Florence King
  161—Miss Fairfax of Virginia                          By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  160—His Way and Her Will                              By Frances Aymar
                                                                 Mathews
  159—A Fair Maid of Marblehead                          By Kate Tannatt
                                                                   Woods
  158—Stella, the Star                                  By Wenona Gilman
  157—Who Wins?                                     By May Agnes Fleming
  156—A Soldier Lover                                By Edward S. Brooks
  155—Nameless Dell                                      By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  154—Husband and Foe                                  By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  153—Her Son’s Wife                                       By Hazel Wood
  152—A Mute Confessor                                 By Will N. Harben
  151—The Heiress of Glen Gower                     By May Agnes Fleming
  150—Sunset Pass                                     By General Charles
                                                                    King
  149—The Man She Loved                                By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  148—Will She Win?                                     By Emma Garrison
                                                                   Jones
  147—Under Egyptian Skies                              By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  146—Magdalen’s Vow                                By May Agnes Fleming
  145—Country Lanes and City Pavements              By Maurice M. Minton
  144—Dorothy’s Jewels                                   By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  143—A Charity Girl                                   By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  142—Her Rescue from the Turks                         By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  141—Lady Evelyn                                   By May Agnes Fleming
  140—That Girl of Johnson’s                         By Jean Kate Ludlum
  139—Little Lady Charles                              By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  138—A Fatal Wooing                                By Laura Jean Libbey
  137—A Wedded Widow                                    By T. W. Hanshew
  136—The Unseen Bridegroom                         By May Agnes Fleming
  135—Cast Up by the Tide                                 By Dora Delmar
  134—Squire John                                       By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  133—Max                                                By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  132—Whose Was the Crime?                            By Gertrude Warden
  131—Nerine’s Second Choice                        By Adelaide Stirling
  130—A Bitter Bondage                                 By Bertha M. Clay
  129—In Sight of St. Paul’s                              By Sutton Vane
  128—The Scent of the Roses                              By Dora Delmar
  127—Nobody’s Daughter                                 By Clara Augusta
  126—The Girl from Hong Kong                           By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  125—Devil’s Island                                       By A. D. Hall
  124—Prettiest of All                                  By Julia Edwards
  123—Northern Lights                                      By A. D. Hall
  122—Grazia’s Mistake                                   By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  121—Cecile’s Marriage                                  By Lucy Randall
                                                                 Comfort
  120—The White Squadron                               By T. C. Harbaugh
  119—An Ideal Love                                    By Bertha M. Clay
  118—Saved from the Sea                                By Richard Duffy
  117—She Loved Him                                   By Charles Garvice
  116—The Daughter of the Regiment                    By Mary A. Denison
  115—A Fair Revolutionist                              By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  114—Half a Truth                                        By Dora Delmar
  113—A Crushed Lily                                        y Mrs. Alex.
                                                          McVeigh Miller
  112—The Cattle King                                      By A. D. Hall
  111—Faithful Shirley                                   By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  110—Whose Wife Is She?                                  By Annie Lisle
  109—A Heart’s Bitterness                             By Bertha M. Clay
  108—A Son of Mars                                     By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  107—Carla; or, Married at Sight                      By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  106—Lilian, My Lilian                                    By Mrs. Alex.
                                                          McVeigh Miller
  105—When London Sleeps                                By Chas. Darrell
  104—A Proud Dishonor                                By Genie Holzmeyer
  103—The Span of Life                                    By Sutton Vane
  102—Fair But Faithless                               By Bertha M. Clay
  101—A Goddess of Africa                               By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  100—Alice Blake                                    By Francis S. Smith
  99—Audrey’s Recompense                                 By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  98—Claire                                           By Charles Garvice
  97—The War Reporter                                  By Warren Edwards
  96—The Little Minister                                 By J. M. Barrie
  95—’Twixt Love and Hate                              By Bertha M. Clay
  94—Darkest Russia                                        By H. Grattan
                                                                Donnelly
  93—A Queen of Treachery                               By T. W. Henshew
  92—Humanity                                             By Sutton Vane
  91—Sweet Violet                                          By Mrs. Alex.
                                                          McVeigh Miller
  90—For Fair Virginia                                    By Russ Whytal
  89—A Gentleman from Gascony                         By Bicknell Dudley
  88—Virgie’s Inheritance                                By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  87—Shenandoah                                      By J. Perkins Tracy
  86—A Widowed Bride                                     By Lucy Randall
                                                                 Comfort
  85—Lorrie; or, Hollow Gold                          By Charles Garvice
  84—Between Two Hearts                                By Bertha M. Clay
  83—The Locksmith of Lyons                           By Prof. Wm. Henry
                                                                    Peck
  82—Captain Impudence                                   By Edwin Milton
                                                                   Royle
  81—Wedded for an Hour                                 By Emma Garrison
                                                                   Jones
  80—The Fair Maid of Fez                               By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  79—Marjorie Deane                                    By Bertha M. Clay
  78—The Yankee Champion                               By Sylvanus Cobb,
                                                                     Jr.
  77—Tina                                                By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  76—Mavourneen                                      From the celebrated
                                                                    play
  75—Under Fire                                           By T. P. James
  74—The Cotton King                                      By Sutton Vane
  73—The Marquis                                      By Charles Garvice
  72—Willful Winnie                                 By Harriet Sherburne
  71—The Spiders Web                                    By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  70—In Love’s Crucible                                By Bertha M. Clay
  69—His Perfect Trust                               By a popular author
  68—The Little Cuban Rebel                             By Edna Winfield
  67—Gismonda                                        By Victorien Sardou
  66—Witch Hazel                                         By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  65—Won by the Sword                                By J. Perkins Tracy
  64—Dora Tenney                                           By Mrs. Alex.
                                                          McVeigh Miller
  63—Lawyer Bell from Boston                         By Robert Lee Tyler
  62—Stella Stirling                                    By Julia Edwards
  61—La Tosca                                        By Victorien Sardou
  60—The County Fair                                     By Neil Burgess
  59—Gladys Greye                                      By Bertha M. Clay
  58—Major Matterson of Kentucky                        By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  57—Rosamond                                              By Mrs. Alex.
                                                          McVeigh Miller
  56—The Dispatch Bearer                               By Warren Edwards
  55—Thrice Wedded                                       By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  54—Cleopatra                                       By Victorien Sardou
  53—The Old Homestead                                By Denman Thompson
  52—Woman Against Woman                               By Effie Adelaide
                                                                Rowlands
  51—The Price He Paid                                      By E. Werner
  50—Her Ransom                                       By Charles Garvice
  49—None But the Brave                              By Robert Lee Tyler
  48—Another Man’s Wife                                By Bertha M. Clay
  47—The Colonel by Brevet                              By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  46—Off with the Old Love                          By Mrs. M. V. Victor
  45—A Yale Man                                      By Robert Lee Tyler
  44—That Dowdy                                          By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  43—Little Coquette Bonnie                                By Mrs. Alex.
                                                          McVeigh Miller
  42—Another Woman’s Husband                           By Bertha M. Clay
  41—Her Heart’s Desire                               By Charles Garvice
  40—Monsieur Bob                                       By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  39—The Colonel’s Wife                                By Warren Edwards
  38—The Nabob of Singapore                             By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  37—The Heart of Virginia                           By J. Perkins Tracy
  36—Fedora                                          By Victorien Sardou
  35—The Great Mogul                                    By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  34—Pretty Geraldine                                      By Mrs. Alex.
                                                          McVeigh Miller
  33—Mrs. Bob                                           By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  32—The Blockade Runner                             By J. Perkins Tracy
  31—A Siren’s Love                                  By Robert Lee Tyler
  30—Baron Sam                                          By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  29—Theodora                                        By Victorien Sardou
  28—Miss Caprice                                       By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  27—Estelle’s Millionaire Lover                        By Julia Edwards
  26—Captain Tom                                        By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  25—Little Southern Beauty                                By Mrs. Alex.
                                                          McVeigh Miller
  24—A Wasted Love                                    By Charles Garvice
  23—Miss Pauline of New York                           By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  22—Elaine                                           By Charles Garvice
  21—A Heart’s Idol                                    By Bertha M. Clay
  20—The Senator’s Bride                                   By Mrs. Alex.
                                                          McVeigh Miller
  19—Mr. Lake of Chicago                                 By Harry DuBois
                                                                  Milman
  18—Dr. Jack’s Wife                                    By the author of
                                                                Dr. Jack
  17—Leslie’s Loyalty                                 By Charles Garvice
  16—The Fatal Card                                   By Haddon Chambers
                                                    and B. C. Stephenson
  15—Dr. Jack                                              By St. George
                                                               Rathborne
  14—Violet Lisle                                      By Bertha M. Clay
  13—The Little Widow                                   By Julia Edwards
  12—Edrie’s Legacy                                      By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  11—The Gypsy’s Daughter                              By Bertha M. Clay
  10—Little Sunshine                                 By Francis S. Smith
  9—The Virginia Heiress                            By May Agnes Fleming
  8—Beautiful But Poor                                  By Julia Edwards
  7—Two Keys                                             By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  6—The Midnight Marriage                               By A. M. Douglas
  5—The Senator’s Favorite                                 By Mrs. Alex.
                                                          McVeigh Miller
  4—For a Woman’s Honor                                By Bertha M. Clay
  3—He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not                        By Julia Edwards
  2—Ruby’s Reward                                        By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon
  1—Queen Bess                                           By Mrs. Georgie
                                                                 Sheldon




Public records will show that there have been more women restored to
health and strength, and more lives saved by

                 Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound

than by any other medicine in the world.

It therefore _must_ be the best medicine in the world for woman’s
special ills.

  NOTE.—If you are ill why don’t you write to Mrs. Pinkham at Lynn,
  Mass., and get the advice which has restored more than a million women
  to health? It will cost you nothing, and may save your life.




                          Transcriber’s Notes


—Silently corrected a few typos.

—Retained publication information from the printed edition: this eBook
  is public-domain in the country of publication.

—Added a Table of Contents, based on chapter headings.

—In the text versions only, text in italics is delimited by
  _underscores_.