NICK CARTER
                                STORIES

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   =No. 148.=      NEW YORK, July 10, 1915.      =Price Five Cents.=




                           THE MARK OF CAIN;

                   Or, NICK CARTER’S AIR-LINE CASE.

                     Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.




CHAPTER I.

WHAT THE GIRL DID.


The girl at the switchboard held her breath. The detective waiting in
the business office saw her. The girl at the switchboard was Helen
Bailey. The waiting detective was Nick Carter.

No man was ever more quick than he to rightly interpret a facial
expression. The partition through which he saw her was of glass, or a
portion of it, dividing the general manager’s office in the central
telephone exchange from the room in which the great switchboards were
stationed.

There were other girls, half a score of them, seated in front of the
innumerably perforated boards. They were too busy to notice one another.
Their eyes were intent upon their work. Their deft hands flew from plug
to plug, withdrawing some, inserting others. Their frequent, monotonous
calls, the noise of the buzzers and the snapping of the rubber-covered
plugs were the only sounds to be heard in that busy room.

“Hello! hello!”

“Number, please.”

“The line is busy.”

They were like machines, those switchboard girls, human, living,
palpitating machines, each a connecting link for others in every phase
of life, every calling and vocation, from the gilded mansions of
exclusive society to the smoke-begrimed dives of the underworld. They
are the servants of all, and, in a measure, the confidantes of all.

The girl who had caught Nick Carter’s eye was striking not alone because
of her facial expression at that moment, but because of her remarkable
grace and beauty. She was about nineteen, a pronounced blonde, with
regular features, large, blue eyes, and a sensitive mouth, a
pink-and-white complexion, an abundance of wavy, golden hair, crowning a
shapely head, finely poised on a graceful, slender, yet well-developed
figure, then clad in a navy-blue skirt and a dainty white waist.

It was the expression on her fair face, however, that had riveted the
detective’s attention, though he could see her only in part profile.

Nick never had seen a look of more poignant anguish on a human face.

The girl was pitched forward on her high chair, her hand grasping one of
the plugs which she had pushed into the switchboard--and now seemed
impelled to withdraw.

That would have abruptly ended the conversation between the two persons
whom she had brought into communication, and to whose intercourse she
was listening.

That she really was listening, listening as one might to the reading of
one’s own death warrant, was painfully apparent. Her eyes seemed to be
starting from her head, but with the wildly vacant expression of one
horrified, one whose mind was elsewhere. Every vestige of color had left
her cheeks. Her lips were gray and drawn, her graceful figure as
motionless as if every nerve and muscle was as strained and tense as a
bowstring.

“Great Scott!” thought Nick, watching her. “To whom is she listening,
and to what?”

The girl suddenly withdrew the plug.

Then, with a quick change of expression, with a look of heart-racking
determination, she inserted it again, renewing the telephone connection.

Then she listened again, ghastly and horrified, for nearly a minute--and
then her head dropped to one shoulder as if her neck was hinged, her arm
fell like that of a corpse, dragging the plug out of the switchboard,
while her tense form relaxed and fell from the chair, dropping with a
thud upon the floor beside it.

Nick Carter had seen what was coming, and he already was on his way to
the room, darting out of the manager’s office and through the adjoining
corridor. He heard the screams of the frightened girls, when he
entered, and, with quick discrimination, he turned to the least-alarmed
one and said:

“She has only fainted. Bring a glass of water. Be quick about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The girl addressed ran to a near closet and obeyed him.

Nick raised the prostrate girl a little, supporting her against his
knee, and, with a wet handkerchief, he bathed her brow and cheeks,
paying no attention to the fright and consternation of his observers.

The girl revived in a very few moments. A low moan, as pathetic as the
facial expression which had preceded her collapse, broke from her gray
lips. Her eyelids fluttered spasmodically, then were raised, and she
gazed up vacantly at the detective’s kindly face.

“Did they--did they get him?” she gasped impulsively, almost
frantically. “Did they--did they get him?”

Nick waved aside the several girls who had gathered near.

“Open one of the windows!” he commanded. “Give her some fresh air. Get
whom, my girl?”

The last was addressed to the stricken girl, while Nick gently raised
her to a sitting position on the floor.

She turned and looked at him, then suddenly seemed to realize what had
occurred. She gazed at Nick again, striving to rise, and replied, more
calmly:

“Get whom? What do you mean?”

“Don’t you know what I mean?” Nick inquired, helping her to a chair.

“No, I don’t,” she replied. “Thank you for assisting me. I’m sure I
don’t know what you mean.”

Nick was sure of the contrary, but he did not say so. Instead, he smiled
and explained his presence there by saying:

“I happened to be in the manager’s office when you fainted. I saw you
fall and hurried in to aid you. Are you subject to such attacks?”

“No, sir. I don’t remember ever having fainted away before.”

“You may have heard something that alarmed you, or----”

“No, no, sir; nothing of the kind,” interrupted the girl. “I cannot
account for it.”

“Do you remember what number had been called, what connection you had
made?”

“No, sir.”

“Or what was being said?”

“I do not,” the girl insisted. “I remember nothing about it. I know only
that I was not feeling well this morning. I awoke with a racking
headache. I suddenly felt dizzy and then I fainted. That is all I know
about it. Please don’t question me further. I’m able, now, to return to
my work. Thank you again, sir.”

Nick knew that the girl was lying, but he alone had observed her
agitation for several moments before she fainted. She still was pale and
nervous, trembling visibly while she replied to his questions, but it
was obvious that she was determined to admit nothing in regard to what
she evidently had heard at the switchboard.

Nick decided not to press her further, therefore, and he bowed
indifferently and returned to the business office.

Manager Lawton, for whom he had been waiting, came in a few moments
later and Nick transacted the business for which he had called. He then
quietly told him of the incident and pointed out the girl who had
fainted.

“What is her name?” he then inquired.

“Helen Bailey,” replied Lawton, smiling. “She is the most capable girl
in our employ.”

“She is a very beautiful girl, too,” Nick observed.

“And as good as she is beautiful,” Lawton said, with a nod. “The man who
gets her for a wife, Nick, will get a treasure.”

“Where does she live?”

“She boards in Lexington Avenue.”

“With her parents?”

“No. Both are dead. She has only a brother, I believe, who--well, I know
very little about him. Why are you so interested in the girl?” Lawton
added, laughing. “You’re not smitten with her beauty, Nick, are you?”

Nick smiled and shook his head; then arose to go. As he passed out he
glanced again through the glass partition at the several girls at the
switchboards.

Helen Bailey had resumed her work as if nothing had occurred.

Nick still had her in mind when he left the building and walked up the
street. He had in mind, too, the impulsive, almost frantic words that
had broken from her when, with returning consciousness, she took up her
train of thoughts just where she had left them--the thoughts which had
brought that terrible expression to her fair, lovely face.

“‘Did they get him?’” he said to himself. “By Jove, that was a rather
significant question, asked as she asked it and under such
circumstances. Get whom? Get him for what? Was some man in danger, one
with whom she is in love, perhaps, and for whose sake she was so shocked
and alarmed? There certainly was some serious reason for that horrified
expression and her sudden collapse. I would have been glad to aid her if
she would have confided in me, but she preferred to lie, and--well, it
was up to her. It is barely possible that she will regret it later.”




CHAPTER II.

A FRIEND IN NEED.


Nick Carter’s intuition in regard to the telephone girl was verified
much sooner than he really expected. He entered his Madison Avenue
residence about an hour later and found in the library his two chief
assistants, Chickering Carter and Patsy Garvan. He heard the following
remarks from Patsy as he was approaching the open door.

“She certainly is a peach, Chick, and I felt dead sorry for her. She’s
in wrong, all right, but I don’t half credit the charges, at that.”

“What charges, Patsy?” Nick inquired, entering. “Of whom were you
speaking?”

“Of a girl I saw at police headquarters about twenty minutes ago,” said
Patsy, turning from his desk. “I went down there on that Waldron case.”

“Was the girl under arrest?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“For helping a crook elude the police,” Patsy explained. “She denied it,
chief, sobbing as if her heart would break; but they’re putting her
through the third degree now, hoping to break her down and force a
confession from her. My money goes on the girl, chief, all the same.”

“Who is the girl?” Nick questioned. “Did you learn any of the
circumstances?”

“Sure!” nodded Patsy. “Her name is Helen Bailey.”

“H’m, is that so?”

“She’s a telephone girl, and a sister of Barton Bailey, wanted for
robbery in Mantell & Goulard’s big department store, where he was
employed at the time. He got away with a diamond sunburst, you remember,
and nearly cracked the skull of Gus Flint, one of the store detectives,
who had seen him lift the bauble and tried to prevent his escape. That
was six months ago.”

“Yes, I recall the case,” said Nick, with a more serious expression.
“But what are the circumstances bearing on the girl’s arrest?”

“It seems that Bart Bailey was seen going into a house in East
Forty-third Street about ten o’clock this morning,” Patsy continued. “He
was in disguise, but was recognized by some one who declined to give his
name to the headquarters chief, to whom he hastened to telephone.”

“He stated, I suppose, that he had seen Bailey going into the house.”

“That’s what,” said Patsy. “The chief then called up the precinct
station and told the sergeant to go to the house with a couple of men
and get Bailey.”

“I see.”

“Before he could finish giving his instructions, including the number of
the house, the telephone connection was suddenly broken. Nearly ten
minutes passed before the chief could get it renewed, and that brief
delay cost the guns their man. When they arrived at the house, Bailey
had been gone about three minutes.”

“Did the chief know his sister is employed in the telephone exchange?”

“Bet you!” exclaimed Patsy sententiously. “Let him alone to have learned
that. He has had men out after Bailey for nearly six months. He learned,
too, that Helen Bailey was the operator who connected him with the
precinct station, and he noticed while talking with the sergeant that
the connection was broken once and quickly renewed.”

“Precisely,” thought Nick, recalling his own observations. “He was not
alone.”

“Half a minute later,” Patsy added, “it was broken completely, and the
chief lost his man. It made him sore, for fair. He knows the girl must
have overheard his orders to the sergeant, and he suspects that she
purposely cut him off and afterward telephoned her brother to bolt.”

“Not an unreasonable inference,” Nick allowed, a bit grimly.
“Nevertheless, Patsy, the girl did nothing of the kind.”

“Gee whiz!” Patsy returned, gazing. “Are you wise to something bearing
on the case? Do you mean----”

“Never mind what I mean,” Nick interposed, glancing at his watch. “I’ll
inform you later. I’ll knock those suspicions out of the chief’s head in
about two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Helen Bailey is a heroine--much more
heroic than most girls would have been under the same temptation.”

Nick did not wait to explain to Chick and Patsy. Disregarding their
looks of surprise, he replaced his hat and started immediately for the
police headquarters. He was so well known there, where his services were
very frequently required, that no one would have thought of opposing
him. He learned that the chief still was talking with Helen Bailey in
his private office, into which Nick walked without the ceremony of
knocking.

The chief regarded him with a look of surprise. It became more marked,
even, when Helen Bailey, pale and with eyes red from weeping, uttered a
low cry and exclaimed:

“Oh, sir, here is the man who assisted me. This is the man I have told
you about. He knows that my faint was not feigned. He will tell you----”

“I will tell the chief all that is necessary, Miss Bailey,” Nick
interposed, smiling and shaking hands with her. “I am very glad to be
able to befriend you.”

“Goodness!” said the chief, with his austerity suddenly vanished. “What
do you know about this matter, Nick?”

“I know all about it, chief,” Nick replied, taking a chair. “Garvan was
here when this young lady was brought in. He has told me why she was
arrested and what you suspect. But you’re in wrong, chief, and I’ve come
here to say a word for the girl.”

“A word from you, Carter, is usually enough,” replied the chief, while
Helen Bailey, hearing the name of the famous detective, gazed at him
with amazement and inexpressible relief.

“I can explain in a nutshell,” said Nick. “I was in the telephone
office, chief, and saw all that occurred.”

“What did you make of it, Carter?” asked the chief.

Nick then told him all he had seen and what he had done.

“This girl did not cut you off, chief, but quite the contrary,” he
added. “She knew, nevertheless, precisely what your communication
signified. I saw her withdraw the plug once, then willfully reinsert it.
I saw how terribly she felt, how terribly she was tempted--and I now
know, too, with what heroism she resisted the temptation and stuck to
her duty, though it involved the sacrifice of her own brother.”

The chief gazed for a moment at the detective, who had spoken quite
feelingly.

“The girl has told me that, Nick, but I could not credit it,” he said,
more gravely.

“It is true, chief. You can bank on it.”

“I’m mighty glad you have showed up, then.”

“I knew you would be.”

The chief turned to Helen Bailey and laid his hand on hers.

“Pardon me, my girl,” he said gently. “We have hard duties to perform at
times, and duty leaves us no alternative. You are a good girl and a
brave girl, and I’m sorry to have given you so much pain and trouble. I
now believe all you have told me, and I’m very proud of you.”

Helen was sobbing again, but with mingled gratitude and relief. She
turned and grasped Nick’s hand, saying brokenly:

“Oh, Mr. Carter, how can I thank you--how can I thank you?”

“By not trying to do so,” Nick replied kindly. “These little services
are the bright spots in our lives. Go and wait for me in the outer
office. I wish to talk with the chief a few moments and I then will join
you.”

Helen dried her tear-filled eyes and obeyed him.

Nick had remained only to question the chief concerning Bart Bailey, and
to find out what had been learned about him in the house he had been
seen to enter.

“Nothing was known about him there, Nick,” the chief replied. “It is a
lodging house and is run by an honest, elderly woman. Bailey was there
about ten days ago, remaining only two nights, and requesting the
privilege of leaving a suit case until he could call for it.”

“That is why he went there this morning?”

“Yes. He remained only ten minutes.”

“He is a stranger to the landlady, I infer.”

“Yes, a total stranger. She knows nothing about him. I happen to know,
however, that he’s a very bad egg, and I wanted to get him.”

Nick remained only a few moments longer, then went to the outer office
and rejoined the waiting girl.

“Come with me,” he said pleasantly. “There is no occasion for you to
remain here. I don’t think you will ever be wanted again, Miss Bailey.”

“I cannot express my gratitude, Mr. Carter,” she replied, while she
accompanied him to the street.

“Don’t try,” smiled Nick. “Tell me something about yourself and your
brother. He used to work for Mantell & Goulard, I understand.”

“Yes, sir. Young Mr. Mantell gave him a position there for--for my
sake,” said Helen, blushing in a way that Nick rightly interpreted. “But
Bart can’t go straight. He is bad, awfully bad. He is only my half
brother, sir.”

Nick saw that the topic was a painful one for her, and he decided not to
press his inquiries. He learned that the rascal had frequently
threatened her, however, because of her refusals to join in his knavish
projects, and that the girl stood somewhat in fear of him.

Nick took her Lexington Avenue address, therefore, and promised to aid
her again if occasion required it. Smiling in response to her repeated
thanks, he then placed her in a taxicab which he hailed and saw her
driven rapidly away, well satisfied with the kindly deed he had done,
but not supposing for a moment that it would have any further
significance.




CHAPTER III.

THE MAN OF LAST RESORT.


“There are detectives, Mr. Carter, and detectives,” said Nick Carter’s
visitor. “By that I mean that only half of them are worthy of the name.
Half of the remainder are mediocre, and only one in a hundred of the
rest is really keen and clever. You, Mr. Carter, are the recognized man
of last resort. When all others have failed, it is to you that the
harrowed victim of crookdom turns for aid, as the only man in
Christendom who can ferret out the truth and round up the guilty. That,
sir, is why I am here.”

Nick Carter laughed.

“You are complimentary, Mr. Mantell, and I appreciate your very exalted
opinion of me,” he replied, a bit dryly. “All that sounds very nice and
pretty, remarkably so, but it does not do what you asserted. It tells me
only what impelled you to come here, not why you are here. Suppose you
come to the point and tell me why.”

Nick’s visitor joined in the detective’s genial laugh, as did Chick and
Patsy, who were seated with them in Nick’s attractively furnished
library. It was about seven o’clock in the evening, that of the very day
on which had occurred the episodes described.

He was a young man, this visitor, of remarkably frank and prepossessing
appearance. He was still under thirty, set up like an athlete and
scrupulously well dressed. He was the type of man to whom others are
instinctively drawn, and to whom women turn for a second look.

Nick long had known him by name and sight, the only son of wealthy Henry
Mantell, of Mantell & Goulard, the owners of the vast Sixth Avenue
department store to which reference already has been made, and which
then was by far the largest establishment of its kind in the country. He
was Frank Mantell, of whom Helen Bailey had spoken to Nick in connection
with the robbery committed by her recreant brother.

“Come to the point, eh?” he replied, still smiling. “That is a very good
suggestion, Mr. Carter, and I will act upon it. Mr. Goulard, the junior
partner of our firm, was to have met here to discuss our business with
you. Pending his arrival, however, I will do what you suggest and tell
you why I am here.”

“Very good. I am all ears,” Nick remarked, knocking the ashes from his
cigar.

“I am here, Mr. Carter, because of the tremendous leak in our business,”
said Frank, more gravely. “I refer, of course, to the department store
of Mantell & Goulard, of which I am one of the managers. My father, you
know, is the senior partner.”

“I am acquainted with your father,” Nick bowed. “When was this leak
discovered?”

“Six months ago, after our semiannual taking of stock. Our business
showed a shrinkage of more than thirty thousand dollars. That of the
past six months is even worse, running close to fifty thousand. In other
words, Mr. Carter, the leakage the past year is close upon eighty
thousand dollars.”

“Much too large to be charged to the profit-and-loss account,” said
Nick. “Are you unable to discover the cause?”

“Quite the contrary, Mr. Carter,” said Mantell. “We know the cause.”

“Namely?”

“Robbery.”

“Money?”

“No. Merchandise.”

“You don’t mean that eighty thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise has
been taken from your store in the past year, and that you are unable to
discover the thieves,” said Nick.

“That is precisely what I mean,” Frank replied, a bit more forcibly. “As
a matter of fact, Mr. Carter, we are up against a most extraordinary
game of systematic and persistent robbery. Day after day, and frequently
during the night, articles of material value disappear most mysteriously
from all parts of the store. We don’t know where they go, nor how the
thefts are committed. We have not the slightest clew to the identity of
the robbers.”

“What kinds of goods are chiefly missing?”

“All kinds, but invariably articles of considerable value. Costly laces
of every description, fine handkerchiefs, pocketbooks, and jewelry, full
pieces of expensive silks and satins, fine lace draperies, and--but I
could not begin to enumerate them. They disappear as if they had
evaporated from our shelves, counters, and show cases.”

“Can it be the work of professional shoplifters?”

“Impossible; utterly impossible! It is much too extensive.”

“How about your help?”

“Equally out of the question,” said Mantell decidedly. “We employ about
nine hundred clerks, but they have absolutely no opportunity for thefts
of such character and magnitude. It would be impossible for them to take
the goods from the store without being detected. We have had them
closely watched, nevertheless, since these daily robberies were first
discovered, but we have failed to detect a single thief among our
employees.”

“You have store detectives, of course?” said Nick inquiringly.

“Yes, on every floor.”

“Have they accomplished anything?”

“So little, Mr. Carter, that we put the case into the hands of half a
dozen headquarters men about two months ago. Their work has been equally
futile. Not a piece of the stolen goods has been traced. Not a clew has
been found pointing to the identity of the crooks, or the way in which
the thefts were committed.”

“That seems very strange,” Nick remarked.

“Strange is right, chief, and then some,” put in Patsy. “There must be a
bunch of clever ginks at work along new and original lines.”

“That seems to be about the size of it,” Nick added.

“And that is precisely how the matter stands,” Frank Mantell continued.
“As I said in the beginning, Mr. Carter, you are the man of last resort.
All others have failed, and we now turn to you for advice and
assistance. I think we should have done so at the outset. It would have
saved us a barrel of money.”

“You seem to feel sure that I shall succeed in solving the mystery,”
smiled Nick.

“Frankly, Mr. Carter, I do,” Mantell rejoined. “Success seems to be one
of your invariable acquirements. I feel that it will prove so in this
case.”

“Providing I decide to take the case.”

“I hope you will not demur over that.”

“Let me ask you a few questions,” said Nick, drawing up in his chair and
dropping his burned cigar into a cuspidor. “Are any headquarters men now
at work on the case?”

“No, sir. We dropped the last of them to-day.”

“Your store detectives still are at work?”

“Only in line with their customary duties. They would not in any way
interfere with your work.”

“I would not permit them to do so,” Nick said, a bit dryly. “It would be
even better, perhaps, if they were ignorant of my interest in the
matter. Who besides you knows of your intention to employ me on the
case?”

“Only my father, Mr. Goulard, and Mr. Lombard. My father and I look
after the correspondence and the financial end of the business. Mr.
Goulard and Mr. Lombard have entire charge of operations in the store.
Goulard is, of course, the chief director. We decided this afternoon to
appeal to you for aid. No one else is informed of our intention.”

“Make it a point, then, to inform no one else,” Nick replied. “I will at
least look into the matter and see what I can make of it.”

“Ah. I am glad to hear that.”

“Now, Mr. Mantell, when did you first suspect this system of wholesale
robbery and begin to investigate it?” Nick inquired.

“About six months ago,” Frank replied. “We knew of many thefts previous
to that time, and tried in vain to discover the culprits. Not until we
had taken stock and our books showed such a tremendous leakage,
however, did we realize how extensive a felony we were up against. We
then began the investigations that have proved so futile.”

“That was about the time Bart Bailey was seen stealing a diamond
sunburst, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was,” said Mantell, with a look of surprise. “How did you learn
about that?”

“The newspapers mentioned it,” Nick said evasively.

“Ah, yes; I remember.”

“Did you at that time, or since, suspect that Bailey was in league with
the gang of crooks committing the numerous robberies? I speak of them as
a gang, of course, because such extensive work would require several
persons and careful coöperation.”

“We suspected it, certainly, but there was no other evidence in
confirmation of it,” Mantell explained. “After the escape and
disappearance of Bailey, moreover, the robberies continued as frequently
as before. That indicated in a measure that he was not identified with
the other thieves.”

“Possibly,” Nick allowed. “I happen to know that Bart Bailey, as he is
called, is a somewhat vicious character. Were you aware of that when he
was employed in your store?”

Mantell colored slightly, but showed no inclination to hide the truth.

“I was aware of it,” he admitted. “I had a personal reason for giving
him employment. Frankly, Mr. Carter, I am deeply in love with his sister
Helen Bailey, who is as good and virtuous as he is vicious.”

“You employed him for her sake?”

“Yes. I wanted to give him a chance. I told him just what I knew about
him, and gave him a talking to, man-to-man fashion, and he promised to
go dead straight and do his best. It was the opportunity of a lifetime,
for I would have pushed him forward for all he was worth.” Mantell
earnestly added. “But I fear it isn’t in him, Carter, to be anything but
a crook.”

“It appears so, Mr. Mantell, surely.”

“I would marry Helen to-morrow, with the sanction of all of my family,
if she would have me,” Frank gravely asserted. “But she cannot ignore
the fact that her brother is an outlaw of society, and she feels that
she must not bring disgrace upon me. Dear, foolish girl! as if she were
responsible for the conduct of her brother. Hang it! he’s only her half
brother at that, and--ah, that should be Mr. Goulard. We will plan for
your campaign against these infernal thieves.”

“There will be no planning with me, Mantell,” Nick replied, as Joseph,
his butler, passed through the hall and answered the doorbell. “I do my
own planning and work out problems in my own peculiar way. I will be
pleased to meet Mr. Goulard, nevertheless, and hear what he has to say.”

Frank Mantell was right in that the caller was Gaston Goulard, and he
was presently ushered in by the butler. He was an erect, somewhat
imposing man close upon fifty. He was smooth shaved, of dark complexion,
with strong features and penetrating black eyes. He had been a widower
about four years, having no children, but still retaining his fine Fifth
Avenue residence and a retinue of servants. He was a member of the best
clubs, and a man of recognized ability, political influence, and social
standing.

Mr. Mantell received him graciously and introduced him to Chick and
Patsy, while Goulard removed his kid gloves and shook hands with all.

“You are here before me, Frank,” he remarked, after greeting the
detectives. “I was unavoidably detained.”

“I don’t think it matters,” Mantell replied. “I have told Mr. Carter all
that you could have told him and all that he is really inclined to hear.
He has consented to take the case and----”

“Very good,” Goulard interrupted, in somewhat brusque and metallic
tones. “I am glad to hear it. What do you intend doing, Mr. Carter? That
is the main question.”

Nick gazed at him quite intently.

“I really don’t know,” he replied.

“Don’t know?”

“Not yet.”

“You mean----”

“Only what I say--that I don’t know,” Nick put in, smiling. “I must
consider the matter. I must determine what best can be done. I must
visit your store and size up the opportunities for such wholesale
robbery, before I can say what I will do. You can hardly expect more of
me at present, Mr. Goulard.”

“Very true, perhaps,” Goulard admitted, with signs of reluctance. “We
are up against such a costly game, however, and have found the efforts
of other detectives so entirely useless, that I really wondered what
steps you would take to discover the thieves.”

“I wonder, too, since hearing Mr. Mantell’s statements,” Nick replied,
smiling again. “It appears like a difficult problem, Mr. Goulard.”

“It does, indeed, and you must keep me informed of your progress.”

“I will make it a point to do that.”

“That is all we can reasonably ask, then,” said Goulard, with an
approving nod. “If we can aid you in any way, or----”

“I will inform you, Mr. Goulard, in that case.”

“Very good. When will you begin your work?”

“Just as soon as I have decided how to begin it,” said Nick. “Like Davy
Crockett, I make sure I am right before going ahead. I think you may
expect me, or one of my assistants, at your store to-morrow morning.”

“I would prefer that you give the matter your personal attention,” said
Goulard suggestively.

“I always do that, sir, when engaged in an investigation of even the
simplest kind of a case,” Nick said, with seeming indifference.

“Gee! if that gazabo gets anything out of the chief, he’ll do it with a
double, back-action corkscrew,” thought Patsy, noting Nick’s suave
reticence and not half liking the strong, dark face of this second
visitor.

Mr. Goulard did not prolong his interview, however, save to discuss the
matter in a general way and learn what information Mantell had imparted.
It was eight o’clock when the two men left the detective’s residence,
Nick seeing them to the door and then returning to the library.

“Well, what do you make of it?” Chick at once inquired. “I saw that you
were not inclined to confide your opinions to Goulard. That convinced me
that you had formed one, at least.”

“Gee! I was hit in the same spot,” declared Patsy.

Nick smiled and resumed his seat.

“I wouldn’t confide in either of them,” he replied. “I have, as you
infer, come to at least one conclusion.”

“What is that?”

“These robberies are not the work of shoplifters nor any outside
crooks,” said Nick. “They have been much too numerous and varied. The
crooks are among the persons employed in the store.”

“I think so, too,” Chick nodded.

“And for that reason alone, Chick, I would confide in no one in the
store, from the heads of the firm down to the boy who sweeps the back
stairs,” said Nick. “That is a mistake many detectives make, that of
blindly confiding, perhaps, in the very culprit they are out to get.”

“Gee! that’s right, chief,” put in Patsy.

“If any inquisitive person in that store learns of my designs, it will
be only when they culminate, and his curiosity may cost him something,”
Nick pointedly added. “Secrecy is imperative to successful work in a
case of this kind.”

“I agree with you,” said Chick, with a nod of approval.

“It sure does look like inside work,” said Patsy. “But how do they get
out with the goods? The headquarters men are not lunkheads, nor are the
store detectives blind. How do the crooks get out with such quantities
of merchandise?”

“We must find the answer to that question,” Nick replied. “Other
detectives, in their efforts to discover the crooks themselves, may have
neglected to look sharply enough for it. We may meet with more success,
in fact, by working backward.”

“Working backward, chief?” questioned Patsy. “What do you mean?”

“By finding out where the goods are disposed of, through what channel
they reach their destination, and by working back over the same route,
even to the moment of the theft,” Nick explained.

“By Jove, that plan might prove profitable,” said Chick. “The goods
cannot have been pawned in this city. The headquarters men would have
run them down within forty-eight hours.”

“Undoubtedly,” Nick agreed. “It is safe to assume, nevertheless, that
the goods are stolen to be converted into money, which necessitates
either pawning or selling them. They may have been shipped to some other
city for that purpose.”

“Quite likely.”

“But how are we to learn what city, chief, assuming that you are right?”
questioned Patsy.

“I have a hunch that the way will appear,” replied Nick. “There is one
other point of which we can take advantage, I think, and it may start us
on the case right off the reel.”

“You mean?”

“Bart Bailey’s presence in New York, and what occurred to-day.”

“What do you see in that?”

“I am convinced that Bailey was in league with the other crooks when he
stole the diamond sunburst, and it’s a hundred to one that he still is
in league with them in some capacity,” Nick explained. “If he had not
been stealing the jewel, it probably would have gone the way of the
other plunder. The circumstances forced him to bolt with it, however,
and to lie low ever since.”

“But how can we take advantage of all that?” asked Chick. “I don’t quite
get you.”

“We’ll take advantage of his antipathy for his half sister,” said Nick.
“He don’t like her, despite their kinship, and he already has repeatedly
threatened her.”

“But how take advantage of it?”

“He will hear of what occurred to-day; that she made no intentional move
to prevent the police from getting him, despite that she could easily
have done so,” said Nick. “Take it from me, Chick, he’ll get after her
for that. He will hate her more than before, the knavish rat, and may go
even so far as to attempt violence. By keeping an eye on her, therefore,
we not only may protect her, but also pick up Bart Bailey himself. Then,
if he still is in league with the department-store thieves, we perhaps
may trail him to the lair of the entire gang.”

“By Jove, that’s no wild-and-weird fancy,” Chick now declared, with some
enthusiasm. “That realty looks good to me, Nick.”

“That being the case. Chick, you had better tackle that string to our
bow,” Nick directed. “Pack a grip with what you may need for a few days,
and go in disguise to the Lexington Avenue house in which Helen Bailey
is boarding.”

“To remain there?”

“Yes, temporarily. Engage a room and board, if possible, and you then
will have the girl right under your eye. Reveal nothing to her, however.
That might queer an opportunity to pick up her brother.”

“Trust me to have foreseen that,” Chick replied, rising. “I’ll be ready
to leave in ten minutes, and will phone you to-morrow morning.”

“Good enough,” Nick said approvingly. “A reference may be required by
the landlady. Take the name of Fred Lamont, and say you are a nephew of
Mr. Calvin Page, cashier of the Trinity Trust Company. I will presently
telephone to Page and inform him of the situation. He will assure the
landlady, in case she rings him up.”

“I’ve got you,” Chick nodded, turning to go.

“I will have decided by to-morrow how Patsy and I can best begin
operations,” Nick added. “I think we’ll take a look at the store, for a
starter, and at a few of its nine hundred clerks.”

“We may pick the crooks from the nine hundred merely by their looks,”
laughed Patsy. “That would be going some, chief, for fair.”




CHAPTER IV.

PICKING UP A TRAIL.


Chick Carter appeared at the door of the Lexington Avenue lodging house
about nine o’clock that evening, and his ring was answered by the
landlady herself, one Mrs. Hardy, to whom he stated his mission and
plausibly explained why he applied to her at that hour.

That Chick made a favorable impression upon the woman, moreover,
appeared in that he was invited to enter, though Mrs. Hardy added, a bit
doubtfully:

“I have only one vacant room at present, sir, and that may not please
you. It is a back room on the second floor.”

“I think it will answer,” Chick said agreeably. “I can not say just how
long I may remain in New York, but I will pay you liberally for the time
I am here. My name is Fred Lamont. I am a nephew of Mr. Calvin Page,
cashier of the Trinity Trust Company. You can talk with him by
telephone, if you require a reference, and he will assure you that I am
a desirable tenant.”

“I will do so a little later, Mr. Lamont, if I think it necessary,” said
the landlady. “I first will show you the room.”

Chick accompanied her to the second floor and into a small but neatly
furnished back chamber.

“That in front is occupied by a young lady, Miss Helen Bailey, who is
not at home this evening,” Mrs. Hardy observed, while Chick was glancing
around the room. “She has gone to a picture show with a girl who lives a
block south from here.”

Chick did not demur over taking the room. It was decidedly satisfactory
to him, in fact, to have quarters so near the girl’s room, in that he
would be easily able to keep a constant eye on her movements when at
home, and to learn whether she was visited by her disreputable brother.

Chick took the room at once, therefore, paying a week in advance, and
inquired, while doing so:

“Does Miss Bailey frequently have visitors in the evening? I usually
retire quite early. Her room is so near mine that any loud conversation
might disturb me.”

“Dear me, no!” exclaimed Mrs. Hardy, with a shrug. “Miss Bailey has only
two gentlemen callers, and she always receives them in the parlor.”

“That’s all right, then,” said Chick, smiling agreeably.

“She could pick her choice from most men, Mr. Lamont, as far as that
goes,” added the landlady, becoming communicative. “She is a beautiful
girl. She could marry the son of one of the wealthiest merchants in New
York, if she wanted to, or another one of the firm. I know that, sir,
though you may think it improbable.”

“One of the firm,” thought Chick. “By Jove, that must be Goulard. Father
and son would not be rivals. Besides, Mantell, senior, now has a wife
and family. Goulard is a widower, however, and--h’m, this may be worth
looking into.”

Chick decided not to display any undue curiosity at that time. He left
his suit case in the room and accompanied Mrs. Hardy downstairs, stating
that he had business outside for about an hour, when he would return,
and he then left the house.

Three minutes later found him in the vestibuled doorway of a dwelling
nearly opposite, from which he could see the electric-lighted avenue for
a block in each direction.

Chick reasoned, in view of Nick’s suspicions, that Bart Bailey might
already have heard of his sister’s conduct and might possibly be seeking
her that very evening, particularly if impending danger necessitated his
early departure from the city.

Chick had decided, in fact, that he would see Helen Bailey home after
she parted from the girl who had accompanied her to the picture show. He
knew that she would be in no danger while having a companion, and the
vantage point he had selected enabled him to watch the avenue as far as
the location mentioned by the landlady.

“She’ll not return later than eleven o’clock, if she has gone to the
movies,” he said to himself. “There is one chance in a hundred, at
least, that Bart Bailey already is out to nail her. I’ll take that one
chance, having nothing else to do.”

All this was clever work on the part of the Carters, and it bore not
unexpected fruit.

Chick had been waiting less than half an hour when he saw a slender man
in a dark suit coming down the avenue, whose movements immediately
warranted suspicion. For he quickly crossed the avenue before arriving
at the boarding house, then halted on the opposite side and gazed
intently at the second-floor windows.

“By Jove, I’m in right,” thought Chick, after watching him for several
moments. “That’s my man, as sure as there’s juice in a lemon. He
expected to find the girl at home, but sees that her room is not
lighted. He’ll lie low and wait for her, taking a chance that she’ll
return alone, unless I’m much mistaken.”

Chick was not mistaken.

Bart Bailey, for the detective had rightly identified him, suddenly
recrossed the avenue, and, having glanced sharply around, he slunk into
a basement doorway under the rise of stone steps leading up to the front
door of the boarding house.

“Does he intend to enter, or will he wait for the girl?” Chick asked
himself. “I’ll remain here until she comes, at all events. If he does
not then show up, I’ll cross over and enter with her. I’ll give the rat
no chance to harm her, let come what may.”

Chick’s uncertainty was not of long duration.

The man under the steps, if still there, continued to lie low.

Twenty minutes passed, and the watching detective then saw two girls
stop at a house nearly a block away. He could see them quite distinctly,
the avenue in that locality then being deserted. They parted after a few
moments, one entering the house, the other hurrying north. Half a minute
brought her nearly to the boarding-house steps--from under which darted
a sinister figure that immediately blocked her way.

Chick heard the half-subdued cry of alarm that broke from her, as well
as what followed.

“Bart!” she cried, shrinking. “You here!”

“You bet I’m here!” The reply came with a wolfish snarl. “So you’d have
let ’em get me, would you?”

“Get you! What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You’d have given me to the guns. You know--and I
know.”

“Bart----”

“Dry up! Would you blat my name from the housetops? I believe you would
do that, you infernal jade.”

The girl shrank from the miscreant’s uplifted hand, from the fierce,
threatening look in his fiery eyes.

“Don’t speak to me like that,” she cried, striving to pass him and reach
the steps. “Don’t you dare to strike me. I’ll scream for help. I’ll----”

“You open your mouth to scream, hang you, and I’ll close it forever,”
Bailey fiercely interrupted. “You’d have given me to the guns. You’d
have sent me up----”

“Let me pass!”

“And I’ll send you to the devil for it. I’ll teach you to----”

The miscreant got no farther with his vicious threats.

Chick had seen him reach into his pocket. He had caught the glint of
light from a partly drawn blade. He already was nearly across the
street, unobserved by either, and he now whipped out his revolver and
uttered a shout, though scarce twenty feet from the couple, bent only
upon causing Bart Bailey to take to his heels.

“Cut that out!” he shouted. “Let the girl alone, or----”

“Who in thunder are you?”

The ruffian swung round with an oath, interrupting, and Chick bounded
nearer, with his revolver suddenly leveled.

“You leg it, you rascal!” he cried, while a scream broke from the
frightened girl. “Leg it, or----”

But Bart Bailey already was legging it. He had turned the instant he saw
the weapon, and was darting like a frightened fox up the avenue,
crossing it diagonally at the top of his speed, and making for the
nearest corner.

Chick sped after him, but purposely let the rascal increase his lead,
bent upon finally trailing him without being suspected.

Bailey rounded the corner some twenty yards in advance of the detective,
and continued his frantic flight.

Chick turned the corner a moment later. He saw the rascal was not
looking back. He darted into the nearest doorway, then crouched on the
stone steps and cautiously peered out.

Bart Bailey was crossing the street, still at the top of his speed, and
heading for Third Avenue. Suddenly he glanced back over his shoulder and
discovered that he no longer was pursued. He slowed down, and finally
stopped, gazing back and listening, and then he appeared convinced that
his pursuer had stopped before turning the corner. As if to give vent to
his feelings, he fiercely shook his fist in the direction from which he
had come, and then he turned on his heel and walked away.

Chick watched him until he rounded the corner of Third Avenue. He paused
only to be sure the fellow did not look back, and then he began a
record-breaking sprint in pursuit of the scamp. He arrived at the corner
just in time to see Bailey entering an opposite saloon.

“There, by Jove, that does settle it,” he said to himself. “I certainly
have fooled him. He does not suspect me of being a detective, or he
would have continued his flight. He probably reasons that I came out of
one of the opposite dwellings and turned back to look after the girl. It
should be soft walking, now, to trail the rascal to cover.”

Chick had prepared himself for the work he had in view. He made a quick
change of disguise, then crossed the avenue and looked into the saloon.

Bart Bailey was gulping down a glass of whisky, after which he left the
saloon by a side door, then made for the nearest elevated station.

Chick followed him, mounting the stairway on the opposite corner from
that taken by his quarry.

When the train arrived at Thirty-fourth Street, Bailey left the train,
trailed by Chick. The young rogue ran down the stairs and jumped aboard
a crosstown car. Chick had followed his quarry, and both dismounted at
the Pennsylvania Station, where Bailey got a suit case from the parcel
room, and then hastened to board an outbound train, entering the smoking
car and taking one of the front seats.

Chick followed him and took one in the middle of the car.

“He must have a return ticket to some point, not having bought one,” he
said to himself. “This may confirm another of Nick’s suspicions, that
the stolen merchandise is being shipped to another city, and that Bailey
still is in league with the gang in some capacity. I’ll soon find out
where he’s going, since it’s up to me to go with him.”

Chick conferred quietly with the conductor half an hour later, when the
fast express was speeding south, confiding his identity and stating what
he wanted to learn. Later, when the conductor came through the train to
punch the tickets, he paused briefly and whispered to the detective:

“He has a return ticket to Philadelphia. The date shows that it was
purchased day before yesterday.”

Chick thanked him and now paid his fare.

“It’s Philadelphia for mine, also,” he remarked, smiling significantly.
“I was all at sea as to where I was going. I’m glad to find out.”

The conductor laughed quietly, and moved on through the train.

It was long after midnight when Chick shadowed Bailey from the
Pennsylvania Station, in Philadelphia, to a second-class hotel in Arch
Street, where his quarry evidently already was quartered, for he stopped
only for a key and several letters, which the clerk took from a
pigeonhole and gave him, and he then went up to his room.

Chick entered a moment later and registered under a fictitious name.

“Was that Tom Denny who came in just ahead of me?” he inquired
carelessly.

“No.” The clerk shook his head. “That was Arthur Finley. I don’t know
Tom Denny.”

“He’s a traveling salesman with whom I’m acquainted. I thought I
recognized him.”

“You were mistaken. Mr. Finley has been living here for several months.
He’s a buyer for Rudolph Meyer, who runs a general fancy-goods store in
Broad Street.”

Chick turned away and went up with a hallboy to the room assigned him.

“Buyer for Rudolph Meyer, eh?” he said to himself, with a feeling of
grim satisfaction. “I’ll wager that all of the goods with which he
supplies Rudolph Meyer come indirectly from the store of Mantell &
Goulard. I’ll look into that in the morning, and then have a
long-distance talk with Nick. His suspicions have hit the nail on the
head, all right, and to-morrow should see something doing.”




CHAPTER V.

NICK FINDS A CLEW.


Nick Carter did not receive the expected telephone communication from
Chick the following morning. Bent upon learning why, and apprehending
that something of a sensational nature had occurred the previous night,
Nick called at the Lexington Avenue boarding house about half past eight
and asked to see the landlady.

Mrs. Hardy joined him in her parlor a few moments later, drying her
hands and arms with her apron.

“I have called to inquire about Mr. Lamont,” said Nick, after closing
the door. “I understand----”

“Dear me!” Mrs. Hardy interrupted, gazing. “That’s more than I can say.
I’m very glad if any one understands and will explain Mr. Lamont’s
conduct.”

“Ah!” Nick replied, smiling. “I thought something had occurred. I
probably can explain to your entire satisfaction. What about Mr. Lamont?
What mystifies you?”

“Well, sir, he engaged a room here last night and left his suit case,
saying he would return in about an hour. He did not do so, nor have I
heard from him. I have telephoned to a gentleman to whom he referred me,
and who stated that he is entirely reliable.”

“You probably refer to Mr. Calvin Page, his uncle.”

“Yes, sir, I do. But I cannot account for Mr. Lamont’s disappearance. Do
you know anything about him?”

“I know all about him, madam,” said Nick. “Did any thing occur here last
night that might have occasioned his absence?”

“Well, no, sir; nothing occurred in the house.”

“Outside, perhaps?”

“I know only that one of my boarders, Helen Bailey, was assaulted by a
man about eleven o’clock as she was approaching the door. A stranger ran
across the avenue and drove the miscreant away, then pursued him around
the corner. Neither of them returned. I don’t think the stranger was Mr.
Lamont, however, for he don’t answer Miss Bailey’s description of her
protector.”

“Chick in another disguise,” thought Nick. “The game opened even more
quickly than I expected.”

Mrs. Hardy then was gazing at him quite suspiciously, and Nick decided
to take her into his confidence. He briefly explained the situation and
the probable circumstances, much to the woman’s relief and increasing
interest in her visitor, whom she now regarded in an entirely different
light.

“Dear me!” she exclaimed. “I did not even dream, Mr. Carter, that you
were the famous detective. I don’t think Miss Bailey even suspected that
her protector was one of your assistants.”

“Did she say anything more about the matter than you have stated?” Nick
inquired.

“No, sir; only what I have told you.”

“You must not do so, then, nor mention what I have told you,” Nick
directed, more impressively. “Say nothing whatever about the matter to
any one.”

“But, Mr. Carter, your instructions come too late.”

“Too late?”

“Yes, sir. I already have told one man.”

“Whom have you told?”

“Mr. Gaston Goulard.”

“How did you happen to inform him?” asked Nick, both surprised and
suspicious.

“He called here this morning. He frequently stops with his automobile
when on his way to business to take Miss Bailey to the telephone
exchange. She had gone before he arrived, however, and I then told him
about Mr. Lamont, thinking he might know the man, or suggest some
explanation for his absence.”

“Is Mr. Goulard friendly with Miss Bailey?” Nick inquired, with brows
knitting slightly.

“Yes, sir, but only in a paternal way, I think. He is much older than
she, and I imagine that he is interested in her only because of young
Mr. Mantell, the son of his business partner. Mr. Mantell is deeply in
love with Helen.”

“What did you tell Mr. Goulard about the assault?” Nick inquired.

“Only what I have stated to you.”

“That her assailant was pursued by the stranger?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you tell him that the stranger did not return?”

“I did, sir.”

“What did Mr. Goulard say about that?”

“He appeared quite disturbed.”

“What did he say?” Nick repeated.

“Well, I don’t think I remember,” Mrs. Hardy faltered. “He said nothing
that made any impression on me. He asked whether Helen recognized the
man, or gave me a description of him. When I had told him all I knew
about the matter, he rushed out to his automobile and rode rapidly away
with his chauffeur.”

“More rapidly than usual?”

“Yes, sir; much more. To tell the truth, Mr. Carter, I felt almost sure
that he suspected the man’s identity.”

Nick thought so, too, but he did not say so. He at once suspected, also,
that Goulard had hastened to the telephone exchange to question Helen
Bailey, and ten minutes later he entered in disguise and confirmed his
suspicions. Revealing his identity, of course, he learned from Helen
that Goulard had questioned her very closely about the man who had
pursued her brother, and that he then had hurriedly departed.

“Does he know that you were arrested yesterday morning, Miss Bailey, and
for what?” Nick then inquired.

“Yes, sir; he does,” said Helen.

“Who informed him?”

“He read about it in one of the newspapers.”

“Did he question you about it?”

“Yes, in a general way, Mr. Carter,” Helen readily admitted; then added
more earnestly: “But he appeared much interested in what occurred last
evening.”

“Quite likely,” said Nick, a bit dryly.

He decided not to reveal any of his increasing suspicions, however, but
returned immediately to his business office, where he found Patsy Garvan
awaiting him, and told him what he had learned.

“That listens good to me, chief,” declared Patsy, with some enthusiasm.
“It’s dead open and shut, now, that Chick has a line on Bart Bailey.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“But why haven’t we heard from him?”

“Circumstances may have prevented him from communicating with us, or he
may be seeking additional evidence before doing so,” Nick rightly
reasoned.

“Mebbe so,” Patsy agreed. “But what’s eating Goulard? Why was he so
haired up over it? Is he in love with Helen Bailey?”

“That evidently is one reason,” said Nick. “She denies that she has
given him any encouragement, however, beyond accepting a ride to and
from her place of business occasionally. She states that he has always
treated her respectfully. I would not care to trust Goulard with such a
girl, nevertheless, much farther than I could throw him.”

“Nor I, chief, as far as that goes,” said Patsy. “I don’t half like his
looks.”

“There may be a more serious cause for his being haired up, as you term
it,” Nick added.

“You refer to the robberies?”

“Exactly.”

“You think he may be the man behind the gun?”

“I begin to think so,” said Nick. “It is quite possible that he is
engaged in a big scheme to defraud his own partner. You observed last
evening, no doubt, that he was quite anxious to know what investigations
I intended to make, and he insisted that I must keep him informed of my
progress.”

“You bet I noticed that,” said Patsy. “It is significant, too, as far as
it goes.”

“Very true. Even if my suspicions are correct, however, it may not prove
easy to fix such treachery upon one of the firm and to round up his
confederates.”

“That’s right, too.”

“But there is one fact on which we can depend, and of which we can take
advantage.”

“What is that, chief?”

“Only four persons are supposed to know that we are engaged on the
case,” said Nick. “They are the two members of the firm, also Frank
Mantell, and the assistant general manager, Mr. Lombard. I directed that
no one else should be informed.”

“I remember,” nodded Patsy.

“Now, if either of them has a hand in these robberies, he will evidently
reason that the thefts must not abruptly cease, or we would immediately
attribute it to the fact that we are making an investigation and the
crooks have become alarmed. That would, of course, involve one or more
of the four men who know we are looking into the matter.”

“Sure thing,” agreed Patsy. “That’s as plain as twice two.”

“Undoubtedly, therefore, the thefts will continue,” Nick confidently
predicted. “It is up to us, then, to catch the thieves in the act, or at
least discover who is doing the work and how the goods are removed from
the store.

“Gee, we ought to be able to accomplish that,” said Patsy.

“We will undertake it, at all events, while Chick is following up Bart
Bailey. Slip two or three changes of disguise into your pocket, Patsy,
and go to the department store. Find Goulard, and keep an eye on him
till otherwise directed.”

“I’ll do that, all right, but what are your own plans?”

“I’m not sure what turn they will take,” said Nick. “I shall follow you
to the store in disguise and look over the ground. What I observe may
determine what more I shall do.”

“I see.”

“Be that as it may, I shall run across you and then may have other
instructions to give you.”

“I’ve got you, chief,” said Patsy, hastening to make ready. “May I act
on my own judgment, in case I detect anything suspicious?”

“Certainly,” Nick nodded. “Do nothing, however, that would expose our
hand.”

“I’ll guard against that, chief.”

“Go ahead when you are ready, then, and keep a sharp eye on Gaston
Goulard.”

It was nearly noon when Patsy entered the vast department store, where
the morning business then was in full swing, all of the several floors
being thronged with customers.

“I’ll probably find Goulard in the business office, or in that
locality,” he said to himself, then bent only upon locating his man.
“I’ll have a look in that direction.”

Though familiar with the store in a general way, Patsy knew but little
about its numerous departments. Fortune favored him, however, in that he
sauntered toward the rear of the store and unexpectedly discovered the
man he was seeking.

Goulard was hurrying up from one of the basement rooms in company with a
clean-cut, florid man of nearly fifty. Both appeared disturbed. Goulard
was talking excitedly and flourishing several foreign invoices, the
character of which Patsy readily detected.

“Gee, I’m playing lucky,” he said to himself. “There is something doing
already.”

He followed the two men to the second floor, on which the extensive
offices were located, including the private offices of the firm and
assistant managers. All were in the rear of the vast building, but
adjoined the extensive salesroom, which enabled Patsy to follow the two
men without attracting attention.

He saw them enter the nearest of the several private offices, which were
divided by a corridor from the large general office, and a moment later
Goulard’s hard, aggressive voice could be plainly heard through the
partly open door.

“There is no question about it, none whatever,” he declared. “Lombard is
right, Mr. Mantell. Two of the Persian shawls are missing. I have
checked off every article found in the packing cases, and Tenney, the
receiving clerk, is positive that none was mislaid. The invoice is
correct in every particular, save that two of the Persian shawls are
missing. There goes another two hundred dollars to the dogs. By Heaven,
I’ll close the store, or sell my interest in it, if this kind of thing
continues.”

“Another theft,” thought Patsy, pausing at the entrance to the corridor.
“The chief was right, by Jove, in that the robberies will continue in
spite of us. That must be the senior partner’s private office.”

The last was confirmed by the reply to Goulard’s heated declarations.

“Don’t lose your head, Gaston. You suffer no more than I over these
depredations. We are equal partners in the business. Bear in mind that
we now have Nick Carter on the case, and he----”

“Carter be hanged!” Goulard interrupted bluntly. “Why hasn’t he showed
up this morning? If he----”

“Give him time,” put in another voice, which Patsy recognized to be that
of Frank Mantell. “You know, Goulard, what he stated last evening.”

“Stated!” snapped Goulard. “He didn’t state anything. He said only that
he would look into the matter. Why isn’t he doing it? Close that door,
Lombard. We may be heard in the salesroom.”

Patsy heard the door closed, and the voices of the men within no longer
reached his ears. It was obvious to him, however, that they were
discussing a robbery committed that morning, evidently from a package of
imported merchandise that had been opened in the receiving room.

Bent only upon watching Goulard, as Nick had directed, Patsy waited
briefly within view of the office door, toward which he presently
sauntered, noting that the corridor ran toward the rear of the building
and to a narrow, diverging corridor and stairway leading down to a court
making in from the side street.

“I’ll wait and see where he goes after leaving Mantell’s office,” he
said to himself, not venturing to play the eavesdropper at the closed
door. “He probably will return to the salesroom, or some other part of
the store. Ah, this must be his private office.”

It was the last in the corridor, and a plate on the door bore Goulard’s
name. The door was partly open, and Patsy glanced in, pausing for a
moment. He saw a handsomely equipped office with a large roll-top desk,
then open and covered with accumulated letters, bills, and invoices.

Turning into the diverging back corridor, which afforded him a corner
for concealment, Patsy then observed that another door led from
Goulard’s office into the rear corridor, a fact which did not then
impress him seriously.

He scarce had turned the corner, however, when he heard the steps of the
two men in the other corridor. They were coming in his direction, and
discretion at first impelled him to dart toward the back stairway, as he
could not plausibly explain his presence in this rear corridor, which
was but little used and only by persons employed in the store.

Lingering for a moment, nevertheless, Patsy heard the men suddenly stop
at the door of Goulard’s office. They remained in whispered conversation
for several minutes, inaudible to Patsy, though he then heard one of
them walk quickly away through the main corridor, while the other
entered Goulard’s private office.

Patsy heard the door closed and the steps of the man within, and he
still lingered and listened.

“Is it Goulard himself?” he questioned mentally. “Who else would be in
his office? I must find a concealment from which I can watch the other
door.”

Patsy found it under the rise of stairs to the third floor, a dusty
corner from which he could see a portion of both corridors.

He had been waiting about ten minutes, when, much to his surprise,
another man emerged from Goulard’s office and appeared in the back
corridor.

He was a bowed, round-shouldered man in a gray suit, and entirely unlike
the fashionable garments worn by the junior member of the firm. He
appeared to be about sixty, a man with grizzled hair, a full beard, and
wearing steel-bowed spectacles. He paused for a moment, glancing sharply
toward the stairs, and then he closed the rear door from which he had
come and hastened toward the stairway.

“That beats me,” thought Patsy. “I’m sure there was no one in that
office when I looked into it, and who but Goulard would have entered it?
Who the dickens is this fellow, then, and why----”

Patsy did not continue his train of thought. He decided that the matter
needed immediate investigation. He darted to the rear door of the office
again and listened.

Not a sound came from within.

Stepping around to the other door, bent upon knocking and learning
positively whether Goulard was within, Patsy now found on the door a
written card:

“Will return at two o’clock.”

“Great Scott!” thought Patsy, startled. “That wasn’t here when I passed
this door. Can it be----”

He did not end the thought. He turned abruptly, darting through the rear
corridor and down the back stairway, now in hot pursuit of the bearded
man in gray.




CHAPTER VI.

THE CODE TELEGRAM.


Chick Carter was on the lookout for Bart Bailey at seven o’clock the
following morning, after trailing him to Philadelphia. He had felt sure
that his quarry would not be stirring before that hour, but he soon
found that he had allowed himself but little leeway. For Bailey appeared
in the hotel office ten minutes later and hurried in to breakfast.

Chick saw plainly that the rascal did not suspect an espionage, but his
haste denoted that he had important business in view. Chick determined
not to lose sight of him, therefore, and he deferred for that reason and
in order to gather additional evidence, a telephone talk with Nick,
precisely as the latter had inferred.

Chick shadowed Bailey from the hotel about eight o’clock, and the store
mentioned by the clerk the previous night. It proved to be a small
establishment, occupying only the ground floor and basement of a corner
building, with an office in the rear, and to which the crook immediately
hastened.

“I’ll not follow him,” thought Chick, sizing up the store from outside.
“I may get a line on him from the rear.”

Hastening in that direction, Chick saw that the back windows of an
automobile agency overlooked a paved area back of Meyers’ store, and he
entered and introduced himself to the manager, confiding the situation
to him and requesting the privilege of using the rear windows.

“Why, certainly, Mr. Carter,” he readily consented, after Chick had
concluded. “Go as far as you like. I wouldn’t bank much myself, as a
matter of fact, on Rudolph Meyers’ integrity. I know he used to run a
pawnshop in one of the lower precincts of the city. He opened this store
about eight months ago.”

“Soon after the New York robberies began,” Chick nodded.

“I see the point. I have often wondered why he could sell goods cheaper
than his competitors. I inferred that his rent might be lower, and he
keeps only one clerk, a man named Finley.”

“Many of his goods cost him less--at present,” Chick said significantly.

“I judge so, now,” smiled the other. “They unpack most of them in the
area back of the store. A big case came in there this morning by
express. It now is out there. I suppose they will open it, now that
Finley has showed up. Yes, by Jove, they’re just coming out of the rear
door.”

Chick directed the manager to remain in his office, and he then stole to
a point from which he could easily see and hear the two men without
being detected.

They had emerged from a back door of the store, and had opened another
leading down a flight of stone steps to the basement. Barton Bailey
already was working upon a large packing case, while Rudolph Meyers, a
short, swarthy man of about fifty, stood looking on with a sinister
grin.

“Another vindfall, eh?” he remarked, after a moment. “Another vindfall.
If it proves to be as good as the last----”

“Much better, Meyers, and then some,” Bart Bailey interrupted, turning
from his work. “I happen to know just what is in this one. I was with
Murdock when the goods were packed.”

“You left him all right, eh?”

“As right as a trivet, Rudolph.”

“Not one is yet wise, eh?”

“Not yet, old man, nor likely to be,” declared Bart confidently. “The
headquarters dicks have been bounced and others are to be tried. You
know whom I mean. They’re the worst ever, too, but I reckon they’ll find
this nut too hard a one for their ugly jaws. If they----”

“Wait!” cut in Meyers sharply. “Here vas a poy with a message. Vait von
minute.”

Chick pricked up his ears and crept nearer the window. Through the open
back door of the store he could see a telegraph messenger entering from
Broad Street. He saw Meyers hurry in to meet him, saw him glance at the
address on the yellow envelope, and then turn and beckon to Bailey, who
dropped his tools and hurried into the store.

“By Jove, I wonder what that signifies,” thought Chick, with instinctive
misgivings. “A wire to Bailey, eh? Can any one have got wise to my
doings?”

Bart Bailey, to whom the telegram evidently was addressed, hastened to
sign for it, and then broke the seal. He read the message, and then both
men hurried into the rear office.

Chick then could see them through one of the office windows, which had
been opened to admit the morning air.

Bart Bailey took a small leather book from his pocket and sat down at a
desk, spreading the telegram on it and seizing a large pad of blank
paper and a pencil. He then began to refer to various pages in the book,
pausing to write briefly at intervals on the pad.

“A code message,” thought Chick, intently watching the couple. “He has
the key to it in that book, and is making a transcription on the pad. By
Jove, this looks like something doing.”

Chick’s suspicions were almost immediately confirmed. Both men appeared
much disturbed. Leaving Barton still at work at the desk, Meyers hurried
to the front part of the store, where, through some lace draperies that
were displayed in one of the windows, he began to peer cautiously into
Broad Street, evidently searching the wide thoroughfare in each
direction.

“By gracious, I must be right,” Chick muttered. “Bart Bailey has been
tipped by some one, as sure as death and taxes. The other rat is looking
to see whether the store is being watched. You’re looking in the wrong
direction, old man. By Jove, I would give a trifle for a copy of that
transcription.”

Bart Bailey evidently completed it a few moments later. He sprang up in
some excitement, tore the written sheet from the pad, then hurried out
to the front of the store to read it to his companion. Both remained
there, earnestly discussing it and gazing cautiously toward the street.

“Here’s my chance, by Jove, if I ever had one,” thought Chick, after
watching them for a moment. “I’ll take it, too, let come what may.”

Stepping quickly to one of the other windows, Chick quietly raised it,
then sprang out noiselessly and crossed the area between the two
buildings. The desk in the rear office was within reach through the open
window.

Chick leaned over the sill and listened for a moment. He could hear the
subdued voices of the two men in the front of the store, but could not
distinguish what they were saying.

Taking the pad from the desk, Chick drew back and tore off the upper
blank sheet and slipped it into his pocket. He then replaced the pad and
returned it to its former position, quietly closing the window. The two
men in the front of the store still were cautiously watching the street.

“Neither of them heard me,” thought Chick, with some satisfaction. “Nor
will a single blank sheet be missed from that pad. I’ll wager I can
learn something from it.”

One might wonder how he could accomplish it, but Chick Carter was wise
to all the tricks of his profession. He thanked the manager of the
agency for the accommodations afforded him, cautioned him to say
nothing in regard to his visit, and he then learned the location of the
nearest drug store.

Hastening to it, Chick bought from a clerk some fine black powder
adapted to his purpose. He then requested the privilege of using the
prescription room for a few moments, stating with what object, and the
favor was readily granted.

Chick then spread the blank sheet of paper on a table and covered it
with a thin layer of the fine black dust, which he then blew gently from
its surface.

Particles of it remained, however, in the indentations caused by the
pressure of the pencil through the sheet on which Bart Bailey had been
writing, and it brought out quite legibly nearly every word of the
transcription hurriedly made by the crook.

Chick read it carefully, quick to readily interpret the condensed
phrases transcribed from the code book, and he found that it fully
confirmed his suspicions.

It told him that Bart Bailey had been warned that a detective was
following him; that he must watch out for him and lure him to New York,
if possible, and to some place designated only as a cobweb. The
communication bore no signature whatever.

Chick Carter smiled a bit grimly, now knocking the particles of dust
from the sheet and returning it to his pocket. The circumstances,
nevertheless, puzzled him somewhat.

“Who the dickens could have learned of my doings and warned this
rascal?” he said to himself. “Not Helen Bailey, surely, nor the
boarding-house landlady. Neither of them would have done so. I’ll be
hanged if I now can fathom it, but I reckon I see my way to doing so.
Lure me to New York, eh? I can guess what that means, all right. Well,
I’ll give the rats a chance.”

Most men would have shrunk from the risks involved, but not Chick
Carter. He now hastened to find a second-hand clothing store, where he
clad himself in a somewhat seedy suit and a woolen cap, directing that
his own discarded garments should be sent to his New York address.

Ten minutes later, wearing an entirely different facial disguise and
having a rather sinister appearance, Chick returned to Broad Street and
entered Meyers’ store.

He then found both suspects engaged in hurriedly putting into various
shelves and drawers the goods taken from the packing case, which had
been opened during his brief absence.

Both at once ceased working when he entered, and Chick saw that he was
instantly suspected. He saw, too, that Bailey shot a swift, significant
glance at Meyers, plainly directing him not to interfere.

“Is the boss around?” Chick inquired, as he approached them.

Bart Bailey nodded, hooking his thumbs through the armholes of his vest,
while he replied inquiringly:

“I am the boss, my man. What do you want?”

“I’m looking for a job, sir,” said Chick, respectfully touching his cap
with his forefinger. “I thought, mebbe----”

“That I would give you employment?” Bart put in, with searching
scrutiny. “What led you to think so?”

“Nothing, sir, save that most stores need help,” Chick explained, quite
humbly. “I have been trying for a job in others, sir, but luck seems
against me. I’m broke and in hard sledding, you see, and----”

“Do you live in the city?” Bart cut in again.

“No, sir. I’m here from Chicago only a couple of days.”

“Why did you leave there?”

“My boss failed, and that threw me out of a job. I couldn’t get another
in Chicago, so I worked my way here on a freight train.”

“What sort of work can you do?”

“Any old kind, sir, that’ll earn me a dollar,” Chick asserted, somewhat
suggestively. “I wouldn’t be particular. You can bet on that.”

“You’d do most anything, eh?”

“That’s what I would, sir. When a man’s up against it good and hard, he
don’t stick over trifles. I’d do anything the boss told me.”

“Suppose it was something off color?”

“That would be up to him, sir. I’d do it, all right, and shut my eyes to
what it was about.”

“And your mouth, too, perhaps?”

“I would, sir, and keep it shut,” said Chick, with a sinister nod. “You
can bank your pile on that, sir.”

Bart Bailey laughed and glanced again at the listening merchant.

“Murdock might use the fellow,” he remarked significantly.

“Vell, yes, he might,” Meyers allowed tentatively, evidently taking a
cue the other had given him.

Bart turned to Chick again, saying:

“We’ve got no use for you here, my man, but I think I could find a job
for you in New York.”

“That would suit me all right, sir,” Chick declared, with manifest
eagerness. “I’d go to New York, sir, or to perdition, if need be. Give
me a letter to the party, sir, and I’ll find a way to get there.”

“I’d do better than that, my man, if you mean what you say,” replied
Bailey, glancing at his watch.

“You’ll find I mean it, sir,” Chick insisted.

“I’m going to New York in just half an hour,” Bart added. “I’ll not
promise you the job, mind you, but I think I can fix you with a friend
who wants a man for general work. I’ll take the chance, at all events,
and will pay your fare, which can be returned to me out of your first
week’s pay. How does that suit you?”

“I couldn’t be hit more to my liking, sir,” said Chick, with manifest
gratitude. “I’m more obliged than I could tell if I----”

“Never mind thanking me,” Bart interrupted. “There’ll be time enough for
that after you get what’s coming to you. What’s your name?”

“James Donovan, sir.”

“Where are you stopping? Have you got any luggage?”

“Only what’s on my back.”

“Well, that’s easily carried,” Bart laughed, with a covert gleam in his
shifty eyes. “Sit down there, Donovan, for about ten minutes. We then
shall have time to hit a fast express.”

Chick obeyed him with alacrity, taking a chair to which the rascal
pointed.

There was nothing remarkable in the celerity with which these
arrangements were completed. Chick knew that the two crooks did not
dream of his having learned of the code telegram and its significance,
and that they not only would suspect his identity, but also would see in
his application for work only a scheme to watch them and the
Philadelphia store.

That he would walk with open eyes into such a net as the telegram
indirectly suggested would seem utterly improbable, and Bart Bailey had
immediately seized the supposed opportunity which the situation
presented, feeling sure that he could trap Chick before he could learn
that his identity and designs were suspected.

Half an hour later, therefore, found both seated in the smoking car of
an express train bound for New York, whither Chick had really expected
to have taken the crook in irons, instead of traveling as his supposed
dupe.

This appeared to Chick, nevertheless, the surest and speediest way to
discover the identity and doings of Bailey’s confederates, as well as to
round up the entire gang, which might possibly be perverted by the
immediate arrest of Bailey and Rudolph Meyers.

It was early afternoon when they arrived in New York, each having played
his part consistently, resulting in no material change in the situation,
save a change of base.

“We’ll take a taxi,” said Bailey, as they emerged from the station.
“I’ve got the price.”

“That beats working one’s passage on a freight train,” Chick replied.
“Whatever you say, Mr. Finley, goes.”

“This way, then.”

Chick followed him to a taxicab, to the driver of which the crook
quietly gave his instructions.

The taxicab stopped in front of an unpretentious store in one of the
crosstown streets. The single front window denoted that wooden toys and
novelties of like description were sold within. A sign over the door
apparently told the whole story:

“ACME NOVELTY COMPANY.”

Chick glanced at the sign and window when he followed Bart Bailey from
the taxicab. Beyond the low brick building in which this store was
located, the two upper floors of which were evidently used for a
dwelling, towered the rear wall of a vast mercantile edifice, which
Chick immediately recognized.

“Mantell & Goulard’s department store,” he said to himself. “By Jove,
this should signify something.”

“This way, Donovan.” Bart Bailey spoke with a growl. “Get a move on.”

Chick did not hesitate. He followed the ruffian without replying, and
entered the quarters of the Acme Novelty Company.




CHAPTER VII.

INTO A NET.


Chick Carter sized up the interior of the store with a glance. He saw
that it was not used for a retail business. Several empty cases stood on
the floor, while a nondescript array of toys and novelties of cheap
variety filled the shelves and single counter, all more or less dusty
and in some disorder.

The only visible occupant of the place was a burly, powerful man of
middle age, with reddish hair and features, and with his shirt sleeves
rolled above the elbows of his brawny arms. He was clad in overalls and
appeared to be engaged in drawing nails from a cover of one of the empty
cases.

“Hello! Back again, Finley?” he exclaimed, in guttural tones, when the
two men entered, at the same time bestowing an indifferent glance upon
Chick.

“Yes, Nolan, but only for the day,” Bart Bailey replied. “Is Murdock
around?”

“He’s in the basement.”

“Good enough! I hoped I would find him here. Shake hands with Mr.
Donovan. He’s looking for a job, and I have an idea that Mr. Murdock can
use him.”

“I reckon that we can use him, all right,” Nolan vouchsafed, with covert
significance. “We want to get the right kind of a man.”

“I think I can fill the bill,” said Chick, while he shook the other’s
tendered hand.

“Wait here, Donovan,” put in Bailey. “I’ll find out what Murdock thinks
about it.”

“Go ahead, sir,” Chick nodded.

Bart turned to the rear of the store and vanished down a narrow
stairway.

“What kind of work is to be required of me?” Chick inquired, turning
again to Nolan.

“Odd jobs,” was the indefinite reply. “Mostly packing the stuff we send
away. We don’t do any retail business.”

“Does Mr. Murdock run the business?”

“When he’s here,” nodded Nolan. “He’s the big finger.”

“Where does he buy all of these things?” Chick inquired, glancing at the
counter and shelves.

“Don’t buy them,” said Nolan tersely. “We make most of them. We’ve got a
workroom in the basement.”

“I might----”

What Chick would have said was cut short by a shout from below, a
command from Bart Bailey.

“Bring Donovan down here, Nolan,” he cried. “Murdock wants to talk with
him.”

“All right,” Nolan shouted; then, to Chick: “I’ll turn the key in the
door. Some one might steal in and swipe something.”

He strode to the street door and locked it while speaking, and Chick
quick to note the significance of all this, seized the opportunity
presented. He shifted a revolver to the side pocket of his coat, then
followed Nolan down the narrow back stairway.

It led to a basement room of moderate size, with a cement floor and
lighted with several incandescent lamps. In none of the four foundation
walls that met Chick’s gaze was there any sign of a window. In one
corner, however, a stairway led up to another part of the building.

Near one of the walls stood a long, wooden bench, covered with tools and
partly finished articles such as Chick had seen in the store. Aside from
this bench, two common wooden chairs and a bare table, the room
contained no furnishings worthy of mention.

A workman with his sleeves rolled up, a muscular chap in the twenties,
was leaning on the bench with a mallet in his hand.

Bart Bailey was seated on a corner of the table.

Near by, occupying one of the chairs, was a bearded, round-shouldered
man in gray--the man whom Patsy Garvan had followed from the department
store only a short time before.

Nolan stepped aside to let Chick pass, and the latter quickly noticed
that he did not return to the store. It was too significant a fact to be
ignored, and Chick was never more alert than at that moment.

“This way, Donovan,” Bailey said, a bit curtly. “Here is Mr. Murdock. I
have told him about you. He wants to ask you a few questions.”

“All right, sir,” said Chick. “Glad to know you, sir.”

“Very good. Sit down, Mr. Donovan.”

Murdock pointed to the only vacant chair. It was directly in front of
him, and scarce three feet away. He sat with his imposing figure bowed
slightly forward, with his hands spread on his knees. He had spoken
agreeably, but his voice had a hard ring and his eyes a shifty gleam
that further put Chick on his guard.

He sat down, as directed, replying respectfully:

“Thank you, sir. I’ll answer any questions you ask.”

“Very good,” said Murdock. “Finley tells me you are out of work and came
from Chicago.”

“I did, sir.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I worked in a hardware store.”

“Are you handy with tools?”

“Quite so,” Chick nodded, wondering how the situation would turn. “I
have worked as a carpenter at times, though I never learned the trade.”

“You don’t look like a man accustomed to hard work,” said Murdock,
smiling through his heavy beard.

“I’ve done my share, sir, for all that.”

“Let’s see your palms. They will tell the story.”

Chick hesitated for only the hundredth part of a second. He now knew
what was coming, that the rascal suspected he was gripping a weapon in
his side pocket, of which he aimed to make him let go. Chick reasoned on
the instant, too, that he was up against desperate odds, that his best
move would be to yield to the rascals temporarily, biding his own time
to discover their entire game and to turn the tables on them. All this
really was no more than he had expected and designed, when he boldly
entered the place in spite of the risks involved.

Chick hesitated only for an instant, therefore, and then extended both
hands and displayed his palms, as directed.

As quick as a flash, bending forward from the table on which he was
seated, Bart Bailey clapped the muzzle of a revolver to the detective’s
head.

“Don’t move!” he commanded, with sudden sharp ferocity. “Keep them
there, or you’ll be a dead one. We want your hands where we can see
them.”

Chick dropped them on his knees and drew up in his chair. Without so
much as a glance at Bailey, and apparently not the least disturbed by
his weapon, he gazed at Murdock and asked coolly:

“What’s the meaning of this? What’s it all about?”

Murdock’s eyes took on a more venomous gleam and glitter, his voice a
more threatening ring.

“You know what’s it all about,” he said sternly. “If you stir foot or
finger, you’ll get all that Finley has threatened. You are playing a
tricky game and a dangerous one, for it cuts no ice with us. We know
you, Carter, and are out to get you--as you’re out to get us!”

Chick coolly removed his disguise and tossed it upon the table.

“That being the case, Mr. Murdock, I’ll sail under true colors,” he said
curtly.

“You may as well,” Murdock rejoined, with a sneer. “But don’t get gay,
Carter, or you’ll pay the price. Keep your hands on your knees.”

“Don’t be alarmed,” Chick retorted. “I’m not inviting a bullet by
opposing you. Do what you like.”

“We intend doing so,” snapped Murdock. “The mistake you made, Carter,
was in undertaking to oppose us. You now find yourself neatly trapped.”

“Oh, not as neatly as you imagine,” said Chick. “You have had nothing on
me.”

“Nothing on you, eh?”

“Only what I have voluntarily handed you.”

“Rats!” cried Bart Bailey, with a snarl and scowl. “Tell that to the
marines. I’ve made a monkey of you, Carter, and you know it.”

“It’s not in you, Bailey, to make a monkey of me,” Chick replied, with a
scornful glance at him. “It’s you who were monkeyed last night, when I
picked you up in Lexington Avenue and trailed you to Philadelphia, with
you none the wiser.”

“That’s insignificant,” said Murdock, checking Bailey with a gesture.
“We know all about that. We know just how it was done.”

“Certainly you do,” Chick coolly allowed. “I was aware of that several
hours ago.”

“Aware of what?”

“That you knew a detective had trailed this rascal to Philadelphia.”

“You knew it several hours ago?” demanded Murdock suspiciously.

“Yes.”

“I guess not.”

“Punk!” snarled Bailey derisively. “That’s rot! How could he know it?”

“You have another guess, Murdock,” added Chick, not averse to mocking
and mystifying the rascals, in spite of the risk it involved. “I assume,
too, that you are the man who sent him the information.”

“How sent him?” Murdock sharply demanded, evidently rendered
apprehensive by Chick’s repeated assertions.

“It was sent in a code telegram.”

Murdock’s heavy brows knit like frowning battlements over his
threatening eyes. He drew forward in his chair, searching Chick’s face
more intently.

“How did you learn of that?” he cried, while Bart Bailey looked as if he
had been hit with a club.

“I have methods of my own, Murdock, for getting such information,” Chick
replied. “For obvious reasons, however, I do not reveal them to crooks.”

“But how could you interpret a code message even if you saw the
telegram?”

“Easily.”

“Impossible, unless----” Murdock turned sharply to Bart Bailey. “Has
that code book been out of your hands?”

“Not on your life,” cried Bart emphatically. “This is all a bluff. He’s
got you on a string. He don’t know half of what he asserts.”

“Don’t I?” questioned Chick, glancing at him again. “I know that you
were directed to look out for me, Bailey, and to lure me to New York, if
possible, and to a place designated in your code book as the cobweb.
This, of course, is the place.”

Murdock uttered an oath, evidently staggered and more alarmed by what he
had learned.

“Bolton,” he cried harshly, turning to the man with a mallet, “search
this infernal meddler. I’ll find out whether he’s an infernal mind
reader, or has a copy of our code in his possession.”

Bolton hastened to obey.

Chick laughed indifferently, and Murdock fiercely added, with both
hands clenched in front of the taunting detective.

“If you knew all that, Carter, why have you walked into this trap?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“It appears reckless, not to say absurd.”

“I did it, then, in order to get a line on the identity of you scamps,
and to learn just how you are playing your knavish game,” Chick bluntly
admitted.

“Oh, is that so?”

“Exactly so.”

“Well, then, you shall learn,” snapped Murdock fiercely. “It will cost
you your life, but you shall learn. I’ll make it a point to satisfy your
foolhardy curiosity. You shall learn--but at the cost of your life.”

“Suppose we make a beginning, then,” said Chick, a bit sharply. “Let’s
both sail under--true colors.”

He reached up quickly while speaking and seized Murdock’s grizzled
beard, giving it a violent jerk. It came away in his hand, as Chick had
suspected, revealing the hard-featured, smooth-shaved face of--Gaston
Goulard.




CHAPTER VIII.

CAUGHT IN A CORNER.


Patsy Garvan was hit with an idea, of course, when he started in hot
pursuit of the man in gray. He suddenly suspected, having seen him come
from the back door of Goulard’s private office, under the circumstances
already described, that this grizzly bearded fellow was none other than
Gaston Goulard himself.

Patsy realized, moreover, that the investigations he had made after the
suspect’s hurried departure, might prevent his overtaking him, and that
was the thought uppermost in Patsy’s mind when he plunged down the rear
stairway in pursuit of him.

He brought up in a paved court back of the vast building. It made in
from a side street, and was used chiefly for the receiving and shipping
of merchandise from the store. It adjoined the broad doors of the two
great basement rooms devoted to these branches of the vast business.

Several wagons and teamsters then were in the court, but there was no
sign of the man Patsy was seeking.

“He surely came this way,” he hurriedly reasoned. “He must have gone to
the side street, too, for the other end of the court brings up against a
wing of the building. I’ll take that chance.”

Patsy took it vainly, however, darting in that direction. He could not
discover his quarry in the side street, in spite of his hurried,
far-searching scrutiny. It then became a question as to which direction
the man had taken.

“He would have gone through the store, of course, if heading for Sixth
Avenue,” Patsy continued to reason. “That would have been the nearest
way, and he appeared to be in a hurry. It’s odds, then, that he went the
other way, and it’s that way for mine.”

Patsy started off again and walked for nearly a block, gazing sharply in
every store, including that of the Acme Novelty Company, but he finally
was forced to admit to himself that he had lost his man.

“Gee whiz! it’s tough luck,” he muttered, pausing and then turning back.
“I’ll eat my hat, crown and brim, if that wasn’t Goulard himself. Why
the dickens didn’t I hook onto that idea on the jump? I then could have
trailed him without sweating a hair. There’s nothing for me, now, but to
return and tell the chief, when he shows up in the store.”

Slowly retracing his steps, however, Patsy lingered for several moments
here and there, still hoping to discover his quarry.

A taxicab was approaching from Sixth Avenue. It stopped suddenly at a
store on the same side as Patsy, and some thirty feet from where he then
was standing.

A man sprang out, quickly followed by another--and Patsy then felt a
thrill shoot up his spine.

“Holy smoke! that’s Chick in disguise, as sure as I’m knee-high to a
grasshopper,” he said to himself, while he watched both men hurry into
the store.

“I know that disguise as well as I know his own face,” Patsy went on
mentally. “He was on Bart Bailey’s track, and it now is a hundred to one
that he has some job on the rascal. The other must be Bailey himself.
Great guns! I’m getting wiser every minute. Now it’s a thousand to one
that Goulard went into that store, or why has Bailey gone in there? Gee!
the boot may be on the other leg. This may be a job to get the best of
Chick. That may be Goulard’s hurried mission from the department store.”

Patsy had reasoned it out correctly, in spite of his meager information
of the actual circumstances.

Bart Bailey had, as a matter of fact, sent Goulard a message in response
to the code telegram, and had informed him of his designs.

Patsy was not slow in acting upon his suspicion, nevertheless though he
took care not to interfere with whatever Chick might have up his sleeve.
He sauntered by the store, glancing up at the sign and through the
window. He passed just in time to see Nolan turn back after locking the
door, and then vanish with Chick down the rear stairway.

“That don’t look good to me,” thought Patsy, brows knitting. “Why did he
lock that door? Chick evidently knew it and stood for it. He must know
what he’s doing, therefore, but he may slip a cog in some way. I’ll not
butt in, but I’ll be hanged if I don’t do a bit of nosing around on my
own hook.”

Patsy sauntered by the store again, and now saw plainly that it was
unoccupied. He then moved on and crossed the street to survey the two
upper floors.

“Some one lives up there,” he muttered. “It may be the gink I saw in the
store, or some one else employed there. I’ll not risk asking any
questions. Gee! I might get next in that way.”

Patsy was hit with another idea. He had discovered an open alley leading
to the rear of the building. He also had discovered a stonemason at work
in the alley, engaged in pointing up portions of the brick wall of the
next building. He was at work with a bucket of mortar and a trowel.

Patsy made a short detour and presently paused at the entrance to the
alley.

“Hist!” he called quietly.

The mason turned quickly, a ruddy young Irishman, and Patsy signed for
him to come out and follow him. They met a few rods away a moment later,
out of view from the windows above the suspected store.

“What d’ye want?” questioned the Irishman curiously.

“Slip into the saloon here and I’ll tell you,” said Patsy. “I’ll also
buy you a drink, or whatever you fancy.”

“Faith, and I can stand that, all right,” grinned the Irishman.

Patsy led the way to a rear room of the saloon, where he gave a waiter
an order, and he then proceeded to explain his project to his companion,
revealing his identity and his relations with Nick Carter.

“I wish to size up that building next to the one on which you are
working, Grady,” he said, having learned the other’s name. “I must do so
without being suspected. I can get by, all right, if you’ll lend me your
duck blouse, overalls, and hat, and remain here under cover while I get
in my work.”

Grady grinned.

“In other words, Mr. Garvan, you want to take my place,” said he.

“Exactly. I’ll slip you a five-dollar note for it, Grady, and----”

“You kape the five bucks in your pocket, Mr. Garvan,” Grady warmly
interrupted. “Faith, who wouldn’t do that much for Nick Carter! If you
get into these togs as quick as I come out of them, you can be at work
with me trowel in the shake of a lamb’s tail. I’ll hide here with my
trap closed, be it long or short that you’re gone. That goes, too, by
these five fingers across.”

“You’re all right, Grady, from your toes up,” replied Patsy gratefully.
“Take it from me, all the same, you’ll get yours for this.”

Patsy sauntered out of the saloon in about five minutes. Only a close
observer would have detected his subterfuge. One who had seen Grady at
work would merely have supposed that another mason had taken his place.

Patsy devoted very little time, of course, to pointing up the brick
wall. He began, instead, while pretending to be at work, a furtive
inspection of the walls adjoining the basement to which he had seen
Chick and Nolan descend. He could find, however, no window lighting the
underground room.

“Gee! that’s mighty strange,” he said to himself. “Have they been stoned
up for some reason? I’ll be hanged if I don’t think this crib figures in
some way in the department-store robberies. I reckon I’ll go a step
farther.”

Patsy already had found that a rear door and stairway led up to the
dwelling over the store of the Acme Novelty Company. He could observe no
one at any of the windows, however, and he felt quite sure that he could
stealthily enter the place.

“If seen by any one, I can say I came in to ask for some water for my
mortar,” he said to himself. “I’ll take the chance.”

Mounting the two low steps outside, Patsy found that the door was
locked, also that the key had been removed.

“That simplifies it,” he muttered. “I can pick this lock like breaking
sticks.”

He accomplished it with a picklock in half a minute. Quietly opening the
door a few inches, he gazed into a narrow hall and at a bare stairway
leading upward. A door in the right wall some ten feet away also met his
gaze. He paused briefly and listened.

Not a sound came from within. The hall was as silent as if the building
was deserted.

Patsy stepped in and closed the door, leaving it unlocked, lest he might
have occasion to retreat hurriedly.

The closing of the door left the hall and stairway in darkness--barring
a single thread of artificial light that now caught his eye.

It was a vertical thread in the side wall, some two feet from where he
was standing.

“Electric light,” thought Patsy, listening again. “The store is not
lighted. Nor does the store run back as far as this. The door leading
into the store from this hall is farther in. There must be a lighted
room back here, all the same, or this chink--by gracious, it’s a panel
door.”

Thrusting his nails into the crevice through which the light had shone,
Patsy had felt a section of the wall slip noiselessly to one side,
revealing a secret panel so skillfully constructed as to defy ordinary
inspection.

It revealed, moreover, something of far greater significance.

A flight of steps led down to a brightly lighted basement in the extreme
rear of the building. It was walled in like a tomb, however, with no
sign of a window.

On the cement floor stood a large horizontal engine of peculiar
construction, so peculiar that Patsy could not imagine for what it was
used, or why it was there.

Near by on a rack was a metal cylinder about two feet long and ten
inches in diameter. Each end had a movable metal cover. Around both
ends, moreover, was a flange of thick felt.

On a narrow table near the farther wall, one of them spread open
evidently for inspection, and so placed that its folds hung nearly to
the floor, lay two costly Persian shawls.

The instant Patsy’s gaze fell upon them, the truth began to dawn upon
him.

“Great guns!” he exclaimed mentally. “The two shawls mentioned by
Goulard. He did not bring them here, however. There is a connection
between this cellar and the department store. That’s a dead
open-and-shut cinch, and it’s operated in some way with this engine. By
gracious, I’ll have a closer look, if it takes a leg!”

Patsy had seen, of course, that this subterranean chamber then was
deserted. Placing the panel exactly as he had found it, Patsy crept down
the steps and gazed around.

“I have it,” he muttered. “This interior wall has been built across the
original basement so as to form this chamber, and at the same time
prevent detection by persons in the other part of the basement, who
would naturally suppose it extended back no farther than this inner
wall. It must be to the other part of the basement that Chick descended.
He still must be there, too, unless----”

That there was no alternative, that his suspicions from the outset had
been correct, that he had trapped himself also, and was up against a
sudden, desperate situation--all flashed over Patsy on the instant, when
his train of thought was broken by sounds that sent a momentary chill
down his spine.

The quick opening of a door, the heavy tread of men’s feet, mingled with
a harsh, commanding voice, which he instantly recognized to be that of
Gaston Goulard--these were the sounds that suddenly fell upon Patsy’s
ears.

“Open that panel door, Bolton, and give us more light,” Goulard was
crying. “Lug him up here, Nelson, and be quick about it. Lend him a
hand, Bart. We’ll hide the infernal dick in the engine room till we can
dispose of him. Work lively. I must phone to Lombard and make sure that
all is well before I return.”

“Great Scott!” thought Patsy, before half of the foregoing was said.
“I’m in wrong, all right, against odds which--hang it! here’s my best
chance.”

Patsy had caught sight of the Persian shawl hanging over the side of the
table. As quick as a flash, dropping to the floor, he rolled under the
table and back of the folds of the shawl, which for a moment, at least,
served to shelter him like a curtain.

He scarce had accomplished this and checked the slight disturbance of
the hanging shawl, when the panel flew open, and Nolan and Bart Bailey
roughly rolled Chick Carter, then bound hand and foot, down the flight
of steps to the engine-room floor.

“Lie there, blast you, until we’re ready to hand you something more,”
Bailey cried, with a snarl. “Meddle with our business, will you? We’ll
send you to the devil for it.”

“Leave him there,” snapped Goulard sharply. “Leave him there and close
the door. Wait here, you three, while I phone to Lombard. There’s no
telling what these Carters may have done, or will do. I’ll find out in a
couple of minutes.”

Patsy heard his strident voice even after the panel door was closed. He
also heard him rush through the hall, evidently to a telephone in the
rear part of the store.

Patsy did not wait to hear more. He whipped out his knife and rolled
from under the table, giving Chick, who was only a bit bruised by his
fall down the steps, the surprise of his life.

“Eureka! You here, Patsy?” said he quietly.

“Bet you!” muttered Patsy, quickly cutting Chick’s bands. “I’m a Charley
on the spot, for fair.”

“Is there a way out?”

“Only up these steps.”

“Thunder!”

“Tight box, old top, eh?” declared Patsy, undaunted. “But we have been
in just as tight before.”

“Yes, and then some,” Chick nodded, springing up. “Have you got two
guns?”

“Sure!”

“Let me have one. The rats have taken mine.”

“No sooner said than done,” grinned Patsy, handing Chick one of his
revolvers and retaining the other. “What next? Shall we make a break at
once and nail them in their own trenches, or----”

“Wait!” Chick interrupted. “Find the switch key that cuts off these
lights. The rascals will fight back, but they could not get a line on us
in the dark. We can get them at that advantage.”

“I’m wise,” said Patsy, vainly searching for the electric switch key.

“Be quick,” whispered Chick, crouching at the foot of the steps.
“If--ah, there’s something doing. Something is wrong.”

A roar from Gaston Goulard had reached his ears, a fierce oath, followed
by:

“There’s the deuce to pay! I can’t get Lombard on the phone. He has been
arrested. There’s a chance, by thunder, that guns will show up here at
any moment. Gag that infernal dick in the engine room, then put out the
light. Fix----”

“Perdition! We’re already fixed!”

Bart Bailey had thrown open the panel door and suddenly discovered the
two detectives.

“Hands up!” Chick shouted, starting up the steps. “Up with them,
or----”

“Hands up be hanged!”

Bart Bailey leaped aside, seeking the shelter of the wall, then whipped
out a revolver and fired through the doorway.

The bullet whizzed a foot over Chick’s head.

“Out with the lights, Patsy!” he shouted. “Smash the bulbs!”

Patsy’s revolver swung upward like a flash.

There was a crash of breaking glass--and the subterranean chamber was in
darkness.




CHAPTER IX.

BY THE AIR LINE.


Nick Carter arrived early that afternoon in the big department store of
Mantell & Goulard, and several circumstances determined, as he had
predicted to Patsy that morning, the course he afterward shaped.

One was the fact that, for the reasons already presented, he had
received no communication from Chick and knew nothing about his
movements.

Another was the fact that he could find no sign of Patsy Garvan in any
part of the great store.

A third was the fact that Gaston Goulard was absent from his office, and
that his whereabouts was unknown, as Nick learned upon talking with
Frank Mantell and his father, which he then had decided to do, and both
of whom he found in the private office of the senior partner.

Nick then learned, too, of the theft that had been committed in the
receiving room that morning, about which Goulard had expressed himself
so forcibly after apparently vainly investigating it.

Nick smiled a bit grimly after gathering these several points, and now
suspicions began to arise in his mind.

“Have there been previous thefts from the receiving room, Mr. Mantell?”
he inquired, addressing the elder.

“Yes, many of them; very many,” was the reply.

“Who has charge in that room?”

“A man named George Tenney.”

“Reliable?”

“I feel absolutely sure of it. He has been in my employ for a long
time.”

“He evidently is being duped in some way, then,” said Nick. “He looks
after the opening of all packages that are received, I suppose, and sees
that their contents are sent up to the salesrooms.”

“Yes, of course, with the occasional help of Goulard, or Mr. Lombard.”

“They were both in the receiving room this morning, I think you have
stated.”

“They were, Mr. Carter,” bowed Mantell. “They went down to investigate
the theft.”

“Was either of them there before the theft was discovered?”

“Yes. Mr. Lombard went down to check off an invoice of the package from
which the two shawls are missing.”

“I see,” Nick remarked. “I think I will go down there, Frank, and look
around a bit. Show me the way as far as the stairs, then leave me, and
pay no attention to my doings. I may have something to report a little
later.”

Frank Mantell arose to obey, and Nick accompanied him down to the ground
floor.

As they were turning toward the stairway leading down to the basement
receiving room, Frank touched the detective’s arm and said quietly:

“There goes Lombard, now. I think he is going down to the receiving
room.”

Lombard was heading for the stairs with a wrapped bundle about a foot
long and nearly as large in diameter, but he did not see Mantell and his
companion.

Nick watched him for a moment, then said quietly:

“Leave me, Mantell. I can find the way by following him.”

Nick had more than one object in doing so.

He arrived at the head of the stairs just as Lombard turned to the left
in the great basement room.

Nick darted down after him, and again fortune favored him. He reached
the entrance to the room, which was always partly filled with unopened
packages of divers descriptions, just in time to see Lombard glide
stealthily back of a high pile of cases about two feet from one of the
walls.

Nick saw an empty case about ten feet to the right of the door. He
crouched behind it and waited.

Less than two minutes had passed when Lombard returned--without the
bundle.

He quickly reached the stairway and hurried up to the business part of
the store.

Nick Carter’s eyes had a sharper gleam when he crept from his
concealment. He at once gave his attention to the narrow passage in
which Lombard must have left the bundle.

One side was formed by the high pile of cases.

On the other was a sheathed wall.

Nick examined the cases in rapid succession, and he soon found that none
of them could be opened. Obviously, none could be a hiding place for the
bundle.

Nick then began a careful inspection of the wall, sounding it foot by
foot by tapping it with his knuckles. He suspected, of course, that
there might be a secret panel with an open space behind it.

Presently he found a spot that sounded more hollow than other sections.

“By Jove, I think I’m right,” he muttered. “But there seems to be no
crack or crevice. The panel, if there is one, is most cleverly
concealed.”

Persistently searching the wall, however, Nick finally discovered the
head of a nail some six feet above the floor. It did not appear to be as
dusty as the rest of the wall. He reached up and pressed it with his
thumb.

This instantly brought a faint click from behind the sheathing.

A section of it about two feet square, so neatly fitted that the cracks
were invisible, separated from the rest and swung outward under the
impulse of a hidden spring.

It brought to light the foundation wall of the building, also a circular
metal plate about fourteen inches in diameter, with a handle by which it
could be swung downward parallel with the face of the wall.

Nick forced it down and discovered the opening of a tube through the
wall, and in the tube a cylinder such as Patsy had seen in the
subterranean chamber.

Nick instantly hit upon the truth, of course, and the mystery as to how
the merchandise had been taken from the store ended then and there.

“A pneumatic tube,” he said to himself, noting the tight-fitting flange
of felt around the end of the cylinder. “Similar to those of a cash
system. The tube evidently runs underground to another building, where
there must be an engine and air pump for removing the air from the tube.
That done, and this plate lowered, the cylinder would fly through the
tube in an instant.”

Nick carefully noted the probable direction of the tube, then turned a
knob in the metal end of the cylinder, from which he took, as he
expected--the bundle seen under Lombard’s arm only ten minutes before.

Nick closed the tube and panel, then took the bundle up to Mr. Mantell’s
private office, where he found both father and son.

“By gracious, Nick, there has been another theft,” Frank Mantell cried,
when the detective entered. “A pair of costly lace curtains is missing
from that department.”

Nick did not care for any particulars. He sat down in one of the large
leather chairs and placed the bundle on the floor behind it.

“That’s too bad, Mantell,” he remarked. “I would like to question one of
your managers. Send for Mr. Lombard, since we happened to notice him a
few minutes ago.”

Frank Mantell looked surprised, but hastened to obey.

Lombard entered in about five minutes, apparently apprehending nothing.

Nick had removed his disguise and thrust it into his pocket.

“Sit down, Mr. Lombard,” said he, without waiting to be introduced. “I
am told there has just been another mysterious theft in this store.”

“Yes, so I have heard,” was the quick reply. “I was just going to look
into the matter.”

“Don’t you think it would be more profitable to look into that pneumatic
tube that leads out of the receiving room?” Nick inquired.

Lombard turned as white as his shirt front.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he faltered. “What--what tube?”

“That in which I found this bundle a few minutes ago,” said Nick, taking
it from behind his chair and tearing it open. “Here are the stolen lace
curtains. I refer to the tube, Mr. Lombard, in which you placed them.”

Lombard started to rise, but his knees gave way under him and he nearly
fainted in his chair, while Mantell and his father stared in speechless
amazement.

Nick leaned forward, and, before Lombard fairly knew it, snapped a pair
of handcuffs on the culprit’s wrists.

“Now,” said he, more sternly, “tell me where that tube leads, Mr.
Lombard, and be quick about it. The jig is up for you and your
confederates.”

Lombard pulled himself together and glared at Nick with a scowl.

“You’ll learn nothing from me,” he growled bitterly. “Find out for
yourself, if you want to know.”

“That’s precisely what I will do,” declared Nick, starting up. “Look
after this man, Mantell, till I return. I have a hunch that I shall not
return alone.”

Nick did not wait for a reply, but seized his hat and hurried from the
office. He had noted the probable direction of the underground tube, and
he hastened through the corridor and down the same back stairway over
which Patsy had pursued Gaston Goulard.

“Humph!” he ejaculated, upon arriving in the court. “It runs under these
pavements and into the basement of this next building. I’ll find out who
occupies it.”

Nick hurried out to the side street and gazed up at the sign: “Acme
Novelty Company.”

“Novelty, indeed,” thought Nick, trying the door and finding it locked.
“No one at home, eh? I’ll slip around and try the back door.”

He had arrived nearly at the entrance to the alley, when he caught sight
of a policeman on the opposite side of the street. He whistled and
beckoned him over.

“Come with me, Doyle, and have your gun within easy reach,” he said
quietly.

“Something up, Mr. Carter?” questioned Doyle, at once recognizing the
detective.

“Yes,” Nick nodded. “I don’t know yet, however, how big game we may
find.”

“Sure, I don’t care how big, sir.”

“Follow me through the alley, then, and----”

Nick stopped for an instant only.

There had reached his ear a sound, though a bit muffled, which he
instantly recognized--the sharp, spiteful crack of a revolver.

“Come on, Doyle,” he snapped quickly. “That smacks of big game, all
right. I reckon we’re in the nick of time.”

Nick was running at top speed through the alley while speaking, with the
burly policeman close on his heels.

Ten seconds brought them to the back door of the building--which Patsy
Garvan had left unlocked.

Nick then heard the shouts of men within, and the furious voice of
Gaston Goulard.

“We’ve got them, Doyle,” he said quietly, pausing for an instant. “Are
you ready?”

“I’ll go ahead, if you say the word.”

“Not much!”

Nick turned the knob and threw open the door, shedding the bright
daylight into the dim hall in which Goulard, Bart Bailey, Nolan, and
Bolton were attempting with fierce threats to subdue Chick and Patsy,
who had smashed the lamps in the subterranean chamber only a moment
before.

Nick broke in upon them with his revolver ready, shouting sternly:

“Cut it, you fellows! Hands up, and----”

His voice was drowned by the crack of a revolver in the hand of the only
man who ventured any resistance--that of Bart Bailey.

The rascal had crouched quickly back of Goulard, and had escaped Nick’s
immediate notice.

The bullet tore a hole in the detective’s sleeve and inflicted a slight
wound in Doyle’s left shoulder.

Goulard sprang aside instinctively.

Bart Bailey was raising his weapon to fire again.

Nick’s barked on the instant, and the bullet went true.

Bailey pitched forward on his face in the narrow entry, dead before he
hit the floor.

There were curses and imprecations, but no further resistance, and the
three remaining crooks were speedily handcuffed and started for the
Tombs, the initiatory step in the retributive path. Meyers was arrested
in Philadelphia half an hour later, and the round-up was complete.

The details of the crime, as they afterward appeared, were very nearly
in line with which Nick Carter had been led to suspect. It was learned
later that Goulard long had been hopelessly under water financially,
having vast secret commitments in the stock market, and he confessed to
having taken this method to rob his partner and repair his wasted
fortune. He had gone far enough to nearly wreck the business, as a
matter of fact, and the firm went out of existence a little later.

Commenting upon him and the case to his assistants shortly before the
trial of the culprits, while seated with Chick and Patsy in his library,
Nick Carter made several predictions which later proved for the most
part to be correct.

“That rascal,” he observed, speaking of Gaston Goulard, “carries the
mark of Cain. He has begun with being a traitor to his own partner. He
probably will do time for the crime, and then he will continue the
downward path. It’s odds that he will commit murder sooner or later.
For, unless I am much mistaken, the mark is on him. The others will be
convicted and sent to prison. As for Bart Bailey--well, let the dead
bury the dead. His death has, at least, opened the way for Frank Mantell
to win over the girl he loves, and they are well worthy of one another.”

“That’s right, chief,” declared Patsy.

“I would wager,” Nick added, “that they’ll be married within the year.”


THE END.

     “A Network of Crime; or, Nick Carter’s Tangled Skein,” will be the
     title of the long, complete story which you will find in the next
     issue, No. 149, of the NICK CARTER STORIES. Then, too, there will
     be the usual installment of the interesting serial which is now
     running. There will also be several other interesting articles.




Sheridan of the U. S. Mail.

By RALPH BOSTON.

     (This interesting story was commenced in No. 148 of NICK CARTER
     STORIES. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer
     or the publishers.)




CHAPTER IV.

A WARNING.


The more Owen thought over his interview with Boss Coggswell, the more
convinced he became that the sole reason the politician had sent for him
had been to try to bribe him to hold out the mail of a certain person on
his route.

That Coggswell had summoned him to the club in order to express his
admiration of Owen’s independence in refusing to buy the ticket to the
outing seemed absurd. It had sounded almost plausible when the boss had
said it in his smooth, convincing voice, but when he came to think over
it afterward, Owen could see how preposterous the thing was. Imagine any
political leader going into raptures over a young man who had called him
a blackmailer. Imagine him being anxious to help a young man to
promotion, just because he liked his way of talking.

“No,” said the carrier to himself, “that offer of a postal inspector’s
job was made to tempt me to do Coggswell’s crooked work, and now that
I’ve refused, I’ll wager that he won’t move a finger to help me. But I
don’t care about that,” he added confidently; “I’ll get there, all
right, without his help.”

Something happened the following morning which greatly strengthened the
suspicions of the carrier, and made him certain that Boss Coggswell had
sinister designs upon the mail of some person on his route.

When he reported for work, Owen was informed by Henderson, the
superintendent of Branch X Y, that, beginning that morning, he was to
cover a new territory. Instead of route forty-eight, he would
henceforth, and until further notice, cover route sixteen.

Now, in post-office work it is a great advantage, naturally, to have the
carriers familiar with the territory which they have to cover. It stands
to reason that a postman cannot make as quick deliveries over strange
ground as on a route in which he knows the names in the house letter
boxes almost by heart. For this reason the men are not changed around
any more than can be avoided.

Therefore, Owen knew, as soon as Henderson told him that his route was
to be changed, that this must be due to Coggswell’s influence. The
politician wanted to get him out of the way, and have him replaced by a
man who would not refuse to do his bidding.

Owen inquired who was to succeed him on route forty-eight, and learned
that it was a carrier named Greene, a man whom Owen liked less than any
other employee of Branch X Y.

Greene, who was a pale-faced, shifty-eyed fellow, was a member of the
Samuel J. Coggswell Association, Owen learned, and on friendly terms
with Jake Hines. The fact that he had been selected for route
forty-eight certainly looked significant.

To be taken away from his old territory was a great blow to Owen; for,
be it remembered, the real-estate office of Walter K. Sammis was located
in that section, and his transfer meant that he no longer would be able
to exchange a few words each morning with Dallas Worthington.

And, besides this, the new route was a much less pleasant one. Carrier
Greene, who had covered it for two years, had certain reasons of his own
for being satisfied with it, but Owen found the new territory very
disagreeable.

It comprised the very poorest and most squalid section of the district.
The inhabitants were mostly foreigners, and the handwriting on letters
they received was hard to decipher. They were in the habit of changing
their addresses frequently, too, and this entailed extra clerical work;
for each carrier has to enter all such removals in his “log book.” Then,
again, many of the tenants of the tenements were too shiftless or
ignorant to post their names in the vestibules, and this made deliveries
very difficult, and consumed a lot of time.

Nevertheless, Owen did not make any protest. He accepted the situation
philosophically, and started out to cover his new route as cheerfully as
if he really relished the change. But inwardly he registered a vow that
he was going to find out the identity of the person whose mail Boss
Coggswell wanted to get hold of, and check that politician’s sinister
plans.

First he went to the three carriers responsible for route
forty-eight--for every route is covered by three men--and warned them of
what he purposed to do.

The two other carriers who took turns at covering that territory were
named Gordon and Smithers. They had both had route forty-eight for
several years. The fact that they were not now taken off gave Owen
reason to suppose that they must be satisfactory to Boss Coggswell, and
willing to do his dirty work. For he reasoned that, in order to carry
out his crooked scheme, the politician must have the coöperation of all
three carriers who covered that route. Otherwise the particular letters
which Coggswell wanted to get hold of might go through when Greene was
not on duty.

Owen was on friendly terms with both Gordon and Smithers--in fact, the
latter and he roomed in the same boarding house. The former was a
good-natured, pleasant sort of fellow, but of a weak character. He was
always heavily in debt, and he was a hard drinker. More than once he had
been caught under the influence of liquor while on duty, and these
lapses would have resulted in his dismissal from the department if it
had not been for the intercession of Samuel J. Coggswell, who was a
friend of his wife’s father.

Smithers, like Greene, was a member of the Samuel J. Coggswell
Association, and a crony of Jake Hines. He was a tall, sharp-featured
young man, of about Owen’s age, taciturn and very shrewd.

Owen felt sure that these men were all in the plot to tamper with the
mails. As he didn’t want to see them disgraced and sent to prison, he
decided to give them due warning. Of course, they indignantly denied
that any such proposition had been made to them by Boss Coggswell, or
that they knew anything about a scheme to hold up anybody’s mail on
route forty-eight.

Smithers told Owen that he must be raving mad to suspect anything like
that; Gordon laughed and declared that it was the best joke he had heard
in many a day; Greene growled that Owen was sore at having been
transferred, and was trying to besmirch his character in order to get
square.

“Very well,” retorted Owen grimly; “I’ve given you fellows notice; now,
if you go ahead and get caught, you’ve got only yourselves to blame. I
know that there is such a crooked scheme afoot, and I’m going to find
out the name of the victim and put him on his guard.”




CHAPTER V.

A STRONG LEAD.


Owen began by watching Carrier Greene as he stood at his case sorting
out the mail preparatory to starting out on the first delivery. He
thought he might be able to see him withdraw and pocket the desired
letters, and thereby get an important clew; but Greene made no such
compromising move.

Owen maintained the same close watch when Gordon and Smithers were at
the sorting cases, but these vigils were not productive of results.
Either the letters which Coggswell wanted had not yet shown up, or the
three carriers were too cautious to abstract them in the post office,
preferring to wait until they had them in the bags and were out on the
street, where they could get at them without being observed.

It was a headline on the front page of a morning newspaper which at
length set Owen on the right track. This headline read: “Judge Lawrence
to Fight Coggswell.--Former Supreme-court Judge Preparing to Wrest
District Leadership from Boss at Coming Primaries. Coggswell Said to be
Seriously Alarmed by Plan to Dethrone Him.”

Now, part of postal route forty-eight was a row of brownstone private
residences, and in one of these lived the Honorable Sugden Lawrence,
former supreme-court judge, and now a lawyer of considerable prominence.

Owen decided that this was the man whose mail Boss Coggswell wished to
intercept. In the first place, if, as the newspaper stated, Judge
Lawrence was threatening to wrest the district leadership from its
present incumbent, was it not exceedingly likely that the latter would
be anxious to “get something on” his prospective opponent--some scandal
which could be used to crush the enemy? With such an object in view,
secret access to a man’s private correspondence would be a valuable
factor. Many a family skeleton has been revealed by this means, many a
public career has been ruined by means of a purloined letter.

In the second place--and this was, in his opinion, the strongest
argument in favor of his theory--Owen happened to know that Henderson,
the superintendent of Branch X Y, had a brother who was a clerk in Judge
Lawrence’s office.

Owen had wondered until now why Boss Coggswell, in his desire to tamper
with somebody’s mail, had not gone direct to Henderson, and had the
thing done right in the post office, before the mail was handed to the
carriers.

Surely, this would have been easier, and much more safe, than to deal
with three subordinates. Several little incidents which had come under
his observation gave Owen reason to believe that the superintendent of
Branch X Y was not an overscrupulous official. He was a man who, in the
administration of his office, “played politics” to an outrageous extent.
Under ordinary circumstances, no doubt, he would not have hesitated to
do Boss Coggswell this favor.

Why, then, had not the politician gone to Henderson instead of dealing
with the carriers? Owen believed that he understood why, now. Coggswell
was afraid that the superintendent would not stand for any monkeying
with the mail of his brother’s employer. He might have warned the judge
and caused trouble.

Convinced that his theory was correct, Owen went that evening to the
residence of ex-Judge Lawrence. The latter, a keen, aggressive man, a
few years past middle age, received the letter carrier in his library,
and listened with great attention to what he had to say.

When Owen was through, Judge Lawrence nodded his head vigorously. “I
think you have guessed right,” he said. “In fact, I haven’t a bit of
doubt that it is my mail which that rascal Coggswell is after. There is
a certain incident,” he went on, “concerning which I am now in
correspondence with a certain person. While there is really nothing
about this incident--nothing which could bring discredit on me if the
real facts were known, the matter could be misrepresented in a manner
which would greatly injure my reputation. I happen to know that
Coggswell has a slight inkling of this matter already, and has been
trying for some time past to get more information on the subject, so
that he can spring it on me and smash me at the primaries. That is why I
feel pretty sure that it is my mail he is scheming to get hold of.”

He banged his fist vigorously upon the library table. “Tampering with
Uncle Sam’s mail is a pretty serious offense,” he declared grimly; “and
so friend Coggswell will learn, if he is engaged in such a contemptible
piece of business.”

He arose and held out his hand to Owen. “I am very grateful to you for
having come to me and put me on my guard, Mr. Sheridan,” he said. “I am
going to take steps immediately to ascertain if our suspicions are
correct. And if they are, you and I are going to put Samuel J. Coggswell
in prison stripes.”




CHAPTER VI.

JACK HINES IN LOVE.


“Say, Miss Peaches-and-cream, is the main squeeze in?” At this
unconventional salutation Dallas Worthington looked up from her
typewriter, and stared curiously at the person who had given utterance
to it.

She saw that the visitor was a stout, red-faced young man, who wore a
suit of exceedingly loud pattern, a soft felt hat of the very latest and
most rakish design, and a red necktie, in which glittered a diamond of
huge proportions.

“If by ‘the main squeeze’ you mean Mr. Sammis,” she said, with dignity,
“he is in his private office. Do you wish to see him?”

“That’s what I came for--originally,” answered the young man, staring at
her ardently, “but now that I’ve seen you, I’ve almost changed my mind.
I hate to tear myself away from this spot. Say, kid, you make a big hit
with me. I didn’t know there was anything so pretty in this vicinity. If
I’d suspected it I’d have dropped in here long ago.”

“What name shall I take in to Mr. Sammis?” inquired the girl coldly.

“Gee, but you’re in a hurry to get rid of me!” said the visitor
reproachfully. “Well, if you insist, you might tell the boss that Mr.
Hines is here--Mr. Jake Hines.”

As the girl arose and stepped into the private office at the rear of the
store, Mr. Hines gazed after her trim, graceful figure admiringly.

“Peach!” he said to himself. “I’m mighty glad I called. Even if I don’t
sell any tickets here, my time won’t be wasted. If I ain’t taking this
queen to Coney Island before another week has passed, I’m a dead one.”

Dallas reappeared and told him that Mr. Sammis would see him
immediately. With another ardent glance at her, Mr. Hines stepped into
the private office.

“Well, sir, what can I do for you?” inquired the real-estate broker, an
elderly man with gray mutton-chop whiskers and a rather severe demeanor.

“I’ve come to see how many tickets you’ll take for the annual chowder
and outing of the Samuel J. Coggswell Association,” replied Hines.

“Chowder!” repeated Mr. Sammis testily; “I don’t eat chowder, and I
don’t attend outings; consequently I don’t want any tickets.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” retorted Hines, his tone almost bullying. “You don’t
have to go, yourself, if you don’t want to. You can buy the tickets and
give ’em away to your friends. Boss Coggswell expects you to take at
least five, Mr. Sammis. That’s the number all the other real-estate men
in the district are takin’.”

“I don’t care what others are doing, and I don’t care what Mr. Coggswell
expects,” snapped Sammis. “I must ask you to get out of here at once,
young man. This is my busy day.”

“Oh, very well,” growled Hines, rising. “It don’t make no difference to
me whether you take any tickets or not, my friend; but take it from me,
it’s going to make a whole lot of difference to you. No man that’s
interested in property in this district can afford to antagonize Boss
Coggswell. You’ll be mighty sorry. There’s lots of ways we can make it
unpleasant for you if you get gay with us.”

He swaggered out of the private office, and, as he caught sight of
Dallas Worthington at her typewriter, the scowl disappeared from his
beefy face.

“Say, bright eyes, how would you like to run down to the Island with me
this evening?” he inquired, stepping up to her desk.

“I wouldn’t like it at all,” she answered, without looking up from her
work.

“Stung!” he exclaimed ruefully. “May I ask why not?”

“Oh, for several reasons.”

“Give me one.”

“Well, for one thing,” she answered, glancing at him scornfully, “I’d be
afraid, Mr. Hines, that on the way you might try to intimidate me into
buying a ticket for the Coggswell Association’s outing.”

“Gee!” he said to himself, “she must have overheard what I said to her
boss inside.”

Aloud he said earnestly: “You needn’t be afraid of that. I’d make you a
present of all the tickets you want, honeybud. Tell me another reason
why I can’t make a date with you.”

“Because I don’t make engagements with strangers,” said Dallas
haughtily. “Please close the door as you go out.”

“It ain’t my fault that I’m a stranger,” said Mr. Hines plaintively,
taking no notice of the hint. “I’m doin’ my best to get acquainted. Say,
give it to me straight, little one--am I on a busy wire? Is there any
other feller ahead of me?”

“There is!” declared Dallas, with great emphasis. “And even if there
weren’t----”

“Then I’m sorry for him,” the young man interrupted.

“Sorry! Why?” she asked, in astonishment.

“Because I’m goin’ to take his girl away from him. I don’t know who the
feller is; but whoever he is, he ain’t good enough for you. I never took
much stock before in all this talk about fallin’ in love at first sight,
but, honest, kid, you’ve hit me straight between the eyes. The minute I
came in here and saw you sittin’ at that typewriter, I----”

“Will you please close that door on the outside?” interrupted Dallas,
pointing impatiently toward the street door. “I’ve got a lot of work to
do, and if you don’t get out of here immediately, I shall have to call
Mr. Sammis.”

“Oh, very well,” said Mr. Hines, somewhat crestfallen. “I guess that’s a
hint for me to be goin’. So long, girlie. I’ll drop in again some other
time when you ain’t quite so busy.

“Gee!” he said to himself as he reached the sidewalk, “I certainly am
hard hit. I do believe that I’ve actually fallen in love with that
peach--and I don’t even know her name.”

A short distance up the avenue he encountered Carrier Greene.

“Hello, Jake,” said the postman; “didn’t I see you in Sammis’
real-estate office a few minutes ago, talking to Sheridan’s girl?”

“Whose girl?” demanded the politician quickly. “What Sheridan do you
mean?”

“Owen Sheridan--the carrier that used to have this route,” answered
Greene. “Don’t you know that he’s keeping company with that typewriter
girl? It’s a fact. She almost cried, the other morning, when I came in
and told her that Sheridan didn’t have this route any more. I understand
that they’re going to be married soon.”

“I don’t believe it,” growled Hines. “A queen like that goin’ to marry a
twelve-dollar-a-week carrier? It ain’t possible.”

Two evenings later, Mr. Hines, happening to be down at Coney Island with
a party of friends, met Dallas Worthington on Surf Avenue, walking arm
in arm with Owen Sheridan. The manner in which the girl was looking up
into her escort’s face caused Hines to utter an exclamation of jealous
rage. For the young politician’s infatuation for Dallas had proved to be
more than a passing fancy. Strange as it may appear, he had seriously
fallen in love with the girl, and the lapse of two days found him even
more hard hit than at first.

Consequently, that meeting at Coney Island was a great blow to him.
Until then he had refused to believe what Carrier Greene had told him,
and, being an egotistical young man, he felt confident that, although
the girl appeared to have somewhat of a prejudice against him at the
start, she could not continue to hold out for long against the charm of
his personality.

He returned home from Coney Island with the dislike which he had already
formed for Carrier Owen Sheridan increased tenfold.

The next day he received a summons from Boss Coggswell to come to the
clubhouse immediately. When he got there he found that politician in a
state of considerable agitation.

“Have you heard the news?” exclaimed the district leader, pacing
nervously up and down the floor of his private office.

“No, boss; what is it?”

“Carrier Greene has been arrested--and Tom Hovey, too.”

“Tom Hovey! The fellow you sent to get those letters from Greene? What
are they arrested for?” inquired Hines anxiously.

“Tampering with the mails, of course. I understand they’ve got them dead
to rights, too. Greene was seen handing the letters to Hovey, and Hovey
was caught in the act of opening the envelope over a steam kettle.
Lawrence has got a strong case against us.”

“Against _us_?” repeated Jake Hines, with a crafty smile. “Don’t say
that, boss. They haven’t got anything on you--and you can rest assured
that you’ll not be implicated. Neither Greene nor Hovey will squeal, no
matter what happens. I’m willing to stake my bottom dollar on those
fellows standing pat. They’ll go to jail for life rather than give you
away. There’s only one man we’ve got to fear, so far as you’re
concerned.”

“Who’s that?” inquired Boss Coggswell nervously.

“That letter carrier, Owen Sheridan. He’s behind these arrests, of
course. It was him that put Judge Lawrence wise to the whole business.”

Coggswell nodded gloomily. “Yes, and he can implicate me by testifying
that I sent for him the other day, and tried to bribe him to hand over
that mail. His evidence----”

“Will put you in stripes, boss, I’m afraid,” broke in Jake Hines grimly.
“But he’s the only man we’ve got to be afraid of.”

Coggswell agitatedly paced the full length of the room several times
before he spoke again. Hines observed that the boss’ ears were wiggling
furiously--that peculiar physical indication of the sinister thoughts
that were brewing within the crooked brain.

At length Coggswell halted. “You’re right, Jake,” he said, very quietly;
“Sheridan is dangerous. He must be got out of the way.”

Jake nodded his head vigorously. “I agree with you, boss,” he said
fervently. “He must be got out of the way.”




CHAPTER VII.

THE FRAME-UP.


Jake Hines couldn’t forget what he had seen down at Coney Island the
previous evening; the look of affection which had been in the eyes of
Dallas Worthington as she gazed up into the face of Owen Sheridan; the
trusting, intimate manner in which she hung on her escort’s arm.
Consequently Coggswell’s declaration that the young carrier must be got
rid of appealed to him tremendously.

He wondered just what the boss meant by those words. He was in hopes
that the latter was about to propose some dark scheme for kidnaping
Sheridan. To have the young man shanghaied and cast away on some desert
island was a plan which, in his present jealous frame of mind, would
have suited Jake to a T.

He made no suggestion, however. He waited for Coggswell to speak. He
knew from the way those telltale ears were wiggling that the boss’
fertile brain was busy hatching a plan to bring about the desired
result.

After a prolonged silence, Coggswell said suddenly: “There must be no
foul play, Jake--understand that.”

“Eh?” exclaimed Hines, in incredulous astonishment. “No foul play?”

“No rough work, I mean,” the boss explained. “No violence. You know very
well that I don’t like that sort of thing, Jake.”

A look of disappointment flitted across Jake’s beefy countenance. “What,
then, boss?” he inquired.

“Sheridan must be silenced by legitimate means,” declared the district
leader. “We don’t want to go against the law, Jake. We don’t want to
forget that we are decent, law-abiding citizens. I could not think of
countenancing foul play in dealing with this man.”

Hines scratched his head in perplexity, and stared blankly at Coggswell.
He was relieved to see that, although there was a virtuous expression
upon the latter’s face, those ears were still wiggling at a furious
rate.

“What do you mean by legitimate means, boss?” he asked.

“Let me explain, Jake.” Coggswell sat down in his desk chair and
motioned his disciple to a chair at his right hand. His agitation had
now completely disappeared. Once more he was the calm, dignified,
benevolent-appearing original of the portrait in oils which hung in the
reception hall downstairs.

“Now, as you have correctly pointed out, Jake,” he went on, “the only
danger of my becoming implicated in this regrettable post-office affair
is through the testimony of this carrier, Owen Sheridan. Greene and
Hovey have been caught red-handed, it is true; but I agree with you that
they are not the kind of fellows who can be made to squeal. They will
deny emphatically that they were obeying my orders when they tampered
with Judge Lawrence’s mail. Hovey will insist that he had reasons of his
own for wanting to see the contents of those letters.”

Hines nodded. “Yes, I’m quite sure that both those fellows can be relied
on, boss. Pretty tough, though, ain’t it, that they’ll have to go to
prison?”

Coggswell smiled confidently. “They won’t go to prison. They’re quite
safe. They’ll be admitted to bail, of course, and I’ll see that there’s
somebody to go on their bond, no matter what the amount--somebody who
won’t mind when the bail is forfeited after those fellows have skipped
beyond the jurisdiction of the courts.”

Hines nodded again. “Yes, that ought to be easy. And, now, how about
Sheridan? How are you going to prevent him from dragging you into this
mess?”

Coggswell smiled. “Let me answer that by asking you a question, Jake.
Suppose you were on a jury, trying a criminal case: would you believe
the testimony of a jailbird? Suppose the chief witness for the
prosecution was a young man who had just been tried, convicted, and
sentenced for being a thief: would you, as a juryman, take any stock in
what he had to say?”

“I would not,” declared Hines virtuously.

Boss Coggswell laughed grimly. “Very well, then; that’s the answer to
your question.”

Hines looked bewildered. “But I don’t quite get you, boss. Sheridan
ain’t a jailbird.”

“Not yet, you mean, Jake,” corrected Coggswell, in his quiet, smooth
voice.

The eyes of the younger man suddenly lighted up. His was not a
quick-moving brain, but he fully grasped the idea now. It appealed to
him greatly, too. A prison was even better than a desert island, as a
means of putting the kibosh on a rival in love.

“I get you, boss!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “We’ll have to get
busy and dope out a scheme for----”

“I’ve got one already, Jake,” broke in the district leader smilingly.
“One that can’t fail to work successfully. All that you’ll have to do is
to carry it out.”

For the next thirty minutes Jake Hines listened attentively while his
chief explained in detail the plan which he had evolved. It was a plan
which met with the former’s warm approval and admiration, and when the
interview was at an end, he went out with great enthusiasm to put it
into execution immediately.




CHAPTER VIII.

A DOUBTFUL JOKE.


Later that day, three well-dressed middle-aged men entered a branch post
office, downtown, and stepped up to the registry window. Handling a
small, square package through the grille, one of them said to the
clerk: “I wish to send this by registered mail. It’s a birthday present
to a friend of mine. Is it sure to get there this afternoon?”

“Oh, yes,” the clerk assured him, taking the package and making out a
receipt; “it’ll be uptown in an hour, and go out on the three-o’clock
delivery.”

Into the registered-mail sack went the little, square package, and soon
it was on its way to the general post office.

Here the sack was opened, its contents rapidly sorted, and the little,
square package placed, along with several other packages, in a smaller
sack which was sent speeding uptown to Branch X Y.

When Carrier Sheridan went to get his mail for the three-o’clock
delivery, the little, square package was waiting there for him.

He glanced at the address curiously. Registered mail was a rarity on his
new route, which, as has been stated, comprised the poorest and most
squalid portion of the district. The package was addressed to a Mr.
Michael Harrington, who kept a saloon. Owen put it in his pouch and
started out on his delivery tour.

Fifteen minutes later he pushed aside the swinging doors of Harrington’s
saloon, at the bar of which was a group of about ten men.

“Howdy,” said Mr. Harrington genially, from behind the bar. “What’s the
good word? Have a little drink of something, young feller? It’s my
birthday to-day, and I’m standin’ treat.”

“No, thanks,” said Owen, with a smile; “I’m on the water wagon. But I
wish you many happy returns, just the same. Maybe I’ve brought you a
birthday present.” He produced the small, square package, and his
receipt slip. “Sign here, please.”

“I guess it is a birthday present, all right,” said the saloon keeper,
holding out his hand for the registered package. “It looks as if it
might be the gold watch which my friend Bill Warren telephoned me he was
sending. Yes, that’s what it is, all right. See, here’s Bill’s name
written on the back.”

He weighed the package in his hand. “Pretty light, though, to contain a
watch, ain’t it?” he remarked.

“I should say so,” said Owen.

Mr. Harrington hastily tore open the wrapper and revealed a thin
pasteboard box. Opening this, he found a flat, leather-covered
watchcase.

“It’s the watch, all right,” he said, turning with a grin to the group
in the front of the bar. “Good old Bill. He’s the most generous feller I
know. Ain’t it decent of him to have remembered my birthday like this?”

He pressed the button which released the catch of the watchcase, and
uttered an exclamation of astonishment and disgust as the lid flew open.

“Empty!” he growled. “Now, what do you know about that?”

The group at the bar laughed uproariously. “The joke’s on you, Mike!”
cried one. “It’ll cost you another round of drinks for being the goat.”

The saloon keeper scowled. “I ain’t so sure that it is a joke,” he
growled, with a suspicious glance toward the letter carrier, who was
just going out of the door. “I know my friend Bill Warren ain’t the kind
of man to play a low-down trick like that on me. He wrote me that he
was sendin’ me a gold watch for a birthday present, and I believe he
meant it.”

He leaned over the bar and called to Owen: “Hey, you! One minute, there,
young fellow!”

“Want me?” inquired the carrier, stepping back into the barroom.

“Yes. Are you quite sure that this here registered package ain’t been
tampered with?”

“I’m quite sure that it hasn’t while it’s been in my hands, and I think
you’ll find that the post office isn’t to blame,” replied Owen. “The
government is mighty careful in the handling of its registered mail.

“But, of course, if you’re suspicious,” he added, “you can come around
and see the superintendent and ask for an investigation. Before I did
that, though, if I were you, I’d get into communication with the sender
and ask if the case really contained a watch when he mailed it.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Harrington. “I’ll get Bill on the phone right
now.”

Although he didn’t consider that it was really any concern of his, Owen
waited while the saloon keeper telephoned, anxious to hear what the
outcome would be.

A few minutes later Harrington turned from the phone, a grave look upon
his face. “Just as I thought,” he said; “it ain’t a joke at all. Bill
Warren says he’s willin’ to swear that he sent that watch--says he can
produce two witnesses who saw him put the watch in the package, seal it
up, and hand it in at the post-office registry window.”

He hurriedly donned his hat and coat. “That watch has been stole--stole
from the U-nited States mails. That’s a serious offense. I’m goin’ right
around to the post office to make a complaint. All these gentlemen here
are witnesses that the watch wasn’t in the package when I opened it.”

The following day Carrier Owen Sheridan was placed under arrest by two
United States post-office inspectors.

“We want you, Sheridan,” they said, accosting him in the doorway of
Branch X Y, as he came back from his noon-delivery tour.

“Want me? What for?” he demanded, in great astonishment.

“For robbing the mails. No use throwing any bluff; we’ve got you dead to
rights.”

“I suppose this has to do with that watch which was missing from the
registered package yesterday,” said Owen calmly. “But why suspect me in
particular? The package passed through many hands while in the post
office.”

“Yes, but only one pair of hands opened it and stole its contents,” was
the grim retort, “and those hands were yours, Mr. Sheridan. Otherwise,
how could the pawn ticket have got into your trunk?”

“The pawn ticket?” repeated Owen blankly.

“Yes. We have just come from your boarding house. We went there to look
your room over; and we found--this.”

The inspector took from his pocket a pawn ticket for a gold watch, and
held it before the astonished mail carrier’s eyes.

“The watch this ticket calls for has already been identified as the
watch which was stolen from the package, and we found this in your
trunk. It looks very much as if you’re going to exchange that gray
uniform for a suit of stripes, Carrier Sheridan.”


TO BE CONTINUED.




WILLIE’S MISTAKE.


Willie Jones had been warned several times for breaches of school
discipline, and was at length reported to the head master, who gave him
a final warning.

One night, not long after, Willie was again caught in mischief, and he
felt that this time he was “in for it.”

A flogging by the master was no joke, and Willie determined to make what
preparation he could that the wind might be tempered to the shorn lamb.

On rising the next morning, he put on first his undershirt, then a layer
of stiff brown paper, upon these a sweater, and over all a clean white
shirt, borrowed from his chum, whose clothing was two sizes larger than
his own.

Lastly he put on his coat and vest.

It was a very hot day in June, and at morning intermission Willie
whispered to a friend:

“I’m nearly stifled. I hope he’ll give it to me now.”

But the master said nothing, and Willie went on stewing until dinner
time.

He felt half inclined to dispense at least with the sweater before
afternoon school, but fear of the master’s cane deterred him.

All through the afternoon he suffered untold misery, mopping his face
until his handkerchief would mop no more.

But at length, just before dismissal, came a messenger.

“The master would like to see Jones in his study.”

On entering the study, the boy saw the supple, snakelike cane lying on
the table.

“Well, Jones,” said the master, “I can go on warning you no longer. You
have brought this upon yourself. But as it is your first visit here for
such a purpose. I shall make your punishment somewhat milder. Hold out
your hand; four on each!”




HARD ON THE WARDEN.


A phrenologist who has been touring the country and giving lectures in
the art, tells the following “good one” on himself: He was in the habit
of inviting people of different avocations to come upon the stage, and
he would dilate upon and expound the peculiarities of their cranial
construction. He had come to that portion of his lecture where he dealt
with the criminal form of the cranium, and addressed the audience:

“If there is any person present who at any time has been the inmate of a
prison he will oblige me by coming upon the platform.”

A heavily built man responded to this invitation.

“You admit that you have been in prison, sir?”

“I have, sir,” was the unblushing answer.

“Would you kindly tell us how many years you have spent behind prison
bars?”

“About twenty years,” unhesitatingly replied the subject.

“Dear, dear,” exclaimed the professor. “Will you sit down, please?”

The subject sat down in a chair in the center of the stage. The
professor ran his fingers rapidly through the hair of the subject and
assumed a thoughtful expression.

“This is a most excellent specimen. The indications of a depraved
character are very plainly marked. The organs of benevolence and esteem
are entirely absent; that of destructiveness is developed to an abnormal
degree. I could have told instantly, without the confession of this man
that his life had been erratic and criminal. What was the crime for
which you were imprisoned?”

“I never committed any crime,” growled the man in the chair.

“But you said that you had been an inmate of a prison for twenty years?”

“I’m the warden of the prison.”




NO MORE DUNNING.


The landlady of a certain medical student, who ineffectually dunned her
delinquent tenant for some time, resolved at last upon resorting to
extreme measures.

She entered his room one morning, and said, in a very decided tone:

“You must either pay me my rent, or be off this very day.”

“I prefer to be off,” said the student, who, on his side, was prepared
for the encounter.

“Well, then, sir, pack up directly.”

“I assure you, madame, I will go with the utmost speed, if you will
assist me.”

“With the greatest of pleasure.”

The student thereupon went to a wardrobe, opened a drawer, and took out
a skeleton, which he handed to the woman.

“What is that?” asked the landlady, recoiling a little.

“That! Oh, that is the skeleton of my first landlord. He was
inconsiderate enough to claim the rent for three quarters that I owed
him, and then---- Be careful not to break it; it is number one of my
collection.”

The landlady was growing visibly pale. The student opened a second
drawer, and took out another skeleton.

“This--this is my landlady in South Street; a very worthy woman, but who
also demanded the rent of two quarters. Will you place it upon the
other? It is number two.”

The landlady opened her eyes widely.

“This,” continued the student, “this is number three. They are all here.
A very honest man, and whom I did not pay, either. Let us pass on to
number four.”

But the landlady was no longer there. She had fled.




AN OLD LADY’S DILEMMA.


A friend of mine, who owned a pneumatic-tired bicycle, was explaining
the different parts to his grandmother, who was paying him a visit.

He finished up the account by saying:

“And that little tube is where the air is blown in.”

The old lady, who had never seen such a thing before, was very much
puzzled.

“Wonderful!” she said, after a moment’s pause of contemplation.
“Wonderful! but do tell me, Sam, my lad, how on earth can you get your
head in between the spokes to blow the air in?”




THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.


Like Bull in the China Shop.

Oakville, Iowa, is a peaceful, prosperous, orderly town, but
occasionally some strange thing happens, and one did the other evening.
About eight o’clock, while the clerks in C. R. Walker’s department store
were busy about their evening work, they heard a noise in the rear of
the storeroom, and, upon investigation, found that a cow which had been
driven into town by some farmer had found an open door and had come into
the store and proceeded to make herself at home. The clerks got busy at
once, and when they attempted to drive bossy out, she became frightened,
started to run, and fell sprawling on the floor, knocked over boxes,
hardware, canned goods, dry goods, et cetera. By twisting her tail until
it resembled a great auger, the intruder finally consented to pass out.


A Criminal Catcher.

For more than twenty years Joseph L. Le Fors, of Sheridan, Wyo., has
acted as detective for the Live-stock Association of Wyoming, and during
that time has chased criminals all over the West and into Mexico.

Le Fors started as a cowboy in the Southwest. His brother was shot dead
on the street of one of the early-day border towns. Joe heard of the
deed, quit his job, came in, and quietly attended to the matter of his
brother’s burial. Then he got an officer’s commission and went after the
murderer, who was known as a “bad man.” When the cowboy, in a spring
wagon and without much knowledge of the roads in that vicinity, drove
out of town on his mission, most of those who saw him guessed that he
would not come back. But he returned, and after no great length of time.
In the bottom of the wagon was the corpse of the murderer. Le Fors has
never talked to any extent of that fight, except to say that he gave the
man a chance and he lost.

Among the detective’s most notable feats was the capture of Tom Horn,
said to have killed seventeen men. Horn’s quickness with a gun was
marvelous, but when the test came, Le Fors proved too fast for him.

It is said that Le Fors had done more than any other man to make stock
raising on the open ranges more than a mere venture.


Along Came Ruth, and Crash! See the Snakes!

When Miss Ruth Spencer, of Michigan City, Mich., accidentally tipped
over a box containing Doctor John A. Dexter’s collection of thirty
snakes in his biology laboratory at Olivet College, Olivet, Mich., she
created something of a panic.

Professor Dexter had been offering one dollar apiece for all varieties
of snakes caught in Eaton County not already in his collection. The
result was that he had rattlesnakes, blue racers, water snakes, garter
snakes, and others reposing in a large box in his laboratory. The box
stood on a high table.

Miss Spencer came in to the classroom looking for the professor, and,
seeing the box, became curious to know its contents. She tried standing
on tiptoe, lost her balance, and tumbled the snakes nearly on top of
herself and all over the floor. With a scream she ran out of the room.

Meanwhile Professor Shedd was conducting a physics class in a room
below, when suddenly a five-foot blue racer, which had crawled through
the ventilator, dropped with a thud on his demonstration table. The
class was automatically dismissed at once.

When Doctor Dexter arrived at his room, he recaptured most of the
reptiles. But one blue racer, three garter snakes, and a small, black
water snake are still at large in the science building.


Two Mountain Roads the Work of Convicts.

The Colorado Springs and Cañon City Highway and the Ute Pass section of
the Pike’s Peak ocean-to-ocean road, recently completed by Colorado’s
system of convict labor, are two of the most perfect mountain roads in
the United States.

For twenty miles south of Colorado Springs the road winds around the
foothills and mountains, practically the entire roadbed having been cut
out of the hillside, and in many places blasted out of solid rock. For
the remaining twenty-five miles the way is over foothills and through
undulating country. Besides being a marvel in engineering, the road is
one of the most scenic and picturesque in the West, passing as it does
through Red Rock Cañon, Dead Man’s Cañon, and many other mountain beauty
spots.

The road averaged eighteen feet in width, and is perfectly crowned and
drained. Although it offers a succession of climbs, so skillfully was
the engineering work done that heavy grades have been eliminated, and
the motorist is confronted with only one grade as high as three per
cent.

The Ute Pass Road follows the ancient trail of the Indians across the
Rocky Mountains. In the last few years that part of it between Colorado
Springs and Cascade has been entirely reconstructed by convicts.

Under the Colorado system the convict is allowed ten days off his
sentence for each month of labor on the roads. This is in addition to
the usual reduction for good behavior.

Thomas J. Tynan, warden of the State Penitentiary, under whose
supervision the work of the last three years has been done, estimates
that in the next ten years five thousand miles of the best roads will be
constructed at a cost of less than five hundred thousand dollars.

He says one thousand men have been used in roadwork in the last three
years at a cost to the State of twenty-five cents a day for each man.
The men go about their work unguarded, and less than one per cent have
violated their pledges and made successful escapes.


Wilson Gets Curious Bottle.

Fingal W. Anderson, who lives at Aitkin, Minn., has cunningly contrived
a present which he has given President Wilson, and which the latter
prizes highly.

Anderson has been ill and has whiled away weary hours in contriving his
gift. It is a bottle into which he has inserted a shield of the United
States. Upon one side of it is a picture of the White House, and upon
the other a picture of the president. In presenting the gift, Anderson
said, in a letter:

“This is original, whittled after my own thoughts, during my illness
from tuberculosis of the bone. This piece of furniture represents
seventeen days of work with my jackknife and drill made by myself from
wires and nails. In its construction there are 338 different parts, made
from white pine and basswood.

“I am a young man, twenty-eight years old, born in Stockholm, Sweden,
and am proud to be of the same race from which was descended John A.
Johnson and John Lind.

“As sent to you, it is complete and set up in full. Please accept it
with my compliments.”


Death of Aged Woman Who Won War Record.

The death of Mrs. Virginia Taylor Gwynn, a wartime Virginia belle, widow
of Captain Henry Gwynn, is announced at her home in Pikesville, Md., at
the age of seventy-five.

Mrs. Gwynn often accompanied the Confederate army and led the troops
into several engagements herself. She knew the country, and led
detachments of the troops out of tight corners. For these acts she was
mentioned several times in dispatches.

She volunteered to carry mail and dispatches from one division of the
army to another, and to do this had to pass and repass through the Union
lines several times. This attracted the attention of General Lee, and he
publicly complimented both her great bravery and her beauty.

Captain Gwynn, her husband, was one of the few who succeeded in getting
over the stone wall defended by the Union forces during the third day of
the Battle of Gettysburg, when Pickett made his desperate charge.


His Jet-black Hair Turns Red in Night.

The sensation of the past week has been the extraordinary experience of
Mack Stewart, a grocery merchant of Dublin, Texas.

Stewart is thirty-six years of age, and was the possessor of a head of
jet-black hair, with the exception of a slight tinge of gray about the
temples. To-day he is what might be termed a red-headed man. In a single
night the pigment of black was supplanted by red, and glossy-black locks
changed to a pronounced auburn.

Stewart, who was formerly a railroad conductor, attributes the
remarkable occurrence to a most vivid dream he had recently. He says he
dreamed that he was back at work on the H. & T. C. Railway. He was
standing on the top of a box car, when, as the train crossed Chambers
Creek, his head was struck by the top of the bridge, and he fell back,
with the blood gushing over his face.

He awoke with a start and experienced a terrible pain in his head. The
train, the creek, the bridge, and all the surroundings were as distinct
as if he actually had been gazing upon them, and the pain was as severe
as if he had really received a crushing blow.

Fifty or sixty physicians who have been in Dublin during the past week
attending the Erath County and Frisco Central Medical Associations
examined Stewart’s hair, and there was not one who did not express his
astonishment.

Instances of hair turning white in a single night on account of extreme
fear, mental anguish, or nervous strain, have been known to occur, but
cases of black hair turning to red are almost unheard of. They all
expressed the opinion that it would eventually turn to white.


Mormons Increase Numbers.

There is no race suicide among the Mormons. The births during the year
were more than four times as many as the deaths. The annual report gives
these figures:

Net increase in the membership of the church, 129,493 for the period of
1901 to 1914; birth rate, 39.5 per 1,000; death rate of 8.3 per 1,000;
marriage rate, 17 per 1,000.

The report shows the church collected $1,887,920 from tithes in 1914, of
which $730,960 was expended on church buildings, $330,984 to maintain
the church schools, $64,508 to maintain the Mormon temples, $227,900 for
missionary work, $99,293 to maintain church offices, $136,727 to
complete and maintain the L. D. S. Hospital in Salt Lake City, and
$116,238 to the poor.


Largest Sale of Oil in Tank.

What is stated to be the largest sale of oil in tankage ever made was
carried out when White & Sinclair sold seventy-two 55,000-barrel tanks
of oil in the Cushing field, in Oklahoma, to the Prairie Oil & Gas
Company. The tanks contained approximately four million barrels of oil.
The price paid is said to be, including tankage, $2,400,000.


Shot at Black Cat; Never Touched It.

Daniel Taylor’s notion of the proper manner for a black cat to conduct
itself is to walk ever and anon in a straight line. If it turns in
either direction, he is firmly convinced that it should be shot at
sunrise, nightfall, or whenever the turn is made, and to show that he
lives up to his convictions, he took a shot at a cat shortly before the
milkman appeared on his rounds, missed it, and, about twelve hours
later, paid twenty-five dollars for the error in the city court. If he
had hit the cat, he says, it would have cost him nothing.

When Taylor was a year and a half old, he was taking a turn about the
nursery, when a large cat, blue-black, walked in front of him. It
stopped, he stumbled, and it took five neighbors to regain his teething
ring, which he lost control of on the downward trip. From that day until
one afternoon, at fourteen minutes after three, he has believed that a
cat passing in front of him means hard luck. Now, however, he knows it.

“What have you to say?” asked the court, when Taylor was arraigned,
charged with missing the cat.

“If I repeated what I have in my mind,” replied Taylor, “I would be sent
to Siberia. I missed that pestiferous cat, and I am sorry for it. I am a
good citizen, but a poor marksman, and if I were not, I would be
elsewhere now. If I ever lay hands on that blamed cat, your excellency,
I’ll manipulate her nine lives with éclat and finish. I’ll count them
over one by one, and----”

“You talk too much,” said the court.

“Perhaps,” answered Mr. Taylor; “but I have the advantage of knowing
what I am talking about. I know that when a black cat passes in front of
me, it means hard luck, and, unless I kill it, misfortune will befall
me. I know----”

“I fine you twenty-five dollars,” said the court.

“I need say no more,” remarked Taylor, counting the money out. “This
proves everything.”

Mr. Taylor lives in Pittsburgh, Pa.


Tramp’s Meal Brings $10,000 to Donor.

Mrs. James Maner, living near Gilmore, Ga., on the Marietta car line, is
planning a trip to Miami, Fla., to inspect a legacy valued at $10,000,
left her by a tramp.

This does not lend itself readily to the fancy, but this time fancy will
have to brace up and take it like a man. Truth may be more of a stranger
than fiction, and all that, but the legacy is there, and traveling
expenses for Mrs. Maner to go down and view it--fifty dollars in the
hand, with a lot of legal assurance.

“Eight years ago,” she said recently, “a man came limping into our front
yard. He looked like a tramp, and then again he didn’t look like a
tramp--I mean, his clothing was ragged and worn, and he was limping from
an injury to his foot, and yet he didn’t have the manners of a tramp, if
you could call them manners.

“The man was penniless, he said, and in trouble. I felt sorry for him. I
took him in and gave him some dinner, and then ten cents to pay his way
to Atlanta on the trolley line. He seemed very appreciative, and
insisted on taking my name and address down in a little book.”

It seems that the tramp did not lose the little book. And after eight
years back came the bread from off the waters, only it was multiplied to
a fold entirely out of step with scriptural precedent.

Mrs. Maner paid no attention to the first information that the legacy
had been left her. It required an urgent appeal from a Miami lawyer and
the proffer of traveling expenses to make her realize that an estate
consisting of several houses and some land had really come her way at
the expense of a dime, a good dinner--and a bit of the milk of human
kindness.


Netty’s Knitting Stunts.

    Netty’s knitting knickknacks for the soldiers.
      Her nobby knack at knitting nets them neckties by the score;
    Some natty soldier knockers would prefer some knickerbockers
      To the knotty, knitted neckties Netty knits for necks galore.

For the enlightenment of our readers who may not have heard about sister
Susie, the following chorus is here presented:

    Sister Susie’s sewing shirts for soldiers,
      Such skill at sewing shirts our shy young sister Susie shows!
    Some soldiers send epistles, say they’d rather sleep on thistles,
      Than the saucy, soft, short shirts for soldiers sister Susie sews.


Little Maria Finds Friendly Protector.

Maria Greutzen, eight years old, fair-haired and shy, with a thick
woolen shawl folded about her shoulders, started on a western journey
from Ellis Island, New York, holding tight to the hand of her sister
Hedwig. They had come all the way from Antwerp, in war-stricken Belgium,
alone on their way to their aunt in Chicago with stout hearts, and
tickets tied up in bright calico handkerchiefs. Maria had a stout paper
envelope pinned on her little underwaist, with a little extra money for
emergency.

It was all so bewildering. Little Hedwig winked back a tear now and then
on the trip across the ferry, but then tears come easily when one has
only five birthdays and is at the other end of the world from home. They
must reach the “beeg train” at Grand Central Station without getting
lost, and the kind man guided them and cheered them on.

That is what the men of the Immigrant Guide and Transfer are doing every
day, lending a hand to children and grown-ups alike, for grown-ups are
sometimes like children in the great, puzzling city. The Immigrant Guide
and Transfer was organized some time ago with the approval and direction
of Frederic C. Howe, commissioner of Ellis Island.

This worthy and useful organization is at present struggling under a
great handicap. The decrease in immigration due to the war leaves it
without income to meet the expenses of upkeep. Commissioner Howe is
anxious, indeed, not to open the way for any such imposition and
exploitation of immigrants as was practiced before the Immigrant Guide
service was organized. Money was stolen from the newcomers, tickets were
mixed up, exorbitant prices for subway tickets and other fares were
extracted, leaving the travelers in a state of helpless panic.

Steps are being taken in this city to render any financial aid Guide and
Transfer officials may need.


Spirits Sent Him to Dead.

Jim Thomas, fifty, negro, was arrested after a white man had seen him in
the cemetery, in Gurdon, Ark., with a wheelbarrow, spade, and other
tools. Examination showed that the negro had dug to the top of the box
where James Buckley, a wealthy farmer, was buried three years ago.

The negro explained his actions by saying that spirits told him to
communicate with Buckley.


Strange Discovery in Old-time Cliff Abode.

A freak quadruped of unknown species is the latest discovery in the
fields of anthropological research in southern Utah. Dean Byron
Cummings, head of the department of archæology in the University of
Utah, who annually leads expeditions into the deserts of southern Utah
and northern Arizona, recently dug up the remains of the mysterious
animal of ancient times in an old-time cliff dweller’s home.

The head and backbone of the animal was all that could be found,
although the veteran research worker sought diligently to find other
bones that might establish a clew to its identity. The cranium is
similar to that of an ancient Indian, with sloping forehead and average
brain capacity. On its skull was found a hank of wool resembling that of
the modern sheep, and the part of the backbone that was intact, showing
six vertebræ, was similar in most respects to that of the modern
coyote.

Salt Lake scientists and students of other States have examined the
strange find, but are at a loss to explain its identity. It is thought
by some to be a freak offshoot of the sheep species, while others
identify it with the human species.

Dean Cummings had difficulty removing the body from the cliff dwelling,
his Indian guides and other native Indians objecting on grounds that the
body might have contained one of their sacred good spirits. The find is
now in the University of Utah museum.


“Bill the Bum” in Downy Bed.

The story of Mrs. Cook’s adventure in the home of Mrs. Hodkinson, a
neighbor, was much like the experience of Goldilocks and the Three
Bears. Both women are residents of San Francisco, Cal.

The Hodkinson family has been in New York for some time, and Mrs. Cook
promised to look out for the house. She went there the other day to see
that all was well.

She didn’t know that “Bill the Bum,” who says his address is Everywhere,
was there in the role of Goldilocks. Bill had made himself at home there
for three days. He had crawled through a basement window and had sampled
things as he went along till he got to the top floor, where there was a
nice cozy bedroom and a soft bed.

He had found bread and wine and was filled to contentment. Just like
Goldilocks in the home of the Three Bears he had a fine time. Then he
got sleepy and dozed off.

Mrs. Cook found him stretched out on a bed upstairs, snoring like a
trooper. She tiptoed downstairs and called a policeman. The officer made
so much noise climbing the stairs that Bill the Bum was awakened and
took a header through an open window. He was captured after a chase,
taken to the city prison, and charged with burglary. Among the things
taken and not recovered are two cherry pies, three bottles of wine, and
half a box of fine cigars.


Girls in Men’s Togs Foil Prison Guards.

Until three girls were arrested in Bridgeport, Conn., all of them
wearing articles of men’s clothing, it was not known that they had
escaped from the New York State Reformatory for Women at Bedford Hills,
Westchester County. They employed Harry Thaw’s method of escaping,
walking out the gate when the milkman opened it.

They told a remarkable story of hardships while being sought by police
and guards in automobiles. They slept in woods and ravines during the
days, and traveled and foraged at night.

The girls are: Ida Oakley, formerly of Danbury; Mildred Doyle, of
Manhattan, and Alice Kilcoyne, of Brooklyn. They said they were about to
be placed on a bread-and-water diet at Bedford Hills, and decided to
escape. They had covered several miles in the prison garb of
gray-and-white uniforms before their escape was discovered. They kept
far back from the roads, and at noon hid in a ravine. At night they made
a raid on a farmer’s chicken coop, and, over an open fire, they broiled
three chickens.

Early the next morning they made a raid on the clothesline of a
housewife, and obtained enough clothed for Ida Oakley to discard her
prison garb. Then, while the others hid in the woods, she went into the
village and begged food and clothes, telling a story about a husband
with tuberculosis and several hungry children.

In that manner they obtained plenty of food, but clothes were scarce,
particularly women’s garments. They obtained sufficient clothes for
several men, but not enough for two women. Therefore they had to wear
men’s clothes. Mildred Doyle and Alice Kilcoyne, unable to get a skirt,
wore men’s trousers until they were in the outskirts of Bridgeport, when
they met two young men in the road and explained their predicament. The
men purchased skirts for them, but they had to continue wearing men’s
coats.

Their appearance in Bridgeport, where they tried to find work, caused
comment, and they were arrested. Under questioning, they soon broke down
and told of their escape from the Bedford Reformatory.


No Sentence in Eagle Case.

Although Edward Peffer got a verdict against State Game Wardens Charles
and A. H. Baum for larceny of the eagle that he shot in Lewiston County,
Pa., no sentence has been imposed on the wardens, and it is not likely
that there ever will be. The judge of the court does not consider the
verdict in keeping with the law as laid down by the State. The stuffed
eagle is still in the State museum.


Mexicans Maltreat Booster of Heroes.

Americans are not properly protected in Mexico, thinks Jo Conners, of
Phoenix, Ariz. Conners believes that when a peaceful American in a
foreign country is deprived of his wooden leg, the act should be
construed as a declaration of war. Through the American State department
he has applied for the return of a wooden leg, a steel foot, and four
hundred dollars in gold, which were taken from him while he was a
prisoner of the Carranza forces in Guaymas.

By profession Conners is a chronicler of heroes. He was employed by
General Francisco Villa to prepare and publish a volume to be entitled
“Heroes of Mexico.” Villa furnished him with an automobile and agreed to
pay him one hundred dollars a week in gold.

Conners found everybody in northern Mexico for Villa. Also he found that
every one was a hero. By the time he arrived at Guaymas he had collected
photographs and brief biographies of no less than 280 Mexican patriots
who had risked their lives and fortunes that Villa might triumph and
Mexico might become the greatest nation on the face of the earth.

Amid the Villa “vivas” of the populace Conners retired one night in a
Guaymas hotel. He was awakened by a soldier who told him that the city
was in the hands of the Carranza forces and that he was a prisoner. The
280 biographies and photographs, also four weeks’ salary, were
confiscated. Conners was placed in jail and his typewriter was thrown in
after him, with a scornful suggestion that he get busy and write
something more about “thees Meester Villa.”

In a railroad accident several years ago Conners lost his left leg and
part of his right foot. He had purchased the best wooden leg that money
could buy and used a steel extension to fill out the right shoe. When
the jailer entered his cell the next morning, Conners’ artificial leg
and foot were lying on the floor.

Now, this jailer had also lost his left leg, and wore a rude peg in its
place. With a cry of delight he pounced upon Conners’ expensive
artificial limb. His delight became ecstasy when he tried it on and
found that it was a perfect fit. Saying something about a trade, he
departed. For some reasons he also took the steel extension. The peg,
which was the limb of a mesquite tree, was left lying on the floor.

A few minutes later the jailer returned. “I give you what you Americanos
call some boot,” he remarked pleasantly. Whereupon he set before Mr.
Conners a plate of luscious tomatoes.

That afternoon the American consul got Conners out of jail. Another
jailer unlocked the door for him. Conners wanted to start out
immediately in search of his wooden leg and steel foot, but the consul
persuaded him that discretion was the better part of valor, and induced
him to board a tramp steamer for San Francisco. After he reached San
Francisco, Conners remembered that he also lost an automobile in
Guaymas. That, however, troubles him little. The auto was Villa’s, but
the leg, the foot, and the $400 were Conners’ very own, and he expects
Uncle Sam to demand their return without any beating around the bush by
Mexico’s warring heroes.


Meteor Falls in Michigan.

A meteor which fell near Standish, Mich., narrowly missed the residence
of Charles Selman. The visitor whizzed down in the midst of a brilliant
meteoric display, and buried itself so deep in Mr. Selman’s yard that it
hasn’t been found. The hole in the ground is four feet across.


“Slippery John” Again at Liberty.

If the police of Charlestown, W. Va., succeed in their efforts to locate
John Truslow, known to them as “Slippery John” and many other things,
including aliases, it is probable that they will suspend a large anvil
from his neck and nail his clothing to a cell wall. He has escaped, drat
him! for the eighth time in two months, and, with right hands raised,
the police are remarking that, so help them, never again!

John Truslow, according to the police, has been tried and found guilty
of every crime of which a mentality such as John Truslow’s is capable.
This has limited John’s activities greatly, but recently, while awaiting
trial on a charge of stealing a straw hat, he burst from the jail,
nearly sweeping it away, and ran to the bird store of John Fisher in the
dead of a Saturday night.

There the police, attracted by eight electric bulbs that John
illuminated, found him whispering to a gold fish and acting in a
frightfully suspicious manner. They crept upon him stealthily, as the
department requires them to do. Just as they reached him, a parrot,
awakened its sleep, said: “Officer, there’s your man!” There could be no
mistake, they had corroboration.

When the reserves, with Slippery John sliding along among them, reached
the jail, they saw the warden come screaming from the building. They
asked him wherefore the noise and whence his course, to which he replied
that Slippery John, the demon skidder, had flown the jail. Then he saw
the prisoner, and wept, kissed him on the forehead, and slammed him back
in his cell.

All went well until the other night, at the well-known and justly
revered witching hour of midnight. Peter Austin, member of a very
aristocrooked family, rose up feebly from his part of John’s cell and
declared he was ill, requiring water. The warden, who sometimes drinks
the stuff himself, was merciful, and let Peter patter out.

The cell door--gods, what an error!--was left open, and when Peter
returned--tableaux! Slippery John gone again!

The warden is inconsolable. He has issued an order that hereafter all
prisoners that gasp for water must remain in their cells and drink from
the nozzle of the hose.


Vaudeville Stunts in Mountain Settlements.

Little mountain settlements in the region of Julian, Cal., have their
vaudeville circuits, and they are as important to the people and afford
them as much pleasure as Keith’s or the Orpheum afford pleasure seekers
of the large cities.

The players are generally Mexicans. They travel by wagon or burro,
coming up from lower California, swinging across the mining region, and
turning south again into the peninsula.

A handbill pinned to the door of the post office or store is the only
program. It announces, in Spanish, that a company of artists,
unsurpassed for excellence, will be honored to entertain the people at
greatly reduced prices--fifteen cents for children and twenty-five cents
for adults, whereas in large cities, like Ensenada, the company wouldn’t
attempt to do the same thing for less than a dollar admission.

Sometimes the performance is acrobatic; sometimes it is a concert, with
accordion and guitar, to be followed with a dance; again it may be an
old-fashioned Punch and Judy show, or a roaring comedy, the actors
speaking their lines in Spanish, which, by the way, makes no difference
to the border folks, all of whom understand that tongue.

In addition to the handbill, a crier goes through the vicinity,
announcing from house to house the merits of the performers, and urging
everybody not to miss this last and only chance to see and hear so rare
a collection of stars, who, meanwhile, are preparing their evening meal
beside the road and making their beds under a tree.

The play is staged wherever shelter can be found--in schoolhouse or some
large barn, or, more likely, in the dance hall, for nearly every
settlement has such a place. The settings are easily procured. A plank
across the tops of two barrels may serve either as a terrible abyss or a
shaded silvan walk.

The following morning the all-star troupe rolls out of its separate and
individual blankets, cooks breakfast in the open, jumps astride burros,
or tumbles into a wagon and makes for the next-night stand.


Roughrider’s Story of German “Wild West.”

Herman Kepple, a circus rider, whose home was formerly in Afton, Okla.,
at one time with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West circus, and for several years
a member of a German “Wild West” aggregation, has just returned on
account of the circus having been broken up by the war in Europe. Kepple
says that he was more than sorry that he had to return, for his monthly
salary with the German show was equal to a small fortune. The big circus
was composed of close to 2,000 persons, and rifle shooting, riding, and
other “dare-devil” stunts, such as made the stolid Germans gasp, was
Kepple’s specialty.

As soon as war was declared, the Cossacks with the show were placed in
prison, the English and Japanese actors were taken into custody, and
most of the German members had to join the colors.

Still the management tried to keep the show going, using neutral actors
and Germans who did not have to join the army, but the attendance grew
less and less. Then, as a last resort, they began the production of a
spectacular scene known as “Europe in Flames.” This showed--with the
crash of big guns and the clash of steel--the progress of the war, and
the supposed ending, all leaning in favor of the Germans.

Kepple was supposed to be a royal hussar for a while, then an English
soldier and prisoner of war; at times he played dead, and was carried
off the field. The beginning of the spectacle pictured the cause of the
war, and ended with a general drawing of swords and presenting of arms,
with the kaiser, of course, being the last one to draw his weapon. This
last was always received with many cheers.

Another Oklahoma cowboy, A. W. Beasley, and Arma Reuter, from Texas,
were with the same outfit. Kepple says that Reuter returned to Texas,
but does not know what became of Beasley.

Always the Germans won in this mimic war. Even so, the populace soon
tired of it, for the real war was carrying off thousands of the nation’s
sons. The owners decided to disband. Kepple and Reuter concluded to join
the German army, but when they found that they would have to renounce
their own country, they backed out.


Negro Finds Rope with Cow Attached.

A negro, Arthur Chairs--his name was part of the set--brought into the
Memphis city court on a charge of larceny, carried with him a minstrel
joke that Dan Rice used to knock ’em off the seats with years ago. It
was so old that it became new when viewed in the serious light in which
the negro placed it.

Nobody ever thought that there was any foundation for the old,
exculpatory joke that a thief picked up a rope that had a horse at the
other end of it, until Arthur Chairs demonstrated beyond doubt that the
joke had a foundation in serious fact.

The negro was charged with the larceny of a cow from the rural districts
around Oakville. Henry Grant, a negro, appeared as prosecutor. Henry
lost the cow.

“Your honor,” said the detective who apprehended the prisoner and his
bovine charge, “Henry Grant, here, the prosecutor, lost a cow, and we
found Arthur Chairs trying to sell it.”

“What was the cow worth?” asked Justice Biggs, who was wielding the
gavel at the session.

“About fifty dollars,” said Grant.

“Must have been a Jersey,” said the judge.

“It was, judge,” said the detective, “and a young heifer, at that.”

“Arthur.”

“Yessah, jedge.”

“Ever been up here before on a charge of this kind?” asked the judge.

“Nossah, jedge, I sho nevah wah heah befo’ in mah life.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I wucks, jedge, wucks all de time.”

“What sort of work do you engage in?” asked the judge.

“I does mos’ any kinds of wuck I kin find ter do dese days.”

“Now, then, Arthur, the preliminaries are settled. Tell us about this
cow.”

“I don’t know much ’bout dat cow, jedge, I sho don’t.”

“Your associations with this bovine were of a pleasant nature, if not of
much duration, were they not?” smiled the judge.

“Yassah, jedge, yassah.”

“Just to come right down to plain words, you stole that cow, did you
not?” asked the judge sharply.

“Nossah, jedge, I can’t say dat I done stole dat cow at all.”

“Does your high regard for the truth prevent you making a statement to
that effect?”

“Yassah, jedge, yassah. I sho gwine ter tell yo’ de trufe ’bout it.”

“I feel justified in expecting that,” laughed the judge.

“Yassah, jedge, yassah.”

“If you did not steal the cow, tell us how you became the possessor of
it.”

“Tells yo’, jedge. I’s passin’ ’long de road, an’ dis cow standin’ dah,
seemin’ lak she lost. I stops and ’gins ter see if I kin identify huh.
Den she ’pears ter know me, an’ I rubs her about de neck, an’ she lay
huh haid ovah on me jes’ lak she wants me ter take care ob huh. Den I
drap de rope aroun’ huh horns an’ walked away.”

“She followed you?”

“Yassah, jedge, yassah; she sho did.”

“Didn’t have to pull on the rope?”

“Nossah, jedge, not er bit.”

“Hold him for the State,” ordered the judge, and the cow’s guardian _pro
tem._ was escorted below.


Disabled Coal Miner Dies.

After five years’ struggle against great physical and financial odds,
Fred Ellwanger, sole survivor of the Marianna mine disaster in 1908,
died at his home in Charleroi, Pa.

Ellwanger came to this country from Germany in 1908, and secured work in
the Marianna mine just the day before the explosion that cost about two
hundred lives. On that day Ellwanger was at work at the bottom of the
shaft. He told friends afterward that he was afraid to work in the mine
on account of the large amount of gas he noticed in the reaches.

When the explosion came, he was knocked senseless, but fell with his
head near a pool of water; this kept his head moist and saved him from
death.

He was the only man saved from the explosion. He was rushed to a
hospital, where the physicians said he could not live. Forty-two pieces
of coal and stone were taken from his body.

For weeks he lingered between life and death, and finally was pronounced
on the road to recovery. He never fully recovered.

Unable to work, he published a book telling his story of the disaster.
The coal company promptly attempted to suppress the book, and it is
still under the company’s ban.




The Nick Carter Stories

ISSUED EVERY SATURDAY        BEAUTIFUL COLORED COVERS


When it comes to detective stories worth while, the =Nick Carter Stories=
contain the only ones that should be considered. They are not overdrawn
tales of bloodshed. They rather show the working of one of the finest
minds ever conceived by a writer. The name of Nick Carter is familiar
all over the world, for the stories of his adventures may be read in
twenty languages. No other stories have withstood the severe test of
time so well as those contained in the =Nick Carter Stories=. It proves
conclusively that they are the best. We give herewith a list of some of
the back numbers in print. You can have your news dealer order them, or
they will be sent direct by the publishers to any address upon receipt
of the price in money or postage stamps.

704--Written in Red.
707--Rogues of the Air.
709--The Bolt from the Blue.
710--The Stockbridge Affair.
711--A Secret from the Past.
712--Playing the Last Hand.
713--A Slick Article.
714--The Taxicab Riddle.
717--The Master Rogue’s Alibi.
719--The Dead Letter.
720--The Allerton Millions.
728--The Mummy’s Head.
729--The Statue Clue.
730--The Torn Card.
731--Under Desperation’s Spur.
732--The Connecting Link.
733--The Abduction Syndicate.
736--The Toils of a Siren.
738--A Plot Within a Plot.
739--The Dead Accomplice.
741--The Green Scarab.
746--The Secret Entrance.
747--The Cavern Mystery.
748--The Disappearing Fortune.
749--A Voice from the Past.
752--The Spider’s Web.
753--The Man with a Crutch.
754--The Rajah’s Regalia.
755--Saved from Death.
756--The Man Inside.
757--Out for Vengeance.
758--The Poisons of Exili.
759--The Antique Vial.
760--The House of Slumber.
761--A Double Identity.
762--“The Mocker’s” Stratagem.
763--The Man that Came Back.
764--The Tracks in the Snow.
765--The Babbington Case.
766--The Masters of Millions.
767--The Blue Stain.
768--The Lost Clew.
770--The Turn of a Card.
771--A Message in the Dust.
772--A Royal Flush.
774--The Great Buddha Beryl.
775--The Vanishing Heiress.
776--The Unfinished Letter.
777--A Difficult Trail.
782--A Woman’s Stratagem.
783--The Cliff Castle Affair.
784--A Prisoner of the Tomb.
785--A Resourceful Foe.
789--The Great Hotel Tragedies.
795--Zanoni, the Transfigured.
796--The Lure of Gold.
797--The Man with a Chest.
798--A Shadowed Life.
799--The Secret Agent.
800--A Plot for a Crown.
801--The Red Button.
802--Up Against It.
803--The Gold Certificate.
804--Jack Wise’s Hurry Call.
805--Nick Carter’s Ocean Chase.
807--Nick Carter’s Advertisement.
808--The Kregoff Necklace.
811--Nick Carter and the Nihilists.
812--Nick Carter and the Convict Gang.
813--Nick Carter and the Guilty Governor.
814--The Triangled Coin.
815--Ninety-nine--and One.
816--Coin Number 77.


NEW SERIES

NICK CARTER STORIES

1--The Man from Nowhere.
2--The Face at the Window.
3--A Fight for a Million.
4--Nick Carter’s Land Office.
5--Nick Carter and the Professor.
6--Nick Carter as a Mill Hand.
7--A Single Clew.
8--The Emerald Snake.
9--The Currie Outfit.
10--Nick Carter and the Kidnapped Heiress.
11--Nick Carter Strikes Oil.
12--Nick Carter’s Hunt for a Treasure.
13--A Mystery of the Highway.
14--The Silent Passenger.
15--Jack Dreen’s Secret.
16--Nick Carter’s Pipe Line Case.
17--Nick Carter and the Gold Thieves.
18--Nick Carter’s Auto Chase.
19--The Corrigan Inheritance.
20--The Keen Eye of Denton.
21--The Spider’s Parlor.
22--Nick Carter’s Quick Guess.
23--Nick Carter and the Murderess.
24--Nick Carter and the Pay Car.
25--The Stolen Antique.
26--The Crook League.
27--An English Cracksman.
28--Nick Carter’s Still Hunt.
29--Nick Carter’s Electric Shock.
30--Nick Carter and the Stolen Duchess.
31--The Purple Spot.
32--The Stolen Groom.
33--The Inverted Cross.
34--Nick Carter and Keno McCall.
35--Nick Carter’s Death Trap.
36--Nick Carter’s Siamese Puzzle.
37--The Man Outside.
38--The Death Chamber.
39--The Wind and the Wire.
40--Nick Carter’s Three Cornered Chase.
41--Dazaar, the Arch-Fiend.
42--The Queen of the Seven.
43--Crossed Wires.
44--A Crimson Clew.
45--The Third Man.
46--The Sign of the Dagger.
47--The Devil Worshipers.
48--The Cross of Daggers.
49--At Risk of Life.
50--The Deeper Game.
51--The Code Message.
52--The Last of the Seven.
53--Ten-Ichi, the Wonderful.
54--The Secret Order of Associated Crooks.
55--The Golden Hair Clew.
56--Back From the Dead.
57--Through Dark Ways.
58--When Aces Were Trumps.
59--The Gambler’s Last Hand.
60--The Murder at Linden Fells.
61--A Game for Millions.
62--Under Cover.
63--The Last Call.
64--Mercedes Danton’s Double.
65--The Millionaire’s Nemesis.
66--A Princess of the Underworld.
67--The Crook’s Blind.
68--The Fatal Hour.
69--Blood Money.
70--A Queen of Her Kind.
71--Isabel Benton’s Trump Card.
72--A Princess of Hades.
73--A Prince of Plotters.
74--The Crook’s Double.
75--For Life and Honor.
76--A Compact With Dazaar.
77--In the Shadow of Dazaar.
78--The Crime of a Money King.
79--Birds of Prey.
80--The Unknown Dead.
81--The Severed Hand.
82--The Terrible Game of Millions.
83--A Dead Man’s Power.
84--The Secrets of an Old House.
85--The Wolf Within.
86--The Yellow Coupon.
87--In the Toils.
88--The Stolen Radium.
89--A Crime in Paradise.
90--Behind Prison Bars.
91--The Blind Man’s Daughter.
92--On the Brink of Ruin.
93--Letter of Fire.
94--The $100,000 Kiss.
95--Outlaws of the Militia.
96--The Opium-Runners.
97--In Record Time.
98--The Wag-Nuk Clew.
99--The Middle Link.
100--The Crystal Maze.
101--A New Serpent in Eden.
102--The Auburn Sensation.
103--A Dying Chance.
104--The Gargoni Girdle.
105--Twice in Jeopardy.
106--The Ghost Launch.
107--Up in the Air.
108--The Girl Prisoner.
109--The Red Plague.
110--The Arson Trust.
111--The King of the Firebugs.
112--“Lifter’s” of the Lofts.
113--French Jimmie and His Forty Thieves.
114--The Death Plot.
115--The Evil Formula.
116--The Blue Button.
117--The Deadly Parallel.
118--The Vivisectionists.
119--The Stolen Brain.
120--An Uncanny Revenge.
121--The Call of Death.
122--The Suicide.
123--Half a Million Ransom.
124--The Girl Kidnapper.
125--The Pirate Yacht.
126--The Crime of the White Hand.
127--Found in the Jungle.
128--Six Men in a Loop.
129--The Jewels of Wat Chang.
130--The Crime in the Tower.
131--The Fatal Message.
132--Broken Bars.
133--Won by Magic.
134--The Secret of Shangore.
135--Straight to the Goal.
136--The Man They Held Back.
137--The Seal of Gijon.
138--The Traitors of the Tropics.
139--The Pressing Peril.
140--The Melting-Pot.
  Dated May 22d, 1915.
141--The Duplicate Night.
  Dated May 29th, 1915.
142--The Edge of a Crime.
  Dated June 5th, 1915.
143--The Sultan’s Pearls.
  Dated June 12th, 1915.
144--The Clew of the White Collar.


=PRICE, FIVE CENTS PER COPY.= If you want any back numbers of our weeklies
  and cannot procure them from your news dealer, they can be obtained
   direct from this office. Postage stamps taken the same as money.

     STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Ave., NEW YORK CITY