NICK CARTER STORIES

                          New Magnet Library

                    _Not a Dull Book in This List_

                        ALL BY NICHOLAS CARTER

Nick Carter stands for an interesting detective story. The fact that the
books in this line are so uniformly good is entirely due to the work of
a specialist. The man who wrote these stories produced no other type of
fiction. His mind was concentrated upon the creation of new plots and
situations in which his hero emerged triumphantly from all sorts of
troubles and landed the criminal just where he should be--behind the
bars.

The author of these stories knew more about writing detective stories
than any other single person.

Following is a list of the best Nick Carter stories. They have been
selected with extreme care, and we unhesitatingly recommend each of them
as being fully as interesting as any detective story between cloth
covers which sells at ten times the price.

If you do not know Nick Carter, buy a copy of any of the New Magnet
Library books, and get acquainted. He will surprise and delight you.


_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

850--Wanted: A Clew
851--A Tangled Skein
852--The Bullion Mystery
853--The Man of Riddles
854--A Miscarriage of Justice
855--The Gloved Hand
856--Spoilers and the Spoils
857--The Deeper Game
858--Bolts from Blue Skies
859--Unseen Foes
860--Knaves in High Places
861--The Microbe of Crime
862--In the Toils of Fear
863--A Heritage of Trouble
864--Called to Account
865--The Just and the Unjust
866--Instinct at Fault
867--A Rogue Worth Trapping
868--A Rope of Slender Threads
869--The Last Call
870--The Spoils of Chance
871--A Struggle with Destiny
872--The Slave of Crime
873--The Crook’s Blind
874--A Rascal of Quality
875--With Shackles of Fire
876--The Man Who Changed Faces
877--The Fixed Alibi
878--Out with the Tide
879--The Soul Destroyers
880--The Wages of Rascality
881--Birds of Prey
882--When Destruction Threatens
883--The Keeper of Black Hounds
884--The Door of Doubt
885--The Wolf Within
886--A Perilous Parole
887--The Trail of the Finger Prints
888--Dodging the Law
889--A Crime in Paradise
890--On the Ragged Edge
891--The Red God of Tragedy
892--The Man Who Paid
893--The Blind Man’s Daughter
894--One Object in Life
895--As a Crook Sows
896--In Record Time
897--Held in Suspense
898--The $100,000 Kiss
899--Just One Slip
900--On a Million-dollar Trail
901--A Weird Treasure
902--The Middle Link
903--To the Ends of the Earth
904--When Honors Pall
905--The Yellow Brand
906--A New Serpent in Eden
907--When Brave Men Tremble
908--A Test of Courage
909--Where Peril Beckons
910--The Gargoni Girdle
911--Rascals & Co.
912--Too Late to Talk
913--Satan’s Apt Pupil
914--The Girl Prisoner
915--The Danger of Folly
916--One Shipwreck Too Many
917--Scourged by Fear
918--The Red Plague
919--Scoundrels Rampant
920--From Clew to Clew
921--When Rogues Conspire
922--Twelve in a Grave
923--The Great Opium Case
924--A Conspiracy of Rumors
925--A Klondike Claim
926--The Evil Formula
927--The Man of Many Faces
928--The Great Enigma
929--The Burden of Proof
930--The Stolen Brain
931--A Titled Counterfeiter
932--The Magic Necklace
933--Round the World for a Quarter
934--Over the Edge of the World
935--In the Grip of Fate
936--The Case of Many Clews
937--The Sealed Door
938--Nick Carter and the Green Goods Men
939--The Man Without a Will
940--Tracked Across the Atlantic
941--A Clew from the Unknown
942--The Crime of a Countess
943--A Mixed-up Mess
944--The Great Money-order Swindle
945--The Adder’s Brood
946--A Wall Street Haul
947--For a Pawned Crown
948--Sealed Orders
949--The Hate that Kills
950--The American Marquis
951--The Needy Nine
952--Fighting Against Millions
953--Outlaws of the Blue
954--The Old Detective’s Pupil
955--Found in the Jungle
956--The Mysterious Mall Robbery
957--Broken Bars
958--A Fair Criminal
959--Won by Magic
960--The Piano Box Mystery
961--The Man They Held Back
962--A Millionaire Partner
963--A Pressing Peril
964--An Australian Klondike
965--The Sultan’s Pearls
966--The Double Shuffle Club
967--Paying the Price
968--A Woman’s Hand
969--A Network of Crime
970--At Thompson’s Ranch
971--The Crossed Needles
972--The Diamond Mine Case
973--Blood Will Tell
974--An Accidental Password
975--The Crook’s Double
976--Two Plus Two
977--The Yellow Label
978--The Clever Celestial
979--The Amphitheater Plot
980--Gideon Drexel’s Millions
981--Death In Life
982--A Stolen Identity
983--Evidence by Telephone
984--The Twelve Tin Boxes
985--Clew Against Clew
986--Lady Velvet
987--Playing a Bold Game
988--A Dead Man’s Grip
989--Snarled Identities
990--A Deposit Vault Puzzle
991--The Crescent Brotherhood
992--The Stolen Pay Train
993--The Sea Fox
994--Wanted by Two Clients
995--The Van Alstine Case
996--Check No. 777
997--Partners in Peril
998--Nick Carter’s Clever Protégé
999--The Sign of the Crossed Knives
1000--The Man Who Vanished
1001--A Battle for the Right
1002--A Game of Craft
1003--Nick Carter’s Retainer
1004--Caught in the Tolls
1005--A Broken Bond
1006--The Crime of the French Café
1007--The Man Who Stole Millions
1008--The Twelve Wise Men
1009--Hidden Foes
1010--A Gamblers’ Syndicate
1011--A Chance Discovery
1012--Among the Counterfeiters
1013--A Threefold Disappearance
1014--At Odds with Scotland Yard
1015--A Princess of Crime
1016--Found on the Beach
1017--A Spinner of Death
1018--The Detective’s Pretty Neighbor
1019--A Bogus Clew
1020--The Puzzle of Five Pistols
1021--The Secret of the Marble Mantel
1022--A Bite of an Apple
1023--A Triple Crime
1024--The Stolen Race Horse
1025--Wildfire
1026--A _Herald_ Personal
1027--The Finger of Suspicion
1028--The Crimson Clew
1029--Nick Carter Down East
1030--The Chain of Clews
1031--A Victim of Circumstances
1032--Brought to Bay
1033--The Dynamite Trap
1034--A Scrap of Black Lace
1035--The Woman of Evil
1036--A Legacy of Hate
1037--A Trusted Rogue
1038--Man Against Man
1039--The Demons of the Night
1040--The Brotherhood of Death
1041--At the Knife’s Point
1042--A Cry for Help
1043--A Stroke of Policy
1044--Hounded to Death
1045--A Bargain in Crime
1046--The Fatal Prescription
1047--The Man of Iron
1048--An Amazing Scoundrel
1049--The Chain of Evidence
1050--Paid with Death
1051--A Fight for a Throne
1052--The Woman of Steel
1053--The Seal of Death
1054--The Human Fiend
1055--A Desperate Chance
1056--A Chase in the Dark
1057--The Snare and the Game
1058--The Murray Hill Mystery
1059--Nick Carter’s Close Call
1060--The Missing Cotton King
1061--A Game of Plots
1062--The Prince of Liars
1063--The Man at the Window
1064--The Red League
1065--The Price of a Secret
1066--The Worst Case on Record
1067--From Peril to Peril
1068--The Seal of Silence
1069--Nick Carter’s Chinese Puzzle
1070--A Blackmailer’s Bluff
1071--Heard in the Dark
1072--A Checkmated Scoundrel
1073--The Cashier’s Secret
1074--Behind a Mask
1075--The Cloak of Guilt
1076--Two Villains in One
1077--The Hot Air Clew
1078--Run to Earth
1070--The Certified Check
1080--Weaving the Web
1081--Beyond Pursuit
1082--The Claws of the Tiger
1083--Driven from Cover
1084--A Deal in Diamonds
1085--The Wizard of the Cue
1086--A Race for Ten Thousand
1087--The Criminal Link
1088--The Red Signal
1089--The Secret Panel
1090--A Bonded Villain
1091--A Move in the Dark
1092--Against Desperate Odds
1093--The Telltale Photographs
1094--The Ruby Pin
1095--The Queen of Diamonds
1096--A Broken Trail
1097--An Ingenious Stratagem
1098--A Sharper’s Downfall
1099--A Race Track Gamble
1100--Without a Clew
1101--The Council of Death
1102--The Hole in the Vault
1103--In Death’s Grip
1104--A Great Conspiracy
1105--The Guilty Governor
1106--A Ring of Rascals
1107--A Masterpiece of Crime
1108--A Blow for Vengeance
1109--Tangled Threads
1110--The Crime of the Camera
1111--The Sign of the Dagger
1112--Nick Carter’s Promise
1113--Marked for Death
1114--The Limited Holdup
1115--When the Trap Was Sprung
1116--Through the Cellar Wall
1117--Under the Tiger’s Claws
1118--The Girl in the Case
1119--Behind a Throne
1120--The Lure of Gold
1121--Hand to Hand
1122--From a Prison Cell
1123--Dr. Quartz, Magician
1124--Into Nick Carter’s Web
1125--The Mystic Diagram
1126--The Hand that Won
1127--Playing a Lone Hand
1128--The Master Villain
1129--The False Claimant
1130--The Living Mask
1131--The Crime and the Motive
1132--A Mysterious Foe
1133--A Missing Man
1134--A Game Well Played
1135--A Cigarette Clew
1136--The Diamond Trail
1137--The Silent Guardian
1138--The Dead Stranger
1140--The Doctor’s Stratagem
1141--Following a Chance Clew
1142--The Bank Draft Puzzle
1143--The Price of Treachery
1144--The Silent Partner
1145--Ahead of the Game
1146--A Trap of Tangled Wire
1147--In the Gloom of Night
1148--The Unaccountable Crook
1149--A Bundle of Clews
1150--The Great Diamond Syndicate
1151--The Death Circle
1152--The Toss of a Penny
1153--One Step Too Far
1154--The Terrible Thirteen
1155--A Detective’s Theory
1156--Nick Carter’s Auto Trail
1157--A Triple Identity
1158--A Mysterious Graft
1159--A Carnival of Crime
1160--The Bloodstone Terror
1161--Trapped in His Own Net
1162--The Last Move in the Game
1163--A Victim of Deceit
1164--With Links of Steel
1165--A Plaything of Fate
1166--The Key King Clew
1167--Playing for a Fortune
1168--At Mystery’s Threshold
1169--Trapped by a Woman
1170--The Four Fingered Glove
1171--Nabob and Knave
1172--The Broadway Cross
1173--The Man Without a Conscience
1174--A Master of Deviltry
1175--Nick Carter’s Double Catch
1176--Doctor Quartz’s Quick Move
1177--The Vial of Death
1178--Nick Carter’s Star Pupils
1179--Nick Carter’s Girl Detective
1180--A Baffled Oath
1181--A Royal Thief
1182--Down and Out
1183--A Syndicate of Rascals
1184--Played to a Finish
1185--A Tangled Case
1186--In Letters of Fire

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books
listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York
City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

To be published in July, 1926.

1187--Crossed Wires
1188--A Plot Uncovered

To be published In August, 1926.

1189--The Cab Driver’s Secret
1190--Nick Carter’s Death Warrant

To be published In September, 1926.

1191--The Plot that Failed
1192--Nick Carter’s Masterpiece
1193--A Prince of Rogues

To be published in October, 1926.

1194--In the Lap of Danger
1195--The Man from London

To be published in November, 1926.

1196--Circumstantial Evidence
1197--The Pretty Stenographer Mystery

To be published in December, 1926.

1198--A Villainous Scheme
1199--A Plot Within a Plot




                        Following a Chance Clew

                                  OR,

                       NICK CARTER’S LUCKY FIND

                                  BY

                            NICHOLAS CARTER

     Author of the celebrated stories of Nick Carter’s adventures,
      which are published exclusively in the NEW MAGNET LIBRARY,
      conceded to be among the best detective tales ever written.

                            [Illustration]

                      STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
                              PUBLISHERS
                    79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

                    Copyright, 1899, 1900 and 1904
                           By STREET & SMITH

                        Following a Chance Clew


               (Printed in the United States of America)

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




                       FOLLOWING A CHANCE CLEW.




CHAPTER I.

ON A SEPTEMBER NIGHT.


“Nathan Lusker.”

Nick Carter read the sign over the jeweler’s store on Eighth Avenue and
stopped to glance critically at the place.

He noticed that the “regulator” indicated midnight.

His thoughts flew back to another midnight earlier in the week, when
Lusker’s store had been cleaned out by burglars.

The robbery had been charged to a mysterious crook known as Doc
Helstone, who was supposed to be the leader of a clever gang of
lawbreakers.

Nick had been asked to break up this gang, which had baffled some of the
best men of Inspector McLaughlin’s staff. A proposition had been made to
him that day, and he had promised an answer on the morrow.

Probably he would have decided to refuse the job, for he had a lot of
work on hand; but, as he strolled up the avenue on that September night,
an adventure was waiting for him which was to alter his purpose, and set
him upon the track of a remarkable scoundrel.

Lusker’s place was nearly in the middle of a block. As Nick turned his
eyes away from the window, he noticed, on the street corner beyond, a
group of about a dozen men and women.

There was nothing unusual about them except that they were all looking
one way. Their attention had evidently been strongly attracted by
something which was taking place on the side street, to the westward.

Suddenly they all hurried in that direction. Other persons, attracted by
this movement, joined in it.

All whom Nick could see were hastening toward this center of
interest--all, except one man, who was walking the other way.

This man came out of the street wherein the crowd was gathering, and
turned up the avenue. Nick saw him for only a moment, and at a
considerable distance, but he remembered him.

When Nick came to the street corner, he saw, about forty yards from the
avenue, a considerable crowd, upon the downtown side. He quickly made
his way to the midst of it.

There he saw a young man kneeling on the sidewalk, and supporting upon
his arm the head of a woman.

The man seemed considerably agitated. The woman’s face, indistinct in
the dim light, was white and rigid.

“Do you know this woman?” asked Nick, quickly, of the young man, after
he had cast a single glance upon the unconscious figure.

“No; I never saw her before.”

“Do you know a tall man with a light brown beard parted in the middle, a
dark suit of----”

“Why, that’s the man who has gone to ring for an ambulance,” was the
reply. “This lady was with him when she was taken sick.”

Nick did not wait to hear any more. He slipped through the crowd like an
eel, and darted away.

He was on the track of the man whom he had seen walking away from the
spot to which everybody else was hurrying.

The avenue was brightly lighted, but the man was not in sight. By rapid,
clever work, Nick traced him to Forty-first Street, where he had entered
a carriage.

A hackman, who had seen this, did not remember ever to have seen the
carriage or the driver or the passenger before.

“Was the man looking about for a carriage when you first saw him?” asked
Nick.

“No; he knew where to find one,” was the reply.

“Did he give any directions to the driver?”

“He held up his hand in a queer sort of way, and the driver nodded.
Nothing was said.”

Evidently the carriage had been waiting, and the coachman and the
passenger knew each other well. They would be harder to trace on that
account.

For the moment Nick gave up the chase. He returned to the crowd around
the unconscious woman.

She still lay where Nick had last seen her. A policeman had come, and
had rung for an ambulance.

The young man who had been supporting the woman’s head had relinquished
his burden, and just as Nick came up he was edging away through the
crowd. He seemed to desire to escape further observation.

Nick touched him on the arm, and the young man faced about.

“Don’t try to get away,” said the detective. “You won’t help matters by
that.”

“Why shouldn’t I go away?”

“Because,” said Nick, calmly, “you will direct suspicion toward
yourself.”

“Suspicion! Suspicion of what?”

“Murder!” replied the detective, in a low, steady voice.

This sinister word produced a tremendous effect upon the young man. But
he came out of it in a way which showed he had plenty of nerve.

Nick had drawn him into a doorway, and the two were almost unobserved.

“Look here,” said the young man, “I’m no fool, and I begin to see that
something is wrong here. But when it comes to murder, I don’t believe
you’re right. That lady isn’t very sick.”

“She isn’t sick at all,” said Nick; “she’s wounded.”

“Wounded!”

“Yes. I saw at a glance that she was suffering from a blow with a
sharp-pointed instrument. She has been stabbed, probably, with a
stiletto.”

“Then it was that man----”

“Either that man or yourself,” said Nick, interrupting.

“But I swear by all that I hold sacred that I never set eyes on the
woman before this evening. I was passing along the street when I saw her
ahead of me.

“The man whom I described to you had just overtaken her, and they were
talking. At that moment a drunken man pushed violently against me. I
looked around. He lurched away.

“Then I turned toward Eighth Avenue again, and at that moment I saw the
woman fall into the man’s arms, with a low cry. I didn’t see him stab
her, and I didn’t see any weapon. I ran up to offer assistance, and he
said: ‘This lady is ill. Take her for a moment while I summon
assistance. I will ring for an ambulance. It will be the quickest way to
get a doctor.’

“I took the woman out of his arms because I couldn’t let her fall on the
sidewalk. He hurried away. You know the rest.

“Now, then, I maintain that you have no right to detain me. I’m going
home.”

“Do you suppose that you could do so, even if I consented? I tell you
that a detective has his eye on you at this moment, though you do not
see him. Do you think that policeman would have been stupid enough to
let you get away if he hadn’t known that somebody was on hand to look
out for you?”

“And who are you?”

“I’m a man who may believe in your innocence and help you to prove it,
if your conduct justifies it.”

The young man looked at Nick as if he meditated making a break for
liberty, but something in the detective’s glance restrained him. The
stronger mind prevailed.

“What would you advise me to do?” he asked.

“Go back and stand near the policeman,” said Nick. “Be on hand when the
ambulance surgeon makes his examination.

“You will be taken to the police station. When you get there tell your
story as you’ve told it to me. If there’s anything else, save it till
you see me again. What is your name?”

“Austin L. Reeves. I live at ninety-two West Thirty-ninth Street.”

“Very well. Here comes the ambulance.”

Though fully twenty minutes had elapsed since the woman had received the
injury, her condition had not changed in the least. Nick had felt
certain that the night was so warm that no harm would result from her
remaining outdoors. Otherwise he would have taken her to a drug store or
into one of the houses.

The others, expecting the ambulance every minute, and failing to
perceive the real nature of the woman’s trouble, had not thought of
doing anything.

When the ambulance surgeon bent over her, he saw at once that she was
suffering from a serious stab wound.

Not a drop of blood was visible, which showed that the weapon used must
have been as fine as a needle.

The surgeon whispered a word in the ear of the policeman, who instantly
whistled for assistance. Then, by Nick’s order, he placed young Reeves
under arrest, and took him to the station house.

The other officer who had responded to the whistle, tried to secure
witnesses. He could find nobody.

Nick, a thousand times more skillful, had been engaged in that search
for some minutes, but when the ambulance rolled away with the wounded
woman in it, he had not succeeded in finding a single person who could
throw any light upon the matter.

Apparently nobody but Reeves had seen the woman pass along the street,
or had noticed the man who overtook her.

To be sure, there was the drunken man, of whom Reeves had spoken, but,
accepting Reeves’ story as true, the supposed drunkard was doubtless a
pal of the murderer, and was there to distract the attention of any
person who might be likely to interfere.

The blinder the case the more anxious Nick was to follow it up. He saw
in it one of the most fascinating murder mysteries which he had ever
encountered.

It was probable that at the hospital something would be learned which
would be of value, but Nick could not wait for it. There is nothing like
following a trail when it is warm, and so Nick stuck to the ground.

After about an hour’s hard work, his efforts were rewarded. By this time
the rumor that the case was a murder had begun to spread in the
precinct.

The local detectives were out on it, and they dropped a word here and
there which was taken up and borne along.

In the course of Nick’s search he worked along the cross-town street
toward Ninth Avenue, finding out what every person knew.

At last, just in the doorway of one of the large apartment houses he
found a man and woman talking about the case. Both of them were known to
the police.

The man was a hardened young rascal, not long out of the penitentiary.
The woman was known as “Crazy Mag,” though she was not really insane.

She was somewhat intoxicated, and was talking loudly. Nick entered the
hall and pretended to be looking for a name on the bell rack.

“Shut up, Mag,” he heard the young tough whisper. “You’ll get yourself
into trouble.”

“What’s the matter with you?” she exclaimed, roughly. “I saw the woman
come out of No. 349. Why shouldn’t I say so?”

“I’ll tell you why,” said her companion. “Because that woman was put out
of the way by Doc Helstone’s gang, and if you talk too much you’ll
follow her.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if you were right,” said Nick to himself. “At
any rate, this clew settles one thing--I take the contract to trap Doc
Helstone’s gang.”




CHAPTER II.

A NOVEL TIMEKEEPER.


It was about four o’clock in the morning when Nick and the New York
chief of police sat down together in the latter’s house to discuss the
events of the night. What had happened in the meantime the reader will
hear in Nick’s own words.

He had rapidly described the events with which the reader is familiar
and had come to the scene in the hall.

“I went directly to No. 349,” Nick proceeded, “and there I found
evidence which convinced me that Helstone’s gang had made the house its
headquarters.

“I got no information from the people in the house. They only knew that
a ‘club’ of some kind had hired one of the upper apartments.

“Of course it was empty. The gang had taken the alarm. But I saw the
work of Helstone’s carpenter.

“You remember that when the central office men arrived just too late at
Helstone’s place on East Tenth Street, they found the rooms full of
concealed panels and secret cupboards--the cleverest things of the kind
that had ever been seen in New York.

“Well, there was the same work over here, but the rooms were entirely
deserted. The gang had got away. The last man hadn’t been gone an hour.”

“Can that be proved?”

“I could swear to it,” said Nick, smiling. “There is running water in
one of the rooms. Under the faucet was a pewter drinking cup.

“The faucet leaked. The cup was very nearly full.

“The dropping water filled this little bottle in one minute and ten
seconds. The bottle holds the hundredth part of a pint. The cup holds
half a pint. Therefore, the leaking water would fill it in fifty-eight
seconds. So somebody set that cup under the faucet less than an hour
before I arrived.”

“Upon my word, Nick,” said the chief, “you can make a clock out of
anything.”

“Dropping water is a first-rate timepiece,” Nick replied. “That’s why I
had this bottle made.”

“Except the joiner work, was there anything in the rooms to show that
Helstone had occupied them?”

“No, but it’s pretty well known in the district now. That’s the peculiar
thing about Helstone. He always knows just when to flit.

“Before he goes, nobody knows anything about him. Ten minutes later,
everybody knows.”

“But nobody has ever seen Helstone himself.”

“No; the inspector has got descriptions of some of his men, but there is
no description of Helstone. He’s really only a rumor, a mysterious
influence guiding the movements of those ruffians.”

“Well,” said the chief, after a pause, “what did you do next?”

“I went to the hospital.”

“Is the woman dead?”

“She lies unconscious, but will probably recover. Her clothing bears no
marks by which she can be identified. She may prove to be a mystery.”

“How was she dressed?”

“A rather ordinary gray dress, with a simple hat to match. Her
underclothing was unusually fine.”

“In the nature of a disguise,” said the superintendent. “A rich woman
who wished to seem poor.”

“Perhaps; but here’s the great point which makes the case extraordinary
and seems to connect the woman with Helstone.

“In a pocket of her dress were five loose diamonds. Four of them were
ordinary stones worth about four hundred dollars apiece.

“The fifth was a splendid gem of the first water. It is worth over five
thousand dollars.”

“Looks as if she was a member of the gang, and was trying to get away
with some of the plunder.”

“It certainly has that appearance.”

“What did you do with the jewels?” asked the chief, after a pause.

“I sent them to headquarters, and furnished a description of them to the
papers. Probably the last editions of some of them will have the
description.”

The chief nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “we want the stones identified as soon as possible.”

“And also the woman,” Nick added.

“What is her description?”

“Age thirty, medium height, weighs about one hundred and thirty pounds,
hazel eyes, very abundant hair, of a peculiar bronze hue; regular
features, and, in general, unusual personal beauty. There are no
distinguishing marks.”

“Looks like a refined woman?”

“Decidedly.”

“Where is the wound?”

“In the back. The dagger did not touch the heart, but it grazed the
spine, and there are signs that paralysis will follow, ending, of
course, in death.”

“You’ve decided to take charge of the case, Nick?”

“I have.”

“Good. You have informed Inspector McLaughlin?”

“Certainly.”

“There’s nothing that I can do.”

“I think not, thank you.”

“Then I’ll get back to bed. Good luck to you, Nick. Helstone is game
worthy of your skill, but you’ll bag him.”

At nine o’clock on that morning Nick was in Inspector McLaughlin’s
office.

He held in his hand the five diamonds which had been taken from the
wounded woman’s pocket.

“These four stones,” said the inspector, “will be hard to identify. The
big one should find its rightful owner easily.”

He had no sooner spoken the words than Nathan Lusker was announced. He
came to see whether the diamonds were a part of his stolen stock.

Lusker failed to identify them. His description did not fit the large
jewel at all. This stone was cut in a peculiar manner, so that its owner
should be able to describe it in a way to settle all doubt.

When Lusker had departed, an East Side jeweler called. He had no better
fortune. The stones were evidently not his.

Then a card was brought in by an officer.

“Morton H. Parks,” the inspector read. “He’s not a jeweler. Bring him
in.”

Mr. Parks entered immediately. He was a fine-looking man of middle age,
with the face of a scholar.

He wore neither beard nor mustache.

“I called to examine some jewels,” he said. “They were, I understand,
found last night in the possession of an unfortunate woman--a thief--who
was stabbed by some of her accomplices.”

“Well, as to that I wouldn’t speak positively,” said the inspector, “but
we have five diamonds here, and I don’t doubt that they were stolen.”

“I have reason to think,” replied Mr. Parks, “that the larger of them
was stolen from my residence.”

He proceeded at once to describe the stone, and he had not spoken a
dozen words before the inspector was convinced that the owner of the
diamonds had appeared.

One of the smaller stones he also described very closely, and he
expressed the opinion that all of them were his.

“They were stolen on the night of August 3d,” said he. “A burglar took
the entire contents of my wife’s jewel casket.”

“What else did he take?” asked Nick.

Mr. Parks seemed to be much embarrassed.

“Nothing else,” he replied, at last, “except some money which was in my
pocketbook.”

“What was your total loss?”

“In excess of thirty thousand dollars.”

“Why did you not report your loss to the police?”

The visitor tried to speak, but his voice stuck in his throat. He seemed
to be suffering great mental distress.

“Was it because you suspected some member of your family?”

Mr. Parks bowed his head in assent. Then, with an effort, he recovered
his self-command.

“I am ashamed to confess,” he said, “that I did at first suspect my
nephew, who lived with us. It is dreadful to think of it, but
circumstances pointed to him. I am rejoiced to find that I was wholly
wrong, and that the robbery was done by an organized gang of burglars.”

“Your identification of the large diamond,” said the inspector,
“satisfies me that you are the owner. Yet, on account of its value in
money, and its value to us as a clew, I wish to be doubly certain. Is
there any way you can strengthen the identification?”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Parks, “my wife knows the stones as well as I.
You see, the large diamond was the pendant of a necklace. The smaller
ones, I believe, were in rings belonging to her, though, of course, I
cannot be sure now that the settings have been removed.”

“Is Mrs. Parks at home?”

“No; she is in Stamford, Connecticut. She went there yesterday morning
upon a visit. I have telegraphed her to return.”

“Have you received any answer?” asked Nick.

“I did not expect any. She would certainly come.”

At this moment there was a knock at the door.

A telegram was brought in. It was addressed to Mr. Parks, and had
reached his house after he left.

The butler, knowing where he had gone, had sent it after him.

He tore it open.

“From Stamford,” he said, and then his face grew white.

“Merciful Heaven!” he cried. “Gentlemen, my wife has not been to
Stamford.”

“Have you her picture?” asked Nick.

For answer Parks drew out his watch and opened the back of the case with
a trembling hand. He then held the picture it contained before Nick’s
eyes.

“Mr. Parks,” said Nick, “tell me the truth. Was it your nephew whom you
suspected of that robbery or----”

“My wife? Yes; may Heaven pity and forgive her! It was my wife.”

“Will you go to her?”

“Can it be true?”

“She lies in Bellevue Hospital, at the point of death.”




CHAPTER III.

THE ONLY WITNESS.


Mr. Parks seemed to be greatly agitated by this intelligence, and it was
some time before he regained his self-command. Then Nick asked him how
it happened he had had no suspicions on reading the description of the
wounded woman in the morning papers.

“Read that,” he said, thrusting a paper into Nick’s hands. “Does that
describe her?”

“It is all wrong,” said Nick.

“And that picture?”

“It is a pure fake. There has been no opportunity of getting a picture
of her.”

“The description and the picture caught my eye before I read about the
diamonds. Therefore I never thought of my previous suspicions of my
wife, except to be thankful that they had been proved groundless.”

“Why did you suspect her at first?”

“In one word, because it seemed utterly impossible that anybody else
should have done it. The theory of burglars would not hold water. One of
my servants had been ill, and had been about the house with a light
almost all night, and had seen nothing of robbers.”

“Did you tell the servants of your loss?”

“No; I questioned them without letting them know anything unusual had
happened.”

“They have been the guilty ones.”

Parks shook his head.

“I watched them all. They were honest. Then I learned that my wife
speculated in stocks. There are more women stock gamblers in New York
than most people could be made to believe.

“She had wasted her private fortune, and had got all the money she could
from me. Heaven knows that I did not begrudge it. I only asked for her
confidence, but she would not give it to me.”

“How about the nephew?”

“Out of the question entirely. He was not in the house. He was in a
sleeping car bound for Boston. I only mentioned him to you because I
could think of no other way to avoid mentioning my wife.

“And now, gentlemen, do not detain me longer. I have recovered from the
first shock of this dreadful news. I must go to her. Guilty or innocent,
she is my wife, and I will protect and help her so long as she has need
of me.”

All three went at once to Bellevue Hospital.

When they stood beside the motionless and deathlike figure, the grief of
the husband was pitiful to see.

He knelt by the bed, and taking his wife’s hand gently in his, he kissed
it.

The patient occupied a cot in the accident ward. Several other injured
persons were there.

Parks turned to ask Nick whether his wife could be removed from the
hospital, but Nick had vanished.

Inspector McLaughlin could not tell where he had gone.

“He seems to be directing everything,” said Parks, “and I wished to ask
whether I might take my wife to my house.”

“The surgeon can answer you,” said the inspector, pointing to a
white-bearded and venerable man, who at that moment approached the cot.

“Then the police will offer no objection?” said Parks.

“Certainly not.”

Parks at once turned to the surgeon and besought permission to take his
wife home at once.

“It is impossible,” said the surgeon.

“Why?”

“Because the patient could not endure the removal.”

“Is there any hope?”

“There is a faint hope.”

“Thank God for that.”

“In a few moments we shall make another examination of the wound. An
operation may be necessary to remove a splinter of bone. After that she
must be kept perfectly quiet.”

“Will you not allow me to see her?”

“We cannot prevent you, but it would endanger her life.”

Parks bowed his head.

“At least I can secure her a separate room,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And I can send a nurse to assist the regular hospital attendants.”

“You may.”

“You will send for me if she becomes conscious?”

“Yes; and now I must ask you to withdraw. I think it much better that
you should do so.”

Without making any protest against this decree, Parks again knelt beside
his wife and kissed her. Then he slowly walked out of the ward.

The surgeon beckoned to a nurse. Then he and Inspector McLaughlin went
into a small adjoining room.

“Why did you do that, Nick?” asked the inspector, when they were alone.

Nick was removing the disguise in which he had appeared as the surgeon.

“For two reasons,” he replied. “The first is that Mrs. Parks really
ought not to be removed. But if Parks had been told so less firmly he
might have insisted.

“My second reason for keeping her here is that while she will almost
certainly die, she will, perhaps, have a few minutes of consciousness.
We must know what she says.”

“That is true.”

“And Parks would naturally conceal it.”

“He would, since it would be a confession tending to degrade her.”

Nick said nothing.

“You can’t blame him for wanting to keep this affair quiet,” continued
the inspector.

“It is only natural; but we must hear what she has to say if ever able
to speak rationally. We must do it in common justice.”

“Justice to her?”

“No; to the young man whom we hold under arrest.”

“Reeves?”

“The same.”

“He ought easily to be able to clear himself, if he is innocent.”

“On the contrary, he will find it very hard.”

“Well, you know best, Nick. Of course I have not had a chance to study
the case you have. What will be the difficulty?”

“Lack of witnesses.”

“That seems incredible.”

“It is true. By chance that scene upon the street seems to have been
wholly unobserved.

“Reeves is found with this wounded woman in his arms. We have only his
word to explain how he came by her. A coroner’s jury would certainly
hold him.”

“What do you think?”

“It is possible that he is in the plot. He may have expected to escape.
In fact, he came near succeeding.”

“You saw the other man--the fellow with the brown beard.”

“I had a glimpse of him, but I know nothing that connects him with the
crime.”

“You’re right, Nick. Reeves is in a tighter place than I had supposed.”

“But one word from this woman can certainly save him. I propose that we
shall hear that word.”

“Well, Nick, take your own course. What I want is to see this crime
fastened upon Helstone, and then to see you run that villain to earth.”

“As to the connection of this crime with that gang---- Ah, here is
Chick.”

The door opened at that moment and Nick’s famous assistant entered. Even
the inspector, who had seen him in many disguises, would not have known
him but for Nick’s words.

“Well, Chick,” said his chief.

“Crazy Mag is our only direct witness, so far,” said Chick. “She is the
only person who can testify that the woman came out of that house.”

“Did anybody see her go in?”

“No; that was where I had trouble. It seemed impossible that she should
have got in without being seen.

“I found a lot of people who ought to have seen her, but not one of them
remembered her. At last, however, I struck the clew.

“Helstone’s gang had a secret entrance. They had rooms also in a rear
building. To get into that house they passed through an alley from the
street above.

“No. 349 and this rear building are connected by an iron bridge intended
as a fire escape for the latter.

“Their use of this bridge had begun to be noticed, and this was probably
one of the reasons why they had to skip.

“At any rate, I’m convinced that the woman entered that way. She could
have done it all right, whereas the other entrance was under somebody’s
observation almost all the evening.”

“Do you feel sure that she went to the rooms of the Helstone gang?”

“Yes. The house is tenanted by respectable people. They all say that
they did not see her, and I believe them.”

“Is there any trace of the man with the brown beard?”

“He has been seen in the neighborhood, but nobody remembers anything
about him. It is going to be nearly impossible to trace him.”

“I don’t mean to trace him,” said Nick.

“What!” exclaimed the inspector.

“That’s the state of the case,” Nick rejoined. “You won’t find me
camping on the trail of that fellow any more.”

“What will you do?”

“Look here, inspector, your men have been after Helstone for some time,
haven’t they?”

“Certainly.”

“And they haven’t caught him?”

“Equally true, I’m sorry to say.”

“Well, then, I think it is time to quit going after him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going ahead of him.”

“You are.”

“Yes; no detective can go to him, it’s time to make him come to the
detective.”

“How’ll you do that?”

“I’ll set a trap.”

“A trap?”

“Yes, a mouse trap.”

“For Doc Helstone?”

“For his whole gang.”




CHAPTER IV.

THE DISPLACED BANDAGE.


Nick and Chick left the hospital together, but they soon separated.
Chick resumed his search for clews in the neighborhood of the Helstone
gang’s last haunt, and Nick, presumably, went to prepare his mouse
trap.

Not long after they left the hospital Dr. Reginald Morris, the
well-known expert in the surgery of wounds, called to offer his services
in the Parks case. He had been engaged by Mr. Parks.

About three o’clock in the afternoon a pale, dark-haired woman of middle
age arrived and announced herself as the trained nurse engaged by Mr.
Parks.

She presented his card, on which was written the request that she be
allowed to attend the wounded woman.

She was permitted to do so, and showed at once to the surgeon’s
experienced eye that she understood most thoroughly the care of the
sick.

An operation, to clear the wound, had just been performed, and the
bandages had just been replaced. Surgery could do no more. The work of
the trained nurse began.

For about an hour she remained almost motionless by the bedside of the
patient. During this interval one of the hospital nurses entered the
room several times.

There was no change in the condition of the patient. But a change was to
come.

The regular attendant had gone out after her fourth visit. The nurse
suddenly rose and listened at the door. All was quiet.

She approached the patient stealthily, then paused and listened again.
Not a sound broke the solemn quiet of this abode of the suffering.

The nurse drew back the bedclothing and looked intently at the bandage.
Then she stretched out her hand, made a rapid motion and replaced the
clothing.

Seating herself again beside the bed, the nurse waited quietly.
Presently there was a change in the appearance of the white face on the
pillow.

A flush tinged the cheeks and crept up toward the brow.

The patient, who had hitherto lain quiet as a statue, began to move
restlessly and murmured in her swoon.

“Fever,” muttered the nurse. “Will she speak?”

Rising gently, the nurse laid her ear closely to the lips of the moaning
woman. She could hear no articulate words.

The delirium increased. Now the words began to come, but they were wild
and wandering.

“Will she answer me?” whispered the nurse. “Not yet.”

She waited some minutes longer. Then again she bent over the sufferer.

“Who did this? who did this?” the nurse repeated over and over.

“Helstone, Helstone,” murmured the patient.

“Tell me, quick. What is his real name, his real name?”

There was no answer. With a gesture of impatience, the nurse turned away
for an instant from the patient whom she was so barbarously torturing.

Then she screamed. It was not a loud cry, but a scream stifled by
suddenly closed lips.

She had turned to meet the gaze of sharp eyes which, for some minutes,
had rested upon her, though she was far from suspecting that she was
observed.

Nick Carter had crept quietly into the room.

As the faithless nurse fell back before him, he quickly lifted the
patient and gently replaced the bandages. Then, by the touch of a bell,
he summoned a surgeon.

“The patient seems worse,” said Nick. “I discovered that her bandage had
become displaced.”

“Didn’t you notice it?” asked the surgeon, sharply, of the nurse.

“No, I didn’t,” replied the woman.

She had recovered a part of her self-command upon finding that Nick did
not intend to expose her immediately.

“I can’t trust her with you again,” said the surgeon.

He summoned a nurse from the adjacent ward.

As he passed Nick he whispered:

“Is there anything wrong here?”

“I’m afraid that there is,” Nick replied.

The detective turned to the unfaithful nurse.

“Come with me,” he said.

She obeyed him without a word.

He led her to the private room of one of the surgeons which had been
placed at his disposal.

“Now, murderess,” said he, sternly, “tell me who sent you to do this
work?”

“What work?”

“Don’t trifle with me. There is a noose around your neck.”

“No, there isn’t,” said the woman, coolly. “I was employed to come here
and attend that patient. I did it as well as I knew how.”

Nick could not deny to himself the force of her words. He had not seen
her remove the bandage. He could not swear that she had done so. It
might have been done by the sick woman herself.

A nurse cannot be prosecuted for an error of judgment unless it amounts
to criminal carelessness.

It might be doubtful whether in this case Nick could prove to the
satisfaction of a jury that this woman intended to kill the patient left
in her charge.

He was far too skillful, however, to show the weakness of his position.

“Somebody stabbed that woman. That same person hired you to come here.

“When I lay my hand upon the man who struck the blow, I will prove you
to be his accomplice, for I will show that he hired you to come here.”

The woman grew a shade paler, but she answered firmly:

“I was engaged by Mr. Parks himself. He came to my apartment about two
o’clock this afternoon. I brought his card with a note written upon it
to the hospital.”

“Did you have any acquaintance with him?”

“No.”

“Why did he come to you?”

“He was advised to come.”

“By whom?”

“Several physicians, he said.”

“Their names?”

“I have forgotten.”

“Did he not say that he knew you for a woman who would do what was
required of you, and make no fuss about it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Were you not recommended to him by crooks, as a murderess?”

“You insult me.”

The woman said this in a firm voice, but not with the air of innocence.

Nick, of course, had no doubt of her guilt. In these questions he was
simply trying to test the strength of her position.

“What did he agree to pay you?”

“The usual fee.”

“How much money have you at the present moment in your possession?”

This question staggered her. Nick saw at once by her manner that the
enormous fee she had exacted for this murderous work was then in her
pocket or concealed somewhere about her clothing.

She hesitated to reply.

“Don’t go to the trouble of lying,” said Nick. “I shall have you
searched anyway.

“Now, madam, let me lay the case before you. You believe that that woman
was stabbed by the notorious criminal, Doc Helstone, or by his order.

“You think that she possesses the secrets of Helstone’s real identity.
You tried to extort his real name from her, in her delirium and agony,
fiend that you are!

“You believe that the person who hired you was Doc Helstone himself, and
you wish to get a new hold upon him, or rather to be able to find him
when you wish to. That’s your case in a nutshell.”

Hardened as this creature was, she shook with fear while the secrets of
her heart were being read by Nick’s unerring eye.

What reply she would have made cannot be told, but her demeanor was
enough for Nick. He saw that he had penetrated the secret.

But what was the effect of it upon the case?

As he revolved this question in his mind, and the wretched woman strove
to frame some suitable reply to his accusation, there was a knock at the
door.

Morton Parks entered, and with him was a woman who seemed to be a nurse.

When the eyes of the murderous creature, with whom Nick had been
talking, fell upon Parks, they were barren of recognition.

Nick saw at once that she did not know him.

“What do I hear?” cried Parks. “An impostor has appeared claiming to be
the nurse sent by me to my wife!”

“It is true,” said Nick.

The murderess scowled at these words. She pointed to Parks.

“Who is he?” she asked. “Is he the real Parks?”

“He is,” said Nick.

“Then I have been imposed upon,” said the woman, sullenly.

It required some minutes for Nick to explain the case fully to Parks.
Then he asked to see the card bearing his name and the note.

Nick showed it.

“This is really one of my cards,” said Parks, “but the writing bears no
resemblance to mine.”

He sat down by the table and rapidly wrote the words of the message upon
a card which he took from his pocket.

There was no similarity between the two hands.

“Here is the nurse whom I really engaged,” said Parks, indicating the
woman who had accompanied him. “She is well known in the hospital. As
for you, murderess----”

His emotion, which he had hitherto repressed, broke out in violent
reproaches as he turned upon the creature who had so nearly crushed out
his wife’s last chance of life.

She bore the storm firmly and repeated her story that she had come in
good faith, and had done the best she could.

Nick, however, put her under arrest, and took her to police
headquarters.

There, under his rigid cross-examination, her pretenses melted away. She
practically admitted what was charged against her.

Most important of all was the description which she gave of the man who
had hired her.

It tallied exactly with the appearance of the man whom Nick had seen
walking away from the spot where the crime had been committed.




CHAPTER V.

BENTON, THE ENGLISHMAN.


After Nick’s cross-examination of the nurse he had an interview with
Inspector McLaughlin.

He was still conversing with the inspector when Chick appeared.

“Benton is your man,” said Chick.

“Not Ellis Benton?” asked the inspector, quickly.

“That’s he.”

“Has that crook set up in business again?”

“No doubt of it. I have been in his place this afternoon,” said Chick.

Perhaps the reader does not know Ellis Benton so well as the three
persons who were present on the occasion described.

Therefore, it may be necessary to explain that Benton is an Englishman,
about fifty years old, who has been notorious at various times, as a
receiver of stolen goods.

He is undoubtedly one of the sharpest rascals in his line of business,
and has made a great deal of money dishonestly. It does not do him much
good, however, for he plays faro and never wins.

His enormous losses at the game make him all the more daring and
grasping. His success in disposing of stolen jewels is especially
remarkable.

“I’ve been in his place,” said Chick, “and I’ve learned that he has
important business for to-night.”

“How did you find that out?”

“I offered to bring him a lot of stuff at midnight. He wouldn’t hear of
it. His answers to my questions made me sure that he has something big
on hand.

“What do you suspect?” asked the inspector.

“I’ll tell you my opinion and my plan,” said Nick. “You know that
Helstone’s gang holds its plunder till it shifts its quarters. Then it
turns loose upon some ‘fence.’

“When the gang was driven out of East Tenth Street, you remember, its
plunder was turned over to old man Abrahams.”

“Yes,” said the inspector, “my men got a tremendous lot of it.”

“The stuff, you will remember,” said Nick, “was all turned in the night
before Abrahams’ place was raided.”

“True.”

“And Abrahams maintained that at least a dozen persons had brought it.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I conclude from that that Helstone’s gang does not intrust its
plunder to any one person. When it is to be disposed of the whole gang
is present.

“There’s no other way of understanding Abrahams’ story which was as near
the truth as anything he ever said. It was all right except his
descriptions of the men. They were drawn from his imagination.”

“Yes,” assented the inspector, “he was too shrewd to put his customers
in quod. He may need them when he gets out himself.”

“Just so,” said Nick, “and now for my plan. I believe that Helstone’s
gang is just on the point of disposing of its plunder.

“None of Lusker’s stuff has shown up anywhere yet, nor Alterberg’s
either. The gang still holds it.

“But now that attention is directed to them they’ll want to turn their
swag into cash. Greenbacks are the things to have if sudden flight is
necessary. Yes; some ‘fence’ is going to get Helstone’s stuff very soon.

“Now, in my opinion, Benton is the man they’ll go to. He is just the man
for them. I’ve had Chick look over the field, and he agrees with me that
there are ten chances to one that Benton will get their plunder.

“What I propose to do, therefore, is to capture Benton’s place on the
quiet. Not a whisper must be heard on the outside.

“When that is done I’ll wait in the old thief’s place. I’ll disguise
myself as Benton, and receive his customers.”

“Very pretty,” said the inspector. “You’ll bag a lot of game.”

“We ought to get a good part of the gang.”

“I think so, but you won’t get Helstone himself.”

“Why not?”

“He’s too shrewd to put his head into the trap.”

“I don’t agree with you.”

“Well, Nick, I have perfect confidence in your skill. Go ahead. I hope
Helstone will be among our mice, but I can’t think so.”

“Inspector,” said Nick, quietly, “when my trap is sprung, Doc Helstone’s
neck will be pinched harder than that of any other mouse in it.”

“Good. Do you want any men?”

“No; Chick and I will do the job.”

“Where is Benton located?”

“At No.--Sixth Avenue.”

“In the rear?”

“Yes.”

“I know the building. It runs back so far that it cuts into the
cross-town lots.”

“That’s it. There’s a little square yard just back of it. An alley runs
from the yard to the street below, and there are other near entrances.”

“With a sentry guarding each.”

“No doubt of it.”

“And you’ve got to get in without alarming any one of them.”

Nick nodded.

“Well, if it was anybody but you, Nick, I’d say it couldn’t be done. Of
course we have sprung traps of that kind, but not when men like Benton
were inside. Take care of yourselves, and if there’s any cutting or
shooting, let the other fellows get it. The community can spare Benton
or any of his crew better than it can spare you two.”

With this piece of good advice, the inspector wished Nick and Chick
success, and they left the office.

They walked along in the direction of the Bowery. Suddenly Chick said:

“We are followed.”

He spoke without moving his lips and his voice was like a
ventriloquist’s. The whisper seemed to be at Nick’s ear, perfectly
distinct. And yet a person on the other side of Chick could not have
heard it.

“So I perceive,” responded Nick, in the same tone.

Neither gave the faintest sign of having discovered the pursuer.

He was an ordinary-looking young man whom neither of the detectives
remembered.

“He does it pretty well,” said Chick, after an instant’s pause.

“Which of us is he after?” said Nick.

“We must find out.”

They paused on the corner of Houston Street and the Bowery and exchanged
a few words.

Then Chick went up the stairs to the elevated station, and Nick walked
along the Bowery, northward.

The shadow followed Nick.

The detective was dressed on this occasion in a dark blue sack suit. He
wore a soft hat, and carried over his arm a light-brown fall overcoat.

Keeping fifty feet or more behind Nick, the shadow walked up the Bowery.
Suddenly Nick turned sharply to the left and entered the swinging door
of a saloon.

As it closed behind him, and before he passed the main door, he passed
his hand over his soft hat, and it took a wholly different shape.

Then he turned the overcoat wrong side out, and slipped it on. Instead
of a handsome brown overcoat on his arm he now had a shabby black one on
his back.

This was done in less time than it takes to read about it, and without
attracting the notice of the bartender or the two or three people in the
saloon.

At the same time Nick’s shoulders seemed to grow narrower by about six
inches. His figure changed utterly, lost its erectness, and its athletic
appearance.

And his face---- Well, Nick Carter can do anything with his face.

When the shadow entered the saloon Nick was partaking of the free lunch.
He seemed to stand in great need of it.

The shadow looked at each of the people in the saloon, and then hurried
out by a side door.

The positions were now reversed. Nick followed the shadow.

On the street, the trailer tried desperately hard to get upon the scent
again. Nick lounged on a corner and watched him.

The detective knew that for a little time the shadow would stick to the
place where he had lost the trail.

When at last the hopelessness of it dawned upon the young man, he struck
off at a rapid pace up the Bowery.

Nick kept him in sight. Thus the chase continued up to Eighth Street.

Here the shadow--now shadowed in his turn--walked up to a carriage that
was standing beside the curb, and spoke a few words to somebody within.

Then the shadow passed along, and Nick followed for a little distance.
As soon, however, as he could shield himself from the observation of the
driver on that carriage, he dodged into a dark corner and came out
transformed.

Nick wore now the semblance of the young man who had attempted to follow
him. The likeness might not have deceived the young man’s mother, but in
the evening and upon the street it seemed good enough to answer Nick’s
purpose.

Thus disguised, Nick returned hurriedly to the carriage. He was
determined to get a sight of the person within.

The coachman made no sign of suspecting anything was wrong. He sat like
a statue on the box.

There was a deep shadow on the side of the carriage which Nick
approached, for an electric lamp was on the opposite side of the street
near the corner.

Nick went straight to the door and looked into the carriage. It was
empty.

He put his head in to make sure.

As he withdrew it again, the driver, with a sudden movement, leaned over
from the box and struck Nick a tremendous blow on top of the head with a
blackjack.

The detective fell like a log, and the coachman, whipping up his horses,
drove away rapidly.




CHAPTER VI.

A POINT GAINED.


The man who first came to Nick’s assistance was Chick.

It may as well be said at once that Nick was not badly hurt. His hat was
not exactly what it seemed to be.

One would have taken it to be soft felt. In reality, it was a better
helmet than those which the knights of the Middle Ages wore.

He had fallen under the blow because he believed that course to be the
best policy.

Somebody had planned to kill or at least disable him, and he thought it
wise to let that person suppose that he had succeeded.

Chick carried him to a drug store with the aid of a policeman.

An ambulance was summoned; Nick was put into it.

But when the ambulance reached the hospital there was nobody inside it
except the surgeon, who winked to the driver and went to his room.

Nick and Chick presently met again.

“Did you see the person who got out of that carriage?” asked Nick.

“I caught a glimpse of him,” Chick replied. “He was a tall man with a
light-brown beard. I have no doubt he is the same man whom you saw last
night.”

“Then we’ve gained a point. We have worked down to the man who is
directing all these operations. Three times he has appeared. This
settles it.”

“In other words,” said Chick, “we have seen Doc Helstone.”

“Exactly.”

“He is a slippery rascal.”

“What became of him?”

“He executed one of the finest disappearances that I ever saw. It was
just at the moment when the coachman’s club was over your head. I had to
keep the coachman covered, and when I took my eyes off him, the other
man had vanished.”

“It’s of no consequence,” said Nick. “At present we want him to be at
large. We want to take his gang with him in order to secure the evidence
we need.”

They walked a short distance in silence. Then Nick said:

“I must go home to receive Ida’s report. At eleven o’clock I will meet
you at Twenty-eighth Street and Sixth Avenue. Then we will descend upon
the ‘fence.’”

Nick heard the report of his clever young assistant, Ida Jones, and then
proceeded at once to his rendezvous with Chick.

It was eleven o’clock exactly when they met. They had assumed the
characters of well-known thieves.

Chick was the exact image of “Kid” Leary. Nick was Al Hardy, the
notorious second-story thief.

“Pat Powers wanted to take me in,” said Chick, indicating a policeman
who stood on the opposite corner. “He says that if I tell any of the
boys at the station about it he’ll commit suicide.”

“He doesn’t need to be ashamed of it,” said Nick, surveying the perfect
make-up of his friend.

They walked over Twenty-eighth Street to Seventh Avenue, and then
downtown until they were nearly opposite the “fence” on Sixth Avenue.

Then Nick took one of the cross streets and Chick the other. Nick was to
enter by the alley, and Chick from the front.

At the mouth of the alley Nick encountered a negro whose face was as
black as the darkness behind him.

“Heah, you! Whar you goin’?” cried the negro, as Nick tried to pass him.

“Shut up, Pete,” said Nick, in a voice exactly like Hardy’s. “Don’t you
know me?”

“That you, Al Hardy? When did you get out?”

“I haven’t been in, you black rascal.”

“Yer oughter be.”

“Look here, Pete, I can’t stand here chinning with you all night. I want
to see old man Benton.”

“Yer can’t see him.”

“Why not?”

“He’s got pertic’lar business to transact.”

“Come off, you coon.”

“Well, to tell ye the troof, Mr. Hardy, Mr. Benton ain’t in this
evenin’.”

“You can’t give me any such steer as that. I know that he’s in.”

“Go ahead then, if ye know so much,” said the negro. “Ye’ll find I’ve
been givin’ it to yer straight. Everything is locked up.”

Nick had known that he could get by the sentinel. Benton could not keep
people away by force.

That would make too much noise and attract too much attention.

But Nick knew equally well that it would do him no good to get by unless
he was welcome. The negro unquestionably had some means of signaling to
Benton.

He was, of course, instructed to pass only those who had the countersign
or whose names had been given in advance.

For these Pete was to make a favorable signal, and they would get in all
right.

In the case of others he would signal unfavorably and they would find
“everything locked up.”

Understanding this perfectly well, Nick kept a watchful eye on the negro
while passing him. He saw Pete back against the wall of the alley.

Certainly there was some signaling apparatus there--probably an electric
bell.

In an instant Nick had the burly negro by the throat.

“Signal right,” he said, in a voice which showed that he meant it.
“Signal right or this goes through your heart.”

Pete could feel a sharp point pressed against his breast. It pricked
him, and a few drops of blood began to flow.

He dared not struggle. He was in mortal terror. The grip on his throat
was choking him, and the knife was at his heart.

“Fo’ de lub er Heaven, Mr. Hardy,” he gasped, as the pressure on his
windpipe relaxed, “don’t cut me an’ I’ll do what you say.”

“Wait a minute, Pete. Hear what I’ve got to say, before you do
anything.”

Nick’s hand left Pete’s throat; the dagger point was withdrawn, but
before the trembling negro could take advantage of his improved
condition, he found himself worse off than before.

He was handcuffed, and a pistol was thrust into his face.

“Now, Pete, look here. There’s a bell behind you.

“Yes; I thought so. Here it is in the space where this brick has been
removed.

“If you ring that bell the right way I shall be admitted when I knock at
Benton’s door. If you don’t I shall have to break it down.

“I prefer to get in quietly. I’m going to gag you and take you up to the
head of the alley. If the door is open, I shall go in. If it isn’t I’ll
come back and blow your head off.”

“Who are you?” gasped Pete, for Nick at the last had spoken in his usual
voice.

“Don’t bother about that. Ring the bell.”

Nick brought Pete’s fingers in contact with the button, and the signal
was made.

“Four times is all right. Very well. Now come with me.”

Seizing the negro by the shoulder, he ran him out into the deserted
street, and about a third of the way to Seventh Avenue.

Then he whistled in a peculiar manner. A form appeared out of the
darkness.

“Patsy,” said Nick, “bring up the carriage.”

It was brought. Peter, gagged as well as bound, was bundled into it.

“Take him home,” said Nick to the driver. “Now, Patsy, follow me.”

He darted off in the direction of the alley.

“Stand here, as if on guard,” he whispered to Patsy. “When anybody who
may by any possibility be one of Helstone’s gang comes along, press this
bell four times. Don’t shut anybody out unless you’re perfectly sure we
don’t want him.”

Having spoken these words, Nick ran up the alley. He feared that Benton,
having heard the favorable signal, would be impatient for his customer.

In the little yard behind the house in which was the “fence,” there was
no light whatever.

Nick found two or three steps leading up to a door which, by daylight,
seemed to be frail, but was in reality strengthened by iron bands.

On this door he knocked cautiously four times. It was opened, disclosing
a perfectly dark hall.

Nick entered. He could not see the person who admitted him, but he
supposed that it must be Benton.

When the door had been closed a light was suddenly flashed in his face.

Then a voice said:

“Al Hardy! When did they let you in?”

“Never mind, old man Benton, I’m in the ranks now,” said Nick.

“Well, it’s none of my business. Come this way.”

Nick might have seized the rascal there, and he meditated doing it. But
he desired to see all the formalities of the place.

He wished to know how the thieves were received, because it would soon
be his turn to receive them.

Moreover, the hall was so dark that he might easily make a mistake in
his calculations. If he fell upon Benton and failed to shut off his wind
instantly, the outcry would ruin his plans.

Then, too, for all he knew there might be somebody else in the hall. He
could see nothing. Half a dozen men might have been standing there
without his knowing it.

The flash of light had come so suddenly and been so speedily withdrawn
that it had dazzled him without disclosing anything.

Nick decided to bide his time.

“Come this way,” said Benton, and he took Nick by the arm.

A door opened. Nick knew this by the current of air, though he could not
see the door, nor did he hear it move upon its hinges.

The hand upon his arm guided him into a perfectly dark room, where he
was presently told to sit down. He found a bench behind him, and he sat
upon it because there did not seem to be anything else to do.

Ten minutes passed and absolutely nothing happened.

Nick heard nothing of Benton. He could not be sure that the old man was
still in the room.

By close listening, however, Nick satisfied himself that he was not
alone.

There was a sound of suppressed breathing, the faint noise made by
persons who are trying to keep still.

Whether there were two or a dozen men in the room, Nick could not say.

Presently there was a ring at the bell. The faint sound made itself
audible, but it was impossible to say from what direction it came.

Nick would have guessed that the bell was under the floor.

It rang four times.

Then came a faint sound which Nick took to be the departure of Benton to
let in his visitor.

Presently there was another faint sound. The visitor had been admitted.

How long was this thing going to last?

Was Chick the last arrival?

       *       *       *       *       *

How could Benton be captured secretly in this dense darkness?

Would it be possible to make a light without stirring up such a tumult
as would alarm the whole city?

These were the questions which ran through Nick’s mind.




CHAPTER VII.

IN THE GLOOM.


All this darkness and mystery did not surprise Nick. He knew that Benton
was a great man for hocus-pocus.

He had signs and passwords, and surrounded himself with precautions
which looked childish.

There was a purpose in all this, however. By keeping a good many silly
mysteries in motion he managed very often to cover up the real mystery
and direct attention elsewhere.

Nick knew Benton for a desperate man at heart. Was he playing a deep
game here?

It was just like him to collect the whole Helstone gang in the dark for
no other purpose than to show them what a mysterious character he was.
By and by he might bring a lamp, and then the business would proceed in
the most ordinary way in the world.

But, on the other hand, he might have a deadly trap concealed in this
gloom.

Nick wondered whether it was possible that he had been recognized. If
so, he knew that Benton would never let him get out of the place alive,
unless he couldn’t help it.

Presently the bell rang again. This time, by listening with the deepest
attention, Nick made sure that Benton went to the rear door--the one by
which Nick himself had been admitted.

Then Nick was sure that something out of the common course had
happened. It would be hard to say just how he knew it. Only his great
experience enabled him to interpret the faint sounds which he heard.

The caller, whoever he was, was not ushered into the room in which Nick
sat. Of that Nick felt certain.

Benton, however, returned. By straining every nerve in the most rigid
attention, Nick ascertained that.

Afterward it seemed to him that Benton had touched some other person in
the room and was leading him out.

A second time this occurred, and then a third.

Nick began to be anxious. He made a sign which should have elicited a
response from Chick if he had been present, but only silence ensued.

For the fourth time Benton entered the room.

Nick could not see him, of course. The darkness was as profound as ever.
But by this time he had learned to recognize the old man’s stealthy
tread.

Then dead silence ensued.

Nick listened intently. He seemed to know by instinct that Benton was
listening also.

“Something has gone wrong, sure,” said Nick to himself. “I must act
quickly or all is lost.”

He stirred his foot upon the floor so as to make a faint noise.

Then, for a second, he listened.

Surely Benton was creeping up toward him.

And another sound now began to be audible. It was the faint noise of
impeded breathing.

Nick knew that sound. In the midst of that perfect darkness he
recognized the person who was breathing as plainly as if he had seen the
man by the light of day.

It was Pete, the negro.

Nick had known Pete for some years. The negro had a slight asthmatic
affection, which made his breathing just the least bit more difficult
than a healthy man’s.

He also had a peculiar habit of drawing in his breath with a faint
rattling sound once in about two minutes.

These noises Nick recognized, and he grasped the whole situation
instantly.

Pete had escaped. He had returned and had probably disabled Patsy.

Then he had informed Benton that Nick Carter had got inside the house
disguised as Al Hardy.

The wily old man, on receiving this information, had quietly removed the
other persons from the room in which Nick was, and had then come in with
the negro to take vengeance upon the detective.

There was no time for delay. The two murderers were creeping down upon
him.

Again Nick made a slight movement to attract their attention.

He set down his pocket lamp on the bench beside him.

This lamp was arranged to be used as a bull’s-eye or by removing the
coverings from the sides it could be made to throw its light about as an
ordinary lamp does.

Nick removed the side coverings. At that moment he could hear the two
assassins very close to him.

Suddenly he pressed the spring of the lamp, and leaped to one side as
agile as a cat.

The flame flashed up in the faces of his assailants.

It revealed the evil countenance of Benton, with his thin, cruel lips,
and habitual sneer. It shone upon the brutal face of the negro.

Each of them held a knife in his hand. They were bending forward, and
were just ready to strike.

The bright flame dazzled and confused them for an instant.

Then they turned toward the spot to which Nick had sprung.

The sight which met their gaze was not reassuring.

In each hand Nick held a revolver. There was death in the glance of his
eye.

Neither Benton nor the negro could summon up the courage to stir.

Every crook in New York--not to go further--knows Nick Carter’s
reputation as a pistol shot.

Probably there is not a criminal in the whole city who would dream of
making any resistance if he found himself covered by a revolver in
Nick’s hands.

It would be suicide and nothing else.

Ellis Benton ground his teeth, but he dared not move.

“Lay those knives down on the floor carefully,” said Nick. “Don’t make
any noise or I’ll make a louder one.”

The two villains obeyed, Benton with hatred and chagrin visible in every
movement, the negro with the alacrity of perfect submission.

Of Pete, at least, Nick felt sure. The man was an arrant coward, and
Nick’s only wonder was that he had been induced to assist in murder.

Doubtless he had intended to leave the real work to Benton.

“Now hold up your hands,” said Nick.

These directions he gave in a low voice, which could not be heard beyond
the limits of the apartment.

“Pete,” he continued, “face round.”

The negro obeyed, turning his back to Nick.

“Now walk straight to the wall and put your face against it. If you look
round, you’re a dead man.”

“I’ll do it,” whined the negro, whose terror was doubled when his back
was turned to the object of his alarm; “don’t you go for to shoot, an’ I
won’t make no trouble.”

“Benton, come here,” said Nick.

The old man advanced, grinding his teeth.

Meanwhile Nick put one of the revolvers into his pocket, and drew out a
pair of handcuffs.

As Benton held out his hands, Nick, for an instant, removed the pistol’s
muzzle from a direct line with the other’s head.

Benton’s eye was quick to see this. Instantly he leaped forward to seize
Nick’s hand, at the same time calling upon Pete to help him.

But the first word barely escaped his lips.

The hand in which Nick held the fetters leaped out and struck Benton on
the point of his jaw, and he fell like a rag baby.

Pete turned at the sound of his name, but his head spun round again
without any delay.

He saw Nick holding Benton’s unconscious form across his arm, as one
might hold an old coat.

And Nick’s free hand leveled the revolver straight at Pete’s head.

“I ain’t doin’ nothin’,” protested the negro. “Don’t trouble ’bout
pointin’ that gun at me.”

“You behave yourself and you’ll be all right,” said Nick. “Keep those
hands up.”

Assuring himself that Pete was thoroughly intimidated, Nick bent over
the form of the “receiver” and fettered him securely. He added a gag,
which would keep him quiet in case he should regain consciousness before
he could be put in a safe place.

It was Pete’s turn next, and he was bound in a way which made a second
escape impossible. He, too, was gagged.

“I believe, Mr. Benton,” said Nick, addressing the “fence,” who,
however, had not sufficiently recovered to hear him, “that there is a
cellar under this apartment.”

With little trouble Nick found a trapdoor which could be raised. He
lifted it and discovered a ladder leading down into the darkness.

He lowered Benton down into this place with a piece of rope, and then
steadied Pete so that the negro made the descent, although his hands
were tied behind him.

Nick followed with the light.

The cellar was a damp and unwholesome dungeon, but it extended a long
way in the direction of Sixth Avenue.

This was what Nick had hoped, for it gave him an opportunity to dispose
of his two captives at such distance from the rooms which Benton
occupied that their cries, muffled by the gags, could not be heard.

A partition divided the cellar, and there was a door in it. Nick made
his prisoners secure on the other side of this door, and then he
returned to the room in which he had captured them.

Here he speedily, but very carefully, disguised himself as Ellis Benton.

Then, extinguishing his light, he put it into his pocket, and made his
way along the hall toward the rear door.

He passed out into the little yard, and thence to the alley where he had
left Patsy.

The fate of his young assistant was a black problem in Nick’s mind. He
greatly feared that Patsy had been murdered.

Therefore his satisfaction was great when, in the mouth of the alley, he
found Patsy leaning against the wall.

Nick disclosed himself.

“They pretty nearly did me up, Nick,” said Patsy. “I guess they left me
for dead. But I’m worth half a dozen dead men.”

“How did it happen, my boy?”

“I don’t exactly know. The negro must have crept up along the wall. The
first thing I knew he was on top of me, and he got in a chance blow with
a sandbag.

“Why it didn’t kill me I can’t understand. It lit fair enough. Is the
game up, Nick?”

“I don’t think so. How do you feel?”

“Dizzy; but it will pass away.”

Nick examined Patsy carefully.

“You’ve had a narrow escape, my boy,” he said, “but you don’t seem to
be much hurt. Do you feel well enough to go on guard again?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I’ll let you do it, since the case is so desperate, but if your
head troubles you too much, just push the bell six times as a signal to
me and then drop into a carriage on the avenue and go to see Dr. Allen.”

“Don’t you worry about me, Nick,” replied the boy. “I’m only ashamed to
have him get the best of me.”

“That’s all right. I’ve got him safe.”




CHAPTER VIII.

A SEMICIRCLE OF CRIME.


Nick returned to the house. In the dark hall he paused.

Voices could be heard. Men were talking in subdued tones in a room on
his left.

The room where he had met with the adventures already narrated was on
his right.

A moment’s thought convinced Nick that the voices were those of the men
who had been in the room with him, and had been led out by Benton.

He resolved to join them. Therefore he threw open the door on his left
and entered a room.

It was not perfectly dark, as the other had been. A small bead of gas
flame struggled with the shadows.

In its light Nick saw three men, whom he instantly knew to be crooks.
One of them, Reddy Miller, had been suspected of belonging to Helstone’s
gang.

Nick, it will be remembered, was disguised as Ellis Benton.

“Come, Ellis,” said Miller, the instant Nick appeared, “we’ve had enough
fiddling round. Tell us what’s the object of all this mystery.”

These words delighted Nick’s heart. He saw the lay of the land at once.

Benton had evidently given no alarm to these fellows when Pete had
brought the news of Nick’s presence.

He had been confident that he could put the detective out of the way,
and he had reasoned that if he did it without letting the thieves know,
they would stay, and he could do a good stroke of business with them. On
the other hand, if he let them know that a detective had got in, they
would clear out at once.

If Benton had seen any signs of a police trap, he would not have tried
this game, but he was shrewd enough to infer from the circumstances that
Nick was not the forerunner of a squad of police.

All these thoughts passed through Nick’s brain in a flash as Reddy
Miller spoke.

Counterfeiting Benton’s voice and manner exactly, Nick replied:

“Mystery? Well, why not? This isn’t the sort of business to be
proclaimed from the housetops.”

“Rats!” replied Miller, in a tone of disgust; “you go through all these
monkey tricks because you’re a cussed old crank. Now come down to
business.”

“But we can’t come down to business yet,” said Nick. “Our friends are
not all here.”

“What I want to know,” said Miller, “is whether you’re ready to make the
big deal. Can you take all of the stuff off our hands?”

“Don’t be so fast, Reddy,” said one of the other crooks. “Wait till the
others get here. The Doc himself is coming.”

“Don’t you believe it,” said Miller. “The Doc is going to lay mighty low
for a while. Things are pretty warm for him.”

“Shut up, Reddy,” said the third crook, and they all relapsed into
silence.

The bell rang again. Nick had learned to distinguish the alley bell from
the other. This time he was summoned to the front of the house.

The person whom he ushered in was Chick.

“I’ve had a fearful time getting in,” said Chick. “Sixth Avenue seems to
be plastered with Benton’s lookouts.

“I tried to get by the sentry, but he wanted a password. I said
‘Helstone,’ at a venture, and it didn’t go.

“My game was to pretend that I was too drunk to remember the password.
Finally I went around to the alley where I met Patsy, who had learned
the password from a crook whom he had let in.

“Of course I might have gone in that way, but I thought it best to pass
the other sentry, convince him that I was all right, and thus quiet any
suspicion which I might have aroused.”

In reply Nick rapidly sketched his own adventures.

“I’ve got three of them in the room at the rear. I think we’d better
secure them now, and then take the others singly, as they drop in.”

Chick signified his readiness.

The two detectives went at once to the rear room, and before the three
crooks had time to suspect any danger, they found themselves covered by
revolvers in the hands of Nick and Chick.

They were secured without trouble.

It was now a little after midnight. For half an hour the members of Doc
Helstone’s gang arrived rapidly.

Each man was secured as he came in.

While Nick answered the bell, Chick stood guard over the captives,
revolver in hand.

A strange spectacle was presented in that room.

Eleven criminals, every one a specialist in some line of theft, sat in a
semicircle, facing a sort of desk which Benton ordinarily used when he
had business on hand.

Nick had found a lot of heavy wooden chairs in one of the rooms, and in
these the crooks sat, every one handcuffed and fastened to his chair.

The infernal regions could hardly furnish such a row of scowling faces.
The crooks saw themselves trapped, and their rage was boundless.

On the desk and around it was spread out the plunder which they had
brought. Its value went up well into the tens of thousands.

A richer haul had not been made in New York in many a day.

It had been arranged that Inspector McLaughlin should come at three
o’clock. He wished to see the mice in the trap.

Exactly at that hour he arrived. Chick met him on the outside.

The crooks had stopped coming by that time, and so Benton’s sentries
were gathered in and sent to the station.

Inspector McLaughlin smiled when he viewed the semicircle of fettered
crooks.

Several of them were men whom he had long desired to have in exactly
this position.

“Your mouse trap was a great success, Nick,” said he.

“It has caught a fair lot of vermin.”

“Shall we take them to headquarters?”

“Not yet, inspector. I wish them to remain here.”

The inspector drew Nick into a corner.

“Is Doc Helstone among them?” he asked. “There are two or three of these
fellows whom I don’t know. Is he one of them?”

“No; Helstone is not here, but he is coming.”

“Coming?”

“Yes; but before that I have something to do.”

“What?”

“I am going to call on Morton Parks.”

“Right; he should be here to look over this plunder. And more than that,
he has a right to see the capture of his wife’s murderer.”

“I am going to him,” said Nick.

A light was burning in the library of the residence on Madison Avenue
when Nick rang the door bell.

Parks himself came to the door. He had sent his servants to bed.

“Mr. Parks,” said Nick, “I have something of great importance to say to
you--so great that I would have roused you at this hour, but I see that
you have not retired.”

“No; I am in no mood to sleep.”

These words were spoken while Parks led the way to the library.

“In the first place,” Nick said, when they were seated in that
apartment, “let me ask what you have heard regarding your wife’s
condition?”

“I have secured hourly reports,” Parks replied. “There has been no
change.”

“You can hardly wish, believing what you do of her, that she should
recover. Her fate might be worse than death.”

Parks pressed his hands to his forehead.

“Nevertheless,” Nick continued, “you cannot be indifferent to the arrest
of the assassin.”

Parks sprang to his feet.

“Has he been taken?” he cried.

“Not yet; but he will be in custody to-night.”

“Who is he?”

The question was asked in a voice that was like a groan. The man’s eyes
blazed.

“I will not answer that question now,” said Nick, “but come with me and
in an hour at the furthest I will set you face to face with the cowardly
villain who struck that blow.”




CHAPTER IX.

PARKS IN DISGUISE.


The two men left the house immediately.

A carriage was in waiting, and it conveyed them rapidly to the “fence”
on Sixth Avenue.

Nick guided Parks through the dark halls, but he did not take him to the
room where the crooks sat chafing in their fetters.

Instead, the two went into the room on the other side of the hall. Nick
struck a light, and they took chairs.

“I am simply following you,” said Parks. “I do not understand what we
have come here for.”

“To meet the assassin,” said Nick; “but before we do that I wish to
impose one condition on you.”

“Name it.”

“I wish you to be disguised.”

“For what reason?”

“I do not wish you to appear as Morton Parks.”

“That is only saying the same thing in other words.”

“True; I had not finished. It is important that when you face the
assassin you should not do it in your own character.”

“That is hardly more definite. But why should I argue the point? It is
immaterial. I am willing to assume a disguise.”

“I will disguise you now. You have heard, perhaps, that I have skill in
such matters.”

“Do as you wish.”

It was wonderful to see the change which Nick produced in Parks’
appearance. It was not done so quickly as would have been the case with
the detective’s own face, but it was done with amazing skill and care.

At last Nick held up a looking-glass before the other’s gaze.

Looking into it Parks beheld a dark, bearded countenance. Paints,
cleverly applied, threw such shadows upon the eyes that though they were
really gray they looked black.

The hair was black; the beard was black; it was indeed a swarthy face.

“Do you think that anybody would recognize you?” asked Nick.

“Never,” said Parks, and there was something of relief in his tone.

Nick replaced the mirror and resumed his seat.

“We were speaking, some minutes ago,” he said, “of the character of your
wife, as these tragic events have disclosed it.”

“Is it necessary to speak further on that subject?”

“It is, as I believe.”

“You must be aware that it is very painful to me.”

“It should not be.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Parks, your wife is a pure and innocent woman, the victim of brutal
wretches.”

Parks sprang to his feet.

“Mr. Carter,” he cried, “in Heaven’s name, present the proof quickly, if
you have any.”

“You believe that your wife stole her own jewels in order to pawn or
sell them.”

Parks bowed in assent.

“She must have had a motive,” said Nick.

“I have already told you that she gambled in stocks.”

“With what brokers did she deal?”

“I cannot tell.”

“How do you know that she gambled in stocks?”

“She confessed to me when she had wasted her own fortune. She promised
to reform.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Over a year.”

“And she did not reform?”

“No; she continued to speculate.”

“How do you know?”

“The theft of the jewels proves it.”

“That was on August 3d?”

“Yes.”

“She obtained money as well as jewels?”

“Yes.”

“A considerable sum?”

“Twenty-four hundred dollars. I happened to have an unusual amount of
money in the house that night.”

“If she stole that money for speculation, it is reasonable to suppose
that she used it immediately for that purpose, is it not?”

“I suppose so.”

“Well, Mr. Parks, I have traced your wife’s movements for almost every
day of last August.”

“You have?”

“Yes; by means of one of my assistants, a very clever and well-taught
young lady.”

“What have you learned?”

“That she did not speculate.”

“How can you be sure of that? A person does not have to go to Wall
Street in order to dabble in stocks.”

“I know it; but a person whose fate is on the turn of that dreadful game
does not spend her time as your wife did.”

“How?”

“In the noblest works of charity; in the homes of the poor on the East
Side. It was there that she spent her days, not hanging over a stock
ticker in some resort of fashionable women gamblers.”

“This seems incredible.”

“It is true. I know of one family which she visited every week day
between August 3d and August 21st. I know several others where she was a
regular visitor.”

“You amaze me.”

“She spent a great deal of money in these charities, too. That does not
look like the work of a ruined gambler.”

“But how do you account for her association with thieves?”

“I will tell you. Let us suppose a case. You mentioned your nephew.

“Let us suppose that your wife was deeply attached to him. Let us say
that after long watching, and years, perhaps, of dark suspicion, she
discovered that he was a thief.

“Unwilling to believe any other evidence than that of her own eyes, she
follows him. She sees him enter a den of thieves. She learns that he is
their leader.”

“Is my nephew, then, the thief?” cried Parks.

“Wait. This is all supposition.

“Let us say that she enters this den of thieves. She has found their
private way.

“They are thunderstruck when she appears, though only the leader knows
her. She walks up to a table on which lies the plunder which they are
dividing.

“She seizes some of it in her hands. She is mad with the horror of the
scene, perceiving one she loves in such a place.

“They do not dare to kill her, for they have no means of disposing of
the body. She does not see that she is in great danger.

“She threatens them. She urges upon this man--your nephew, let us
say--to make restitution and reform.

“It is what a woman might do though a man would smile at it. He curses
her. She seizes some of the jewels and rushes out saying that she will
expose everything.

“The rank and file of the thieves’ gang would murder her rather than
permit her to leave the room.

“But the leader is more wily. He knows that she must die, but not there.

“He follows her; stabs her in the street, and escapes.”

“In the name of God, did my nephew do this?”

“The villain who did this is called Helstone. He is the leader of a gang
of thieves. His real name has been unknown to the police.”

“And my nephew----”

“Wait. That was only a supposition. Let us see if there is not somebody
who was bound to her by a closer tie.”

“What!”

“Had she no near relatives?”

“None.”

“She had a husband.”

“Liar! Do you dare to say----”

“That you, Morton Parks, are Helstone. It was not your nephew, it was
you she followed. Yes; I say it, and I shall ask you to test the truth
of it.”

“How? I am ready, and I think I know the test.”

“In this house, at this moment, I hold the most of Helstone’s gang of
thieves. Dare you face them?”

“Certainly.”

“You are disguised, it is true. I have purposely changed your appearance
as much as possible. But it will not serve.”

“I will face them instantly.”

“Then come.”

Nick walked to the door, and Parks was at his side.

They passed into a room which opened into that in which sat the fettered
thieves.

There they found Chick.

“Keep your eye on this man,” said Nick, but in a tone so low that it
could not be heard in the other room.

“You need not be afraid that I shall run away,” muttered Parks in reply.

Nick entered the large room where Inspector McLaughlin sat with a
revolver in each hand, facing the semicircle of crooks.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Nick, briskly, “you probably give me a great deal
of credit for having trapped you so neatly.”

A volley of oaths was the reply.

“I am too modest, however,” he continued, “to take glory which is not my
due.”

Again he paused, and this time the crooks appeared to take more serious
interest in what he was saying.

“Another man has really done the work,” Nick went on. “Without him you
would never be in the predicament in which you now find yourselves, with
Sing Sing prison open before you.”

“We’ve been sold out,” growled Miller. “Did Benton do it?”

“I am happy to clear Mr. Benton of that imputation,” said Nick. “He did
not do it.”

“Somebody did,” yelled Miller, and again the oaths broke forth.

Evidently the gang had no very cordial feeling toward its betrayer.

“Bring in Mr. Jones,” called Nick to Chick.

Parks and Chick entered on the instant. Nick could not help admiring the
man’s nerve.

His one chance in the world was that the gang would not recognize him.

And he had seen his disguise--the most utterly impenetrable which ever
shrouded the face of any human being.

He remembered the swarthy skin, the flashing black eyes, the beard of
the color of a raven’s wing.

Yet when he appeared a cry broke from every crook’s throat in that
criminal assembly.

“Helstone! Helstone!” they shouted.

Miller and one other actually burst their bonds in the frenzy of their
wrath against the man whom they believed had betrayed them.

And Morton Parks stood there utterly at a loss for a defense. The
recognition was too sudden and unanimous.

How had it happened? How could they have seen through that wonderful
mask?

“Mr. Parks,” said Nick, stepping forward, “I promised that within the
hour I would bring you face to face with the coward and villain who
stabbed your wife.

“I will keep my word. Behold Doc Helstone!”

With a sudden movement Nick raised a mirror which he had held concealed
behind him and thrust it before Parks’ face.

Parks leaped back as if a thunderbolt had struck him.

In that mirror he saw his face wearing the exact disguise which he had
led his gang of thieves to believe was the real countenance of Doc
Helstone.

There was the light-brown beard parted in the middle, there were the
gray eyes and light eyebrows, and rather pale skin.

“Surprised, are you?” said Nick. “Why, it was the simplest thing in the
world.

“When I made your face up half an hour ago I used a false beard colored
with a substance which is black when it is moist, but light-brown when
it is dry.

“Your eyebrows were colored with the same substance. It dries very
quickly. Five minutes after I showed you the dark face in the glass you
had begun to look like Doc Helstone. Every black line was fading into
brown.

“The tint which I used on your skin acts the same way. It turns from a
tan color to a pale flesh tint by simply being exposed to the air.

“It was very interesting to watch your face change into the character
you so much wished to avoid. Of course you couldn’t see it yourself. It
was changing almost all the time that we were talking.

“When you entered this room you fancied that you were disguised. In
reality, your face was exactly as you now see it--the face of the man
whom I saw walking away from the woman who had been stabbed.”




CHAPTER X.

“SPEAKING OF SELLS.”


“You have taken him on all sides at once,” exclaimed the inspector.

“The trap has been sprung and Helstone is in it. Come, my man, what have
you to say?”

These last words were addressed to Parks.

“I have this to say,” said he, boldly, “that this identification is
meaningless. The detective has painted my face to represent a
well-known criminal, and I am mistaken for him, that’s all.”

“Don’t be foolish, Doc,” said Miller. “We all know you. Now tell us why
you sold us.”

“He didn’t sell you,” said the inspector. “This gentleman sold
you”--pointing to Nick--“but it was a different kind of sell.

“And, speaking of sells. I have cells for every one of you. Shall we
march them away, Nick?”

“As you please. Ah! Chick, what is that?

“A message from the hospital.”

“Let me see it.”

Nick tore the envelope, glanced at the contents, and then said:

“She is fully conscious. She knows everything.”

Morton Parks’ face became ashen. Then for an instant it cleared. If his
wife was conscious he was not yet a murderer, at least he could save his
life out of the ruin of his fortunes.

“Do you still deny your guilt?” Nick said, addressing Parks.

“It is fate,” the man muttered. “I have never for an instant expected to
escape it.”

Doc Helstone and his friends were taken to police headquarters.

Reeves, the witness, was released.

“How did you get your clew to this riddle?” asked the inspector of Nick.

“I found it in the character of Mrs. Parks,” said Nick. “She could not
be a thief or willingly the associate of thieves. She was not the sort
of woman who leads a double life.

“Yet she was proved to have been in a resort of thieves. What motive
could have carried her there?

“I answer, only love, or what was left of it after respect had been
destroyed--the love of some man.

“What man? To know her character was to answer that question. It must be
her husband.”

“But, how did you learn her character so quickly?”

“For that I must thank my assistant, Ida Jones. I sent her on that part
of the case as soon as the identity of the woman was known. She reported
to me from time to time. It was easy enough to trace her, she had so
many friends among the poor. Ida had only to get a tip from Park’s
coachman and the thing was done.”

“How did you persuade him to walk into your trap?”

“I told him I would show him the murderer of his wife. He could not
refuse to come.

“Once here, I asked him if he dared to meet the Helstone gang. Could he
say that he did not dare? That would have been confession.

“The disguise was merely a trick to make the recognition more sure.”

“But how about the diamonds, Nick?”

“Why, I take it that when Mrs. Parks tracked her husband to the resort
of his gang and entered it after him there was wild confusion.

“Very little was said that anybody understood or remembered. There was a
heap of plunder on the table for the gang was ready to move.

“Mrs. Parks snatched these diamonds as a corroboration of the story she
intended to tell to the police. So tremendous was the excitement that
nobody noticed her action.

“When Parks followed her out and murdered her, he dared not remove the
diamonds for fear somebody would see him. The horror that comes on all
murderers came on him.”

“But why did Parks tell that false story about a robbery at his house?”

“In order to get hold of the gems before the rightful owner could
identify them and in order to make the police believe that Mrs. Parks
was a thief and a companion of thieves. It gave him a chance to tell
this lie about stock gambling.”

Mrs. Parks recovered, but she declined to appear against her husband.

“I never wish to look on his face again,” she said. “He is a bad man and
deserves punishment, but you must deal with him on a charge of robbery,
not on a charge of assault.”

And from this position she refused to be moved.

But Nick did not press the matter.

As the leader of a gang of burglars, Parks was put on trial and
sentenced to ten years.

Nick thought he had seen the last of him when he saw him go on board the
train in charge of Special Detective Jones, who was to convey the
criminal to Sing Sing.

But Parks was not a man to take his punishment without an effort to
escape it.

He had prepared for this trip to Sing Sing.

Docilely he took his seat alongside the plain-clothes man in the smoking
car, which was then empty.

Jones took out a paper and settled himself back for the long ride;
glancing once or twice at the placid face of the man beside him.

Truth to tell, he had an immense respect for this criminal leader, and
he appreciated the responsibility of the task that had devolved upon him
in lieu of the deputy sheriff who usually escorted prisoners to Sing
Sing.

The car began to fill, but no one glanced at the detective and his
prisoner, for Jones was in plain clothes, and his newspaper covered the
handcuffs that linked Parks’ right hand with the left hand of the
detective.

Parks ventured a word or two and presently led Detective Jones into a
conversation. He was a highly educated man, and he had the gift of
telling a story in an interesting fashion.

“By the way,” he said; “have you any objection to my smoking?”

“No; go ahead,” said Jones, pleasantly.

With his unfettered left hand Parks drew from his pocket a cigar case,
fumbled with it a minute or two, and soon had a long, black weed between
his teeth.

“Can I offer you a smoke?” he asked, hesitatingly.

The cigar case stopped on its way to his pocket, while he waited for the
detective’s answer.

“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.”

“Help yourself.”

There was a peculiar gleam in his eyes as the detective struck a match
and lit up.

Parks talked on pleasantly for a little while, but soon relapsed into
silence as the train rushed on, carrying him nearer and nearer to Sing
Sing.

The car was uncomfortably warm. There was a drowsiness about the air
that made it difficult to keep the eyes open.

At any rate, that was how Detective Jones felt.

He tried to fasten his attention on a particularly thrilling newspaper
story, but the letters danced before his eyes; his eyes closed; he was
asleep.

Parks emitted a grunt that might mean anything, then stretching out his
legs and resting his head on the back of the seat, he followed his
escort’s example and closed his eyes.

The train sped on. Passengers came and went, but Detective Jones still
slept.

Mr. Parks seemed to be asleep, too, but there was no one more awake than
he at that moment.

“The drugged cigar has done its work.”

This was the thought that surged in his brain. He mentally repeated the
phrase over and over again, then cautiously he opened his eyes.

Just across the aisle were two Italian workmen, too much engrossed in
reciting their individual woes to notice anything else.

Over his shoulder he got a glimpse of a commercial man, studying his
notebook. There was no danger to be apprehended from this quarter.

Under cover of the newspaper he slid his left hand over to the
detective’s waistcoat.

It was a moment of horrible anxiety as his fingers touched a key.

But Detective Jones was still dead to the world.

Next moment the key snapped in the lock and Parks was free.

A swift glance around assured him that his actions had not been
observed.

Emboldened by his success, he rifled the pockets of the sleeping
detective.

“I’ll need a few extra dollars,” he told himself, though he despised
this petty theft.

At the next stop he left his seat, and, mingling with the other
travelers, passed out.




CHAPTER XI.

THE FUGITIVE.


“Now where am I to go?”

Morton Parks asked himself this question as he sat down on a fallen tree
to rest.

He had rubbed the dust of the road on his face and had considerably
altered his whole appearance by tearing rents in his clothing and
pulling the crown out of his hat.

He looked like a tramp, and it was in this character he hoped to escape
the vigilance of the police who were now scouring the country for him.

“I would like to get back to New York,” he mused, “and yet I daren’t
show up as Doc Helstone, and nobody knows Morton Parks.

“Stop! I had forgotten Gilmore and Geary, the high-power burglars. They
know me in both characters. But they have left New York by this time.
When I saw them last they were making arrangements for a big bank
robbery in Chicago, and I remember they said they were going to bore
into the vault with an electric drill.

“I laughed at the scheme, but I hadn’t any intention of joining them
then. Why shouldn’t I get to Chicago and give Gilmore and Geary a hand?
Yes, by jingo, that’s my plan.

“I’ll have to beg or steal my way there, but I ought to know how to do
that.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Talk about nerve!”

“What is it now, Mr. Smith?”

“Burglars!”

“What, again?”

“Yes, last night, at my residence.”

Mr. Chester Smith, the wealthy Chicago banker, threw himself into an
easy-chair in the office of the chief of police, and looked decidedly
ugly.

“What did they get?” asked the chief.

“I’d like to know what they didn’t get,” was the excited reply, “and I
was at home every minute of the time, too.”

“Well?”

There was a quiet smile on the chief’s face as he sat looking at his
excited friend.

“They entered my house while I was at home,” continued the banker,
“ransacked every room in it, took my watch and pocketbook from under my
pillow, and my revolver from a table drawer near the bed.”

“You were right in calling them nervy,” said the chief.

“But that isn’t half of it. They went from my room to the kitchen, and
what do you think they did there?”

“Surely they didn’t find much there.”

“Well, they lit a fire and cooked breakfast. Then they went to the
cellar and tapped my wine.”

“And no one heard them?”

“Not a soul.”

“Go on.”

“Then they rigged themselves out in my clothes and put their own old
duds in the clothes press. But the worst is yet to come, and for
iridescent audacity, it breaks the record.”

“Proceed.”

“Last week I bought a bulldog, whose sole duty it is to watch the
premises. This morning I found him shut up in the coalhouse, with a
heavy rubber band around his jaws, and a tag tied to his tail. The tag
reads as follows:

“‘We didn’t take yer purp, ’cos we thought mebbe as how he wos raised a
pet, an’ you might be fond of him.’”

The chief laughed heartily for a moment, and then his face grew grave.

“We are having a great deal of trouble with burglars lately,” he said,
“and I am often at a loss what to do.”

“And nearly all recent burglaries are unusually daring and successful,
are they not?”

“They are all daring, and I am sorry to say that nearly all are
successful.”

“You’ll have to send to New York for Nick Carter.”

“I can’t always get Nick Carter.”

“Well, we ought to have a few men like Nick on the Chicago detective
force.”

The chief smiled.

“There is only one Nick Carter,” he said.

The banker gave a few additional details regarding the burglary at his
residence, and went away.

       *       *       *       *       *

John Mitchell, returning to his residence on Boston Avenue one evening,
saw that he was being followed by several men, and started off on a run.

It was quite dark, but Mitchell could see the men plainly every time
they came to a street lamp.

He started to run.

They did the same.

At last he came to the steps of his own residence.

Then the toughs seemed to understand that they were likely to lose their
prey, and one of them darted forward and dealt him a stunning blow on
the side of the head.

When Mitchell fell, he went through the door of his home, and landed in
the hallway.

He was partially stunned, but grappled with his assailant.

The struggle which followed attracted the attention of two men who
resided in the family.

But the highwayman was a desperate fellow, and seemed to be fighting for
his life.

With the full weight of the three men upon him, he still struggled to
his feet, shaking the men from his back as a huge dog throws off water.

Then he made for the door. His companions had disappeared, and the
patrolman on the beat had been attracted to the spot by the noise of the
combat.

The robber sprang past the officer and went, panting, up a dark alley.

Pursuit soon died out, and the fellow stopped to rest in the shelter of
a cluster of stables.

His clothes, though of good material, were of the cheapest, and in
shocking condition.

His broken shoes were soaked with mud and water, and his crownless hat
afforded little protection from the weather.

When, occasionally, the light of a street lamp shone upon him, it
revealed a countenance haggard and worn, yet it was the face of Morton
Parks.

In all the city of Chicago that night there was probably no more piteous
object than the escaped criminal. For lack of money this leader of
criminals had become a common highwayman.

Dodging here and there through the semi-deserted streets in the banking
and real-estate district--for it was now after ten o’clock--the
fugitive at length entered a prosperous-looking oyster and chophouse and
asked for the proprietor.

The waiter looked at the disreputable figure in amazement for a moment
and then pointed toward the door.

Then a handsomely dressed fellow with a long, drooping mustache and
flowing side whiskers of the Dundreary type, stepped into the room.

A signal passed between the robber and the keeper of the restaurant, and
the two men were soon closeted in a private room.

“Now, Parks, explain.”

“It’s easy, Gilmore. I was on the road to Sing Sing. I escaped. I only
had a dollar or two, that I stole from the detective.”

“Go on; don’t worry about the details. We can fill them in afterward.
How do you come to be here in this plight?”

“My New York gang had been run in. I knew you had come to Chicago. I
became a tramp, got in with a lot of thugs and finally landed here
because it’s the only place where I expect to meet a friend.”

“Don’t be too sure,” said Gilmore, brutally. “Nobody likes to have an
escaped criminal on his hands.”

“How about your own record?” asked Parks.

“That’s nothing to do with the case. Who sent you to Sing Sing?” he
asked, suddenly.

“Nick Carter.”

“The keenest sleuth alive!”

The restaurant man walked up and down the floor for a moment with a
heavy frown on his face.

“How do you know Nick Carter did not follow you here?” he finally asked.

“I saw him last at Detroit,” was the calm reply.

“Then you think he is after you?”

“I am certain of it.”

“And yet, you come here?”

“I told you before I had no other place to go.”

“I’ll murder you if he follows you to my place.”

“You seem to be doing pretty well here,” said Parks.

“No man with my police record--as you hinted--can do well anywhere,” was
the angry answer.

“I noticed a bank next door,” said Parks. “I presume this place is a
starter for the electric-drill scheme you once spoke of.”

“It is nothing of the sort,” said Gilmore. “I have decided to have
nothing to do with that scheme.”

“It is strange that you should locate a place like this--next door to a
bank, then. There can’t be much money in the trade you get here.”

“There is money enough here if the sneaks of the profession would only
let me alone.”

Parks sprang to his feet.

“Another word like that,” he shouted, “and I’ll give you dead away to
the police. You can’t talk to a man of my stamp in that fashion.”

“But suppose Nick Carter follows you here, and recognizes me? I’ll be
pulled in, too.”

“Have you any idea that Nick Carter knows where you are?” asked Parks.

“I don’t think he does.”

“Drop Nick Carter. Lend me some money. I need a complete outfit, and
something to buy food and drink with.”

“I won’t give you a cent.”

Parks started for the door.

“Where are you going?” demanded Gilmore.

“To the police.”

Gilmore opened the door.

“I don’t care how quick you go,” he said.

As Parks stepped out, a waiter walked up to the door of the room.

“Did you ring?” he asked.

Gilmore turned him away with an oath, and pulled Parks back into the
room.

“You see how it is,” he said.

“See how what is?”

“That is a detective.”

“Who hired him?”

“I did.”

“Knowing him to be a detective?”

“Of course not. I found that out just now.”

“How?”

“By his coming here and asking that question.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There is no bell to this room. He came here for the purpose of spotting
you.”

Parks threw himself back into his chair with an oath.

“We can’t afford to quarrel,” he said, “if that is Nick Carter, or one
of his assistants.”

Parks pondered for some moments.

“Help me out,” he said, “and I’ll get rid of the fellow. Then we can put
up the electric-drill burglary, and make enough money to get out of the
country.”

“Have you tried to turn any tricks since you came here?” Gilmore asked.

Parks hesitated.

He had once been a leader of crooks, and disliked to mention the
incident on Boston Avenue.

At last, however, he explained just what had taken place, and was
roundly cursed by Gilmore for coming to his place after having attempted
so daring a crime.

“You will be sure to be tracked,” Gilmore said, “if you remain in your
present condition, and that will endanger my place. How much cash do you
want to fix yourself up with?”

“Fifty dollars will do for the present. It’s a change for Morton Parks
to be begging a paltry fifty-dollar bill, but my luck has turned--that’s
all.”

“And you will help me to get rid of these people, and also assist in the
electric-drill scheme?”

“So you are into that, after all,” said Parks. “I thought so all the
time. Yes, I will help you all I can in both directions if you stake me
now.”

Gilmore counted out the sum named, and handed it to his companion.

“Now,” said Parks, “tell me about this electric-drill scheme.”

Gilmore took a folded paper from his pocketbook and spread it out on the
table. It was nothing more nor less than a carefully drawn plan of the
buildings surrounding the bank which adjoined the restaurant.

“Here is the bank vault,” explained Gilmore, “and here is my place. The
plan is to break through the cellar wall under this floor, and cut
through the granite and steel walls of the bank with an electric drill.
It can be done in two hours.”

“But won’t you strike too low in the vault?”

“No. The vault is two feet lower than the floor of the bank above, and
we shall strike it just about right.”

“Where does your power come from?”

“Oh! I put in a patent electric motor for a dishwasher, and contracted
for electric fly fans for next summer. So that is all right.”

Parks laughed heartily, and declared that it was a great scheme.

While the men were figuring over the plan, the sound of breaking
crockery came from the front end of the place.

They both dashed out, for it was quite evident that there was serious
trouble in the main dining room.

“One of the waiters threw a server of dishes at a customer,” explained
an employee.

“Where is that waiter?” thundered Gilmore. “I’ll take care of him.”

“I don’t know, sir,” was the reply. “He was here a moment ago.”

“Where is the customer?”

“There on the floor, sir. He was knocked down.”

The proprietor stepped forward and lifted the fallen man’s head.

It was Geary, his rascally partner in the electric-drill scheme.

“They had some words, sir,” continued the waiter, “and the customer
tried to grab the waiter.”

Geary was revived, and the three men went back to the private room
together. There a new surprise awaited them.

The plan they had been examining was not there, although Gilmore and
Parks had left it on the table when they rushed out.

There was a movement by the door, and Geary turned, to see the man who
had struck him stealing out of the room.

“There’s that detective again,” he yelled. “Grab him.”

“Don’t allow him to escape,” roared Gilmore. “He has the missing paper.
Shoot him down.”

The proprietor drew a revolver as he spoke, but Geary caught his hand in
time to prevent the shot.

“Do you want the police down here?” he said, with an oath.

“I don’t want him to escape,” said Gilmore, making a dive for the young
man, who was just passing out of the doorway.

The burglar was a powerful man, but he was little more than a baby in
the hands of the man he sought to detain.

He was whirled from his feet in an instant, and thrown against his two
companions, who were now advancing to assist him.

Before the three men could do anything more to keep the young man from
leaving the room, he had closed the door with a bang and darted through
the restaurant to the street.

When Gilmore opened the door the fugitive was out of sight.

“Why didn’t you catch him?” demanded the proprietor. “The man is a
thief, and the racket out here was nothing but a scheme to steal some
private papers from my room.”

“He went through like a flash,” explained the cashier.

“Nixon followed him,” replied a waiter.

“I am glad that one employee has some sense,” growled Gilmore. “When
Nixon comes back, send him to my room.”

Nixon was an old crook, who had been brought on from New York to keep
track of things in the restaurant.

“I told you he was a detective, didn’t I?” demanded Gilmore of Parks, as
soon as the door of the private room was closed.

“How did you know that?” asked Geary.

“Because he stood in front of the door when I opened it a few minutes
ago. Then, to account for his presence there, he asked if I had rung for
him.”

“Well?”

“Well, there is no bell in the room. He was there listening.”

“I spotted him when I came in to-night,” said Geary, “and accused him of
trying to pick my pocket. He threw the dishes at me, and I made a grab
for him. That’s all I know about it. He strikes a hard blow, whoever he
is.”

“How long has he been here?” asked Parks.

“Only two days,” was the reply.

“Then he followed me here, and spotted this place the first thing,
knowing that I would be likely to come here,” said Parks.

“But what did he dodge into the room for as soon as we left it?”

“To find out what we were up to; and he found out, too.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Gilmore, lifting a piece of paper from
the floor as he spoke.

The paper was the missing plan, which the intruder had undoubtedly
dropped in the scuffle.

“So the electric-drill scheme is safe for the present, at least,” said
Parks, “but there is no knowing how long it will remain so, for the man
just in here was Chick, Nick Carter’s assistant.”

“Then you make a skip,” said Geary, “and don’t come here again. We can
communicate by letter.”

Parks did not move, but stood pointing toward the now open door.




CHAPTER XII.

“ONE OF THE BOYS.”


“Hello! What’s up, now?”

Nick Carter, sitting in his room, at the Windsor Hotel, on Dearborn
Street, looked up with a smile, as Chick rushed into the room and
hastened to the window.

“Nothing special.”

Chick peered carefully through the blinds as he spoke.

“I’m glad you came in early to-night,” said Nick, “for I am feeling a
trifle annoyed.”

“About what?”

“It’s taking altogether too much time to get this man Parks back to Sing
Sing.”

Chick turned out the gas, threw the window blinds wide open, and sat
down in front of the window.

“I have a little surprise for you. Parks is at present trying to renew
acquaintance with two famous high-power burglars, Gilmore and Geary.”

“What! Have you see him--Parks, I mean?”

“He is there at the Gilmore chop house.”

Chick then explained all that had taken place in the restaurant that
evening.

“And what was the paper you got hold of in the room?” asked Nick.

“That’s just what I’d like to know. You see, I dropped it in the scuffle
before I had a chance to look at it.”

“What did it look like?”

“It was a drawing of some kind.”

Nick pondered a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “that there are no charges against Gilmore and
Geary. I’d run them in to-night.”

“Were they acquitted when last arrested?”

“Yes; by perjury.”

“Well, there will soon be a charge against them,” said Chick.

“What do you mean?”

“The paper I found on the table was a drawing of some kind.”

“You said that before.”

“Yes, and that Gilmore chophouse is next door to a bank. Do you begin to
catch on?”

“I was wondering if you had the same idea as myself,” said Nick. “I see
you have. We will postpone the rearrest of Parks until we get ready to
bag the other villains. What are you looking at out there?”

Chick pointed across the street.

“Do you see that man standing there by the cigar store?” he asked.

“Certainly.”

“Well, that’s the man who followed me from the chophouse.”

“You know who it is, of course?”

“No,” said Chick, with a laugh, “my acquaintance with crooks is not so
extensive as is that of my chief.”

“Well, it’s Nixon, the all-around crook from New York,” replied the
detective. “I wonder what he’s up to now?”

This last remark was caused by Nixon stepping out on the walk and
stopping two men who were passing.

“They’re a tough-looking pair,” said Chick, “and he seems to be well
acquainted with them. I believe they are going away together.”

Instead of starting away, however, the three men stepped into the cigar
store and stood there by the counter, Nixon never taking his eyes from
the doorway through which Chick had entered the hotel.

Nick began to change his clothes.

In about five minutes he looked like the prosperous advance agent of a
negro minstrel company--one of the fellows who always talk show, no
matter where they are, and who want everybody with whom they come in
contact to know that they belong to the “perfesh.”

“How’s this?” he asked. “This will be apt to take down there in the
chophouse, won’t it?”

“I should say so. Shall I go along?”

“Not with me, and not in that rig,” was the reply, and the next moment
the detective was on his way across the street to the cigar store,
having left the hotel by a side entrance.

It took but a moment for Nick to get into conversation with Nixon, for
the crook was quick to recognize “one of the boys,” and Nick declared,
on entering the cigar store, that there wasn’t a decent chophouse in the
whole city of Chicago.

The two toughs stepped back, and the detective and Nixon were soon on
their way to the restaurant.

The first thing Nick saw, on entering the place, was the open door of
the private room.

Parks stood there pointing out.

Behind him were Gilmore and Geary.

“There comes Nixon now,” Nick heard Parks say, “and we may as well see
what he has to say.”

Nick seated himself at a table and ordered a chop, and Nixon went back
to the private room.

In a moment the two men who had left Nixon at the cigar store entered
the place and sat down at the rear table.

The waiter seemed to know them, for he went back and opened a
conversation with them.

Nick could not hear what they were saying, for the distance was too
great, but he could now and then catch a word.

The men were talking of highway robbery and burglary.

In a few moments Nixon joined the two men, and then the waiter went
away.

“I tell you, it’s a sure thing,” Nick heard Nixon say; “for he’s up
there at the Windsor Hotel.”

“How you goin’ ter git ’im out?” demanded one of the men.

“That’s easy enough,” was the reply, and then the men talked in whispers
again.

The detective laughed, softly to himself.

“They’ll have a nice job coaxing Chick to come out and be killed,” he
thought.

Presently a muscular-looking young fellow entered the room and seated
himself at a table not far from that occupied by Nick.

His oily trousers were thrust into the tops of a pair of heavy,
unpolished boots, and he wore a baggy, blue woolen shirt under his rough
coat, which smelled of machine oil. No vest or suspenders were in sight,
and his closely cropped head was covered with a greasy felt hat.

He looked like an iron worker out for a midnight lunch.

He ordered a light meal and took out a huge roll of bills, as if to pay
for it in advance.

Nick saw Nixon watching the money enviously.

“Now there’ll be a picnic,” he thought, wondering how the attempt to rob
the young mechanic would be made.

He did not think Gilmore would allow any work of the kind on the
premises, for it would be certain to become known, and would direct the
attention of the police to the place, a thing which the burglar could by
no means afford to have done.

Nick’s chop was finished by this time, but he ordered a cup of coffee
and a cigar, and sat there smoking and waiting.

Before long one of the toughs walked over to where the young mechanic
was sitting.

“I’ve just been strikin’ de boss fer a lunch,” he said, with a grin,
“an’ I couldn’t make it stick. Can’t you help me out?”

The mechanic motioned the bum to take a chair, and beckoned to a waiter.

“Fill him up,” he said, shortly. Nick started at the sound of his
voice, and then a pleased smile crept over his face.

In a moment the seeming mechanic took out his money again to pay for
what the tough had ordered.

The tough sprang from his chair and made a grab for the roll of bills.

The next moment he was one of the most surprised men in Chicago.

His hand did not get within a foot of the coveted prize.

His intended victim had been expecting just such a move.

As the tough leaned forward he caught the other’s right square on the
throat, and went down to the floor like a log.

The mechanic went on eating his lunch.

But the affair was not to be allowed to pass off so quietly.

The fallen man’s companion, Nixon, and three or four waiters made for
the seeming mechanic, and in a moment all was confusion.

The young fellow put up a hot fight, and the chophouse people were sent
tumbling around on the floor in great shape.

Nick watched the battle curiously for a moment, and then sprang to his
feet with an exclamation of anger.

There were five to one, and yet the waiters were arming themselves with
clubs and meat cleavers.

The detective reached the scene just in time.

A cowardly waiter was aiming a blow at the seeming mechanic from
behind, which would have ended the fight right there.

He was not striking with his fist, but held a heavy hatchet in his hand.

Without saying a word, Nick struck out, and the waiter went halfway over
a table before he fell.

The dishes, with which the table had been loaded, struck the floor about
the time the waiter did, and there was a great crash as the fellow
floundered around among the damaged crockery.

The door of the private room was now opened, and the three high-power
burglars, who had been perfecting their schemes there, rushed out.

Nixon and his gang drew back, leaving Nick and the seeming mechanic
standing by the overturned table.

Gilmore dashed forward and seized the young man by the collar.

“You’ll go over the road for this,” he shouted.

The young fellow threw out his hip and caught the burglar around the
body.

It was a pretty case of hip-lock, and Gilmore carried another table to
the floor when he went down.

“It’s a conspiracy to rob the place,” cried Geary. “Throw them out and
call the police.”

But the employees had had enough of trying to throw the two men out of
the place, and they held back.

Geary began pounding on the floor of the room.

“That’s a signal,” whispered Nick, to the seeming mechanic. “If a door
leading into the cellar is opened now, get down there, if you can,
while I amuse the people up here.”

“All right,” replied Chick, “but you ought to be getting out before
long. They’ll suspect it’s a scheme.”

Gilmore arose from the floor, brushing milk, butter and sugar from his
clothing, and started for the door.

“This is no chance fight,” he shouted. “These men came here on purpose
to get up a row.”

“You lie,” said Chick, coolly, “one of your toughs tried to rob me, and
this gentleman came to my assistance.”

Before Gilmore could reply a back door was opened, and three
hard-looking men rushed into the room.

“There come the men who are putting in the electric-drill machinery,”
whispered Nick. “Now, look out for hot work.”

The two detectives moved toward the door, but the gang closed in upon
them.




CHAPTER XIII.

THREE MILLIONS AT STAKE.


“And I tell you they were both detectives.”

“You are crazy on the subject of detectives.”

Gilmore sprang to his feet with an oath and pointed around the room.

“You’ll soon be telling me that no damage has been done here,” he said,
“and that the hot fight those fellows put up was all by way of
amusement.”

“And you’ll be telling me,” said Geary, “that the advance agent brought
in was Nick Carter, and that the mechanic was Chick.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

Geary laughed long and heartily.

The men were still in the chophouse.

The large dining room still showed that a desperate fight had taken
place there, for the floor was covered with broken dishes.

The waiters and cooks had taken their departure for the night, and Parks
and Nixon had gone out.

“What strikes me as peculiar,” said Geary, “is the way the fellows got
out of the place.”

“The men you named a moment ago have a way of doing such things,”
replied Gilmore.

“I stood right there by the stairs,” said Geary, “and I’ll take my oath
that only one of them went in that rush.”

“Which one?”

“The advance agent.”

“Then, where did the other go?”

“I give it up.”

“I’m afraid the electric-drill scheme is busted,” said Gilmore. “If the
detectives are onto us, we certainly can’t carry out the plans made in
New York.”

“But there are three millions in that bank vault.”

“If we can’t get them out they may as well be in India.”

“We must get them out.”

“How?”

“By the old plan.”

“With those fellows watching us?” sneered Gilmore.

“I wish Parks had gone all the way to Sing Sing.”

“What’s he got to do with it?”

“The detectives followed him here. They have known where we were all the
time,” said Geary, “and when Parks led them here, they guessed he was
steering for some more of the ‘crooked’ family, and probably decided
they’d look into our history, and run us in with the man they want.”

“Have you any idea they are watching the drill scheme?” questioned
Gilmore, anxiously.

“How could they be?”

“There is no knowing what those fellows will find out.”

“The drill scheme is all right, notwithstanding what took place here
to-night,” said Geary. “How much money have we?”

“Mighty little. Parks pulled out fifty to-night.”

“Then he must earn some and replace it.”

“How can he earn money, after what has happened to him?”

“In the old way, I guess.”

“Burglary?”

“Of course.”

“But will he do it?” asked Gilmore.

“Of course he will. Morton Parks is not Doc Helstone, leader of
criminals, now. He’s just an everyday crook, willing to do anything for
money till he gets another gang under his thumb, and that will take
time. Didn’t he try to hold a man up in his own house to-night?”

“All right, then; just put him onto that South-Side scheme.”

During the short silence that followed the sound of a scuffle came from
beyond the door leading to the cellar.

Then there was a faint cry, and all was still.

Geary started to his feet and turned pale.

“What was that?” he asked.

Gilmore walked to the door and swung it open.

There was the dark staircase leading to the equally dark cellar below,
and nothing else.

The two men looked tremblingly in each other’s face for a moment. They
were both longing, yet fearing, to ask the same question.

Finally Gilmore spoke.

“Can it be possible,” he asked, “that one of those fellows got down
there during the fight?”

“It is possible,” replied Geary. “Get a candle and we’ll go down and
look the place over.”

In the cellar everything looked as usual.

There was the double partition which had been built to shut the noise of
the motor and the drill from the street, there were tools, pipes and
iron bands lying around, and there, just beyond the broken cellar wall,
was the heavy granite foundation of the bank vault.

The two men searched through every inch of the place, and then turned to
the double wall.

“There is a door through here somewhere,” said Gilmore.

“Yes,” was the reply, “but it fastens from the other side as well as
this, and we can never get through without breaking it down.”

“Well, if we can’t get through no one else can, that is one sure thing,”
replied Gilmore. “It must have been the rats we heard.”

“Help! Help!”

The men were about to ascend the stairs to the room above when the cry
reached their ears.

They drew their revolvers and stepped back.

Again the place was still.

There was no motion anywhere in the cellar.

“The place is haunted,” whispered Geary.

“I shall be glad if it turns out to be ghosts,” was the reply.

While the men waited and listened, the sound of blows and low-muttered
curses came from the other side of the double partition.

“One of those detectives did get down here,” said Gilmore. “If he gets
out there is an end of our scheme, and all the money we have put into
it.”

“You stay here,” whispered Geary, “and I’ll go around in front and get
into the other room that way.”

“Well, hurry.”

Geary darted away, and Gilmore stood watching the door.

Then the latter heard steps and voices in the dining room above, and for
a single instant left his post of duty.

As he crept to the head of the stairs to look into the dining room, he
thought he heard the creaking of a door behind him, and stopped to
listen.

The noise was not repeated, and he went on.

Had he returned to the cellar at that instant, he would have found the
door in the double partition wide open.

He would have seen the body of one of his pals lying for an instant on
the narrow threshold.

He would have seen the body drawn through into the rear basement, and
the door softly closed and fastened.

He would have seen a dark figure in the dress of an iron worker lift the
body and carry it through the broken cellar wall.

Then he would have seen two figures, one always carrying the other
through the almost pitchy darkness, hiding in a corner near the granite
wall of the bank vault.

But he saw nothing of this.

He went on up the staircase and stood for a moment on the last step.

Parks and Nixon had returned, and were walking about the place.

The former had procured a new suit of clothes and looked more like
himself, though his growing beard and mustache served as a sort of
disguise.

“What’s up here?” he demanded. “Where’s Gilmore?”

“Here,” called that gentleman from the head of the stairs. “Did you see
Geary as you came in?”

“Yes. What’s he rushing around in that way for? Anything wrong?”

“I should say so. Come into the cellar. Turn the key in the front door
first.”

Parks did as requested, and then all three men hastened down the cellar
stairs.

“Hello, there!”

It was Geary, calling from the other side of the double wall.

“Well?”

“Everything all right there?”

“Yes.”

“It’s O. K. here. I wonder what it was we heard?”

As he spoke, Geary placed his hand on the fastening of the door and
opened it.

“It wasn’t fastened on this side,” he said, stepping through.

“It was on this side, though,” replied Gilmore, “so everything must be
all right, after all.”

“Did you look in the space around the vault?”

“Yes; don’t you remember going in there with me?”

“Of course. Then the noise we heard must have been out on the street, or
in some adjoining cellar.”

“I suppose so,” replied Gilmore.

Then he turned to Parks.

“Did you find out about that place?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Can you work it?”

“Yes; but it must be done to-night, and I must have help.”




CHAPTER XIV.

THE FLAT BURGLARY.


It was long past midnight, and a slow, winter rain was falling.

Shivering with the cold, and muttering imprecations against the weather,
Parks and Nixon left the shelter of the chophouse and walked rapidly
toward Wabash Avenue.

“We ought to have been out an hour ago,” muttered the former, “then we
shouldn’t have missed the cable.”

“The owl car’s all right for a job like this,” was the sullen reply.
“You’ll be wanting a hack next.”

“Why not take a hack down as far as Thirty-ninth Street?” demanded
Parks. “It will be daylight before we get there at this rate.”

“Have you the price?”

“Of course.”

“Then call a cab.”

In a moment the two men, fairly well housed from the storm, were
whirling southward.

“Who first got onto this plant?” asked Parks, as they rode along.

“Gilmore.”

“He’s a cute one.”

“You bet he is.”

Nixon did not seem disposed to talk.

“How much is there of it?” asked Parks.

“About five thousand dollars, besides the jewelry.”

“The fellow’s a fool to keep so much stuff in his room.”

“He is all of that.”

“And you know the plan of the building well?”

“I was there to-day.”

“And the old man sleeps alone on the third floor away from the rest of
the family?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Well, you needn’t be so mighty short about it. Do you want to go in and
get the stuff while I watch outside, or shall I go in?”

“Gilmore arranged for you to go in.”

“All right.”

“And there is to be no slugging.”

“Suppose he wakes up and kicks?”

“Snatch all there is in sight and git out.”

“I guess I’ll run the job in my own way,” growled Parks. “I was in the
business when Gilmore was working on a farm.”

“Suit yourself.”

The men were so busy talking, and the night was so dark and rainy, that
they did not notice that one cab passed them several times, went on
south for a block or two on each occasion, and then turned north again.

The man seated in the cab strained his ears each time in the endeavor to
hear what the men in the other vehicle were saying, but he could only
catch a word now and then.

The pursuing cab finally fell in behind the other, and the two vehicles
proceeded together at a fast trot toward Thirty-ninth Street.

There Parks and Nixon got out, and without once looking around to see if
they were followed, walked rapidly toward Forty-third Street.

The man in the second cab never lost sight of them.

He, too, left his cab at Thirty-ninth Street and walked south.

About halfway between Cottage Grove Avenue and the Illinois Central
Railway tracks Parks and Nixon stopped and slunk into a stairway.

Their “shadow” was not twenty feet behind.

While they consulted together, he passed the spot where they stood, and
entered the next stairway to the east.

The apartments in the row--an entire block in length--were all exactly
alike.

There were three flats in each division, and each flat had seven rooms.

There were in each one a front and a back parlor, a dining room, a
kitchen, a bedroom off the front parlor, one off the kitchen and a
bathroom off from the hall leading to the kitchen.

In each instance the back parlor and the bathroom were lighted by an air
shaft running from the first floor to the roof.

The men talked for some time in the hallway and Nick, for it was he, at
last succeeded in getting near enough to hear what they were saying.

“He sleeps in the back parlor on the third floor,” Nixon was saying,
“and he always leaves his watch and diamonds on the dresser, and places
the money under his pillow.”

“Give me the key.”

Nick heard the jingle of keys, and then Nixon said:

“His son sleeps in the hall bedroom. Don’t make any noise at the door.
When you get the stuff make a run for it if there is any kick made.”

Nick darted away, and entering the next stairway, ascended to the second
floor.

Here he rapped softly on the door leading into the flat on the right of
the hall.

In a moment the door was opened about an inch.

“What do you want?” demanded a gruff voice.

“Are you alone in the room?”

“Yes; but I have a good gun with me. Keep away.”

“You’ll do,” said Nick, with a laugh. “You won’t get scared if I tell
you something?”

“I hope not.”

“Well, they are burglarizing the flat opposite, and I want to get where
I can see what’s going on, and make an arrest when the time comes.”

“Who are you?”

“An officer.”

The fellow was becoming more and more suspicious, and Nick was becoming
more and more impatient.

“Will you let me in?” Nick finally asked.

“I don’t believe you are an officer,” was the reply. “If the flat over
there is being robbed, you must be in with it.”

“In that case I wouldn’t be likely to be here telling you about it,
would I?”

“That’s very true, unless you mean to rob this flat, too.”

The fellow finally opened the door, and Nick stepped through the back
parlor, passed into the hall leading to the kitchen, and entered the
bathroom, from which a full view of the flat across the way could be
had.

There was no light in the place, except such as crept in from the street
lamps, but this was enough to show the detective that the man who had
admitted him was dressed from head to foot, even to his collar and
necktie.

“This is a strange time of night for a man to be sitting all dressed in
a dark room,” thought the detective. “Perhaps I have come to the wrong
place for help in capturing these burglars.”

Nick stood looking across the airshaft to the window of the back parlor
opposite, but there was nothing to be seen there.

The window shades were drawn, and there was no sound of life in the dark
space beyond them.

Then the detective heard a voice at his elbow:

“What are you doing?”

Nick did not like the fellow’s tone.

“Waiting,” he replied, shortly.

“You can’t wait much longer in my rooms.”

“Why not?”

“I want to go to bed.”

“With your clothes on?”

The fellow muttered something, and struck a match.

“What are you going to do?” asked Nick.

“Light the gas.”

The detective stepped forward and extinguished the flame of the match.

“Don’t do that,” he said. “You will only warn the men who are on their
way into the next flat.”

“What do I care about the next flat? I don’t believe there are any
burglars about, anyway.”

Nick thought the fellow spoke unnecessarily loud.

He did not like the way he crowded against him.

There was still no light or motion from across the airshaft.

The detective, standing with one hand resting on the window ledge, felt
his fingers come in contact with some metallic substance.

He picked it up, and tried to discover its nature by the sense of
feeling.

But that was a hard thing to do.

He could hear the occupant of the flat moving away toward the windows
facing on Forty-third Street, and, in a moment, lit a match.

The thing he held in his hand was evidently a revolving armature, and in
one end was a “chuck,” into which a diamond-pointed drill could be
fitted. Nick slipped the article into his pocket and turned away from
the bathroom window.

“There is no use in staying here,” he thought, “for the burglary was
probably planned in this room. I was a fool to come in here looking for
help.”

He had no doubt that the burglars had in some way been warned before he
was well in the rooms.

“Where are you going?”

The occupant asked the question as Nick reached the door.

“Going home.”

“Not yet.”

There was a tone of triumph in the fellow’s voice.

“And why not?”

“I want to know who you are, and why you came here with such a story at
this time of night.”

Nick was about to brush past the fellow and pass on downstairs, when a
low cry came from the direction of the bathroom.

He placed his hand on his weapon and hastened back.

The occupant of the flat kept close to his heels.

“You seem to have changed your mind,” he said, with a sneering laugh.

For a single instant the bathroom was flooded with light.

The window shades across the airshaft were up, and the gas in the back
parlor of the opposite flat was burning brightly.

The detective saw a white-haired man sitting up in bed with a look of
terror on his wrinkled face.

In front of the bed stood a masked man, holding a revolver within an
inch of the old man’s forehead.

By the side of the dresser stood another masked figure, eagerly raking
off the articles of jewelry which the old man had placed there on
retiring.

The thief’s hand was, for an instant, clearly outlined against the pure
white marble of the dresser.

In a second the light went out and the place was in darkness once more.

Nick sprang toward the door.

His purpose now was to reach the stairway below before the burglars
descended, and there arrest them both.

As he sprang through the bathroom door he felt himself seized from
behind.

The detective had never before met a strength equal to his own.

He tried to dash his assailant aside, but found that he could not do so.

He tried to bring his revolver to bear, but his arms were bound to his
side by that terrible grasp.

He raised his feet from the floor and threw his whole weight downward,
thinking that a roll and a struggle on the carpet might break the
other’s hold.

The two men went to the floor together.

Nick fell on top, but he could not hold the advantage for a single
instant.

The next instant he realized that he was fighting three men instead of
one, and that they had him in their power.

He knew that he was being beaten about the head, and that a long-bladed
knife was flashing before his eyes.

Then everything passed away, and he ceased to struggle.




CHAPTER XV.

THE POISON BALL.


“If you get a hot foot after you, don’t come here.”

“No; the coppers have had pointers enough already.”

“We may come back if we get the boodle and come out all right, though?”

Parks asked the question in a sneering tone.

“As you choose.”

Then Chick heard Parks and Nixon leaving the place, and heard Gilmore
and Geary go up the cellar stairs.

He was practically alone in the cellar.

The man he had overpowered on entering lay unconscious by the bank
vault.

“I got him through that partition just in time,” thought the detective,
as he peered through the broken cellar wall, “for they would have hunted
the place over until they found me, had they seen their chum lying
there.”

According to instructions, Chick had slipped into the cellar during the
fight in the dining room.

At first he thought himself alone in the place.

It was only when he passed through the door in the double wall, on the
approach of the men from upstairs, that he realized that the gang had
left a watchman there.

While Gilmore and Geary were talking on one side of the wall, the
watchman and Chick were fighting desperately on the other side.

If Gilmore had remained in the cellar, Chick would certainly have been
discovered.

As it was, the four men, after the arrival of Parks and Nixon, coolly
planned the burglary on Forty-third Street, and then left the cellar.

Chick knew that his chief would follow anyone leaving the place that
night, and that he would be likely to have something to say about the
affair on the South Side.

He fairly ached to be with him.

He did not like the idea of being shut up in the damp cellar all night,
and then having to fight his way out in the morning.

He reasoned in this way:

“I have found out all I can about the place.

“I have seen the electric motor.

“I have seen the broken cellar wall.

“I have seen the unprotected granite wall of the bank.

“Why not get out and follow Nick?”

But what should he do with the captured watchman?

He would not remain unconscious long.

The burglars must not know that the detectives had discovered their
plot.

He finally handcuffed the fellow’s hands behind his back, tied his
ankles together, gagged him, and prepared to leave the cellar.

Then a new difficulty presented itself.

The door in the double wall was fastened on the street side.

It would take a long time to cut through it with such tools as the
detective had.

He must pass out, if at all, through the chophouse.

After some little delay he crept to the head of the stairs and listened.

Gilmore and Geary were still in the place.

He could hear them talking in subdued tones.

The lights were out in the dining room, and the place was evidently
closed for the night.

They were waiting for the return of Parks and Nixon.

Chick tried the knob of the cellar door.

It turned easily, and the door opened without noise.

It was very dark in that part of the room, and the detective ventured
forth.

He had hardly closed the door behind himself when Gilmore sprang to his
feet with an oath and lit the gas.

“What’s up?” asked Geary.

“We’re a couple of fools.”

“Well?”

“Did you see the watchman down there?”

“Didn’t know there was one.”

“Well, there was.”

“Where was he when we were there?”

“That’s just what I’d like to know.”

“Probably off on a drunk,” suggested Geary.

“Not much. He’s been arrested,” said Gilmore. “I thought all along that
there was something wrong down there.”

Geary laughed.

“I never saw you act as you are acting to-night,” he said. “What has got
into you?”

“I tell you that there is something wrong in the cellar.”

“Well,” said Geary, “then we’d better go down and make it right.”

He lit a candle as he spoke.

Gilmore reached up to turn off the gas.

His companion caught him by the arm.

“Wait!” he said, in a whisper.

“What is it?”

“There’s some one in the room.”

Two revolvers flashed in the light.

Chick was in a tight place.

“I’ll stand here with my gun,” said Gilmore, “and you light all the gas
jets in the room. Then we can see to kill the spy.”

Geary set about obeying orders.

In another moment the place where Chick stood would be as light as day.

Then both burglars would begin shooting at him.

They would take any chance rather than allow him to escape after having
gained admission to the cellar.

Chick moved cautiously toward the cellar door.

As he did so a bullet grazed his hat.

He sprang for an instant into full view, and darted down the stairs,
followed by half a dozen bullets.

Gilmore was fairly white with rage.

“He must have been down there all the time,” he said.

“And heard the plans laid for the burglary,” added Geary.

There was a moment’s silence, during which both men took good care to
keep out of range of the cellar door.

“He might shoot,” suggested Gilmore, pointing toward the dark opening
through which Chick had disappeared.

“Of course he’ll shoot.”

Geary was not in a consoling mood.

“What is to be done?” asked Gilmore.

“Blessed if I know.”

“Think. I can’t.”

“Can he get out?”

“Only by passing through this room.”

“The door in the double wall----”

“Is fastened on the street side.”

“Then let him stay there until Parks and Nixon come back.”

“And a great roast they’ll have on us.”

Gilmore was becoming decidedly savage.

Geary did not take the matter so much to heart. He was sure that it
would all come out right in the end.

“Let them roast if they want to,” said the latter.

“I won’t have it.”

“Well?”

“I’m going down there.”

Gilmore pointed to the cellar as he spoke.

“You’ll get your head shot off if you do.”

“I don’t care. I won’t have this scheme ruined now,” said Gilmore, with
an oath.

Geary pondered a moment.

“You might go down the front way,” he suggested, “and get a shot at the
fellow through the door.”

“Just the thing.”

When Gilmore reached the street door, he saw a man waiting there, and
looking through the glass panel as he waited.

The door was hastily unlocked, and the man stepped inside.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

“The devil is to pay.”

“Then pay him, if you can find a member of your crowd that has a soul. I
understand that the gentleman you name has a liking for souls, my
friend.”

The newcomer was tall and slender, with sharp eyes and very glossy black
whiskers, which clung close to a very white face.

He was an important personage in the electric-drill combination, having
supplied most of the money with which to equip the chophouse and
purchase the machinery.

“You will have your joke,” growled Gilmore.

“Anything new from the South Side?” asked the newcomer, who was a doctor
by profession, and always smelled of drugs.

“Parks and Nixon are still there,” was the reply.

“Did they get away from here without being followed?”

“I think so.”

Gilmore locked the door again, and the two men joined Geary in the back
end of the room.

“Tell me what’s up,” said the doctor, looking from one man to the other
in amazement.

In a moment more it all came out.

A detective had found his way into the cellar.

The doctor cursed until the air was almost blue.

Chick, peeping from the head of the stairs, heard it all, and rather
enjoyed it.

“Why haven’t you been doing something?” demanded the doctor. “For all
you know, the fellow may be out in the street and halfway to police
headquarters now.”

“He can’t get out. The door in the wall is fastened from the street
side.”

It was Geary who spoke.

The doctor glanced at him for an instant, and then said:

“An hour ago you would have told me that he could not get into the
cellar at all. Go to the street, and watch the front door.”

Geary departed without saying a word.

Then the doctor turned to Gilmore.

“Isn’t it about time the boys were back from Forty-third Street?” he
asked.

“I think not,” was the reply. “Have you any fears as to the result down
there?”

“None whatever,” was the answer. “Even if Parks and Nixon made a mess of
it, my roommate will straighten them out.”

“He will be there, of course?”

“Yes.”

“In the flat across the airshaft?”

“Didn’t we rent it for this special occasion?”

The men conversed for some moments in whispers, and then the doctor
crept cautiously to the head of the stairs.

“He is still there,” he whispered back, in a moment.

“In the rear room?”

“Yes.”

“Then throw your poison ball.”

The doctor drew away from the doorway for a second, and took a little
round white substance from his pocket.

“You can’t use the place to-morrow,” he said, warningly, as he for a
moment held the ball suspended in the air between his thumb and
forefinger.

“What is it?” asked Gilmore.

“Something made for just such places,” was the reply.

“Will it produce death?”

“Not at once, but it will make a man lay like a corpse for twelve hours.
Then, if restoratives are not applied, death results.”

“Throw it.”

Chick heard something drop almost at his feet.

Then came an explosion, followed by a horrible, choking odor.

Chick tried to breathe, but found it impossible. He felt himself
falling, and heard a strange, rushing sound in his ears.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE MAN IN THE WARDROBE.


“There’s a dead man down there.”

“Down where?”

“In the doctor’s flat.”

The man living in the flat above the one where Nick Carter had been
assaulted looked up from the morning paper.

“How do you know?” he asked.

The wife gave a little shiver as she answered:

“I saw it.”

The head of the family laid down the paper.

“When?” he asked.

“When I got up,” began the woman, “I stepped to the window looking into
the airshaft. I did not sleep well last night, on account of the noise
down there, and I thought I would see if everything there looked as
usual.”

“Well?”

“Of course I couldn’t see into the rooms under us, so I turned my
attention to the rooms on the other side of the shaft.”

“How slow you are. Go on.”

“Well, a heavy black curtain hung over the opposite windows, making an
almost perfect mirror of the plate glass in the sash.”

“Well--well?”

“And there, in that mirror, I saw the body of a dead man lying in the
back parlor of the doctor’s flat.”

“Was the doctor there?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing--preparing to cut up the body?”

“No; he was cleaning up.”

The head of the house resumed his paper for a moment and then laid it
down again.

“Why didn’t you tell me of this before?” he asked.

“Oh, I thought it merely a freak of the doctor’s.”

“What noises did you hear down there last night?”

“You are not in court now,” said the woman, with a laugh. “I don’t know
as I can describe the noises I heard. There were blows and the sound of
scuffling.”

The man of the house walked to the hall door, and opened it.

“I wonder if the doctor is there yet?” he asked.

“He went away an hour ago,” was the reply.

The man went down and tried the door.

It was locked, and no one answered his call.

“He’s gone, all right enough,” said the man, going upstairs again, “and
I’m going to have a look into that room.”

“You have no right----”

“Oh, yes, I have, my dear. The law gives me a right to go anywhere I
believe a crime is being committed.”

“Will the law heal your head if you get it hurt?” asked the wife,
anxiously.

“I’ll look out for that, too.”

The head of the house got his wife’s clothesline down, and raised the
window opening the airshaft.

The flat straight across was unoccupied, and the heavy curtains which
had revealed so much still hung across the windows in the flat below, so
there was no danger of making a scene.

The man swung himself down, and landed on the heavy ground glass at the
bottom of the shaft.

The window was fastened and heavy curtains had been drawn across the
panes, but the investigator, by the exertion of all his strength, forced
the sash up, and looked inside the room.

The man he saw lying there on the carpet was bound, and gagged, and
bloody, but he was not dead.

“Help me out of this,” his eyes said, as plainly as words could have
done.

The man removed the gag and stood looking down at him.

“How did you come here?” he asked.

“I didn’t get into this shape for the fun of it,” was the reply. “Take
these things off before those men come back.”

“Who are you?”

Nick nodded his chin toward an inside pocket.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said, “so you may look at my
credentials.”

The man did look, and in about a second after he had done looking Nick
Carter was free of all bonds, and on his way to the flat above.

It took but a few moments for the detective to explain all that had
taken place in the building the previous night.

Nick was not seriously injured.

A weaker man would have been laid up for days from the effects of the
bruises he had received, but Nick had too much work to do to think of
going to bed at all.

He washed and dressed his wounds as best he could, partook of a light
breakfast, and then asked the man who had rescued him to inform the
officer on the beat below that something unusual had taken place in the
old man’s flat the night before.

“That will place the matter in the hands of the police,” he said. “I
don’t want to take a hand in it just yet.”

The man soon came back, and reported that the policeman had broken in
the door, and found the old man lying bound and gagged on the bed. A
large amount of money and some valuable jewelry had been taken.

“And you have the clew?” said the man, inquiringly.

“Yes, but I can’t give it now. I want to have another interview with
those people downstairs before the officers get hold of them.”

“And they are in with the burglars?”

“It seems so. How long have they lived there?”

“About two weeks.”

“It is a part of the electric-drill scheme,” said Nick.

“What’s that?”

“I was thinking aloud.”

“But you spoke of an electric drill.”

“Yes.”

Nick Carter, for once, had been caught napping. He had spoken when he
should have remained silent.

“That makes me think,” continued the man, “that the two doctors
downstairs are cranks on electricity.”

“What do they do with electricity?”

“They have a motor down there, and they have been drilling all sorts of
substances.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Ever since they have lived there.”

Nick thought of the armature he had found in the rooms below not long
before, and remained silent.

“Now,” said the detective, “I want to be back in that room when the
doctors return, and I want you within reach in case I should need help.
What do you say to that?”

“All right. I am dying for a scrap, anyway.”

The two men descended to the lower flat, and Nick was placed in the
shape in which he had been left.

The gag was in his mouth, and the ropes were on his wrists and ankles,
but they were fixed so that they could be cast aside at any moment.

Nick’s companion secreted himself in a huge wardrobe in the room.

In ten minutes the door was unlocked from the outside, and two men
entered, only one of whom the detective knew.

One was the man who had attacked Nick and the other was the man who had
thrown the poisonous ball at Chick in the cellar of the chophouse.

“It worked like a charm,” the latter was saying. “The spy keeled over in
a second, and you ought to see the stuff we got out of his clothes.”

“Money?”

“Yes, money and disguises and letters of introduction. He’ll make an
excellent subject for the dissecting table in a day or two.”

Nick trembled, for he knew that they were talking about Chick.

“Is he dead?”

“No, but you know that he will die if restoratives are not applied
inside of twelve hours.”

“The twelve hours will be up at two o’clock this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“Why, we’ll cut him up--in the interest of science, of course.”

The doctor laughed brutally as he spoke.

“How’s the chophouse to-day?” asked the other.

“It stinks.”

“Closed up?”

“Tight as a drum.”

“The cellar is being worked, I suppose?”

“Yes, the boys are all at work, except the watchman Chick came so near
killing. He’s gone to bed.”

“Things must be about ready down there?”

“The drilling begins to-night.”

Nick thought he heard a faint exclamation from the direction of the
wardrobe.

One of the doctors also heard the noise.

“What’s that?” he asked.

His companion made no reply, but stepped up to the place where the
detective was lying.

“See here,” he said, “your friend is awake.”

The other advanced, and removed the gag.

“You might have done it yourself,” he said, addressing Nick, “it’s loose
enough.”

“How do you like your quarters?” asked the other doctor.

“Not very well,” was the reply.

“You heard what we have been saying?”

“Yes.”

“How do you like the fate in store for Chick?”

“He’s not dead yet,” replied Nick.

“You have an idea that you’ll both get away?”

“Of course.”

“Well, you’ll both be on the dissecting table in twenty-four hours.
You’ll make good subjects, too.”

“Put me in a chair,” said the detective. “The floor is like a rock.”

The doctors lifted him up.

“You have only a short time to live,” one of them said, “and we may as
well make you comfortable.”

The next moment one of the ruffians stood before the detective with a
rag saturated with ether.

“It’s time to put you to sleep,” he said. “You’ll wake up in a place
where you won’t need an overcoat.”

The instant the muscular doctor came within reach, Nick sprang to his
feet, and struck out with his right, throwing all the strength of his
strong arm and all the weight of his body into the blow.

The doctor caught the blow under the ear, and went to the floor like a
dead man.

Then the door of the wardrobe was thrown open, and Nick’s rescuer dashed
out.

The other doctor sprang for the door, but the man from the wardrobe got
there first.

In a moment the doctor was thrown to the floor and handcuffed.

But although captured, the fellow was not conquered.

“There’s one sure thing,” he said, “and that is that you can’t save
Chick. He’s got a dose that will finish him.”

“All right,” said Nick, coolly, “I can get another assistant, but you
can’t get another neck after the law gets done with the one you have.”

“Will the charge against me be murder?”

“Certainly.”

“Is that other chap asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Then I want to talk to you alone.”

Nick motioned to his friend to step outside.

The next moment there was a sharp report, and a terrible odor crept into
the room. The doctor had thrown another poison ball.




CHAPTER XVII.

“THE DOCTOR.”


“There! You may set the electric drill in motion to-night, or as soon as
you please.”

Nixon stood by a basin of water in the cellar, washing his hands.

Gilmore and Geary, with smiling faces, stood near the break in the
cellar wall.

“Three million dollars are almost within reach,” said the latter, “and
then here’s one man for Europe.”

“What’s that for?” asked Gilmore.

“It’s safer over there.”

Gilmore lit a cigar and handed one to his companion.

“It’s safe enough anywhere now,” he said.

“What makes you think so?”

“Haven’t we got rid of Nick Carter and Chick?”

Geary looked doubtful for a moment.

“They are out of the way for the present,” he said, seeing that Gilmore
expected him to say something.

“Do you think they will get away?” demanded Gilmore.

“I’m afraid they will.”

Gilmore took the candle in his hand and walked through the break in the
cellar wall.

Turning to the right, he faced toward the rear of the bank vault, and
lifted the flashing candle above his head.

“There,” he said, “do you see anything there?”

As he spoke he pointed to the figure of a man lying on the floor.

“Yes.”

“Does it look as if he’d get away?”

“Hardly.”

“Do you think the doctors will allow Nick to escape?”

“No.”

“Of course not. They want him too much for that. Don’t you think so?”

“What you say is all true,” said Geary, “but for all that you may rest
assured that we are not through with Nick Carter yet.”

As he spoke, Geary and Gilmore felt a hand laid on their shoulders.

Each gave a start of surprise.

The doctor stood before them.

“My friend Chick seems to be behaving himself,” he said, with a smile.

“What brings you back here at this time?” asked Gilmore.

“Restlessness.”

“How did you leave our friend, Nick Carter?” asked Geary.

“A trifle under the weather.”

“Conscious?”

“Yes.”

“Then look out for him.”

“He’s in good hands,” replied the doctor.

“Where’s Richard?” asked Gilmore.

“At the rooms. He won’t be down to-day.”

“What?”

“He won’t be down until evening.”

“What are you down for? We shall have a hard night of it.”

“I want to get this young man away.”

“What young man?”

“Chick.”

Gilmore looked puzzled.

“I thought he was to remain here,” he said.

“And have the officers find him with the broken vault in the morning? I
should say not.”

“Where do you want to take him?”

“To a place where we can cut him up, of course.”

“That’s the doctor of it,” said Gilmore, with an oath.

Then Nixon stepped back to where the three men were talking.

“Are you going to cut Nick Carter up, too?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Who let you in?” asked Nixon.

“The fellow at the door.”

“He was there when you came in, then?”

“Yes, and he made a kick about letting me in. He said something about
the word having been changed.”

“He must have been drunk,” said Gilmore, “for the word has not been
changed.”

“Well,” said Nixon, “the fellow has disappeared.”

The doctor appeared to be very angry.

“You will spoil the whole scheme by putting such men on guard,” he said,
“and at this critical time, too.”

“I’ll run that door myself, after this,” said Nixon, “or at least until
the drill starts.”

The doctor stepped forward and bent over the still figure lying in the
corner by the bank vault.

“He’s about gone,” he said. “We must get him out of this before he
dies.”

“Why so?”

“Because you can take an unconscious man through the streets very
easily, but you can’t stir with a dead one.”

“You are right about that,” said Geary. “I have tried both.”

“How are you going to get him away?” asked Gilmore.

“In a carriage, I suppose.”

“Well, call one, then, and let’s have done with the affair for good and
all.”

Geary went out to call a carriage “for a sick man,” and the doctor went
back to the motionless figure by the vault.

Gilmore watched him closely.

Finally he saw him take a bottle from his pocket and press it to Chick’s
lips.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Trying to get rid of this accursed smell,” was the cool reply.

“I wish you could take the stink out of the rooms upstairs,” said
Gilmore.

“You won’t want the rooms to-morrow,” was the reply.

“I hope not.”

Then Nixon came back and announced that the carriage was waiting.

The doctor and Nixon took Chick by the feet and shoulders, and carried
him to the street door of the chophouse.

Then Gilmore called Nixon to the back end of the room, to a place where
the doctor could not overhear what was being said.

“What do you think of this?” he asked.

“Of what?”

“Taking Chick away.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Well,” said Gilmore, with an oath, “I don’t like it either. He may
escape.”

“Then don’t let him go.”

“But the doctor wants him.”

“Confound the doctor.”

“He’s been a good producer, Nixon,” said Gilmore.

“Yes, and has allowed us to do all the work and assume all the risks.
Where was he last night when we were out there at his block? He ought to
have been on deck then.”

“I know it, old man.”

Nixon chewed the end of his cigar, and looked ugly.

“I’ll tell you what it is,” he said, in a moment. “I won’t leave this
young man, Chick, until I see the knife in him.”

“I was about to suggest that.”

“I’ve had enough of this monkey work with Nick Carter and his gang,”
continued the burglar. “I have had Nick and Chick in my power before
to-night, and they have always escaped through some soft-heartedness on
the part of some member of the party. That don’t happen this time.”

Gilmore seemed greatly pleased.

“You stick to that kind of talk regarding detectives,” he said, “and
you’ll wear diamonds.”

Nixon turned away toward the door.

“Remember,” Gilmore whispered in his ear, “any knife will do as well as
a surgeon’s knife.”

The doctor, standing at the street door, with his hand on the knob,
heard the words, and gave a sudden start.

“Hurry,” he said, when Nixon came up, “help me into the carriage with
this sick man and then you can run the place to suit yourself for a
little while, but I advise you to keep a closer watch on the door
opening on the street.”

“I’m going with you.”

Nixon spoke half angrily.

“Oh, you are?”

There was something so peculiar in the doctor’s tone that the burglar
looked up with a start.

“That’s orders.”

“From whom?”

“Gilmore.”

“Very well. Come along.”

“He takes it mighty cool,” thought Nixon. But, then, he could not see
the doctor’s face from where he was standing.

Chick was placed in the carriage without difficulty, and then the doctor
stepped forward to give the driver his orders.

When he got back to the carriage door, Nixon was leaning over the still
figure of the detective.

He held a wicked-looking knife in his hand, and seemed about to strike.

The doctor caught his arm.

“Don’t make a muss in the carriage,” he said, coolly.

With an oath, Nixon threw himself into the front seat of the carriage
and folded his arms.

“Keep me away from him, then,” he said. “I shall not wait for the drug
if I get another chance.”

The doctor pointed out to the crowded streets.

“See the risk you would run,” he said.

The carriage drove straight to the Windsor Hotel.

Nixon glared about in a suspicious manner, but helped to carry the
unconscious man to a room on the second floor without making any
remarks.

He cursed and swore at the crowd which gathered around the stairway when
Chick was taken from the vehicle, but said nothing to his companion
until the door of the room was closed behind them.

“What does this mean?” he then demanded.

He spoke with his hand on the handle of a revolver, but before he could
draw it the doctor had him covered.

“It means,” was the calm reply, “that you are under arrest. Throw up
your hands.”

“You are joking, doctor.”

The “doctor’s” false beard and wig were off in an instant, and Nick
Carter stood revealed.

Regardless of the weapon held within an inch of his face, Nixon, wild
with rage, sprang at the detective.

Nick did not care to use his revolver and so attract the attention of
the police and the people in the house.

He grappled with his assailant, and the two men rolled on the carpet
together.

Nixon was a muscular fellow, and he now fought with all the cunning and
all the fierce strength of a maniac.

He had a knife in his possession, and he exerted himself to the utmost
to bring it into use.

Nick knew the danger he was in, and tried hard to bring the fight to a
sudden close.

Not only his own life, but that of his assistant also depended upon his
exertions.

In a moment the struggling men heard steps in the hall, and then the
door of the room was thrown open.

Nick expected that the intruder was an employee of the hotel.

Nixon was afraid it was an officer.

It was neither.

It was one of the toughs who had attacked Chick the previous night in
the chophouse.

Gilmore had ordered him to follow the carriage.

Nick sprang to his feet, and drew his revolver.

With grins of triumph, Nixon and the thug advanced upon him.

“We’ve got you at last,” hissed the former.




CHAPTER XVIII.

A LONG JUMP.


“The electric drill ought to be working by this time.”

Chester Smith, the wealthy banker, Nick Carter, Chick and two detectives
from the city force sat in a room not far from the chophouse.

It was nearly midnight, and they had been waiting there two hours.

“It beats anything I ever heard of,” said the banker. “When burglars
took money from under my pillow, stole my revolver, cooked a breakfast
in my kitchen, tapped my wine, and left an explanatory tag tied to my
dog’s tail, I thought the limit of audacity had been reached; but this
robbing a bank by machinery throws all that in the shade.”

The detectives laughed heartily at the banker’s account of the burglar’s
visit to his residence.

Then Chick turned to his chief.

“I’d like to know,” he said, “how you got that make-up from the doctor,
and how you knew what drug to use in order to help me back to life.”

“Why,” said Nick, “the fool of a doctor tried to catch me by giving me a
dose of the same medicine he gave you. I got out of the room mighty
quick and shut the door.”

“And he had to take the dose himself?”

“Exactly. Well, the ball wasn’t very strong, and when I went back into
the room the fellow was still conscious, although lacking the power of
motion.”

“That’s the way I felt at first.”

“He motioned for me to take a bottle out of his pocket, and give him
some of its contents. I did so, and he was soon on his feet. So you see
I had the remedy right in my own hands. As for the doctor’s rig, I made
him give that up at the police station.”

“It was a perfect fit,” laughed Chick. “How Nixon started when you threw
it off.”

“You were conscious at that time?”

“Of course. I began to recover the instant you gave me the antidote, but
I didn’t want those fellows to catch on. I guess Nixon had an idea that
I was as good as dead. When I sprang from the bed and got him by the
neck he acted as if he had seen a ghost.”

“You saved my life there,” said Nick. “I couldn’t have fought another
round.”

One of the detectives who stood by the window now turned toward the
little group.

“It’s time to go,” he said. “The lights are out in the chophouse and the
drill must be going.”

“They are two hours late now,” said Nick, “but they may be waiting for
Nixon and the two doctors.”

“They’ll have to wait a long time,” said Chick.

The two detectives, Nick and Chick, now left the room and walked down to
the chophouse, where they stopped.

The grinding of the electric drill could very plainly be heard.

The city detectives went to the front door of the restaurant, while Nick
and his assistant crept down the area in front.

As they expected, the door in the double partition was securely fastened
on both sides.

They waited a few moments for the city officers to make their presence
known, but the work on the other side of the double wall went on as if
there were no officers within a thousand miles.

“Stay here and guard this door,” said Nick, “and I’ll go around and see
what’s the matter.”

The detective found the door of the chophouse open, and understood that
the city officers were on the inside.

He entered and walked along through the dark room until he came to the
door leading to the basement.

There he was met by a quick, sharp challenge.

“Who’s there?”

The detective hesitated an instant, and then answered:

“Nixon.”

His answer was followed by a sharp whistle, and then he heard a rush of
feet and the sound of excited voices in the basement.

In an instant the detective realized what had happened.

The city officers had been overpowered by the burglars.

The arrest of Nixon had in some way become known.

At this second invasion of the place the burglars were quitting their
work.

Nick knew that if he effected the capture of the gang at all he must act
at once, without waiting for assistance.

With a weapon in each hand, he sprang toward the stairs.

The guard there fired one warning shot and retreated to the cellar.

In a moment Nick had confronted the burglars.

“Surrender!” he shouted. “I have a dozen officers at my back.”

His only answer was several pistol shots, but the bullets flew wide of
their mark.

Then the outlaws rushed upon the detective.

Only one cowardly rascal turned to the door in the double wall to make
his escape.

Busy as he was with the men about him, Nick could not help smiling when
he saw the fellow unfastening the door.

He knew what would happen when he got it open.

Nick was now hard pressed, for the burglars were fighting for dear
liberty.

He was in a fair way to get the worst of the encounter when the man at
the door succeeded in getting it open, Chick having unfastened it from
the other side.

As the burglar stepped into the opening he met a hard, white hand which
sent him back into the rear room.

Then Chick sprang through the doorway with a yell, and began striking
right and left.

Seeing a man creeping up behind Nick with a knife in his hand, Chick
drew his revolver and shot the fellow through the heart.

This ended the battle.

The burglars had no means of knowing how many more officers there were
in the front cellar, and they did not like the shooting.

So they threw up their arms and surrendered.

Geary and Parks were the first men handcuffed.

Gilmore was nowhere in sight.

“Well, you’ve got me at last,” snarled Parks.

“Yes, and I could have had you much earlier,” retorted Nick, “but when I
took up your trail after you escaped on the way to Sing Sing, I knew you
would lead me to some other villains, and I thought I might as well bag
them too. Now, where is Gilmore?”

“He went over the roof, and I hope you’ll catch him.”

Nick, leaving Chick to guard the prisoners, dashed through the chophouse
and up the stairs to the roof.

It was very dark, and at first he could see nothing.

Finally, however, he heard a noise on the roof of the next building,
which was several feet lower than the roof of the one upon which the
detective then stood.

He crept to the edge and looked down.

A figure stood on the wall at the rear, looking over an alley, at least
twelve feet wide.

As the detective looked, the figure sprang into the air and landed on
the other side.

It was a desperate act, but well carried out.

“Gilmore still has his old nerve,” thought Nick. “I wonder if I could
jump that alley?”

He could, and he did, but when he stood in safety on the other side,
Gilmore had disappeared.

Nick prowled around on the roof a long time, and was about to take his
departure when a low cry of fright reached his ears.

He crept softly in the direction from which the sound had proceeded, and
found a faint light shining through a skylight in the roof.

Looking down, he saw Gilmore standing by the side of a bed containing
two young men.

He was evidently pleading with them for protection.

The burglar had been careful to replace the skylight after leaving the
roof, and had drawn a table under the opening for the purpose.

Nick pushed the sash aside, and dropped into the room.

One of the young men saw him, but Nick pointed to the badge on his vest,
and the fellow remained silent.

Before Gilmore knew that Nick was in the room, the detective was upon
him.

There was a short, sharp struggle, and then the most daring house and
bank breaker in the world lay handcuffed on the floor.

“What a bank burglar you would have made,” said Gilmore, as Nick sat
down by his side for a moment’s rest.

“Think so?”

“What have you done with Nixon, the two doctors and the doorkeeper?”
continued Gilmore.

“All locked up.”

“And Chick?”

“Downstairs, keeping cases on the gang.”

“Are they all under arrest?”

“Every one.”

“I suppose it was you that got Chick away?”

“Of course.”

“Again I say what a bank burglar you would have made.”

Gilmore was in a great rage when, after being taken to police
headquarters, he learned that the whole gang had been captured by the
two New York detectives.

“What became of the city officers?” he asked.

Geary grinned and pointed toward the old chophouse cellar.

“You’ll find them down there behind the bank vault,” he said.

And there the officers were found, nearly suffocated and foaming with
rage.




CHAPTER XIX.

AWAITING NICK CARTER.


While these events were transpiring in Chicago the New York chief of
police was being interviewed by a woman who had a most remarkable story
to tell.

So remarkable, indeed, that the chief persuaded his caller to defer any
action till Nick Carter returned home.

The result was that when Nick reached his office he found this note
awaiting him:

     “Please call and see Miss Louise Templin at the St. James Hotel.
     Don’t wait to see me first. See her. Very urgent.”

Nick did not need to glance at the signature to find out who had written
this characteristic note.

“When the chief says ‘very urgent,’ he means it,” was Nick’s inward
comment.

A pile of letters had accumulated in his absence, but it did not take
him long to deal with his correspondents; then directing one of his
assistants to inform the chief that he had returned and was acting on
the urgent message, he started for the St. James and sent up his card to
Miss Templin.

He was invited to “come right up,” and he soon afterward stood before
the entrance to a suite of rooms on the second floor.

His knock was answered by a woman’s voice, which bade him enter.

Accepting the invitation, he found himself standing in the presence of
a young lady, richly and tastefully dressed, and remarkably handsome.

She held in her hand the card which Nick had sent up, and, glancing at
it, the young lady said:

“You are Mr. Carter?”

“At your service, Miss Templin.”

“You come from the chief of police, I presume?”

“I have just arrived in the city and have had an urgent message from the
chief asking me to call here.”

“Please be seated, Mr. Carter.”

When Nick had taken the chair which the young lady pointed out to him,
she continued:

“It can scarcely be necessary, Mr. Carter, for me to apologize for
receiving you here, rather than in the public reception rooms of the
hotel, where we might be overheard in our conversation.”

“I understand all that, Miss Templin. You wish to consult me
professionally.”

“Yes. I called on your chief of police yesterday, and he advised me to
put the case in your hands. He also promised to send you to me, and I
see he has kept his promise promptly.”

“I will be pleased to hear from you the nature of the work which you
have for me to do,” said Nick, in order to hasten matters.

“Briefly, it is to find a man with a long, white beard,” she replied.

“That is rather a vague undertaking,” smiled Nick.

“You will not think so after I have told you more about it.

“Five years ago my father, as I have up to a recent date had reason to
believe, died, and was buried. Last week I met either him alive and in
the flesh, or his double. I want you to run this mystery down and solve
it. That is the gist of the story. Now I will go into details.”

“If you please, Miss Templin.”

“As I said before, I had, up to last week, a perfect belief that my
father, Jason Templin, was dead and buried for three years.”

“You were not present at his death and burial?”

“No. I have been in Europe for four years.”

“From whom did you get the news of his death?”

“From my guardian, and my father’s most intimate friend.”

“His name?”

“Lawrence Lonsdale.”

“Where does he live?”

“In San Francisco.”

“Where your father lived, and--is supposed to have died?”

“Yes.”

“Cannot you trust this Lonsdale?”

“I have always believed I could until the sight of that man last week
raised a doubt in my mind of Mr. Lonsdale’s honesty. I am very anxious
to speedily have the doubt removed, or confirmed, and that is why I
applied to your chief of police for help. The affair must be cleared up
within the next few days.”

“Why?”

“Because I am the promised wife of Lawrence Lonsdale. He left San
Francisco for New York last evening, and we are to be married when he
reaches this city. There must be no uncertainty about this affair when
he arrives.”

“Well, give me the details of the case, and I’ll see what can be done,”
said Nick.

“For several years before his death,” began Miss Templin, “my father was
mentally dead and helpless.”

“Insane?”

“Hardly insane. His case puzzled the most eminent physicians on the
Pacific Coast. He retired one night, apparently in his usual good
health. Next morning he was found lying in bed, helpless, speechless
and, as it was soon discovered, with a brain which was mentally a blank.

“After that day he never spoke, or showed signs of possessing the powers
of reasoning, understanding or hearing, and he never moved a muscle of
either leg.

“The most wonderful part of the case was that his appetite was not
impaired, and he took nourishment regularly. Physically, he was as well
as ever, except that he never afterward would, or could, walk, talk or
hear.

“For two years we called into his case all the medical skill on the
coast, but without a particle of success. Mr. Templin lived on, his
physical form as perfect as ever, but his mental or spiritual part
seemed to have died and left the body.

“At the end of these two years a Dr. Greene, who conducted a sanitarium
near Oakland, devoted to mental diseases of the milder form, expressed
the belief that he could restore my father to the use of all his
faculties, if the afflicted man was placed in his care at his private
retreat.

“I visited the sanitarium, and was shown the suite of rooms which Greene
offered to set aside for my poor father’s use. He also introduced me to
the two nurses and a male assistant, who would be in constant
attendance.

“I saw at once that my afflicted parent would receive better attention
than he had been getting, and, although Greene’s charges were
excessively large, Mr. Lonsdale and I concluded to have him removed to
the retreat.

“This was the more readily agreed to by me because I was going to Europe
for a four years’ stay among the art studios of Italy.”

“You have been there as a student?”

“Yes. From my mother, who died when I was young, I inherited a love for
painting, and it was my father’s dearest desire that when I came out of
school I should go to Italy and get the benefit of the best teachers in
painting. Mr. Lonsdale, therefore, urged me to place my father in this
retreat, where he would have better care than we could give him, and go
to Europe, as originally arranged.”

“Your father, as you supposed, died in the retreat?”

“Yes. The first news I got of it was about a year after I had been in
Rome. Mr. Lonsdale cabled that papa was dead. Several weeks later I got
his letter, which set forth the details.”

“Then the death was tragic?”

“You shall judge for yourself. Mr. Lonsdale, as he wrote to me in his
letter, was summoned to the sanitarium by a telegram which informed him
that my father was dead.

“He was not surprised at the bare news, for by that time we had
surrendered all hopes of a final recovery; but the manner of the death
was a shock.

“The weather was cool, and a grate fire burned in my father’s room that
night. In the temporary absence of the attendants from the apartment, it
was supposed the patient recovered the use of his legs, got up and went
to the fire.

“While there it was thought he fell in a fatal faint.

“When the attendant came back, he found the patient dead at the grate,
with his head on the fender, and his face nearly burned away.

“Mr. Templin wore a long, white beard, and very white hair. All of the
beard and hair had been consumed.

“Dr. Greene wanted to hold an autopsy, but Mr. Lonsdale would not
consent. In fact, he had the remains consigned to a vault, because he
feared the intense desire of the medical profession of California to get
a look at the brain of the man who furnished this remarkable case was so
great and so general that the body would not be safe in a grave.”




CHAPTER XX.

AN HEIRESS IN TROUBLE.


“And yet you have some doubts, Miss Templin, whether it really is your
father’s body which lies in that vault back there?” commented Nick
Carter, as the young lady indicated that her story was told.

“Yes.”

“And that Mr. Lonsdale, your guardian and affianced husband, has in some
way deceived you?”

“Mr. Lonsdale was my guardian. I am now of age.”

“But you have not answered my question.”

“Well, I had rather believe that if I have been deceived about my
father’s death, he has been deceived also.”

“Why not wait, then, till he arrives in New York before making this
investigation?”

“No. I greatly desire that it be made before he arrives.”

“And if you find that the man you saw last week is not your father, you
do not want Mr. Lonsdale to know that the investigation was made?”

“I should prefer it so.”

“She knows more than she is willing to tell me,” thought Nick.

“Where did you see the man you believed to be your father?” he asked.

“At the office of the Scotia Life Insurance Company, in this city.”

“When?”

“Wednesday of last week.”

“And this is Thursday. That was eight days ago?”

“Yes.”

“Why so much delay in beginning your search for the man?”

“It was hard for me to make up my mind to stamp my doubts of the honor
of the man I love with the brand of investigation. It was only when I
realized that he was on his way to claim my hand in marriage that I
decided to have that doubt removed when he stood before me again.”

“Did you speak to this man whom you thought was your father?”

“No. He got away before the opportunity offered, or rather before I
recovered from the shock of my surprise. When I saw him he was some
distance away, and just about to go out upon the street. By the time I
had turned back to follow him, he had disappeared among the crowd
outside.”

“You made no attempt to find out who he was?”

“No. How could I?”

“What was he doing when you saw him? Was anyone with him?”

“He was alone, and held something in his hand which had the appearance
of a note, a check or a receipt. He was looking at this paper the moment
I saw him.”

“You went to the Scotia’s office on business?”

“I went there under Mr. Lonsdale’s instructions to get a remittance
which he telegraphed to me from San Francisco,” explained Miss Templin.

“He expected to meet me here in New York when I landed, but was detained
a week in San Francisco. He therefore telegraphed, asking me to remain
till he could come on. At the same time he sent me to his friend, the
president of the Scotia Life Insurance Company, for what money I needed.
I was just entering the office when I saw that man leaving.”

“Did you mention the matter to your friend, the president of the
Scotia?”

“No. I was not well enough acquainted with him to speak on a subject so
delicate. I called at the office yesterday, but he was not in--would not
be in till to-day.”

“Then we might find him there now?”

“I suppose so.”

“Can you accompany me to his office?”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Certainly.”

“Then let us go at once.”

“What for?”

“To take up the trail of your man of mystery.”

“I scarcely see----”

“Will you leave that to me, Miss Templin?”

“Why, certainly.”

“Then, if you are ready, we will start at once.”

On the way to the office of the Scotia, Nick continued his inquisition:

“Your father was a rich man, Miss Templin, was he not?”

“Yes, sir; very.”

“You are his heiress?”

“I am, so far as I know, the only blood relative he has living.”

“Who is this Lawrence Lonsdale, the man you are going to marry?”

“A lawyer, and papa’s most trusted friend and agent.”

“How did he become your guardian?”

“By my father’s will, under which he was also made executor of the
estate.”

“You were lovers before you went to Europe?”

“Yes. Mr. Lonsdale and I have been lovers since I was fifteen years
old.”

“Is there any way in which Mr. Lonsdale could benefit by deceiving you
about your father’s fate?”

“None that I can imagine.”

“He is anxious to make you his wife?”

“Oh, yes. He wanted to marry me before I went to Europe.”

“Ah! You refused?”

“Yes. I told him I would not marry while my father was lying in that
half-dead state. After papa died, he wanted to come to Europe and marry
me, but I was determined to finish my studies first.”

“You ought to easily prove your father’s death without Mr. Lonsdale’s
testimony, Miss Templin.”

“Why, how? He is the only witness on that point in America.”

“This Dr. Greene?”

“He, as well as the nurses and attendant in charge of my father, went to
Australia or New Zealand soon after Mr. Templin’s death.”

“Ah!”

It was only a word of two letters, but it caused the young woman to look
at Nick sharply.

The detective pretended not to notice that searching look, but he was
confident his little aspirate would set Miss Templin’s mind to work on a
brand-new lead.

They found the president of the Scotia Life Insurance Company in his
office, and Miss Templin introduced herself. She met with a warm welcome
from the friend of her affianced husband.

Then she introduced Nick Carter.

“What! Not the celebrated detective!” exclaimed the insurance president.
“How fortunate! I was upon the point of going to your house to consult
you on a matter of considerable concern to not only our company, but to
four or five other companies in this city, who have been hit equally
hard.”

“Hit!” exclaimed Nick.

“Why, yes. A man who insured with us two years ago has died. There are
some circumstances about the case which have aroused our suspicions that
everything is not exactly straight. Before we pay the money we want the
case thoroughly investigated, and we have decided you are the man to do
it.”

“How much is involved?”

“Half a million. He was insured for one hundred thousand dollars in
each of five companies. If you can show up fraud in the case, it will
pay you well.”

“What was the man’s name?”

“Miles Mackenzie.”

“Where does he live?”

“At a town in eastern Pennsylvania named Elmwood.”

“Well, as soon as I finish Miss Templin’s business, I’ll be glad to look
into this affair for you, if it can wait a few days.”

“Oh, yes, a week, if necessary. The money will not be paid till you get
time to look up the Mackenzie affair. So you have a mystery to clear up,
too, eh, Miss Templin?”

“Yes; and we’ve come to you to help us out.”

“I help you out? Why, how can I? What is it?”

Miss Templin explained as briefly as she could what had happened when
she called the week previous.

“And you want to trace this man if you can from our office?” asked the
president of Nick.

“Yes,” replied the detective.

“But how?”

“He was here on business, I suppose?”

“That seems a reasonable deduction.”

“For what purpose do men usually call?”

“To pay premiums.”

“Then let us make inquiries of your cashier first.”

“Had your man any prominent appearance by which he would be likely to
impress the cashier’s memory?”

“I think so.”

“Then I’ll send for him.”

The president touched a button and summoned a messenger.

“Tell Mr. Grandin I wish to see him, and ask him to bring his accounts
along for Wednesday of last week.”

The cashier shortly appeared, with an account book under his arm.

“Mr. Grandin, this gentleman”--indicating Nick Carter--“wants to make
some inquiries, and I wish you would answer him to the best of your
ability.”

“I shall be pleased if I can accommodate you, sir,” said the cashier,
bowing to the detective.

“Well, then, Mr. Grandin, a gentleman was seen to leave this office on
the day mentioned and our belief is that he was here for the purpose of
paying a premium, because he had a piece of paper in his hand when he
went out which looked like one of the company’s receipts.”

“And you want to learn who he was--what his name is?”

“That’s it.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Miss Templin can,” said Nick, looking at the young lady. Whereupon the
latter said:

“The man was perhaps sixty years old, but looked older on account of
very white hair and long white whiskers, white eyebrows and a very red
face. He----”

“Wait a moment,” exclaimed the cashier, interrupting Miss Templin.
“There is no need of your going any further.”

“Then you know him?” asked Nick.

“Yes. He was here on that day, as my books will show.”

“Well, what is his name?”

“His name was Miles Mackenzie.”

“What!” shouted the president, springing up from his chair. “The man
who----”

“The man who died yesterday at Elmwood, in Pennsylvania, who was so
heavily insured,” said the cashier.




CHAPTER XXI.

A MAN AND HIS DOUBLE.


“This is astonishing!” exclaimed the president, dismissing the cashier
with a wave of his hand.

“It certainly is a remarkable coincidence,” said Nick Carter. “If your
cashier is correct in what he has just told us, then the man who was
mistaken by Miss Templin for her father was Mackenzie, late of Elmwood,
Pennsylvania.”

“There doesn’t seem to be a doubt about that,” agreed the president.

“Then while I prosecute my inquiries for Miss Templin, I can at the same
time probably serve your company,” said Nick, addressing the president
of the Scotia.

“Not only my company, but the four other companies besides. I have seen
the presidents or managers of the other four this forenoon, and they
authorized me to take charge of the affair and secure an
investigation.”

“When were your suspicions aroused that the Mackenzie affair might not
be exactly all right?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“How?”

“By the receipt of a telegram from Elmwood, announcing the death of
Mackenzie.”

“Who sent the telegram?”

“It was signed ‘John A. Abbott.’”

“Do you know him?”

“No; never heard of him.”

“You thought it strange that the death should thus be announced to your
company?”

“Yes. It is quite unusual. But there are other strange features about
the case. A similar telegram was received by each of the other four
companies. What is more suspicious still, the premiums on three of the
other policies would have been due to-day, and the remaining one next
week. The first insurance was secured in our company. Nine days later he
took out policies in three more companies, and a week later still, in
the fifth.”

“This is all you have upon which to base your suspicions that something
is wrong in the case?”

“No. After these telegrams were received yesterday, our general manager,
during my absence from the city, secretly sent an agent of the company
to Elmwood for a little private investigation. This morning we received
a message from him. Here it is.”

The president handed a telegram to Nick, which the detective read:

“Better send a shrewd detective at once.”

“Anything more?”

“No.”

“I will go to Elmwood.”

“When?”

“This evening. I can get a train at five o’clock, which will set me down
at Elmwood about eight.”

“Good. You will find our man, Foster, at the best hotel in the town.”

“No. I want you to recall your man immediately. He must not be there
when I arrive.”

“But you’ll be gone before he can reach New York.”

“Yes. We’ll probably pass each other on the way.”

“Then how can you get the benefit of his investigation?”

“I don’t want it.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I should have said I do not need it. Surely I ought to be able to
discover anything he has discovered. Then I don’t want his deductions.
They might mislead me. A detective’s own theories are usually better and
safer than those of an amateur.”

“Very well, Mr. Carter. We will recall Foster.”

“Before I go, will you give me what information you have of the history
of Mackenzie? I mean as to his age, birthplace, family history and other
things shown by his application for a policy.”

“Oh, I see. I’ll send and get the application from the files.”

When the insurance company’s application in the case of Miles Mackenzie
was laid before Nick, he looked it rapidly over, and mentally noted
such points as he thought might be of interest in his investigation.

The application was made two years before.

The applicant’s age was given as fifty-seven years; born in Scotland;
only child of parents who were both dead; family history good; father
and mother both died at a ripe old age; never had been seriously ill in
his life; medical examination eminently satisfactory; married the second
time; had one child--a son by first wife; his living wife was made the
beneficiary under the policy.

“Seems to have been a good risk,” commented Nick, as he handed the
application to the president.

“One of the best we ever had at that age,” was the reply.

“His premiums must have been very large?”

“They were. In the two years he has paid to the five companies more than
sixty thousand dollars.”

Nick arose to go.

“You will hear from me, Mr. President, within a few days,” he said.

“Then you think there will be little trouble in showing fraud of some
kind in this case?”

“Oh, I did not intend to convey that idea. If there be fraud, it ought
to be proven in a very short time. If everything is legitimate, then the
fact must also be readily established. Therefore, I anticipate a speedy
report, but whether it will be favorable to your interests or not, I
cannot promise until I have first gone to Elmwood.”

On their way uptown, Nick said to Miss Templin:

“Did this Dr. Greene own his sanitarium at Oakland when Mr. Templin was
a patient at that place?”

“You mean the real estate?”

“Yes.”

“I think he did.”

“Then when he went to Australia, he sold out to some one?”

“That is what I understand--to the man who is now in possession.”

“Can you find out for me the amount realized by him in this conveyance?”

“Quite easily. An intimate friend in San Francisco, with whom I have
constantly corresponded, can get the information, through her brother.”

“Then telegraph to her to send it to you without delay.”

“Mr. Carter, do you----”

“Now, Miss Templin, you must ask me no questions, but be ready to answer
those I have to put to you at any time. You will stay here in New York a
few days?”

“Oh, yes. I must remain at the St. James until Mr. Lonsdale arrives, and
that will be nearly a week longer.”

“Then stay in your room as much as is altogether convenient, and hold
yourself in readiness to come to me at Elmwood in an hour’s notice,
should I send for you,” was Nick’s parting injunction, as Miss Templin
got ready to leave the elevated train at Twenty-eighth Street.

Nick continued on uptown, and Miss Templin proceeded at once to the St.
James.

Just as she was going into the hotel at the Twenty-eighth Street
entrance, she was noticed by one of two men who happened to be passing
on Broadway.

One was a man apparently about fifty years of age, of medium height and
stockily built. He wore a closely cropped, full beard, of a sandy hue,
and was clad in a business suit of light gray.

His companion was a much younger man, whose age could not have been more
than thirty-five. He wore no beard at all, but his smooth, pale face
showed the close-shaved stubble of a beard which would be intensely
black were it allowed to grow, and his closely-cropped head of hair was
of the same hue.

It was this younger one of the two who first saw Miss Templin. Instantly
he grew excited and exclaimed, as he grasped his companion by the arm:

“Good heavens, Dent! Look there!”

“Look where? Why, what is the matter?”

“Did you see that woman go into the St. James just now?”

“No. Who was it?”

“Louise Templin.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am that you are you and I am I.”

“That’s bad--at this time.”

“I should say it was. I’m going to see what she is doing in New York. I
had no idea she was back from Europe. Go on up to the Coleman House.
I’ll join you there in the bar.”

The man addressed as Dent continued on up Broadway, and his companion
entered the St. James Hotel from the Broadway side.

Miss Templin was standing in front of the telegraph booth, writing a
message.

The stranger walked slowly past, behind her back, and managed to read at
a glance what the young lady had written, and to which she was putting
her signature.

The telegram read:

“Find out and telegraph me at once sum paid to Dr. Greene by present
owner of Greene’s Sanitarium.”

The newcomer strolled on up to the office desk, and thence into the
reading room, from which place he saw Miss Templin enter the elevator
and go upstairs.

Then he left by the Twenty-eighth Street door, and soon joined his
companion at the Coleman House.

“Dent,” he said, “it is worse than I feared. That woman is here for no
good.”

“What have you discovered?”

“She just now sent a telegram to San Francisco, asking for information
as to the price paid for Greene’s Sanitarium by the present owner.”

“Are you sure?”

“I read the telegram.”

“What will you do?”

“What will I do? That telegram sealed Louise Templin’s fate. She’ll
never get an answer.”




CHAPTER XXII.

MACKENZIE’S SECRET.


Nick Carter reached Elmwood a few minutes after eight o’clock that
night, and went straight to the only hotel in the town--a very
comfortable and well-kept, though small, hostelry.

He made his appearance in Elmwood in the guise of a lawyer, and
registered as “Wylie Ketchum, New York City.”

As soon as he had been assigned to a room, he inquired of the landlord:

“Can you tell me where Mr. Mackenzie lives?”

“I can tell you where he did live,” was the reply, made in a mysterious
tone of voice.

“Where he did live? You don’t mean to tell me he has moved away?”

“Well, he has!”

“Rather sudden, wasn’t it?”

“Very.”

“Do you know where he has gone?”

“Well, not for sure, though, seeing the old man was a good sort o’
person as men go--a member of the Presbyterian Church, and one who never
refused a call in the name of charity, I presume he has gone to heaven,
if a man ever gets there.”

“Dead?”

“As a doornail.”

“When did he die?”

“Yesterday. Are you a friend of the family?”

“Oh, no; only a lawyer who has done business for him occasionally.”

“Ah, yes.”

“How did he die?”

“Suddenly. Dr. Abbott can tell you all about it.”

“Who is Dr. Abbott?” asked Nick, at the same time remembering that the
telegrams to the insurance companies, announcing Mackenzie’s death, were
signed “John A. Abbott.”

“Why, he’s the oldest physician in these parts. Has been here since a
boy, and----”

“But was he Mackenzie’s physician?”

“Yes; and more than his physician. The two men were intimates. No one in
Elmwood knew Mackenzie better than Abbott--not even his minister.”

“Then I want to meet Dr. Abbott as soon as possible,” Nick thought.

Ten minutes later he was introducing himself to “the oldest physician in
Elmwood.”

Dr. Abbott was fully sixty years old; he was a large, well-fed,
jolly-appearing gentleman, who no sooner looked Nick Carter in the eye
than he impressed the latter most favorably.

“No matter how much of a villain Mackenzie was, this man was not his
accomplice,” was Nick’s verdict of Dr. Abbott.

“Well, Mr. Ketchum, how can I serve you?” asked the doctor.

“I came to Elmwood to transact a little business with a client, and was
shocked to learn as soon as I reached town that he is dead.”

“Who? Mackenzie?”

“Yes.”

“Ah! poor Mackenzie! It was a great shock to me.”

“You were his intimate friend?”

“We were almost like brothers.”

“So I was told, and that is why I came to you.”

“How can I serve you?”

“By giving advice. I came here to draw up a new will.”

“Why, I didn’t know he had made one. He sent for you?”

“No; he arranged for my visit when he was in New York yesterday a week
ago.”

“Ah!”

“So I’m too late, and it’s my fault. I should have come several days
earlier, but couldn’t get away. Besides, I supposed he was in the best
of health and there was no hurry.”

“That was Mackenzie’s secret and mine. We expected a quick ending, but
its sudden arrival astonished me, at least, in spite of my knowledge of
his condition.”

“Then he has been failing for some time?”

“For about a year. He came to me when he experienced the first symptoms,
and told me how he felt. I kept from him the knowledge of his condition
as long as I thought it wise. But he grew so rapidly and alarmingly
worse, I was forced, a few months ago, to lay bare to him his
precarious state of ill-health. He heard his doom like the brave
Christian he was.”

“Then death did not find him unprepared?”

“No; certainly not.”

“How long did you know him?”

“A little over two years--ever since he came to Elmwood!”

“Where did he live before he moved to this place?”

“In Australia, though he originally came from Scotland. He was a
Scotchman by birth.”

“How did you and he come to be such friends?”

“Well, in the first place he was my tenant.”

“Your tenant?”

“Yes. I own the house in which they have lived ever since they came to
this place.”

“He rented it?”

“Yes.”

“Then he was not, as I supposed, a wealthy man?”

“On the contrary, he was worth half a million, besides his large life
insurance.”

“And yet he was a renter?”

“He rented, with the privilege of purchasing. You see, he was not sure
of making this his home until after he was stricken with his fatal
disease, and then I discouraged him from buying for two reasons. One was
because the rent he was paying was satisfactory, and the other was
because I made up my mind that I would move into the house myself,
should he die and his wife go away.”

“Where would she go?”

“Back to her old home in Australia. Mackenzie told me she has never been
satisfied since she left that far-off place of her nativity.”

“Then she will return there, now that her husband is dead?”

“I think it quite likely.”

“You have spoken only of his wife. Has he no children?”

“None by the present Mrs. Mackenzie, who is his second wife and
comparatively a young woman. But he had a son living--the issue of his
first marriage.”

“Where is this son?”

“I don’t know where he is at present. When last heard from he was in
Paris and talked about coming here to visit his father soon. Indeed,
Mackenzie, when he showed me the Paris letter, said he’d not be
surprised if his boy would drop in on him almost any time.”

“He showed you the son’s letters?”

“Oh! yes. You see, Mackenzie made me his full confidant ever since he
first met me. He has talked a great deal about his absent son, and has
shown me all the letters he received from the young man from time to
time, written at different places. He confided in me as if I were his
brother.”

“You said something about his life insurance?”

“Yes; Mackenzie had half a million dollars on his life. You see, he
wanted to leave his entire possessions to this son, and yet arrange it
so that his widow would not receive a cent less at his death. He
consulted me about the plan, which was adopted, and it was this: His
income was sufficient for the family’s modest mode of living, and for
the payment of premiums on a half million of life insurance besides. So,
instead of putting the accumulating revenues with the principal, he used
them to carry the insurance. Did he never explain this to you, his
lawyer?”

“No, I have done very little business with Mackenzie. Had he lived, I
should have known more.”

“Well, as his trusted friend, I will gladly consult with you on all
matters pertaining to his estate. Now you are here, had you not better
remain till after the funeral? Your services may be needed.”

“When will the funeral occur?”

“To-morrow afternoon.”

“Then I will stay.”

“I was just going over to the house to see if I could be of service to
the widow in making the arrangements for the funeral. Will you go
along?”

It was just what Nick hoped for--this opportunity to visit the dead
man’s late home, and he accepted Dr. Abbott’s invitation.

As the doctor was getting ready to leave his office, Nick made a mental
summing up in the case, so far as he had got.

“This Mackenzie’s plot, if there be one, was deep-laid. He was probably
an excellent reader of human nature, and when he got ready to pick out
an innocent aid-de-camp in this town, he wisely selected Dr. Abbott, for
the triple reason that Abbott was the most pliable, unsophisticated man
in town: because he was a man of high standing in the community, and
because he was a doctor by profession.

“He was careful not to let his chosen friend discover the fact that he,
himself, thoroughly understood diseases and all their symptoms.
Therefore, he easily led Abbott into the belief that he--Mackenzie--was
a victim to some deadly malady.

“He has taken Abbott into his confidence about the absent son, even to
showing the letters from the latter. Those letters we shall find among
his effects, no doubt, and the son may or may not turn up hereafter.

“He even consulted the doctor, and used him in some way to further his
ends about the life insurance. I must find out just how, after I have
seen the corpse. Yes, I must see the corpse of Miles Mackenzie when we
reach the house of mourning.”




CHAPTER XXIII.

A DOG’S INSTINCT.


As Nick Carter and Dr. Abbott walked through the main street of the town
of Elmwood, on their way toward the residence of the late Miles
Mackenzie, the detective had an opportunity to note the great popularity
and widespread esteem in which his companion was held in that community.

Everyone they met had a word of greeting, and received from the
whole-souled man some response in return. Very often inquiries were made
about the funeral, and it was evident that a very general feeling of
regret existed for the death of the man who had so recently come among
them.

Abbott explained to Nick that the house, in which Mackenzie’s body lay,
was half a mile beyond the edge of the town. The night was pleasant, and
they walked along in the full enjoyment of the summer weather.

“Dr. Abbott,” said Nick, when they were fairly out of the town, “your
friend died suddenly, you say. Might not the insurance company, on that
account, be inquisitive, and be inclined to make trouble before they pay
over such a large sum?”

“There are five companies, Mr. Ketchum. He held a policy in each of five
companies. When it became evident that he would drop dead some day, we
discussed that very point. Mackenzie had a horror of being dug up after
burial, and having his body subjected to a postmortem examination. So we
prepared against that contingency.”

“Indeed! How?”

“As soon as he died, I telegraphed to each of the insurance companies,
notifying them of his demise. If they hold an autopsy, it must be done
before to-morrow afternoon. If they fail to do it by that time, they
will never be able to set up a plea that the body was removed beyond
their reach without giving them a fair chance to investigate the cause
of death.”

“But that would not prevent them from digging up the body or having it
disinterred for the purpose of an autopsy later,” said Nick.

“Oh! yes, it would. An autopsy after to-morrow night will be
impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because the body will be incinerated at the Long Island Crematory.”

“Then, after all,” said Nick to himself, “it is not his body lying in a
self-inflicted trance, nor is it a perfectly made wax image. What is it
I am up against?”

A huge Newfoundland dog met them at the gate leading into the spacious
grounds surrounding the house. The dog greeted Dr. Abbott familiarly and
with demonstrations of great friendship.

“Poor Rover!” exclaimed Abbott, patting the Newfoundland on the head.
“You have lost your good, kind master.”

Then to Nick he said:

“This dog and Mackenzie were almost inseparable. When the poor brute
realizes his loss, he will be inconsolable.”

As they neared the house, Nick said:

“Dr. Abbott, I wish you would not mention to the widow my profession nor
the business which brought me to Elmwood.”

“Why not?”

“I mean until after the funeral. Might it not be a source of additional
worry to her to know that I had been brought here by her dead husband?”

“You are right, Mr. Ketchum. I will introduce you as a friend from the
city visiting me.”

“Thank you.”

The house stood in the center of a large lawn, and there was no other
residence within a radius of a quarter of a mile. It was a frame
building of moderate size, two stories in height, and by no means of
modern architecture.

A very large, buxom woman, of middle age, met Dr. Abbott at the door. He
addressed her as “Emma,” and Nick supposed she was a servant.

“Where is Mrs. Mackenzie, Emma?”

“In the sitting room, sir, with Rev. Playfair and Deacon Cotton.”

“Then we’ll not disturb her till they have gone. I’ve brought a friend,
who is visiting me, and we’ll go in and look at the remains, if you have
no objections.”

“Why, certainly not, doctor,” was the stout woman’s reply, but Nick was
aware that she was at the same time staring at him with a gaze which was
full of suspicion or curiosity.

Abbott and Nick followed Emma through the first door on the right, into
a room which had all the blinds drawn and was but faintly illuminated by
a lamp burning low.

The servant turned up the light, and Nick saw a coffin resting on two
chairs near the mantel.

Softly and silently he and Abbott walked forward and looked down at the
dead man.

They saw the face of what was undoubtedly a corpse; the face of an old
man, with very white hair and very white beard.

Abbott looked but a few moments. Then he turned away, while tears
trickled down his face.

Nick stood a little longer, carefully noting every feature of the dead
man in the coffin, and all this time he was aware of the fact that the
stout woman never once took her eyes off his face. When they emerged
from the parlor, the minister and deacon were just leaving. Abbott,
therefore, instructed the servant to conduct them to the widow.

During that short visit to the corpse, Nick made one very important
observation, which was lost upon Abbott and the woman, Emma.

Rover had followed them in, and, while Nick was looking at the dead man,
the dog came up to the coffin, also looked at the face of the corpse,
gave one or two sniffs and walked away, without exhibiting a particle of
canine grief over his loss.

They found the young and comely widow in the sitting room, surrounded by
several condoling neighboring women, who took their departure as Abbott
entered.

The doctor introduced his friend and visitor, Mr. Ketchum, from the
city, and made his excuses for bringing a stranger to the house of
mourning.

“The fact is, my dear Mrs. Mackenzie, we may need an additional witness,
when the life insurance is collected, and as Mr. Ketchum is a stranger
in Elmwood, he will serve as such much better than one of your
neighbors.”

This explanation may have been satisfactory to the widow, but Nick
noticed that she, too, bestowed more attention upon him than the
circumstances seemed to call for.

“You will pardon me, Mrs. Mackenzie, for mentioning such a matter now, I
know, because you are aware what good friends your husband and I were;
but I’m going to ask whether you have any knowledge of a will which he
left?”

“He never spoke to me of a will. Did he to you?”

“Yes. That is why I asked. He told me that it was his design to give you
the proceeds of his life insurance, and his estate in hand to his son,
Leo.”

“Then he made more of a confidant of you than of me. If there is such a
will, it may be in his room--in his desk. Shall we go and see?”

Abbott readily assented, and Mrs. Mackenzie led the way into an
apartment between the sitting room and the parlor.

This, as Nick surmised, had been the private room of the late Miles
Mackenzie.

A bed stood in one corner. At its foot was a door, partly ajar, which
Nick’s quick eye observed gave entrance to a large clothes closet.

The dog followed them into this room also. Nick’s eyes never lost sight
of the brute, though to an observer he was giving Rover no attention.

He saw the dog trot across to the closet, push the door further open
with his nose, and look up toward the ceiling, while he uttered a very
low whine.

The stout woman was right on Rover’s heels, and the toe of her heavy
shoe gave him an admonishing punch in the ribs to indicate that his
exit from the room and from that closet in particular was greatly
desired.

And Rover took the prompt hint.

Nick’s back was turned nearly all the time, while the closet incident
was occurring, and the stout woman no doubt said, in her soul:

“Thank Heaven! he didn’t see what the fool dog did!”

And Nick was thinking:

“That brute will tell me more than Abbott can, if I follow the
four-footed fellow up.”

“Here is the desk and here are the keys,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, as she
unlocked a small desk sitting between the two windows. “Will you search
for what you want, Dr. Abbott?”

Abbott accepted the invitation and began a search of the various
drawers.

They found numerous letters from the absent son, and such odds and ends
as one might expect to find in a private desk of a man whose life was
uneventful. But no will turned up.

“This desk is especially arranged to throw off the unwary,” thought
Nick, as he watched Abbott sorting papers and investigating pigeonholes.
“If I were to search the house, that desk would be the last place I
should overhaul.”

The moon was shining brightly as they walked down the path through the
lawn, on their return to town. Nick was slightly behind Dr. Abbott, as
the path was narrow, and the grass wet with a heavy dew.

Suddenly he saw at his feet a small, square piece of paper, which the
wind was playing with. It looked to him like the label from a bottle.

He stooped, picked it up, and, assuring himself that he had made no
mistake as to the nature of its former usage, he stuck it into one of
his vest pockets.

When he left Abbott, to return to his hotel, he promised the latter to
call on him again next morning.

Once safely in his room at the hotel, Nick took the label from his
pocket and examined it by the light of his lamp. On it he read:

                           “Madame Reclaire,
                         “No. 1871 ----th St.,
                            “Philadelphia.”

For thirty seconds Nick looked at the address on the label, after
reading it. Then he muttered:

“So! so! Madame Reclaire, of Philadelphia! We shall meet again. I have
not seen you since I worked out the identity of Daly. I then promised
myself to look into your business at some future time a little more
closely. Now, here is some more of your peculiar article in trade, and
it has been used to further the ends of a stupendous crime.

“This label came from a bottle of your mixture which changes the color
of hair, after a few applications, and keeps it of the desired hue.

“What a little thing often works out the fate of man! This small, square
bit of paper, which the sportive wind blew to the feet of Nick Carter,
has solved the mystery of that man who lies back yonder in his coffin.”




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE SON RETURNS.


It was ten o’clock next morning before Nick Carter reached Dr. Abbott’s
office, and then he found the doctor absent on his daily round among his
patients.

At noon he went back, with better success.

“I have promised to accompany Mrs. Mackenzie to New York with her
husband’s remains this evening, Ketchum. Can you remain here till we
return?”

“When will that be?”

“To-morrow morning. The remains will be incinerated to-night. We must
stay in the city over night and come back early to-morrow forenoon.”

“I think I will have to return. But I’ll run up again in a few days,”
said Nick, after pretending to study over the situation a little while.

“Then go to New York with us.”

“What time does the train leave Elmwood?”

“At four o’clock.”

“All right. I’ll be on hand. Any of the neighbors going but you?”

“No, and I’m really glad you will be one of our party, for I don’t
exactly like being the only disinterested witness to the cremation. I
want you to follow the remains with me to the crematory and see them put
into the retort.”

“To oblige you, doctor, I’ll do it.”

“Thank you. Now, let us go up to the house. The service takes place at
one o’clock. We’ll find nearly the whole town present, for Mr. and Mrs.
Mackenzie, though they never entertained, were immensely popular.”

“Mackenzie must have been a good citizen.”

“A better man did not live in Elmwood. He and his wife were prominently
identified with every good work undertaken by the churches.”

“Church members, eh?”

“Yes. Like nearly all Scotchmen, Mackenzie was a profound Presbyterian
of the strong foreordination faith. Yet he was always ready to join
hands with the members of any Christian sect in doing deeds of good. You
will see in this last tribute how great was the respect in which he was
held.”

And what Nick saw during the funeral services went to confirm Dr.
Abbott’s assertions.

The attendance was so large that the coffin was carried out under a
large tree, near the front of the house, and there the funeral sermon
was preached before several hundred neighbors, many of whom shed the
tears of sincere sorrow.

The sermon was pronounced by everyone to be the most eloquent effort of
the reverend speaker’s life. The subject, it was agreed, was an
inspiration.

Nick’s attention was quietly divided between the widow and the dog. The
widow’s face was hidden beneath a deep crape veil, and she seemed to
weep silently and incessantly.

The dog did not simulate. He expressed no sorrow in his brute way, but
to Nick’s practiced eye, the animal was plainly nonplussed. He walked
around among the vast crowd, sniffing at everybody and peering up
anxiously into the faces of all he passed.

“Rover is looking for his master,” silently commented Nick. “What a
splendid assistant I have in that dog.”

After the services, the neighbors were dismissed. Only the undertaker,
Dr. Abbott and a few chosen friends remained at the house.

Nick excused himself to the doctor, with the plea that he must go to the
hotel and get ready for his departure. He promised to meet Abbott at the
depot.

At half-past three o’clock a train arrived from New York.

Among the passengers who left the train at Elmwood was a rather
handsome, smoothed-faced young man, an entire stranger to the loungers
about the station, who were already collecting to pay a last tribute of
respect to the remains of their dead townsman, as he would be borne away
forever by the four o’clock train.

The stranger inquired the way to the nearest hotel and set out to walk
there, after getting his directions.

With his traveling bag in hand he entered the hotel just as Nick came
into the office with his valise, and went to the desk to settle his
bill.

The comfort of the parting guest is always made subservient to the
welcome which awaits the fresh arrival at country hotels.

So Nick waited while the landlord received his new patron.

The detective noticed a look of surprise on the landlord’s face, as he
turned the register around and examined it, after the stranger had
written his name.

The good man’s voice had a slight tremble when he asked:

“Just come in on the half-past three train?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Beg pardon for seeming to be impertinent, but are you Miles Mackenzie’s
son?”

“I am.”

“Just arrived from foreign ports?”

“Exactly!”

“I’ve often heard your father speak of you. And now I look at you, I
think you resemble him somewhat.”

“Is that so?”

“You weren’t expected, I suppose?”

“Well, no. That is why I want to brush up a little before I go to the
house and surprise him. So I just stopped in. Can you give me a room
with plenty of soap, water and towels?”

The poor landlord was growing very nervous.

“Ahem!” he began, clearing his husky throat. “I don’t suppose you’ve
heard any news since you arrived?”

“News? Why, no! I didn’t suppose you ever had any news in such a quiet,
graveyard sort of a place. What on earth induced father to come to this
town and bury himself alive with all his money, I cannot conceive. I
marvel that he hasn’t died of sheer lonesomeness.”

“Mr. Mackenzie, I ought not to detain you here.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“You should go straight to the house.”

“Go straight to the house? What are you driving at?”

“Your father leaves for New York on the four o’clock train. He must now
be on the road to the depot.”

“Why, then, I’ll go back and surprise him at the train. I can go along
and----”

“How can I tell you? Your father will make the journey in a coffin.”

“What! Merciful Heaven! Don’t tell me he is dead?”

“I must. He died the day before yesterday, and will be taken to New York
for burial this afternoon.”

“This is terrible,” groaned the afflicted son, as he let his face fall
into his hands and sank back into a chair.

The landlord was so absorbed in the overpowering grief of his new guest,
that he scarcely mustered up enough presence of mind to make out and
receipt the bill of the departing lawyer, Wylie Ketchum, of New York.

As this task was finally completed, the sound of slowly revolving wheels
came in from the street, accompanied by the measured tread of many feet.

The tender-hearted landlord came out from behind his desk, laid his hand
gently on the afflicted man’s shoulder, and said, while tears came into
his eyes:

“There comes the body, now, on the way to the depot. Will you accompany
it to New York?”

The young man raised his face, and looked toward the street. Nick was
sure the face was paler than it had been when its owner covered it with
his hands a few moments before. The eyes certainly were filled with
horror, and a wild expression distorted the countenance.

“No! No!” he muttered. “I couldn’t bear it. It’s too late, now. Let
them go on. I’ll remain here till--till--my stepmother returns.”

Then he drew back to a place where he could look through a window into
the street without being seen.

From that place he watched the funeral procession pass the hotel, on its
slow journey to the depot.

Nick looked, also, and his eyes rested longest upon the dog, Rover,
which followed among the crowd, still maintaining that animal expression
of puzzled wonder.

Just as the end of the procession passed the hotel, the dog stopped, put
his nose to the ground, sniffed vigorously a few moments, and came
running back. His nose remained close to the ground, and he came
straight into the hotel.

The next moment he uttered a joyful whine, and, bounding across the
room, began to lick the hand of the stranger and manifest other signs of
doggish joy.

Nick Carter was busy fastening his bag, yet he noticed the look of
terror, mixed with rage, which came into the young man’s face.

The landlord was looking on with open-mouthed astonishment.

“Whose dog is this?” asked young Mackenzie, patting the delighted Rover
on the head.

“Well, that beats the dickens!” muttered mine host. “Why, that’s your
father’s Rover. The instinct of these brutes is wonderful. He knows you
are a member of the family, I guess.”

Just then the landlord’s attention was called to another part of the
room, and Nick’s head was bent down till it seemed to have his body
between his eyes and Mackenzie, Jr. Yet he saw the latter give the dog a
vicious kick, which sent the brute howling toward the door.

“Poor fellow!” coaxed Mackenzie, “did I step on your foot! Well, I ask
your pardon, old boy, I’m sure.”

The dog approached suspiciously and received the man’s caress, with some
misgivings expressed in his honest face.

“Landlord, I’m going to the house to remain till my stepmother returns.
I suppose I’ll find some one there?”

“Only the servant, sir.”

“All the better, then; I’ll not be disturbed in my sorrow. Can you
direct me?”

“Certainly,” was the response, and the landlord gave the necessary
directions, concluding with: “You can’t miss it.”

“Come on, old fellow; we’ll go together,” said the afflicted man to the
dog.

And as Nick was driven to the depot, in the town bus, he saw the
wandering prodigal walking up the road in the opposite direction, while
Rover went gamboling along at his side.

“If men were endowed with the instinct of dogs,” muttered Nick, “crimes
like this would never be committed.”

Then he heaved a sigh as he watched the capers of the happy dog, and
again muttered:

“Poor brute! Your instinct this time will cost you your life. You know
too much to live. And if I was suspected of sharing your knowledge, my
life would also be in danger.”




CHAPTER XXV.

THE CREMATION.


It was seven o’clock when the remains of the dead man from Elmwood
reached New York City. On the train, Nick yielded to Abbott’s request to
accompany them to the crematory.

So reluctantly did the pretended Mr. Ketchum agree to become one of the
small funeral party, that Abbott was far from suspecting the fact that
his new acquaintance left Elmwood with the determination of seeing the
remains in the coffin placed in the furnace, and not lose sight of them
until they were reduced to ashes.

It took two hours for the hearse bearing the remains and the carriage in
which sat the widow, Dr. Abbott and Nick to cross the city to the
Thirty-fourth Street Ferry, reach Long Island City, and make their way
to the crematory.

They found the furnace ready for the reception of the body. The manager
suggested that the widow had better not remain during the process of
incineration, but she insisted in not only remaining, but also in
viewing the process.

Much to Dr. Abbott’s surprise, but not to Nick’s, the widow witnessed
the cremation without fainting, and without even going into an
hysterical condition.

Indeed, her interest in the process was marked and unconcealed. The
ceremony seemed to fascinate her, and while her eyes followed every
movement of the men who were handling the corpse, Nick’s eyes were
watching her just as intently.

Without the twitching of a muscle, she saw the body placed on the
reception slab; she saw it covered with the cloth soaked in the acid
used for that special purpose; she saw the doors of the retort flung
open; she saw the slab containing the body hastily pushed into the
incandescent oven; she saw the doors hurriedly closed forever between
the world and the mortal form of the man with the long, white beard.
Through the place prepared for the purpose, she watched the outlines of
the body under the medicated cloth without a shriek of horror--without
even so much as a sob she stood there, and saw the covered form on the
slab slowly sink, quiver and finally settle down into a thin layer of
ashes.

The cremation was finished; the earthly remains of the man in the white
beard were nothing but a handful of ashes; the manager of ceremonies
gave Abbott a knowing look.

Dr. Abbott drew Mrs. Mackenzie’s arm still closer through his own, and
turning, led her away to the waiting carriage. Nick followed, and heard
the sigh which at last escaped from Mrs. Mackenzie’s lips.

Dr. Abbott’s construction of the sigh differed materially from that
which Nick put upon it.

So they returned to New York City.

At the first opportunity, Nick left them and hastened to the St. James
Hotel.

It was nearly eleven o’clock when he sent up his card to Miss Templin’s
room.

The boy returned with the information that the lady was not in.

“I might have told you that much before your card was sent up,”
exclaimed the clerk, “had not something else been on my mind at the
time. Miss Templin has not been at the hotel since last night.”

“Not been here since last night!” repeated Nick, in surprise. “Why,
where did she go?”

“Excuse me, sir, but if I knew, I think I should not have the right to
answer for her whereabouts to everybody who called, unless I was sure
the inquisitor had a right to receive the information,” replied the
clerk.

“You are quite right,” assented Nick. “When I tell you who I am, I
believe you will not hesitate to give me what information I need.”

The clerk looked at the card Nick had sent up.

“Carter,” he said, as he read the name written thereon. “You are Mr.
Carter.”

“Yes. Nick Carter.”

“What!” cried the clerk; “Nick Carter, the detective?”

“That is I,” smiled Nick.

“Well, you beat the dickens in disguising yourself so your best friends
don’t know you,” muttered the clerk.

“It’s part of my business,” Nick explained.

“Working for Miss Templin?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s something queer about her disappearance. By the way,
here’s a telegram came for her to-day.”

Without so much as saying “by your leave,” Nick tore off the envelope
and read the message.

It was, as he expected, from San Francisco, and merely read:

     “Seventy-five thousand dollars cash.”

“I’ll keep that,” said Nick, putting it in his pocket.

“But it is her telegram.”

“It is in answer to a message she sent for me,” explained the detective.
“Now, what is there strange about her disappearance?”

“There is our house detective. He’ll tell you. I’ll call him.”

“Don’t let him know who I am,” whispered Nick, as the hotel detective
came forward, in answer to the clerk’s beck.

“This gentleman is a friend of Miss Templin, the young lady who has been
absent so mysteriously,” explained the clerk to the local detective.
“Please tell him what you know of the circumstances surrounding the
affair.”

Nick and the “local” walked over to a seat near the entrance to the
restaurant and sat down together.

“You see,” began the local, “the first suspicious thing about the affair
that attracted my notice happened yesterday.”

“What was that?”

“I saw her sending a telegram by the hotel wire yesterday afternoon. My
attention was attracted at the time, by the queer actions of a man who
came in at the Broadway entrance while Miss Templin was writing out her
message.

“The fellow passed behind your friend, and I am sure he looked over her
shoulder and endeavored to read what she was writing.”

“You don’t know if he succeeded?”

“No; he scarcely stopped at Miss Templin’s back a moment. Then he passed
on, and left by the Twenty-sixth Street door.”

“What do you make of it?”

“Nothing out of that alone. But there is more.”

“More?”

“This man passed on up Broadway to the Coleman House, where he joined
another fellow--a man older than he, who wore a full, close-cropped
sandy beard. I heard him call this fellow Dent.”

“You followed him?”

“Only that far. The two men walked north on Broadway, when they left the
Coleman House, and I came back to the hotel.”

“That was suspicious.”

“But now comes the most surprising part of my discoveries. Last evening
those two men came back.”

“Here to the hotel?”

“Yes. The man with the sandy beard was on the box--was driving a
spanking pair of horses, to a fine-looking carriage. The other fellow
rode inside.

“The latter, without getting out, called the bell boy to the carriage,
and sent a note up to Miss Templin. Ten minutes later, the young lady
came down, equipped as if for a call, went out, was helped into the
carriage and was driven away. That was the last of her, the carriage or
her two companions.”

“Can you describe the person who came to the hotel and took her
away--the man who rode with her, inside?”

“Like a book.”

And the hotel detective gave Nick a minute description of the man.

“Thank you very much,” said Nick, as he started toward the street.

“Nothing seriously wrong with your friend, I hope?” called the
detective.

“No, I think I know who took her away, and what the man’s object was.”

But as Nick went out on the street, he muttered, under his breath:

“If Miss Templin fell into that fellow’s trap, I can do her no good now.
I must not risk spoiling the whole case in an attempt to find her at
present, especially as such a search would be extremely difficult to
prosecute from the points I have to start with.

“This sudden disappearance of Miss Templin will make my work somewhat
more difficult, and change my plans materially. With her to accompany me
to Elmwood and confront Mrs. Mackenzie and her woman, Emma, my task
would have been easy from this point. Now, I am forced to take a new
tack, and sail up against the wind.”

He went to another hotel, registered and retired for the night.

But he was up and about his business early the next morning.

When the president of the Scotia Insurance Company arrived at his office
that forenoon, he found Nick on hand waiting for him.

“Ah! Mr. Carter,” he cried, “I am glad to see you. What news have you to
report?”

“You must pay the money on that premium, sir!”

The president sat down with a decided look of disappointment on his
face.

“Then it’s a straight case, after all.”

“I did not say so.”

“You said we’d have to pay the policy?”

“For the purpose of saving your own money and the money of the other
four companies.”

“Your words sound queer and paradoxical.”

“It is only part of my scheme to capture the most consummate band of
scoundrels who ever plotted to rob insurance companies.”

“Ah! then it was a plot to defraud?”

“Yes. Now, will you trust me fully in the management of the case?”

“Certainly I will.”

“Then please notify the widow that if she will call here at the
company’s office at two o’clock to-morrow, and furnish the necessary
proofs, a check for the amount of her policy will be given to her.”

“But you don’t want us to give the check?”

“Yes, I do. You will delay that part of it until after the banks have
closed. I’ll promise that it will never be cashed.”

“Do you object to telling me more about the case than I already know?”

“Not at all. Listen.”

Nick remained in earnest conversation with the president for nearly an
hour. The two men then parted on the best of terms.

Half an hour later he was on his way to Philadelphia.

He went straight from the Broad Street Station to the office of the
chief of police, with whom he was closeted for twenty minutes.

When he left the chief’s office, the latter was with him.

The two men took a carriage and were driven to No. 1871 ----th Street,
where Madame Reclaire had her rooms.

Nick knocked, while the chief of police stood at his back.

The door was opened slightly by a woman.

Nick didn’t waste a word in parleying, but pushed his way in--the chief
of police following.

The woman made a vain effort to stop them, but she was helpless to stay
their entrance.

In half a minute they had locked the door, and led her into a
better-lighted room beyond.

“What means this outrage?” panted the woman.

The chief of police showed his insignia of office, and replied:

“It means, Madame Reclaire, that you’ll give us some information which
we want, or go to jail, charged with being accessory to murder.”




CHAPTER XXVI.

AT MADAME RECLAIRE’S.


Madame Reclaire’s face grew ghastly. Her attempted bravado faded away in
an instant. She caught at a chair for support.

“Murder!” she gasped.

“Yes, murder! You must make proper explanation or go to jail.”

“What do you want me to explain?”

“A label from one of your bottles has been found in a case where life
was taken unlawfully. It may be you are innocent of wrong in the affair,
but your bleaching devices were used in a plot which has, as I said,
resulted in murder.”

“As Heaven hears me, I am not a party to the crime.”

“That remains to be seen. It behooves you to speak the truth to us.
About two years ago a man with a long, black beard called at this place
and purchased some bottles of a wash to bleach his beard and his hair
snow-white.”

“I remember him well.”

The chief of police shot Nick a quick triumphant glance. Madame
Reclaire saw it, and properly interpreted the meaning of that look. She
bit her lip till it almost bled. The shrewd woman knew in an instant
that she had been trapped; that her two visitors had no knowledge of any
such visit from a customer such as they had described.

The chief had stated a suspicion as a fact, and she admitted its truth.

“Now, we are getting on,” said the chief. “Who was with him?”

“Nobody.”

“There your memory fails you, madam, and I see we might as well take you
with us, where we can refresh your recollection with faces.”

“Well, then, he was accompanied by another man.”

“Of the same age?”

“No. Older, I should say.”

“Had he a beard?”

“Yes.”

“Its color?”

“Very light--almost yellow.”

“And hair to match?”

“Of course.”

“You doctored him, also?”

“Yes”--reluctantly.

“What hue?”

“Made his beard and hair sandy.”

“And have supplied both with enough of the washes since then to keep
those colors up?”

“Yes.”

“You did not ask what purpose they had in view by changing the color of
beard and hair?”

“No. That was none of my affair.”

“Hereafter you had better make it your business. We will leave you now,
madam. Until I see you again, do not go to the bother of trying to leave
your apartments. You’ll be watched, and it would only lead to your
landing in jail. Good-day.”

Her visitors left as abruptly as they had arrived.

Nick went direct to the Broad Street Station, and took a train at that
point for Elmwood, where he arrived about nine o’clock at night.

From the Elmwood Station he went straight to Dr. Abbott’s office.

Fortunately he found Abbott in and alone.

“Hello, Ketchum! I’m downright glad you’ve come. Had you been ten
minutes sooner, you would have seen Mackenzie’s son, who just left my
office. He came in yesterday, and was awfully cut up over the unexpected
news of his father’s death.”

“Was the dog, Rover, with him?”

“Why, no. That is a strange question, Mr. Ketchum.”

“Is it? What is there strange about it?”

“Why should you ask whether the dog was with him?”

“I’ll tell you, Dr. Abbott. I was at the hotel yesterday when young
Mackenzie arrived. Rover found him there, and took a great fancy to him.
I thought, perhaps, the dog might be following him around.”

“There was something more than that to the meaning of your question.”

“Again I ask why you think so?”

“Because somebody killed the dog last night.”

“The news does not surprise me.”

“You know who killed him?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Wait a moment, doctor. What did Mackenzie want just now? To tell you
his stepmother had been summoned to go to New York to-morrow by the
Scotia Insurance Company to get the money on the policy of that
company?”

“Why, yes; but----”

“And he wanted you to go along to furnish proofs of death, and to
identify the widow?”

“Yes. Were you eavesdropping?”

“Not at all. I came straight from the depot.”

“Then how on earth do you know so much?”

“I’ll tell you, presently. First, let me ask whether you promised to go
to New York with Mrs. Mackenzie?”

“I did.”

“Is this son going, too?”

“He is. And I’ll be obliged if you’ll help them out with your evidence.”

“Oh! I’ll help them out, never fear. But neither you nor I must go with
them.”

“What in the world are you driving at?”

“Are we alone?”

“Entirely so.”

“Safe from interruption?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m going to astonish you; probably shock you.”

“How?”

“First, by telling you that the poor dog, which was killed last night,
was not so easily deceived as you were.”

“Deceived. Why----”

“Had your perceptions been as clear as the dog’s, you, too, might have
met his fate.”

“Ketchum, this is mummery. What are you trying to say?”

“Please don’t call me Ketchum.”

“Why?”

“Because it is not my name.”

“Then, in Heaven’s name, who are you?”

“I am Nick Carter, the detective!”

“What!”

Abbott jumped to his feet, as he made the exclamation, and stood looking
at the man before him like one entranced.

“You must have heard of me?” said Nick, dryly.

“Heard of you! Who has not heard of Nick Carter?”

“Would you believe me if I made a plain statement of facts?”

“That depends.”

“Well, I’m going to risk it, and rely on your good, sound common sense.
I believe I know you well enough to trust you with an astonishing
secret.”

“A secret? What secret?”

“Let me ask you a question. That dog, you told me, was very fond of his
master, Miles Mackenzie?”

“Yes.”

“Went with him nearly everywhere; followed him about?”

“That’s true.”

“Wasn’t it strange that the dog did not recognize his master’s corpse in
the coffin when he looked at it night before last?”

“Why, I didn’t notice.”

“Then I did. An intelligent dog like Rover would have known even his
master’s corpse.”

“Why, you don’t mean----”

“Wait. Perhaps you noticed that the dog was almost constantly searching
for something.”

“Well, yes. There was certainly something of that kind in his demeanor.”

“He was looking for his master.”

“That may be.”

“And he found him. That is where Rover, the dog, was shrewder than you,
the friend.”

“Found him? How? Where?”

“Listen. I’ll tell you.”

Then Nick described the scene at the hotel when Rover surprised the
landlord, and aggravated the newly arrived son.

“Good heavens, man! What is this you are telling me?”

“That the dog could not be deceived. He knew the corpse in the coffin
was not the remains of his master as well as he knew the pretended son
was Mackenzie himself, without white whiskers, without white hair,
without dye on the upper part of the face.”

Abbott sank back into his chair, speechless with amazement.

“Incredible!” he gasped, finally.

“It seems so, but I have the proofs to back up the murdered dog’s cute
perceptions--that instinct which cost him his life.”

“Oh! this is beyond belief.”

“No. Even incredulous as you are determined to be, you shall soon agree
that you have been wonderfully deceived. Shall I tell you the strange
story?”

“As you please.”

“Well, some years ago, a certain Dr. Greene owned a private sanitarium
near Oakland, Cal.

“Among his patients was a rich man, who met with a peculiar affliction.
The man’s name was Jason Templin.

“His affliction left him helpless, speechless and without the power of
thought. He was a living man with a dead brain.

“Templin had a long, white beard, snow-white hair, and a florid face.

“Dr. Greene had a beard equally long, but it was black.

“Among the attendants at the sanitarium was one of Templin’s nurses, a
handsome, scheming young woman.

“It was she, I suspect, who conceived the plan to obtain great wealth,
and at the same time become the wife of Dr. Greene, whom she, in her
way, loved.

“She made the discovery that if Greene’s beard and hair were white, and
his face a little more florid, he would be almost the counterpart of the
strange patient--Jason Templin.

“Then a plan was probably laid which had in its aim the substitution of
Greene for Templin, whereby they might obtain the latter’s great wealth.

“Subsequently, circumstances undoubtedly changed the plan somewhat.

“One day a man met his death in such a way that only Greene and his
scheming aids knew anything about it. This man’s body was dressed in
Templin’s clothes, the body was laid with the face in the grate fire of
Templin’s room till it was burned beyond the power of recognition, and
the helpless Templin was put in perfect concealment.

“The mutilated body was delivered to Templin’s friends, who buried it,
under the belief that they were burying the unfortunate man’s corpse.

“Shortly afterward Greene sold out, receiving seventy-five thousand
dollars cash for his property.

“He announced that he was going to Australia.

“When we investigate further, it will be found that Templin’s handsome
nurse and several other of his associates disappeared at the same time,
and were seen no more in California.

“Some time later, Miles Mackenzie appeared in this town of Elmwood. With
him was his young wife and a stout servant woman.

“This Mackenzie was such a living image of the awfully afflicted Jason
Templin that the latter’s daughter, a few weeks ago, caught sight of
Mackenzie’s white beard and hair, and mistook him for her father, whose
remains she had believed were lying in a vault at San Francisco.

“When Miss Templin saw the disguised Mackenzie, he had just paid a
premium on a one-hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy.

“Her mistake led to an investigation.

“The fact turned up that Mackenzie had five one-hundred-thousand-dollar
policies.

“A little further investigation showed that in two years he had paid, in
premiums, over sixty thousand dollars.

“There was not enough left of the seventy-five thousand dollars to pay
another year’s premiums, and still the unfortunate, helpless Templin,
hidden away by the man who was masquerading as his able-bodied double,
didn’t die, and give them a chance to collect the insurance.

“So a crisis in their plans approached, and the murder, which they had
hoped to avoid, seemed to be inevitable.

“Meanwhile, Mackenzie had singled out a physician in high standing at
Elmwood, as his chosen friend and confidant.

“He succeeded in winning this doctor’s friendship, and by correctly
describing the symptoms, so well known to him as a doctor, of a deadly
disease, prepared the deceived friend for the news of his sudden death.

“Then the helpless Templin’s life was sacrificed----”

“No! No! Great heavens! No! This Templin may have died a natural death,”
cried Abbott.

“But he didn’t, as I’ll convince you soon. Templin was killed--poisoned,
probably--and his body was produced before the Elmwood people as that of
Mackenzie.

“Even you were deceived; but it didn’t deceive the dog.

“Meanwhile, Greene disappeared. He cut off his beard, cropped his hair,
removed the dye from his face, and appeared in his real character as a
comparatively young man.

“He had prepared for his advent in Elmwood in the character of his own
son, by showing letters from the supposed young man written in London,
Paris and other foreign cities.”

“Who wrote them?”

“One of his companions in crime--a man whose beard and hair of yellow
hue had been dyed a sandy color. A man named Dent.”

“Where is he?”

“I haven’t found him yet, but expect to.

“So the false son came home at almost the hour when the remains of the
supposed father were being taken away to be cremated.

“But the brute instincts of a dog nearly betrayed the well-laid plot. It
so thoroughly frightened the arch-plotter that he concluded to take no
further risks in that direction, and while the pretended widow was
witnessing the incineration of the remains of Jason Templin, the
rejuvenated Miles Mackenzie, alias Dr. Greene, killed his loving dog.

“Do you remember how persistently the supposed widow insisted on seeing
the remains cremated?”

“Yes, yes!”

“And did you not wonder at her great nerve during the trying ordeal?”

“Good heavens, how blind I was!”

“Do you know why she would not leave till she saw the body in ashes?”

“I can guess, now.”

“She took no chances on an autopsy ever being held. That is why I am so
sure Jason Templin did not die a natural death.”

“Where did they keep Templin all this time?”

“I don’t know, but we will find out.”

“We?”

“You and I. That is why I said you must not go with them to New York
to-morrow. I want you, in their absence, to go with me and make a search
of their house.”

“And yet I am not blind, nor a fool!” ejaculated Abbott.

“Do you still think it is beyond belief?”

“No. The only thing which is almost beyond belief now, is that I should
have been so easily deceived.”




CHAPTER XXVII.

THE PADDED SECRET PRISON.


Abbott and Nick Carter remained locked up together in earnest
conversation nearly all that night. A train left Elmwood for New York at
a few minutes after five o’clock in the morning, and it carried away the
famous detective on his return to the city.

He went at once to his own house, where he was fortunate in finding his
two assistants, Chick and Patsy.

His first move, after having dispatched a hearty breakfast, was to take
Chick up to his “den” and remove his disguise as Wylie Ketchum, the
lawyer. Then he proceeded to assist Chick in assuming the same
character, until another Wylie Ketchum stood forth.

Nick looked critically at Chick thus disguised, and then remarked:

“You’ll do. Mrs. Mackenzie saw me only by lamplight, and through her
crape veil, and you are so nearly like I was, that the difference is not
discernible to an unpracticed eye.”

“I guess there’ll be no trouble in deceiving her, Nick. The man never
saw you?”

“No. Now, remember you are to be at the Scotia Insurance Company’s
office at two o’clock prompt.

“Patsy will be on hand to shadow them when they leave the office, and
never lose sight of the couple till I return, to-morrow morning.”

About noon Nick went to the Scotia office, and received the following
telegram, which had just arrived:

“ELMWOOD, PA., July 9, 18--.

     “TO WYLIE KETCHUM, care Scotia Life Insurance Company, New York
     City: Impossible for me to accompany Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie to-day.
     Have sent certificates of cause of death and identification of
     widow. If necessary, I can come down to-morrow. They leave at ten
     o’clock.

ABBOTT.”



“It’s all right,” said Nick, as he handed the telegram to the president.
“My assistant will represent me here as Mr. Ketchum, and I’ll be off to
Elmwood again.”

Fifteen minutes after Mrs. Mackenzie and her pretended stepson had
reached New York, Nick, in the new disguise of a farmer, was once more
on his way to Elmwood, carrying with him a huge carpetbag.

His train left directly after the Elmwood express arrived, and he had
the satisfaction of seeing his party disembark, and start toward the
ferry before he stumbled up the steps into the smoking car of his train.

When he was once more in the presence of Dr. Abbott it was necessary to
introduce himself anew.

But when Abbott realized that in the old farmer who stood before him he
saw the great New York detective, he was not slow in posting Nick on the
way the case lay at Elmwood.

“When I pleaded my duty to a sudden very dangerous case, wherein my
services were demanded for this afternoon, Mrs. Mackenzie and her
pretended stepson were very much disturbed. But when I assured them that
you were a personal friend of the president of the insurance company,
and had promised me to be on hand for the purpose of proof and
identification, they agreed to go on and try it without me.”

“Well, now that the coast is clear, let us lose no time. Are you ready?”

“At your service.”

“Then come on.”

They went straight to the Mackenzie residence.

The stout servant, Emma, met them at the door, and there was a scowl on
her face.

“Why, Dr. Abbott, I thought you had such a serious case on hand this
afternoon,” she said, placing her large body in the doorway, and thus
barring their entrance.

“So I had, Emma--so serious that death has already resulted.”

“Who was it?”

“An old man with a long, white beard; a man who looked as much like your
late employer, Mr. Mackenzie, as if they had been brothers.”

The woman’s face grew deadly white, and for a moment Nick believed she
was going to faint.

But Emma was not of the fainting kind. By a great effort, she regained
some of her courage, and attempting a laugh, which was a dismal failure,
she said:

“Do you expect me to believe that? Where does your important patient
live?”

“We think he did live in this house, and have come to investigate a
little, to satisfy ourselves.”

Emma had slowly thrust one hand into the folds of her dress skirt.
Suddenly, and with a movement as quick as thought, she stepped back,
raised her arm and flashed a pistol in Abbott’s face.

She was not quick enough for the detective, however. His large carpetbag
swung through the air and hit the weapon just as she pulled the trigger.

There was a report, but the bullet went wide of the mark. In another
minute, Emma was securely bound and gagged.

“Now, for a search of the house,” said Nick. “First, I want to see if
any changes have been made in the building since Mackenzie moved in.”

“There have been none made on this floor, as I told you, for I’ve been
all over it dozens of times,” replied Abbott.

“But you’ve not been upstairs since they took possession?”

“No.”

“Then let us go up and take a look around.”

He led the way first to the front room over the parlor. They no sooner
entered than the doctor walked across to the dividing wall opposite the
front windows.

“Here is something, Mr. Carter,” exclaimed Abbott, staring at the blank
wall.

“What is it?”

“There was a large clothes closet at this place when I rented the house
to Mackenzie.”

“And now it is a solid, blank wall?”

“Looks that way.”

Nick tapped against the place indicated.

“Brick!” was his decision.

“Brick!” exclaimed Abbott. “Why, the whole house is wood.”

“Not this part, surely. It is brick, covered with plaster, and neatly
papered. Did Mackenzie buy any brick after he came here?”

“No. But I now remember he asked permission to remove a small
outbuilding, and that was built of brick.”

“That is where he got them, then. Was there a corresponding closet on
the other side?”

“Yes.”

“Let us go around and look at it.”

They went into the apartment over the sitting room, and there, too, the
closet had been sealed up by a solid, brick wall.

“Now, we’ll go below and take a look into the closet where Rover’s
investigations were so rudely interrupted by the toe of Emma’s shoe,”
remarked Nick.

The closet was dark, but Abbott produced a lamp, lighted it, and brought
it to Nick’s assistance.

A long stepladder leaned against the wall of the closet.

Nick’s eyes made a careful examination of the ceiling.

Then he moved the ladder to a place about the center of the closet, and
mounted the steps until he could place both hands against the board
surface over his head, which he did.

He pushed against it without avail.

Meanwhile, Abbott stood below holding the lamp, an interested spectator.

“There is a trapdoor here, I am sure,” said Nick, “but it is somehow
secured by---- Ah! Let’s try this.”

He pressed his thumb against the head of a nail, which had a slightly
different appearance from the rest; at the same time he maintained the
upward pressure of the other hand.

There was the noise of a sharp click, and then a section of the ceiling,
about four feet square, began to rise from one side.

Nick had found the secret trapdoor.

Pushing the trap open as he went, the detective continued to ascend the
ladder until his head protruded through the opening.

For a moment he stopped to look around. Then he drew himself up to the
floor above.

A few moments later he called down:

“Leave your lamp below, doctor, and come up. There is plenty of light.”

Abbott obeyed.

The two men found themselves standing in an apartment about ten feet
square, inclosed by four solid walls. The roof of the house, twelve feet
above, opened into the glass-inclosed cupola, which surmounted the
building, and thus, as Nick and Abbott saw, in an instant, was furnished
the medium for light and ventilation.

The floor and walls were deeply padded, and covered with white muslin.

The only furniture in the small room was a single bed, of iron, a chair
and a small, rough table.

Indeed, there was little, if any, room, for anything more; though a hole
in the side next to the chimney showed plainly that some kind of a stove
had been used during the winter.

A hand glass, a pair of scissors, shaving utensils, a basin of water,
and two or three bottles lay promiscuously on the table, and scattered
over the floor was a mass of white hair.

“Behold all that remains of your friend’s venerable whiskers,” said
Nick, pointing to the telltale material at their feet.

“He came up here to renew his youth,” exclaimed Abbott.

“Yes, and was so sure of the security of this hiding place that he
didn’t lose any time in destroying the proofs of his villainous plot.
See! there are the bottles from Madame Reclaire’s laboratory, whose
contents bleached his beard and hair. He even used the wash here right
in the presence of the helpless man who was so terribly wronged.”

“This was his prison?”

“Evidently. Have you any idea how they got Templin here without arousing
suspicion?”

Dr. Abbott remained in thought a few moments before he replied.

“During the first few months of their residence in the house,” he
finally said, “there was a man of all work about the place who, from
what you tell me, I believe was the fellow with the sandy beard and hair
Madame Reclaire described as a partnership patron with Mackenzie. Maybe
he had something to do with smuggling the old man in.”

“I have no doubt of it,” said Nick. “It was probably he who constructed
this chamber while Elmwood slept; and helped Mackenzie, or Greene, to
bring the victim from some other hiding place to this padded prison. I
wish I knew where that sandy-bearded man is at this moment.”

If Nick only had known what he expressed the wish to know, it would have
saved him from great danger.

For at the very moment the wish was expressed on his lips, the
sandy-bearded man was cautiously crawling up the stepladder, in the
closet below.

A few moments later his burly form straightened, his arm went up through
the opening, his hand caught hold of the trapdoor, and before Nick or
Abbott realized their peril, the door fell, with a muffled sound, and
the click of the spring lock was plainly heard.

Abbott turned a startled look upon Nick.

“The trap has fallen,” he exclaimed.

“Yes, but not of its own force.”

“You mean----”

“I mean somebody reached up and closed it. Hist!”

Nick had bent his head toward the floor, and was listening for any sound
which might come up from below.

For half a minute everything was silent. Then was heard what seemed to
be the sound of crashing glass.

“Abbott, we must get out of this, if we can, without delay,” said Nick,
in tones which were full of intense meaning. “They have crashed the lamp
among the clothing in the closet beneath us, and thus fired the house.”

“They? Who?”

“I don’t know. But the woman has had help, for she could never have
escaped from her bonds unassisted; of that I am sure.”

“Good heavens, Carter! There is no chance for us. The roof is too far
beyond our reach, and that is now our only way out,” cried Abbott.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE WAY IT ALL ENDED.


“I have been in many tighter places than this, doctor,” said Nick,
cheerfully. “I’ll show you how badly the people below us have
miscalculated.”

“What makes it so dark?” queried Abbott. “It is not yet sundown.”

“No. I suspect a storm is coming up--ah! I thought so.”

In confirmation of his suspicions, a loud peal of thunder broke the
outside silence.

“It is coming fast, too,” said Nick. “Now, see how easy it will be for
us to escape.”

He took the table and stood it directly beneath the cupola.

Then he pulled a sheet from the bed, twisted it into a rope, and threw
it around his neck.

“Now, then, doctor,” he exclaimed, “just jump upon the table and brace
yourself to hold the weight of about one hundred and eighty pounds of
human flesh.”

Abbott quickly complied without stopping to ask a question.

Nick followed him upon the table at his back, having first seized one of
the empty bottles in his right hand.

“Steady, now, doctor,” urged Nick.

The next moment he was standing upright, with a foot on each of Abbott’s
shoulders.

Having secured a safe hold for his hands on the base of the cupola,
Nick put his athletic training into use, and drew himself up by the
mighty muscles of his arms.

The next instant he was looking through the thick glass sides of the
cupola.

Then taking the sheet rope from his shoulders, he lowered it to Abbott,
with the question:

“Can you raise yourself hand-over-hand?”

“I can try.”

“Well, lose no time.”

Slowly, and with great difficulty, the portly doctor began his task.

He would not have reached the cupola had not Nick finally let go one
hand from its hold on the sheet, and with it caught Abbott by the arm.
Then he seized the physician with the other hand, and the rescue was
completed. Abbott came through the opening into the cupola as if he were
fastened to a derrick.

The thunder was crashing on all sides by this time. Smoke was also
rolling out of the house by the doors and windows, and Nick knew that
they would have no time to lose in getting down to the ground.

Seizing with a firm grasp the bottle he had brought from the prison room
below, he made an assault upon the glass inclosure of the cupola. Crash!
crash! went the crystal plates, until an opening was secured large
enough to let Nick crawl through to the roof.

He turned and was assisting the doctor through, when the latter suddenly
pointed over Nick’s shoulder and cried:

“Look there, under that tree!”

Nick directed his attention to the place Abbott indicated--a large elm
tree, about sixty feet from the house.

There, leaning against the trunk, and watching the house, were Emma, the
servant, and a man with a sandy beard.

Even while the doctor was looking, the eyes of the sandy-bearded man
were raised, and he saw the men on the roof.

He uttered a cry, and made a step as if to leave his place of
observation.

At that instant there came a blinding flash, followed by a deafening
clap of thunder.

For a brief time Nick and Abbott were partially stunned.

Nick was the first to recover. He looked toward the tree.

The tree was a wreck from the lightning’s bolt, and beneath its
shattered boughs lay two forms--a man and a woman.

They hastened to reach the solid earth, and the task was soon
accomplished.

The man and woman under the tree were found, upon examination by the
doctor, to be stone dead.

The lightning had done its work effectually.

Half an hour later the residence was beyond rescue.

Nick hurried the doctor away, and enjoined him to secrecy on the subject
of their afternoon’s adventure.

An hour later both were on the way to New York.

That night Nick, accompanied by Dr. Abbott, Chick, Patsy, the chief of
police and the president of the Scotia Insurance Company, surprised
Mackenzie and his guilty wife at their apartments in the hotel where
they had secured accommodations in order to be in New York the next
morning for the purpose of cashing the Scotia’s check as soon as the
banks opened their doors for business.

The surprise and confusion of the wicked pair were complete.

They admitted everything but the killing of Jason Templin. Both declared
he had died a natural death, a statement Nick knew was not true, but
which he realized would be hard to disprove before a jury.

While Chick and Patsy kept close guard over the two prisoners, the chief
of police, Nick Carter, Abbott and the insurance president retired to
another room for consultation.

Two of the conspirators were dead. If Miss Templin yet lived, it would
be hard to convict the two survivors of murder. That much was admitted.

Miss Templin could not be found. Mackenzie declared, a few minutes
before, that the young woman was alive, but would never be heard from
unless he got ready to speak, which, under his present circumstances, he
was not willing to do.

Nick and the chief of police both realized that they were dealing with a
desperate man, and they finally agreed to compromise with him if he
would accept their terms.

They more readily reached such an understanding when Abbott suggested
that for Miss Templin’s sake it would be well, if possible, to keep
from her the knowledge of the fate of her father.

So this was the proposition made to Mackenzie and his wife:

First, they were to return Miss Templin to her friends without her
having suffered serious bodily harm.

Secondly, they should surrender the five life insurance policies.

Each should plead guilty to a charge of defrauding the Scotia Insurance
Company, and take a sentence in the State’s prison of from ten to twenty
years.

In return, they were promised that Templin’s fate would never be brought
up against them.

To this compromise Mackenzie, speaking for himself and his wife, refused
to agree.

It was only after a promise that in addition to a pledge not to
prosecute them on a charge of murder, the insurance companies would
refund the premiums already paid in that a final agreement was made.

Acting under directions from Mackenzie, Nick found Miss Templin, bound
hand and foot, gagged, senseless and almost dead, in a scantily
furnished room high up in a half-deserted tenement on Tenth Avenue,
where she had been taken by Mackenzie and the latter’s friend, Dent, on
the night they decoyed her from the St. James Hotel.

The decoy had been simple.

Early in the day on which she disappeared, Miss Templin made a call on a
friend whom she had known in Italy, but who at that time was married,
and living in New York.

Greene and Dent followed her to the house.

When Miss Templin was leaving her friend’s residence, the two men
strolled past and heard the hostess from the step say:

“If Tom comes home to-day, which is not likely, I’ll send him around
after you, and you must come back with him to spend the evening. I know
he’ll be glad to meet you, and you’ll be sure to like him.”

This gave the desperate couple their clew.

A forged note, stating that Tom had arrived, after all, and would fetch
Miss Templin to the house in a carriage, was written, a livery carriage
hired from a public stable, the driver drugged, Dent substituted, and
Miss Templin was trapped very easily.

The agreement made with the Mackenzies that night was faithfully carried
out, and the couple are serving out a fifteen years’ sentence in Sing
Sing.

Louise will never know that her father’s remains were cremated on Long
Island, but will be left in the belief that they lie in the vault at San
Francisco.

At Elmwood the theory is prevalent that lightning destroyed the
Mackenzie residence and killed the two servants; for the body of the
dead man was recognized as being that of a person who worked for
Mackenzie when the latter first came to the village.

The only mystery that has never been cleared up by the good people of
that section is the sudden disappearance of Mrs. Mackenzie and the son.

They went to New York and were never afterward heard from.

Many Elmwood people read in their city newspapers the account of Dr.
Amos Greene and his wife, who pleaded guilty to an attempt to defraud an
insurance company, but none of them even suspect that the two
self-convicted criminals were their former highly esteemed fellow
townspeople, Mr. and Mrs. Miles Mackenzie.

Louise Templin became Mrs. Lonsdale, as Nick discovered a day or two
later, when a dainty card was sent up to his office with this
characteristic message written on the back:

“Just off on our honeymoon, Mr. Carter. I felt I must stop long enough
to send up my regards and say ‘thank you’ for making our present
happiness possible.

“LOUISE LONSDALE.”


THE END.


No. 1142 of the NEW MAGNET LIBRARY is entitled “The Bank Draft Puzzle.”
A mystery story full of exciting incidents in which Nick Carter unravels
an intricate plot teeming with interest.


Western Stories About

BUFFALO BILL

ALL BY COL. PRENTISS INGRAHAM


Red-blooded Adventure Stories for Men

There is no more romantic character in American history than William F.
Cody, or, as he was internationally known, Buffalo Bill. He, with
Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, Wild Bill Hicock, General Custer, and a few
other adventurous spirits, laid the foundation of our great West.

There is no more brilliant page in American history than the winning of
the West. Never did pioneers live more thrilling lives, so rife with
adventure and brave deeds, as the old scouts and plainsmen. Foremost
among these stands the imposing figure of Buffalo Bill.

All of the books in this list are intensely interesting. They were
written by the close friend and companion of Buffalo Bill--Colonel
Prentiss Ingraham. They depict actual adventures which this pair of
hard-hitting comrades experienced, while the story of these adventures
is interwoven with fiction; historically the books are correct.


_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

  1--Buffalo Bill, the Border King
  2--Buffalo Bill’s Raid
  3--Buffalo Bill’s Bravery
  4--Buffalo Bill’s Trump Card
  5--Buffalo Bill’s Pledge
  6--Buffalo Bill s Vengeance
  7--Buffalo Bill’s Iron Grip
  8--Buffalo Bill’s Capture
  9--Buffalo Bill’s Danger Line
 10--Buffalo Bill’s Comrades
 11--Buffalo Bill’s Reckoning
 12--Buffalo Bill’s Warning
 13--Buffalo Bill at Bay
 14--Buffalo Bill’s Buckskin Pards
 15--Buffalo Bill’s Brand
 16--Buffalo Bill’s Honor
 17--Buffalo Bill’s Phantom Hunt
 18--Buffalo Bill’s Fight with Fire
 19--Buffalo Bill’s Danite Trail
 20--Buffalo Bill’s Ranch Riders
 21--Buffalo Bill’s Death Trail
 22--Buffalo Bill’s Trackers
 23--Buffalo Bill’s Mid-air Flight
 24--Buffalo Bill, Ambassador
 25--Buffalo Bill’s Air Voyage
 26--Buffalo Bill’s Secret Mission
 27--Buffalo Bill’s Long Trail
 28--Buffalo Bill Against Odds
 29--Buffalo Bill’s Hot Chase
 30--Buffalo Bill’s Redskin Ally
 31--Buffalo Bill’s Treasure-trove
 32--Buffalo Bill’s Hidden Foes
 33--Buffalo Bill’s Crack Shot
 34--Buffalo Bill’s Close Call
 35--Buffalo Bill’s Double Surprise
 36--Buffalo Bill’s Ambush
 37--Buffalo Bill’s Outlaw Hunt
 38--Buffalo Bill’s Border Duel
 39--Buffalo Bill’s Bid for Fame
 40--Buffalo Bill’s Triumph
 41--Buffalo Bill’s Spy Trailer
 42--Buffalo Bill’s Death Call
 43--Buffalo Bill’s Body Guard
 44--Buffalo Bill’s Still Hunt
 45--Buffalo Bill and the Doomed Dozen
 46--Buffalo Bill’s Prairie Scout
 47--Buffalo Bill’s Traitor Guide
 48--Buffalo Bill’s Bonanza
 49--Buffalo Bill’s Swoop
 50--Buffalo Bill and the Gold King
 51--Buffalo Bill, Dead Shot
 52--Buffalo Bill’s Buckskin Bravos
 53--Buffalo Bill’s Big Four
 54--Buffalo Bill’s One-armed Pard
 55--Buffalo Bill’s Race for Life
 56--Buffalo Bill’s Return
 57--Buffalo Bill’s Conquest
 58--Buffalo Bill to the Rescue
 59--Buffalo Bill’s Beautiful Foe
 60--Buffalo Bill’s Perilous Task
 61--Buffalo Bill’s Queer Find
 62--Buffalo Bill’s Blind Lead
 63--Buffalo Bill’s Resolution
 64--Buffalo Bill, the Avenger
 65--Buffalo Bill’s Pledged Pard
 66--Buffalo Bill’s Weird Warning
 67--Buffalo Bill’s Wild Ride
 68--Buffalo Bill’s Redskin Stampede
 69--Buffalo Bill’s Mine Mystery
 70--Buffalo Bill’s Gold Hunt
 71--Buffalo Bill’s Daring Dash
 72--Buffalo Bill on Hand
 73--Buffalo Bill’s Alliance
 74--Buffalo Bill’s Relentless Foe
 75--Buffalo Bill’s Midnight Ride
 76--Buffalo Bill’s Chivalry
 77--Buffalo Bill’s Girl Pard
 78--Buffalo Bill’s Private War
 79--Buffalo Bill’s Diamond Mine
 80--Buffalo Bill’s Big Contract
 81--Buffalo Bill’s Woman Foe
 82--Buffalo Bill’s Ruse
 83--Buffalo Bill’s Pursuit
 84--Buffalo Bill’s Hidden Gold
 85--Buffalo Bill in Mid-air
 86--Buffalo Bill’s Queer Mission
 87--Buffalo Bill’s Verdict
 88--Buffalo Bill’s Ordeal
 89--Buffalo Bill’s Camp Fires
 90--Buffalo Bill’s Iron Nerve
 91--Buffalo Bill’s Rival
 92--Buffalo Bill’s Lone Hand
 93--Buffalo Bill’s Sacrifice
 94--Buffalo Bill’s Thunderbolt
 95--Buffalo Bill’s Black Fortune
 96--Buffalo Bill’s Wild Work
 97--Buffalo Bill’s Yellow Trail
 98--Buffalo Bill’s Treasure Train
 99--Buffalo Bill’s Bowie Duel
100--Buffalo Bill’s Mystery Man
101--Buffalo Bill’s Bold Play
102--Buffalo Bill: Peacemaker
103--Buffalo Bill’s Big Surprise
104--Buffalo Bill’s Barricade
105--Buffalo Bill’s Test
106--Buffalo Bill’s Powwow
107--Buffalo Bill’s Stern Justice
108--Buffalo Bill’s Mysterious Friend
109--Buffalo Bill and the Boomers
110--Buffalo Bill’s Panther Fight
111--Buffalo Bill and the Overland Mail
112--Buffalo Bill on the Deadwood Trail
113--Buffalo Bill in Apache Land
114--Buffalo Bill’s Blindfold Duel
115--Buffalo Bill and the Lone Camper
116--Buffalo Bill’s Merry War
117--Buffalo Bill’s Star Play
118--Buffalo Bill’s War Cry
119--Buffalo Bill on Black Panther’s Trail
120--Buffalo Bill’s Slim Chance
121--Buffalo Bill Besieged
122--Buffalo Bill’s Bandit Round-up
123--Buffalo Bill’s Surprise Party
124--Buffalo Bill’s Lightning Raid
125--Buffalo Bill in Mexico
126--Buffalo Bill’s Traitor Foe
127--Buffalo Bill’s Tireless Chase
128--Buffalo Bill’s Boy Bugler
129--Buffalo Bill’s Sure Guess
130--Buffalo Bill’s Record Jump
131--Buffalo Bill in the Land of Dread
132--Buffalo Bill’s Tangled Clew
133--Buffalo Bill’s Wolf Skin
134--Buffalo Bill’s Twice Four Puzzle
135--Buffalo Bill and the Devil Bird
136--Buffalo Bill and the Indian’s Mascot
137--Buffalo Bill Entrapped
138--Buffalo Bill’s Totem Trail
139--Buffalo Bill at Fort Challis
140--Buffalo Bill’s Determination
141--Buffalo Bill’s Battle Axe
142--Buffalo Bill’s Game with Fate
143--Buffalo Bill’s Comanche Raid
144--Buffalo Bill’s Aerial Island
145--Buffalo Bill’s Lucky Shot
146--Buffalo Bill’s Sioux Friends
147--Buffalo Bill’s Supreme Test
148--Buffalo Bill’s Boldest Strike
149--Buffalo Bill and the Red Hand
150--Buffalo Bill’s Dance with Death
151--Buffalo Bill’s Running Fight
152--Buffalo Bill in Harness
153--Buffalo Bill Corralled
154--Buffalo Bill’s Waif of the West
155--Buffalo Bill’s Wizard Pard
156--Buffalo Bill and Hawkeye
157--Buffalo Bill and Grizzly Dan
158--Buffalo Bill’s Ghost Play
159--Buffalo Bill’s Lost Prisoner
160--Buffalo Bill and The Klan of Kau
161--Buffalo Bill’s Crow Scouts
162--Buffalo Bill’s Lassoed Spectre
163--Buffalo Bill and the Wanderers
164--Buffalo Bill and the White Queen
165--Buffalo Bill’s Yellow Guardian
166--Buffalo Bill’s Double “B” Brand
167--Buffalo Bill’s Dangerous Duty
168--Buffalo Bill and the Talking Statue
169--Buffalo Bill Between Two Fires
170--Buffalo Bill and the Giant Apache
171--Buffalo Bill’s Best Bet
172--Buffalo Bill’s Blockhouse Siege
173--Buffalo Bill’s Fight for Right
174--Buffalo Bill’s Sad Tidings
175--Buffalo Bill and “Lucky” Benson
176--Buffalo Bill Among the Sioux
177--Buffalo Bill’s Mystery Box
178--Buffalo Bill’s Worst Tangle
179--Buffalo Bill’s Clean Sweep
180--Buffalo Bill’s Texas Tangle
181--Buffalo Bill and the Nihilists
182--Buffalo Bill’s Emigrant Trail
183--Buffalo Bill at Close Quarters
184--Buffalo Bill and the Cattle Thieves
185--Buffalo Bill at Cimaroon Bar
186--Buffalo Bill’s Ingenuity
187--Buffalo Bill on a Cold Trail
188--Buffalo Bill’s Red Hot Totem
189--Buffalo Bill Under a War Cloud
190--Buffalo Bill and the Prophet
191--Buffalo Bill and the Red Renegade
192--Buffalo Bill’s Mailed Fist
193--Buffalo Bill’s Round-up
194--Buffalo Bill’s Death Message
195--Buffalo Bill’s Redskin Disguise
196--Buffalo Bill, the Whirlwind
197--Buffalo Bill in Death Valley
198--Buffalo Bill and the Magic Button
199--Buffalo Bill’s Friend in Need
200--Buffalo Bill with General Custer
201--Buffalo Bill’s Timely Meeting
202--Buffalo Bill and the Skeleton Scout
203--Buffalo Bill’s Flag of Truce
204--Buffalo Bill’s Pacific Power
205--Buffalo Bill’s Impersonator
206--Buffalo Bill and the Red Maurauders
207--Buffalo Bill’s Long Run
208--Buffalo Bill and Red Dove
209--Buffalo Bill on the Box
210--Buffalo Bill’s Bravo Partner
211--Buffalo Bill’s Strange Task


S & S Novels

Means

MONEY’S WORTH

Clean, interesting, attractive--they afford the reader the best possible
value in the way of literature of the day. Do not accept cheap
imitations which are clearly intended to deceive the reader and are
always disappointing.


BOOKS FOR YOUNG MEN

MERRIWELL SERIES

ALL BY BURT L. STANDISH

Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell


Fascinating Stories of Athletics

A half million enthusiastic followers of the Merriwell brothers will
attest the unfailing interest and wholesomeness of these adventures of
two lads of high ideals, who play fair with themselves, as well as with
the rest of the world.

These stories are rich in fun and thrills in all branches of sports and
athletics. They are extremely high in moral tone, and cannot fail to be
of immense benefit to every boy who reads them.

They have the splendid quality of firing a boy’s ambition to become a
good athlete, in order that he may develop into a strong, vigorous,
right-thinking man.


_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

  1--Frank Merriwell’s School Days
  2--Frank Merriwell’s Chums
  3--Frank Merriwell’s Foes
  4--Frank Merriwell’s Trip West
  5--Frank Merriwell Down South
  6--Frank Merriwell’s Bravery
  7--Frank Merriwell’s Hunting Tour
  8--Frank Merriwell in Europe
  9--Frank Merriwell at Yale
 10--Frank Merriwell’s Sports Afield
 11--Frank Merriwell’s Races
 12--Frank Merriwell’s Party
 13--Frank Merriwell’s Bicycle Tour
 14--Frank Merriwell’s Courage
 15--Frank Merriwell’s Daring
 16--Frank Merriwell’s Alarm
 17--Frank Merriwell’s Athletes
 18--Frank Merriwell’s Skill
 19--Frank Merriwell’s Champions
 20--Frank Merriwell’s Return to Yale
 21--Frank Merriwell’s Secret
 22--Frank Merriwell’s Danger
 23--Frank Merriwell’s Loyalty
 24--Frank Merriwell in Camp
 25--Frank Merriwell’s Vacation
 26--Frank Merriwell’s Cruise
 27--Frank Merriwell’s Chase
 28--Frank Merriwell in Maine
 29--Frank Merriwell’s Struggle
 30--Frank Merriwell’s First Job
 31--Frank Merriwell’s Opportunity
 32--Frank Merriwell’s Hard Luck
 33--Frank Merriwell’s Protégé
 34--Frank Merriwell on the Road
 35--Frank Merriwell’s Own Company
 36--Frank Merriwell’s Fame
 37--Frank Merriwell’s College Chums
 38--Frank Merriwell’s Problem
 39--Frank Merriwell’s Fortune
 40--Frank Merriwell’s New Comedian
 41--Frank Merriwell’s Prosperity
 42--Frank Merriwell’s Stage Hit
 43--Frank Merriwell’s Great Scheme
 44--Frank Merriwell in England
 45--Frank Merriwell on the Boulevards
 40--Frank Merriwell’s Duel
 47--Frank Merriwell’s Double Shot
 48--Frank Merriwell’s Baseball Victories
 49--Frank Merriwell’s Confidence
 50--Frank Merriwell’s Auto
 51--Frank Merriwell’s Fun
 52--Frank Merriwell’s Generosity
 53--Frank Merriwell’s Tricks
 54--Frank Merriwell’s Temptation
 55--Frank Merriwell on Top
 56--Frank Merriwell’s Luck
 57--Frank Merriwell’s Mascot
 58--Frank Merriwell’s Reward
 59--Frank Merriwell’s Phantom
 60--Frank Merriwell’s Faith
 61--Frank Merriwell’s Victories
 62--Frank Merriwell’s Iron Nerve
 63--Frank Merriwell in Kentucky
 64--Frank Merriwell’s Power
 65--Frank Merriwell’s Shrewdness
 66--Frank Merriwell’s Setback
 67--Frank Merriwell’s Search
 68--Frank Merriwell’s Club
 69--Frank Merriwell’s Trust
 70--Frank Merriwell’s False Friend
 71--Frank Merriwell’s Strong Arm
 72--Frank Merriwell as Coach
 73--Frank Merriwell’s Brother
 74--Frank Merriwell’s Marvel
 75--Frank Merriwell’s Support
 76--Dick Merriwell at Fardale
 77--Dick Merriwell’s Glory
 78--Dick Merriwell’s Promise
 79--Dick Merriwell’s Rescue
 80--Dick Merriwell’s Narrow Escape
 81--Dick Merriwell’s Racket
 82--Dick Merriwell’s Revenge
 83--Dick Merriwell’s Ruse
 84--Dick Merriwell’s Delivery
 85--Dick Merriwell’s Wonders
 86--Frank Merriwell’s Honor
 87--Dick Merriwell’s Diamond
 88--Frank Merriwell’s Winners
 89--Dick Merriwell’s Dash
 90--Dick Merriwell’s Ability
 91--Dick Merriwell’s Trap
 92--Dick Merriwell’s Defense
 93--Dick Merriwell’s Model
 94--Dick Merriwell’s Mystery
 95--Frank Merriwell’s Backers
 96--Dick Merriwell’s Backstop
 97--Dick Merriwell’s Western Mission
 98--Frank Merriwell’s Rescue
 99--Frank Merriwell’s Encounter
100--Dick Merriwell’s Marked Money
101--Frank Merriwell’s Nomads
102--Dick Merriwell on the Gridiron
103--Dick Merriwell’s Disguise
104--Dick Merriwell’s Test
105--Frank Merriwell’s Trump Card
106--Frank Merriwell’s Strategy
107--Frank Merriwell’s Triumph
108--Dick Merriwell’s Grit
109--Dick Merriwell’s Assurance
110--Dick Merriwell’s Long Slide
111--Frank Merriwell’s Rough Deal
112--Dick Merriwell’s Threat
113--Dick Merriwell’s Persistence
114--Dick Merriwell’s Day
115--Frank Merriwell’s Peril
116--Dick Merriwell’s Downfall
117--Frank Merriwell’s Pursuit
118--Dick Merriwell Abroad
119--Frank Merriwell in the Rockies
120--Dick Merriwell’s Pranks
121--Frank Merriwell’s Pride
122--Frank Merriwell’s Challengers
123--Frank Merriwell’s Endurance
124--Dick Merriwell’s Cleverness
125--Frank Merriwell’s Marriage
126--Dick Merriwell, the Wizard
127--Dick Merriwell’s Stroke
128--Dick Merriwell’s Return
129--Dick Merriwell’s Resource
130--Dick Merriwell’s Five
131--Frank Merriwell’s Tigers
132--Dick Merriwell’s Polo Team
133--Frank Merriwell’s Pupils
134--Frank Merriwell’s New Boy
135--Dick Merriwell’s Home Run
136--Dick Merriwell’s Dare
137--Frank Merriwell’s Son
138--Dick Merriwell’s Team Mate
139--Frank Merriwell’s Leaguers
140--Frank Merriwell’s Happy Camp
141--Dick Merriwell’s Influence
142--Dick Merriwell, Freshman
143--Dick Merriwell’s Staying Power

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books
listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York
City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.


To be published in July, 1926.

144--Dick Merriwell’s Joke
145--Frank Merriwell’s Talisman


To be published in August, 1926.

146--Frank Merriwell’s Horse
147--Dick Merriwell’s Regret


To be published in September, 1926.

148--Dick Merriwell’s Magnetism
149--Dick Merriwell’s Backers


To be published in October, 1926.

150--Dick Merriwell’s Best Work
151--Dick Merriwell’s Distrust
152--Dick Merriwell’s Debt


To be published in November, 1926.

153--Dick Merriwell’s Mastery
154--Dick Merriwell Adrift


To be published in December, 1926.

155--Frank Merriwell’s Worst Boy
156--Dick Merriwell’s Close Call


Western Story Library

For Everyone Who Likes Adventure


Ted Strong and his band of broncho-busters have most exciting adventures
in this line of attractive big books, and furnish the reader with an
almost unlimited number of thrills.

If you like a really good Western cowboy story, then this line is made
expressly for you.


_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

 1--Ted Strong, Cowboy                          By Edward C. Taylor
 2--Ted Strong Among the Cattlemen              By Edward C. Taylor
 3--Ted Strong’s Black Mountain Ranch           By Edward C. Taylor
 4--Ted Strong With Rifle and Lasso             By Edward C. Taylor
 5--Ted Strong Lost in the Desert               By Edward C. Taylor
 6--Ted Strong Fighting the Rustlers            By Edward C. Taylor
 7--Ted Strong and the Rival Miners             By Edward C. Taylor
 8--Ted Strong and the Last of the Herd         By Edward C. Taylor
 9--Ted Strong on a Mountain Trail              By Edward C. Taylor
10--Ted Strong Across the Prairie               By Edward C. Taylor
11--Ted Strong Out For Big Game                 By Edward C. Taylor
12--Ted Strong Challenged                       By Edward C. Taylor
13--Ted Strong’s Close Call                     By Edward C. Taylor
14--Ted Strong’s Passport                       By Edward C. Taylor
15--Ted Strong’s Nebraska Ranch                 By Edward C. Taylor
16--Ted Strong’s Cattle Drive                   By Edward C. Taylor
17--Ted Strong’s Stampede                       By Edward C. Taylor
18--Ted Strong’s Prairie Trail                  By Edward C. Taylor
19--Ted Strong’s Surprise                       By Edward C. Taylor
20--Ted Strong’s Wolf Hunters                   By Edward C. Taylor
21--Ted Strong’s Crooked Trail                  By Edward C. Taylor
22--Ted Strong in Colorado                      By Edward C. Taylor
23--Ted Strong’s Justice                        By Edward C. Taylor
24--Ted Strong’s Treasure                       By Edward C. Taylor
25--Ted Strong’s Search                         By Edward C. Taylor
26--Ted Strong’s Diamond Mine                   By Edward C. Taylor
27--Ted Strong’s Manful Task                    By Edward C. Taylor
28--Ted Strong, Manager                         By Edward C. Taylor
29--Ted Strong’s Man Hunt                       By Edward C. Taylor
30--Ted Strong’s Gold Mine                      By Edward C. Taylor
31--Ted Strong’s Broncho Boys                   By Edward C. Taylor
32--Ted Strong’s Wild Horse                     By Edward C. Taylor
33--Ted Strong’s Tenderfoot                     By Edward C. Taylor
34--Ted Strong’s Stowaway                       By Edward C. Taylor
35--Ted Strong’s Prize Herd                     By Edward C. Taylor
36--Ted Strong’s Trouble                        By Edward C. Taylor
37--Ted Strong’s Mettle                         By Edward C. Taylor
38--Ted Strong’s Big Business                   By Edward C. Taylor
39--Ted Strong’s Treasure Cave                  By Edward C. Taylor
40--Ted Strong’s Vanishing Island               By Edward C. Taylor
41--Ted Strong’s Motor Car                      By Edward C. Taylor
42--Ted Strong in Montana                       By Edward C. Taylor
43--Ted Strong’s Contract                       By Edward C. Taylor


Insist Upon Having the S & S NOVELS

They are IMITATED!


RATTLING GOOD ADVENTURE

SPORT STORIES

Price, Fifteen Cents


_Stories of the Big Outdoors_

There has been a big demand for outdoor stories, and a very considerable
portion of it has been for the Maxwell Stevens stories about Jack
Lightfoot, the athlete.

These stories are of interest to old and young. They are not, strictly
speaking, stories for boys, but boys everywhere will find a great deal
in them to engage their interest.

The Jack Lightfoot stories deal with every branch of sport--baseball,
football, rowing, swimming, racing, tennis, and every sort of
occupation, both indoor and out, that the healthy-minded man turns to.


_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

 1--Jack Lightfoot, the Athlete       By Maxwell Stevens
 2--Jack Lightfoot’s Crack Nine       By Maxwell Stevens
 3--Jack Lightfoot Trapped            By Maxwell Stevens
 4--Jack Lightfoot’s Rival            By Maxwell Stevens
 5--Jack Lightfoot in Camp            By Maxwell Stevens
 6--Jack Lightfoot’s Canoe Trip       By Maxwell Stevens
 7--Jack Lightfoot’s Iron Arm         By Maxwell Stevens
 8--Jack Lightfoot’s Hoodoo           By Maxwell Stevens
 9--Jack Lightfoot’s Decision         By Maxwell Stevens
10--Jack Lightfoot’s Gun Club         By Maxwell Stevens
11--Jack Lightfoot’s Blind            By Maxwell Stevens
12--Jack Lightfoot’s Capture          By Maxwell Stevens
13--Jack Lightfoot’s Head Work        By Maxwell Stevens
14--Jack Lightfoot’s Wisdom           By Maxwell Stevens


The Dealer

who handles the STREET & SMITH NOVELS is a man worth patronizing. The
fact that he does handle our books proves that he has considered the
merits of paper-covered lines, and has decided that the STREET & SMITH
NOVELS are superior to all others.

He has looked into the question of the morality of the paper-covered
book, for instance, and feels that he is perfectly safe in handing one
of our novels to any one, because he has our assurance that nothing
except clean, wholesome literature finds its way into our lines.

Therefore, the STREET & SMITH NOVEL dealer is a careful and wise
tradesman, and it is fair to assume selects the other articles he has
for sale with the same degree of intelligence as he does his
paper-covered books.

Deal with the STREET & SMITH NOVEL dealer.


STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
79 Seventh Avenue        New York City