A Cigarette Clew; Or, "Salted" For a Million
Date: 2021-11-10T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Detective and mystery stories; Swindlers and swindling -- Fiction; Dime novels; American fiction; Mines and mineral resources -- Fiction

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Title: A Cigarette Clew; Or, "Salted" For a Million

Author: Nicholas Carter

Release date: November 10, 2021 [eBook #66700]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66700

Credits: David Edwards, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CIGARETTE CLEW; OR, "SALTED" FOR A MILLION ***

A CIGARETTE CLEW.

CHAPTER: I., II., III., IV., V., VI., VII., VIII., IX., X., XI., XII., XIII., XIV., XV., XVI., XVII., XVIII., XIX., XX., XXI., XXII., XXIII., XXIV., XXV., XXVI., XXVII.,

The Biggest Line of Copyright Detective Literature Published

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THIS line has become famous for its excellent stories of the detection of crime. Of late, it has taken truly remarkable strides in the public’s favor. The reason for this is, that every book is a marvel of its kind. They are high-class tales, not of the “blood and thunder” order, but with plausable plots which hold the reader fairly captivated with breathless expectation. Among these are the stories of the adventures of Nick Carter and his clever assistants; of “Old Spicer,” the clever private detective, whose exploits are among the most remarkable ever performed by any detective. If you are in search of good, interesting matter, a decided change from that to which you have been accustomed, purchase a few of these titles. They will not only please and interest you, but will give you a clear insight into the methods of the various classes of criminals.

To be Published During July
400—The Living Mark | By Nicholas Carter
399—An Oath of Vengeance | By John K. Stafford
398—Under a Black Veil | By Nicholas Carter
To be Published During June
397—A Crime Without a Name | By Dick Stewart
396—A Baffled Oath | By Nicholas Carter
395—A Kentucky Moonshiner | By Inspector Stark
394—Playing for a Fortune | By Nicholas Carter
To be Published During May
393—The Convent Mystery | By John K. Stafford
392—With Links of Steel | By Nicholas Carter
391—A Villain’s Work | By Dick Stewart
390—A Royal Thief | By Nicholas Carter
To be Published During April
389—A Deed of Darkness | By Inspector Stark
388—The Diamond Trail | By Nicholas Carter
387—Under the Surface | By John K. Stafford
386—Down and Out | By Nicholas Carter
To be Published During March
385—The Search for a Motive | By Dick Stewart
384—A Cigarette Clew | By Nicholas Carter
383—The Mafia’s Victim | By Inspector Stark
382—A Villainous Scheme | By Nicholas Carter
381—A Millionaire’s Crime | By John K. Stafford
380—The Price of Treachery | By Nicholas Carter
379—Confederated Rogues | By Dick Stewart
378—A Tangled Case | By Nicholas Carter
377—The Telegraph Clew | By Inspector Stark
376—A Mysterious “Graft” | By Nicholas Carter
375—A Cruel Suspicion | By Fay P. Rathbun
374—Trapped In His Own Net | By Nicholas Carter
373—A Bid for a Life | By Scott Campbell
372—A Scientific Forger | By Nicholas Carter
371—The Signs of the Dagger | By H. O. Cooke
370—The Ruby Pin | By Nicholas Carter
369—The Tell-tale Watch | By Meta De Vere
368—In the Gloom of Night | By Nicholas Carter
367—Who Was He? | By Philip Little
366—Ahead of the Game | By Nicholas Carter
365—A “Spurious Note” Maker | By John K. Stafford
364—Following a Chance Clew | By Nicholas Carter
363—A Political Plotter | By Dick Stewart
362—A Broken Trail | By Nicholas Carter
361—The Shadow of an Assassin | By Inspector Stark
360—A Missing Man | By Nicholas Carter
359—A Daring Express Messenger | By John K. Stafford
358—A Mysterious Foe | By Nicholas Carter
357—A Game of “Draw” | By Dick Stewart
356—The Queen of Diamonds | By Nicholas Carter
355—An Unexpected Move | By Scott Campbell
354—An Ingenious Stratagem | By Nicholas Carter
353—The Missing Bracelet | By Inspector Stark
352—The Master Villain | By Nicholas Carter
351—Smugglers at Odds | By John K. Stafford
350—Playing a Lone Hand | By Nicholas Carter
349—The “Green Goods” Speculator | By Dick Stewart
348—The Mystic Diagram | By Nicholas Carter
347—A Queen of Blackmailers | By the author of “Seth Hunt”
346—The Cab Driver’s Secret | By Nicholas Carter
345—The Deed of a Night | By the author of “Nat Tyler”
344—Against Desperate Odds | By Nicholas Carter
343—The Stolen Jewels | By “Old Spicer”
342—The Secret Panel | By Nicholas Carter
341—Two Conspirators | By the author of “Seth Hunt”
340—The Criminal Link | By Nicholas Carter
339—The Confession of a Thug | By the author of “Nat Tyler”
338—The Wizard of the Cue | By Nicholas Carter
337—The Palace of Chance | By “Old Spicer”
336—Driven From Cover | By Nicholas Carter
335—The Woman in Red | By Scott Campbell
334—Beyond Pursuit | By Nicholas Carter
333—A Question of Evidence | By “Old Spicer”
332—The Certified Check | By Nicholas Carter
331—A Secret Suspicion | By the author of “Seth Hunt”
330—The Toss of a Penny | By Nicholas Carter
329—The Price of “Protection” | By the author of “Nat Tyler”
328—A Detective’s Theory | By Nicholas Carter
327—The Tattooed Wrist | By “Old Spicer”
326—A Bundle of Clews | By Nicholas Carter
325—The Cross in the Dust | By the author of “Seth Hunt”
324—The “Hot Air” Clew | By Nicholas Carter
323—Sherlock Holmes. Vol. II | By A. Conan Doyle
322—Sherlock Holmes. Vol. I | By A. Conan Doyle
321—The Missing Bullet | By the author of “Nat Tyler”
320—The Cloak of Guilt | By Nicholas Carter
319—Tightening the Coils | By “Old Spicer”
318—The Cashier’s Secret | By Nicholas Carter
317—A Midnight Vigil | By the author of “Nat Tyler”
316—Circumstantial Evidence | By Nicholas Carter
315—In the Shadow | By “Old Spicer”
314—The Barrel Mystery | By Nicholas Carter
313—Cunning Against Force | By Tom Steele
312—Heard in the Dark | By Nicholas Carter
311—A Transatlantic Puzzle | By the author of “Seth Hunt”
310—The Crown Diamond | By Nicholas Carter
309—The Power of a Villain | By the author of “Nat Tyler”
308—The Photographer’s Evidence | By Nicholas Carter
307—A Desperate Game | By “Old Spicer”
306—A Ring of Dust | By Nicholas Carter
305—The Tell-Tale Tattoo | By Jack Sharpe
304—The Twin Mystery | By Nicholas Carter
303—The Branded Hand | By the author of “Seth Hunt”
302—Under False Colors | By Nicholas Carter
301—The Wall Street Swindlers | By Jack Sharpe
300—A Blow for Vengeance | By Nicholas Carter
299—The Sleepless Eye | By the author of “Nat Tyler”
298—A Masterpiece of Crime | By Nicholas Carter
297—The Shadow of Guilt | By “Old Spicer”
296—The Guilty Governor | By Nicholas Carter
295—Tracked by a Pin | By Richard Hackstaff
294—The Blood-Red Badge | By Nicholas Carter
293—On the Stroke of Midnight | By the author of “Seth Hunt”
292—A Great Conspiracy | By Nicholas Carter
291—In Terror’s Grasp | By the author of “Nat Tyler”
290—The Hole in the Vault | By Nicholas Carter
289—The Crippled Hand | By Frederick S. Stewart
288—The Council of Death | By Nicholas Carter
287—A Dead Witness | By “Old Spicer”
286—A Bonded Villain | By Nicholas Carter
285—A Rascal’s Nerve | By the author of “Seth Hunt”
284—A Blackmailer’s Bluff | By Nicholas Carter
283—The Crimson Glove | By the author of “Nat Tyler”
282—A Race Track Gamble | By Nicholas Carter
281—The Stroke of a Knife | By Burnham F. Mason
280—The Seal of Death | By Nicholas Carter
279—On the Brink of Ruin | By “Old Spicer”
278—A Sharper’s Downfall | By Nicholas Carter
277—An Eye for an Eye | By the author of “Seth Hunt”
276—A Checkmated Scoundrel | By Nicholas Carter
275—The Banker’s Millions | By the author of “Nat Tyler”
274—Paid With Death | By Nicholas Carter
273—The Rogue With a Past | By Robert Wesley
272—The Chain of Evidence | By Nicholas Carter
271—A High-Class Swindler | By “Old Spicer”
270—The Fatal Prescription | By Nicholas Carter
269—The Man Who Knew | By the author of “Seth Hunt”
268—Hounded to Death | By Nicholas Carter
267—An Unfortunate Rogue | By the author of “Nat Tyler”
266—A Stroke of Policy | By Nicholas Carter
265—The Three Finger Marks | By “Old Spicer”
264—Two Villains in One | By Nicholas Carter.
263—The Loaded Orange | By Gilbert Jerome.
262—A False Combination | By Nicholas Carter.
261—A Matter of Thousands | By the author of “Old Spicer”
260—At the Knife’s Point | By Nicholas Carter.
259—The Band of Mystery | By Maro O. Rolfe
258—Man Against Man | By Nicholas Carter.
257—The Man Who Made Diamonds | By the author of “Nat Tyler”
256—The Vial of Death | By Nicholas Carter.
255—The Sport of Fate | By the author of “Old Spicer.”
254—Behind a Mask | By Nicholas Carter.
253—The Fatal Request | By A. L. Harris.
252—The Man and His Price | By Nicholas Carter.
251—The Nine of Hearts | By B. L. Farjeon.
250—A Double-Handed Game | By Nicholas Carter.
249—Old Stonewall, Detective | By Judson R. Taylor.
248—The Toss of a Coin | By Nicholas Carter.
247—The Results of a Duel | By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
246—Nick Carter’s Death Warrant | By Nicholas Carter.
245—A Victim of Villainy | By F. L. Broughton.
244—A Trusted Rogue | By Nicholas Carter.
243—The Man and the Crime | By Harry Rockwood.
242—Run to Earth | By Nicholas Carter.
241—From Thief to Detective | By Fergus Hume.
240—Weaving the Web | By Nicholas Carter.
239—The Man from the South | By Judson R. Taylor.
238—The Claws of the Tiger | By Nicholas Carter.
237—A Kidnapped Millionaire | By Richard A. Wainwright.
236—A Move in the Dark | By Nicholas Carter.
235—True Detective Tales | By Maurice Moser.
234—The Tell-Tale Photographs | By Nicholas Carter.
233—The Secret of the Missing Checks | By Harry Rockwood.
232—The Red Signal | By Nicholas Carter.
231—The Crime of the Golden Gully | By Gilbert Rock.
230—A Race for Ten Thousand | By Nicholas Carter.
229—The Dexter Bank Robbery | By Harry Rockwood.
228—A Syndicate of Rascals | By Nicholas Carter.
227—From Clew to Climax | By Will N. Harben.
226—A Deal in Diamonds | By Nicholas Carter.
225—Tracked by Fate | By Fergus Hume.
224—Played to a Finish | By Nicholas Carter.
223—Found Dead | By Hero Strong.
222—A Prince of Rogues | By Nicholas Carter.
221—Other People’s Money | By Emile Gaboriau.
220—The Dumb Witness, and Other Stories | By Nicholas Carter.
219—A Hidden Clew | By Ernest De Lancey Pierson.
218—The Man from London | By Nicholas Carter.
217—Baron Trigault’s Vengeance | By Emile Gaboriau.
216—The Count’s Millions | By Emile Gaboriau.
215—The Seal of Silence | By Nicholas Carter.
214—The Missing Cashier | By Ernest De Lancey Pierson.
213—Millions at Stake, and Other Stories | By Nicholas Carter.
212—A Mystery Still | By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
211—In Letters of Fire | By Nicholas Carter.
210—An Excellent Knave | By J. F. Molloy.
209—A Triple Crime | By Nicholas Carter.
208—The Condemned Door | By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
207—The Blow of a Hammer, and Other Stories | By Nicholas Carter.
206—The Portland Place Mystery | By Ernest De Lancey Pierson.
205—A Bogus Clew | By Nicholas Carter.
204—Hunted Down | By Richard Ashton Wainwright.
203—The Price of a Secret | By Nicholas Carter.
202—The Lady of the Lilacs | By Ernest De Lancey Pierson.
201—The Steel Casket, and Other Stories | By Nicholas Carter.
200—Detective Against Detective | By Donald J. McKenzie.
199—The Man at the Window | By Nicholas Carter.
198—Stairs of Sand | By Ernest De Lancey Pierson.
197—The Coleraine Tragedy | By Eugene T. Sawyer.
196—The Queen of Knaves, and Other Stories, | By Nicholas Carter.
195—Sealed Lips | By Scott Campbell.
194—The Tiger’s Head Mystery | By Eugene T. Sawyer.
193—The Missing Cotton King | By Nicholas Carter.
192—A Dangerous Quest | By Ernest De Lancey Pierson.
191—The Murray Hill Mystery | By Nicholas Carter.
190—The Fate of Austin Craige | By Scott Campbell.
189—The Man of Mystery | By Nicholas Carter.
188—A Strike for Millions | By Eugene T. Sawyer.
187—The Wall Street Wonder | By Donald J. McKenzie.
186—A Desperate Chance | By Nicholas Carter.
185—A Supernatural Clew | By Scott Campbell.
184—The Secret of the Diamond | By Ernest De Lancey Pierson.
183—Hands Up | By J. H. Bethune.
182—The Bottle with the Black Label | By Nicholas Carter.
181—The Man Outside | By Scott Campbell.
180—The Watertown Mystery | By Harry Rockwood.
179—Caught at Last | By Dick Donovan.
178—The Handkerchief Clue | By Harry Rockwood.
177—A Scrap of Black Lace | By Nicholas Carter.
176—The Tragedy of Ascott Mills | By Scott Campbell.
175—The Secret of the Marionettes | By E. De Lancey Pierson.
174—A Princess of Crime | By Nicholas Carter.
173—The Honor of a Black Sheep | By Scott Campbell.
172—Linked to Crime | By Barclay North (W. C. Hudson).
171—The Silent Passenger | By Nicholas Carter.
170—The Doctor’s Secret | By Scott Campbell.
169—The Black Carnation | By Fergus Hume.
168—Brought to Bay | By Nicholas Carter.
167—The Links in the Chain | By Scott Campbell.
166—Dr. Villagos | By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
165—Held for Trial | By Nicholas Carter.
164—The Reporter Detective’s Triumph | By Scott Campbell.
163—Phil Scott, the Detective | By Judson R. Taylor.
162—Nick Carter’s Star Pupils | By Nicholas Carter.
161—A Plot for Millions | By Scott Campbell.
160—Harry Williams, New York Detective | By F. L. Broughton.
159—A Framework of Fate | By Nicholas Carter.
158—The Lion of the Law | By Scott Campbell.
157—By a Hair’s Breadth | By Edith Sessions Tupper.
156—A Victim of Circumstances | By Nicholas Carter.
155—Mrs. Donald Dyke, Detective | By Harry Rockwood.
154—Driven to the Wall | By Scott Campbell.
153—Nick Carter’s Clever Ruse | By Nicholas Carter.
152—Fifteen Detective Stories | By Police Captains of New York.
151—The Disappearance of Mr. Derwent | By Thomas Cobb.
150—Lady Velvet | By Nicholas Carter.
149—A Mystery of the Fast Mail | By Byron D. Adsit.
148—Gipsy Blair, the Western Detective | By Judson R. Taylor.
147—Nick Carter’s Retainer | By Nicholas Carter.
146—The Stevedore Mystery | By Barclay North.
145—The Railway Detective | By Harry Rockwood.
144—The Twelve Wise Men | By Nicholas Carter.
143—An Exchanged Identity | By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
142—A Seven Days’ Mystery | By Frederic R. Burton.
141—Nick Carter Down East | By the author of Nicholas Carter.
140—Detective Reynolds’ Hardest Case | By Gabriel Macias.
139—Fritz, the German Detective | By Judson R. Taylor.
138—Crossed Wires | By Nicholas Carter.
137—Donald Dyke, the Yankee Detective | By Harry Rockwood.
136—In Peril of His Life | By Emile Gaboriau.
135—The Crime of the French Café | By Nicholas Carter.
134—By Whose Hand? | By Edith Sessions Tupper.
133—The Piccadilly Puzzle | By Fergus Hume.
132—Nick Carter’s Girl Detective | By Nicholas Carter.
131—The Dugdale Millions | By Barclay North.
130—A Millionaire’s Folly | By L. E. Smyles.
129—The Man Who Stole Millions | By Nicholas Carter.
128—The Caruthers Affair | By Will N. Harben.
127—The Severed Hand | By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
126—A Game of Craft | By Nicholas Carter.
125—The Pomfret Mystery | By A. D. Vinton.
124—The Trail of the Barrow | By James Mooney.
123—The Elevated Railroad Mystery | By Nicholas Carter.
122—The Mystery of Orcival | By Emile Gaboriau.
121—The Man from Manchester | By Dick Donovan.
120—The Twelve Tin Boxes | By Nicholas Carter.
119—The Reporter Detective | By Donald J. McKenzie.
118—Old Quartz | By Eugene T. Sawyer.
117—A Herald Personal | By Nicholas Carter.
116—520 Per Cent.; or, The Great Franklin Syndicate, | By Barclay North.
115—The Detective Tales of Edgar Allan Poe. |
114—The Man Who Vanished | By Nicholas Carter.
113—The Man with a Thumb | By Barclay North.
112—The Garden Court Mystery | By Burford Delannoy.
111—The Stolen Race-Horse | By Nicholas Carter.
110—The Workingman Detective | By Donald J. McKenzie.
109—Blackmail | By Harrie Irving Hancock.
108—Nick Carter’s Clever Protégé | By Nicholas Carter.
107—The Passenger from Scotland Yard | By H. F. Wood.
106—Shadowed by a Detective | By Virginia Champlin.
105—A Bite of an Apple | By Nicholas Carter.
104—A Past Master of Crime | By Donald J. McKenzie.
103—Old Mortality | By Young Baxter.
102—Bruce Angelo, the City Detective | By Judson R. Taylor.
101—The Stolen Pay-Train | By Nicholas Carter.
100—The Diamond Button | By Barclay North.
99—Gideon Drexel’s Millions | By Nicholas Carter.
98—Tom and Jerry | By Judson R. Taylor.
97—The Puzzle of Five Pistols | By Nicholas Carter.
96—No. 13 Rue Marlot | By Rene du Pont Jest.
95—Sealed Orders; or, The Triple Mystery | By Nicholas Carter.
94—Vivier, of Vivier, Longman & Co., Bankers | By Barclay North.
93—Adventures of Harrison Keith, Detective | By Nicholas Carter.
92—Van, the Government Detective | By Judson R. Taylor.
91—The Great Money-Order Swindle | By Nicholas Carter.
90—On the Rack | By Barclay North.
89—The Detective’s Pretty Neighbor | By Nicholas Carter.
88—The North Walk Mystery | By Will N. Harben.
87—Nick Carter and the Green Goods Men. |
86—Brant Adams | By Judson R. Taylor.
85—A Dead Man’s Grip | By Nicholas Carter.
84—The Inspector’s Puzzle | By Charles Matthew.
83—The Crescent Brotherhood | By Nicholas Carter.
82—The Masked Detective | By Judson R. Taylor.
81—Wanted by Two Clients | By Nicholas Carter.
80—The Poker King | By Marline Manley.
79—The Sign of the Crossed Knives | By Nicholas Carter.
78—The Chosen Man | By Judson R. Taylor.
77—The Van Alstine Case | By Nicholas Carter.
76—Face to Face | By Donald J. McKenzie.
75—The Clever Celestial | By Nicholas Carter.
74—The Twin Detectives | By K. F. Hill.
73—Two Plus Two | By Nicholas Carter.
71—The Diamond Mine Case | By Nicholas Carter.
70—Little Lightning | By Police Captain James.
69—Detective Bob Bridger | By R. M. Taylor.
68—The Double Shuffle Club | By Nicholas Carter.
67—The Mystery of a Madstone | By K. F. Hill.
66—The Detective’s Clew | By O. L. Adams.
65—Found on the Beach | By Nicholas Carter.
64—The Red Camellia | By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
63—The Chevalier Casse-Cou | By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
62—A Fair Criminal | By Nicholas Carter.
61—The Maltese Cross | By Eugene T. Sawyer.
60—A Chase Around the World | By Mariposa Weir.
59—A Millionaire Partner | By Nicholas Carter.
58—Muertalma; or, The Poisoned Pin | By Marmaduke Dey.
57—The Vestibule Limited Mystery | By Marline Manley.
56—At Thompson’s Ranch | By Nicholas Carter.
55—His Great Revenge, Vol. II | By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
54—His Great Revenge, Vol. I | By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
53—An Accidental Password | By Nicholas Carter.
52—The Post Office Detective | By George W. Goode.
51—The Los Huecos Mystery | By Eugene T. Sawyer.
50—The Man from India | By Nicholas Carter.
49—At Odds with Scotland Yard | By Nicholas Carter.
48—The Great, Travers Case | By Dr. Mark Merrick.
47—The Mystery of a Hansom Cab | By Fergus Hume.
46—Check No. 777 | By Nicholas Carter.
45—Old Specie, The Treasury Detective | By Marline Manley.
44—The Blue Veil | By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
43—Among the Nihilists | By Nicholas Carter.
42—The Revenue Detective | By Police Captain James.
41—John Needham’s Double | By Joseph Hatton.
40—The Mountaineer Detective | By C. W. Cobb.
39—Among the Counterfeiters | By Nicholas Carter.
38—The Matapan Affair | By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
37—The Prairie Detective | By Leander P. Richardson.
36—The Crime of the Opera House, Vol. II. | By F. Du Boisgobey.
35—The Crime of the Opera House, Vol. I. | By F. Du Boisgobey.
34—The Society Detective | By Oscar Maitland.
33—The Convict Colonel | By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
32—A Mysterious Case | By K. F. Hill.
31—The Red Lottery Ticket | By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
30—The Bag of Diamonds | By George Manville Fenn.
29—The Clique of Gold | By Emile Gaboriau.
28—Under His Thumb | By Donald J. McKenzie.
27—The Steel Necklace | By Fortune Du Boisgobey.
26—File No. 113 | By Emile Gaboriau.
25—The Detective’s Triumph | By Emile Gaboriau.
24—The Detective’s Dilemma | By Emile Gaboriau.
23—Evidence by Telephone | By Nicholas Carter.
22—The Champdoce Mystery | By Emile Gaboriau.
21—A Deposit Vault Puzzle | By Nicholas Carter.
20—Caught in the Net | By Emile Gaboriau.
19—A Chance Discovery | By Nicholas Carter.
18—The Gamblers’ Syndicate | By Nicholas Carter.
17—The Piano Box Mystery | By Nicholas Carter.
16—A Woman’s Hand | By Nicholas Carter.
15—The Widow Lerouge | By Emile Gaboriau.
14—Caught in the Toils | By Nicholas Carter.
13—The Mysterious Mail Robbery | By Nicholas Carter.
12—Playing a Bold Game | By Nicholas Carter.
11—Fighting Against Millions | By Nicholas Carter.
10—The Old Detective’s Pupil | By Nicholas Carter.
9—A Stolen Identity | By Nicholas Carter.
8—An Australian Klondike | By Nicholas Carter.
7—The American Marquis | By Nicholas Carter.
6—A Wall Street Haul | By Nicholas Carter.
5—The Crime of a Countess | By Nicholas Carter.
4—Tracked Across the Atlantic | By Nicholas Carter.
3—A Titled Counterfeiter | By Nicholas Carter.
2—The Great Enigma | By Nicholas Carter.
1—A Klondike Claim | By Nicholas Carter.

The Radium of all Humor

Comical
Confessions
of Clever
Comedians

By F.P. PITZER
- EDITED BY -
DEWOLF
HOPPER

SEARCH the world over and you cannot find more genuine, original humor than that contained in “Comical Confessions of Clever Comedians.” This little volume has been compiled after the fashion of a continuous performance. There is an All-Star Cast, or we might say a regular “Whoop-De-Doo,” introducing such well known comedians as DeWolf Hopper, Francis Wilson, Lew Dockstadter, Frank Daniels, Dave Warfield, Joe Weber, and others. Just imagine what there is in store for the reading public when a glance at the title page reveals the fact that DeWolf Hopper, the hero of “Wang,” is the editor or manager of this All-Star Vaudeville Company.

Issued in a very attractive cloth binding. Price, 75c. postpaid.

Street & Smith, Publishers, 238 William St., New York City

A CIGARETTE CLEW;

OR,

“SALTED” FOR A MILLION

BY
NICHOLAS CARTER
AUTHOR OF
“In the Gloom of Night,” “The Ruby Pin,” “A Scientific Forger,”
“Trapped in His Own Net,” “A Mysterious Graft,” etc.

NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, Publishers
238 William Street

Copyright, 1905
By STREET & SMITH

A Cigarette Clew

A CIGARETTE CLEW.

CHAPTER I.

WANTED: TWO MEN.

“Well, Chick, it’s good to strike little old New York again.”

Nick Carter jumped down from the railroad car and shook himself like a huge dog as his feet touched the stone flagging of the Grand Central Station.

“You’re not more glad to see New York than New York is to see you,” piped a shrill voice, and Patsy, Nick’s younger assistant, darted forward to greet his chief and Chick, who were elbowing their way through the crowd on the arrival platform.

The great detective had been out West on a puzzling case in which he had to run to earth a combination of Montana swindlers. Nick and his chief assistant had done splendid work, but there were still two members of the swindling gang to be accounted for.

Patsy’s first question as they jumped into a cab was:

“What’s the latest from Montana?”

“We landed all of the crooks but two,” said Nick. “They took fright a month ago when they heard we were to take the case and it has been reported that they have come East. In that case, Patsy, you may have a chance to bag the men who slipped through my hands.”

“Nothing would please me better,” was Patsy’s retort, and Nick laughed at the boy’s eagerness.

“I bet Patsy will strike the fellows before you can say Jack Robinson,” put in Chick, with a grin.

“You win your bet,” said Patsy, coolly. “I think I can put you on the trail of at least one of the men you want. The other fellow will have to stand till I look around a little.”

“What!”

“What!”

The word leaped from the lips of both Nick and Chick.

It was Patsy’s turn to grin now.

“When you boys stop jollying,” he said, “we will get down to business.”

“See here, Patsy, you’ve got news,” cried Nick. “Out with it.”

“Well, the truth is I have just come from an interview with a man who is trying to get back his senses after a cold plunge in the Sound. The cold plunge was not of his own choosing. He was thrown in at midnight, and the man who flung him in was a Westerner. Now are you interested?”

“But there are more Westerners than one in the world,” objected Nick.

“Yes, but this one was called Yasmar.”

“Singular name for a Westerner; but that don’t help us any. The man we want is a fellow called Ramsay.”

“And Ramsay spelled backward is Yasmar,” added Patsy.

“By Jove, you’re right! I never thought of that.”

“No,” retorted Patsy; “it’s a good thing you have a man of brains on your staff.”

“Let that pass,” said Nick, smiling. “Any old way, this is bully information. The report was true, then, and Ramsay and his pal have really come East and are at their tricks again.”

“Don’t know about the pal, but I think we have come up with Ramsay all right. The man he attacked is waiting for you at the office.”

“Great Scott, Patsy; that’s the most important piece of information you have brought us.”

“And I kept it till the end for a good reason.”

“The reason?” demanded Nick.

“Oh, simply that the man himself is in no great hurry, and, besides, he’s a good deal better off in Nick Carter’s study than anywhere else I can think of. You will say the same when you hear his story.”

“Well, you need not go into the details since you have the man at home, but what are the outstanding facts in the matter?”

“They’re not hard to tell. This man, his name is John Lansing, was on board a Fall River boat bound from New York to Boston, when he was attacked by Ramsay—or Yasmar as he calls himself now—and was flung over the side. He escaped with his life and came to New York to give you the story.

“I told him you were expected back in town by this train, and he said he’d wait till I came back with you. He’s had a pretty close shave and he was just a bit hysterical, but I quieted him down and I guess you will find him quite rational when you reach home.”

* * * * * * *

Half an hour later Nick was closeted with the man who had narrowly escaped death in the waters of the Sound.

Mr. John Lansing he found to be a young man hardly more than out of his teens.

His face was pale and on his left temple there was a large patch of court-plaster.

“My younger assistant has told me something of your startling adventure,” said Nick, “and I am especially interested in the matter, for I suspect that your assailant is a man who escaped me in the West.”

“You mean Yasmar?”

“Yes, or rather Ramsay, to give him his right name. Since coming East he has seen fit to spell his name backward—the thinnest kind of an alias conceivable. But please let me have your story from the beginning.”

“First let me ask, Mr. Carter, have you seen a copy of the evening paper?”

“Yes, I glanced hastily at one, and noticed your case.”

“That is what I wanted to know. What do the papers say about me?”

“Not much; they simply print a dispatch from Boston, saying that Mr. John Lansing has disappeared.”

“Any other particulars?”

“Oh, yes, the usual gush about your being such a good man and all that. They mentioned, by the way, that you left New York on a Fall River boat Monday night with Mr. Yasmar, and that the last Mr. Yasmar saw of you was on Tuesday afternoon.”

“Yes, I supposed he was spreading such a report,” said Lansing, “but the truth is, Mr. Carter, the last this man Yasmar saw of me was off the Long Island coast at midnight Monday, when he threw me overboard; and that brings me to the matter about which I wanted your help. You are the only man living who can help me; the question is will you do it?”

“Tell me your whole story first and then I will answer you.”

“I will be as brief as I can,” said Lansing.

“My parents are dead, and my sister Louise and I live with our uncle, Horace Montgomery, on West Forty-fourth Street.

“Mr. Montgomery is our guardian, and is the trustee of certain funds which were left to us.

“Between us, Louise and I have some five hundred thousand dollars on interest with a trust company.

“This man Yasmar came from the West, a month or more ago, and has interested my uncle and some Boston men in a Montana mine which he calls the Royal Ophir.

“Mr. Montgomery, in spite of my objections, is determined to invest this five hundred thousand in Yasmar’s mine, but I am sure that the whole thing is a swindle from start to finish.”

“How long have you felt sure that Yasmar was a swindler?” interposed Nick.

“I have had a feeling that he was crooked ever since my uncle first introduced him to me.”

“Just a ‘feeling.’ No other evidence prior to what happened on the Sound steamer Monday night?”

“No. But the fact that Yasmar hit me on the head and threw me overboard is proof that he considered me a menace to his plans and wanted me out of the way.”

“Of course. And then his spreading the report that you disappeared from Boston is another convincing detail.”

“Why did he spread that report? Why didn’t he say that I committed suicide by jumping from the boat?”

“That would have led to awkward questioning. Not only that, but if you were dead your money would be tied up in the probate court, and your uncle could not invest it.”

“I see. That had not occurred to me before. What a consummate villain that man Yasmar is!”

“If he is the fellow I am looking for,” said Nick, bluntly, “I may tell you there isn’t a more cunning scoundrel alive. But how did he manage to get the better of you on the Sound steamer? Put in all the details of the occurrence. They may help in working your case.”

“Well, Mr. Carter, it happened in this way. I met Yasmar on board, and we sauntered around the deck, talking pleasantly about general affairs. All went well till about midnight. Maybe it was ten or fifteen minutes after. But just about that time we got down to business. Yasmar and I were sitting on a bench in the narrow passage between the side of the boat and the cabin, well aft where it was shady.

“There was a full moon, the sky was cloudless, and the surroundings were almost as plain as day. But nobody seemed to care anything for the beauty of the scene except Yasmar and myself.

“We were not, however, vastly interested ourselves in the moonlit coast line or the white-topped waves that surged past.

“We had other things to think of just then, and I will confess that I was giving him a piece of my mind in reference to that mining affair.

“As we talked, both of us became excited and we rose and faced one another. In a sudden flash of anger Yasmar, who is a taller man than myself, made a jump for my throat.

“Then he bent me backward over the steamer rail.

“For a moment he held me in that position, glaring at me like a tiger.

“‘Be a little more temperate in your speech,’ he hissed, ‘or something will happen.’

“‘You’d kill me!’ I gasped, as he withdrew his hands.

“‘Well, something will happen,’ he repeated, threateningly.

“‘Why don’t you kill me?’ I said, with a sneer, ‘then you could have everything your own way.’

“‘Will you be reasonable?’

“‘I am reasonable,’ I replied. ‘You come from the West, Yasmar, and those knockdown-and-drag-out Western methods of yours won’t go in the East.’

“He muttered something under his breath.

“‘I am armed,’ I continued, threateningly, ‘and if you lay a hand on me again it will be at your own peril.’

“‘Don’t give me any cause to lay a hand on you, and you’ll be safe enough.’

“‘When I tell you I think you are trying to swindle my guardian on this Royal Ophir mine deal, I am stating what I believe to be a fact.’

“‘Swindle is a hard term, young man.’

“‘It’s the only term to use—sometimes.’

“‘This is not one of the times. Everything in this transaction is open and above board.’

“‘That is, it seems so.’

“‘It is so.’

“‘I have a feeling in my bones that my guardian is being tricked,’ I said.

“‘Poppycock!’

“‘Sneer if you like, but it is my sister’s money and mine my guardian is putting into the deal; not yours or his.’

“‘Your guardian is safeguarding your interest in every possible way.’

“‘I don’t care if he is. You’re shrewd enough to pull the wool over his eyes, and I think you’re doing it.’

“‘There’s no possible chance to pull the wool over anybody’s eyes. It’s a straight, legitimate proposition.’

“‘I tell you I have a feeling that it is not.’

“‘You’re a man—don’t be so childish.’

“‘Childish! Is it childish to wish to keep for my sister and myself what money was left to us?’

“‘You’re a weak-kneed fool, Lansing!’

“‘Now you are using strong language,’ I answered, and I shouldn’t be surprised if my voice trembled with anger. ‘I give you fair warning of what I am going to do.’

“‘What are you going to do?’

“‘I’m going to hire the best detective in America to look into this mining proposition and see whether it’s as straight as you say it is.’

“‘You’re going to put a detective on my trail, are you?’ he hissed.

“‘That’s my intention.’

“‘I see your game! You’re going to fake up some sort of evidence to prove me dishonest and queer this mining deal!’

“‘If you are honest you have nothing to fear. If dishonest, you’ll be unmasked and a million will be saved to these New York and Boston investors.’

“‘Who are you going to hire?’

“‘Nicholas Carter, if I can get him.’

“‘Carter!’ When I spoke your name, Mr. Carter, it leaped fiercely from Yasmar’s lips, and was followed by a muffled oath. ‘You’re going to get Nick Carter to dog me about New York?’

“‘If he’ll take the case.’

“‘Then you really think I’m dishonest?’

“‘I think you’re a confidence man, Yasmar; a swindler, a ——’

“Like lightning, his hand, which had been thrust into his pocket and stealthily withdrawn, shot toward my temple.

“The hand was armed with a set of murderous knuckles, and the blow laid me half over the rail, silent and motionless.

“I was as nearly unconscious as I ever want to be, but I still had some feeling left, and I, as I hung there, half over the boat, I can remember Yasmar looking round to see if the coast was clear.

“Quickly he lifted me and pushed me over the rail.”

CHAPTER II.

TO THE CREDIT OF THE CATBOAT.

“The moment I struck the cool water it brought all my senses back with a rush.

“I kept myself afloat, and was picked up by two young men in a catboat. These young men were members of a fishing club that had a boathouse on the Sound, and were out for an all-night sail.

“They were close at hand when the steamer passed, and I was hurled into the water.”

“I see. You do not want your uncle to invest your money in the mine, and he is determined to do it.”

“That’s it. Yasmar is a glib talker, and uncle Horace is entirely carried away with him.”

“Could you not get a restraining order from the court and thus prevent your uncle from using the money?”

“Under my mother’s will, Mr. Carter, my guardian has a free hand. I will do Mr. Montgomery the credit of saying that he has gone into the matter in good faith, and he is usually level-headed. In this instance, however, he is playing directly into Yasmar’s hands.”

“It was Monday night when you were picked up by the young men in the catboat. This is Wednesday morning. Where have you been in the meantime?”

“At the boathouse on Long Island, where I gave a fictitious name.”

“You wish to make it appear to Yasmar that you are dead?”

“Yes. I feel that I can fight him better in that way.”

“That’s rather clever in one way, Mr. Lansing. In another way, however, it may be a very foolish move.”

“How so?”

“If you went to your uncle and told him how the villain had attempted your life, you would at once convince him that the Western man was a fraud, and thus prevent the investment in the Royal Ophir.”

“You do not know my uncle, Mr. Carter. He is investigating the mining proposition, and, if he is satisfied with the result of his investigations, the money will be invested.”

“Headstrong, is he?”

“Yes, sir; very much set in his way.”

“How did you happen to be on the same steamer with Yasmar?”

“I was going to Boston to interview some capitalists there, who are also intending to put money into the mine. By chance, he was on the same boat.”

“How is your uncle investigating the Royal Ophir mine?”

“The Boston men sent an expert in whom they have the utmost confidence to Montana to take a sample of ore from the Royal Ophir.

“That sample was not out of the expert’s hands, day or night, from the moment it was taken until, in a sealed bag, it was deposited in a New York bank.

“The Boston men and my uncle, accompanied by the expert, will call for the ore this afternoon, take it to an assayer, and have it assayed.

“On the result of that assay hangs the investment of a round million of dollars.”

“Who is to do the assaying?”

“Cruse & Cupell, near Sixth Avenue and Twenty-third Street.”

“Who is the expert?”

“Orlando G. Bates.”

“I know Bates, and he’s as straight as a string. The assayers are all right, too. Will Yasmar be present during the assaying?”

“No; no one but Mr. Bates, my uncle and the Boston men. Will you take the case for me, Mr. Carter?”

“It’s hardly a ‘case,’ Mr. Lansing. You want me to prove to your uncle that the Royal Ophir mine has been ‘salted,’ as the saying is.”

“That’s it. I’m sure the mine has been ‘salted,’ and I’m also sure that neither the expert nor my uncle nor the Boston men are clever enough to discover it. You are the only one who can do that, Mr. Carter.”

The detective smiled at the young man’s confidence.

Before he could answer Lansing’s question, another rap fell on the door, and the servant handed in a card bearing the following name:

“Adolphus Yasmar.”

CHAPTER III.

A FAMILIAR FACE.

“Bring him up,” said Nick, to the servant.

When the servant had gone, the detective opened the door of an adjoining apartment.

“You will have to step in here for a few minutes, Mr. Lansing,” said he. “Your man Yasmar has come to see me.”

“Yasmar!” exclaimed Lansing.

“Yes. Step in, quick. Be quiet, and do not come back until I open the door.”

“But what can he want?” murmured the astounded youth, passing into the other room.

“I shall find out very soon.”

Nick closed the door, and was seated at his desk, writing, when his second caller entered the study.

“Mr. Carter?”

Nick dropped his pen, whirled around in his chair, and got up.

He saw before him a man of forty, or thereabouts, tall, muscular, smooth shaven and wearing a long frock coat, dark trousers, patent leather shoes and a flowing necktie.

In his left hand he held a black “slouch” hat. His right hand was extended and an amiable smile wreathed his face.

Nick took the extended hand, and was surprised to find the palm hard, as though roughened with manual labor.

For a “promoter,” dressed as this man was, the fact might have been significant.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Yasmar?” asked Nick, when they were both seated.

“I have a case, and there is no one in the city, except yourself, whom I desire to handle it.”

“Excuse me a moment while I finish this letter, and then I will give you my attention.”

Yasmar nodded, picked up the paper Nick had recently laid down, and the detective touched a bell.

“Send Patsy to me,” he said to the servant.

He scribbled away for a few seconds, folded the sheet and put it in an envelope, sealed the envelope and wrote the following:

“Look at this man well. He may be Ramsay, but I’m not sure. Shadow him.”

Patsy stood beside the desk when Nick faced around, the letter in his hand.

“Here’s a letter, Patsy, which I wish you to deliver immediately. You know the party, I think?”

The assistant studied the writing on the envelope.

“No, Nick,” he answered, “I don’t know him; but I know the address.”

“You’ll attend to it?”

“Sure.”

Patsy left.

“Now, Mr. Yasmar,” said Nick, “I’m at leisure for a few minutes.”

“I only read this morning that you were expected back from your trip West, and I hate to trouble you, but the matter is very important. Have you seen to-day’s paper?”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps you recall my name in connection with the disappearance of young John Lansing.”

“Oh! Are you the Adolphus Yasmar mentioned in that account?”

“I am. And it is in relation to John Lansing that I have called on you this morning.”

“You want me to find the young man?”

“Yes. I want you to go to Boston by first train and begin a search for him. Lansing’s sister and uncle are very much worked up over the young man’s disappearance, and I told them I would call here and put you on the case—providing I could get you.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Nick, “but I could not take the case for two or three days. As you say, I have just returned from the West, and you can easily understand how work has accumulated during my absence.”

“You will be well paid——”

“That is a minor consideration. In two or three days, if you like, I will——”

“That will be too late. In cases of this kind, as you perhaps know, little time should be lost.”

“Exactly. For that reason it is strange that you allowed Tuesday to pass without coming to me.”

“I knew you had not returned home, sir; and, besides, I was in Boston Tuesday, Mr. Carter.”

“There are detectives in Boston—good ones.”

“But Nick Carter doesn’t live in Boston,” said Yasmar, with a flattering smile. “The police there are doing their best. Still, the young man’s relatives would feel better to know that you had taken the case.”

“That is out of the question, unless you wait for two or three days.”

“Would not a large retainer tempt you to lay aside your other work and give your immediate attention to this matter?”

“No, sir.”

Yasmar got up.

“Then I suppose there is nothing else for it but for me to wait.”

“Or get some one else,” added Nick.

“Who shall I go to?”

“The New York chief of police.”

“I’ll think about it. Good-morning, Mr. Carter.”

He left.

When the front door had closed, the detective admitted John Lansing from the other room.

“The infernal scoundrel!” cried Lansing. “He dared to come here to you to get you to look for me—a man whom he believes he murdered.”

“He’s a pretty smooth rascal,” said the detective.

“Will you help me out in the mine matter, Mr. Carter?”

“Yes.”

“Good! My sister’s money and mine is as good as saved. I thank you very much, and your bill will be met as soon as presented.”

“That will come later. For the present, carry out your present policy—keep in the background, and don’t go about the city very much. Do not even communicate with your sister. Leave that part of it to me, and I will see that she does not worry about you. Where will I be able to communicate with you?”

Lansing wrote his address on a card.

Then, after thanking Nick again, he left the house.

The detective lighted a cigar and threw himself into a chair.

“He certainly had his nerve with him, to call on me as he has done,” thought Nick.

“It’s plain that he wants to get me out of town, and at once.

“I wonder if he knows Nick Carter never forgets a face?

“I have seen his face before—but whether that is the face of the tough-looking Westerner called Ramsay, who is ‘wanted’ in Montana, I can’t say for certain.”

CHAPTER IV.

THE ROLL-TOP DESK.

On leaving Nick Carter’s house, Yasmar walked rapidly off down the street.

At the first corner he passed a typical East Side tough, leaning against a lamp-post, rolling a huge cigar between his teeth.

Stepping out into the street, Yasmar hailed an open electric car.

As he got aboard, well forward, the tough jumped on the rear and took one of the seats reserved for smokers.

At Canal Street the Western man changed to a cross-town car, getting off again at Vestry Street.

He had not looked behind him, or displayed any nervousness whatever.

But, nevertheless, it seemed as if he had an idea he might be followed.

Vestry and Canal meet at an acute angle, forming a “V” shaped point.

Yasmar walked down Vestry Street for a few doors, then hastily turned to the right, mounted a short flight of steps and vanished through a dingy doorway.

The tough was close after him.

Passing through a long, dark hall, he made an exit through a door opening on Canal Street.

The tough, apparently, did not come out of the building.

The man who did follow Yasmar out onto Canal Street looked more like a laborer than he did like a tough.

The Westerner, walking leisurely, made his way to the next block and halted in front of a four-story building.

There was a moving van backed to the curb in front, and at the very top of the building two men were engaged in rigging a block and tackle.

Yasmar came to a halt before a door leading into a hallway, and from there, for the first time, he took a survey of the street behind him.

The laborer, his hands in his pockets and a corncob pipe in his mouth, was watching the riggers at work on the roof.

There was nothing suspicious about the laborer, and Yasmar passed into the building and started upstairs.

When he reached the head of the first flight, the laborer was in the doorway.

Something had been shouted by one of the men on the roof.

“All right,” the laborer called back, “I’ll bring it up to ye.”

Thereupon Patsy—for, of course, the supposed laborer was none other than Nick Carter’s assistant—rushed upstairs with a coil of rope.

He passed Yasmar on the second flight.

At the top of the third flight, he waited and listened until he heard the Westerner start up from the foot.

That was Patsy’s signal to make for the narrow passage leading to the skylight and the roof.

“There ye are,” he said, as he tossed the coil of rope to the riggers.

Then, without loss of a moment, he returned to the fourth floor.

A door was just closing down the hall as Patsy stepped out of the passage.

The detective was too late to see the man who entered the room, but he was fairly certain it was Yasmar.

Proceeding noiselessly to the door, he halted and listened.

Voices, pitched in a low key, reached him.

It was impossible to distinguish the spoken words, although Patsy strained his ears in the attempt.

He was anxious to overhear something which would make it absolutely sure that he was on the right trail.

Stooping, he tried the old-fashioned trick of looking through the keyhole, but found that a hat had been hung from the knob inside, effectually covering the small aperture.

Raising himself erect, Patsy made a quick survey to left and right.

Instinctively, he came to the conclusion that the door to the right of the one before which he was standing was more promising than the one on the left.

He went to the door and tried it, but found it locked.

A skeleton key admitted him with very little trouble, and he found himself in an empty room.

A door led from this room into the one which Yasmar had entered, but it was closed and probably fastened.

Again Patsy tried to look through the keyhole, but this time he found the opening stuffed with paper.

“It’s dead sure they do things in that room they don’t want people to get onto,” thought Patsy, “and that proves, in a way, that my man is there. Still, I’d like to get a fair and square look at him.”

Sinking down on his knees, he laid his ear against the crack at the edge of the door.

The talkers were still guarded in their tones, and he could hear nothing.

He remained on his knees, however, and presently he heard a movement as of some one rising.

Steps crossed the floor.

“This is getting infernally tiresome,” said a voice. “Gillman is slow in keeping his appointment.”

“Something has happened to detain him,” said another voice.

“Let’s go out and get a drink. Probably he’ll be here by the time we get back.”

“I’m with you, old man.”

Some one else arose and crossed the floor.

Then the door was unlocked, opened, closed and locked again, and steps could be heard passing down the hall.

Rising quickly, Patsy went to a window overlooking the street, raised it, and looked down.

He was rewarded by seeing Yasmar come out, accompanied by a short, thickset man with an iron-gray mustache.

The second man looked like another Westerner.

“Bully!” exclaimed Patsy, withdrawing and closing the window. “When Gillman gets here, I must be in that other room.”

He went back to the door communicating with the other room.

A few moments’ work with a knife blade sufficed to pick out the paper, and a skeleton key did the rest.

After closing and locking the door from the other side, Patsy carefully replaced the paper in the keyhole and turned for a look at the room he was then in.

It was almost as bare as the apartment he had just left.

A huge roll-top desk was in evidence, and three common chairs—nothing more.

The roll-top of the desk was pushed half up.

Patsy pushed it all the way and looked into the pigeon-holes.

They were empty.

He opened the drawers.

They were empty, too.

“It looks as though this might be moving day,” thought the detective, thinking of the van he had seen out in front. “Gee, but that’s a regular granddaddy desk. They never got it in through the hall door, and I’ll bet on it.”

While he stood there, taking in the situation, his quick ear caught the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

The Westerners were coming back.

The detective looked around for a place to conceal himself.

Opposite the door by which he had entered there was another, leading into the room on the other side.

But even if that door was unlocked, and he could get into that room, he would be no better off than he was a little while before.

He flashed another inquiring look around.

There was absolutely no place in which he could hide himself, unless——

He looked at the desk, and then measured himself with his eyes.

The steps were coming along the hall, now, and it was too late for him to use the skeleton key and get out of the room, even if he had wanted to.

Without pausing another instant, he crawled into the desk and pulled at the roll-top until he got it down.

It was a tight squeeze, and when the roll-top descended the lock snapped.

But Patsy did not care for that.

The only thing that worried him was that one of the two men might notice that the roll-top was shut, and not half open.

That was not a very long chance, however, and, anyway, Patsy had to take it.

CHAPTER V.

BETWEEN EARTH AND SKY.

The door was unlocked, opened, and the men came in.

From the footfalls alone, Patsy’s keen ear could tell that there were three men instead of two.

“We were up here waiting for you, Gillman,” said a voice.

“If I had come any sooner, I’d have missed that highball,” answered a second voice.

“When you turn the key, Ramsay,” observed a third voice, “don’t neglect to hang that slouch of yours over the knob.”

The wearer of the slouch hat was the man Patsy was shadowing, so he had learned the fellow’s true name.

The key scraped in the lock.

“There you are, Starlick,” answered Ramsay. “The key fills up the hole enough, I should think. Besides, we won’t keep Gillman over two minutes.”

“Long enough to give me a retainer,” chuckled Gillman.

“How much of a retainer do you want?”

“Five hundred. After that, and before these capitalists turn over their good money, I want forty-five hundred more.”

“That’s big pay for fifteen minutes’ work.”

“It’s no pay at all for the risk I run.”

“Well, well, never mind. Here’s your five hundred.”

“Thanks. And the cigarettes?”

“Here; two boxes of them.”

“Heavens, man! How many do you expect me to smoke during that fifteen minutes?”

“As many as you can. The more the better.”

“Where do I get the forty-five hundred?”

“At Boucicault’s, Hamilton Street, Brooklyn.”

“Don’t try any of your Montana tricks with me, you two. I won’t stand for it, and I’ll queer your game if it lands me in the pen.”

“Don’t squeal till we throw you down,” put in Starlick.

“Bring a duplicate assay certificate, Gillman,” said Ramsay, “and you’ll get your bonus without any question.”

“Then I’ll pull out. You fellows may depend on me.”

“If you queer this deal, without our throwing you down, you’ll never live to queer another.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m out for the stuff, and this looks like easy money. What time shall I be at Boucicault’s?”

“Be there at ten.”

“Good!”

Gillman went away, and Ramsay and Starlick continued their conversation.

“I’m scared all the while I’m in New York, Starlick,” said Ramsay.

“On account of this deal?”

“Thunder, no. On account of Nick Carter. He only saw me for about a minute, some time ago, and a clean shave and these clothes have changed me. Besides, I introduced myself as Yasmar, not as Ramsay. I’d be willing to take my oath that he never recognized me when I called on him this morning, and yet——”

He paused.

“Yet what?” urged Starlick.

“I’m losing my nerve, I reckon. But you never can tell what Carter thinks, or what he’s going to do. If I could have got him out of town for the next forty-eight hours, I’d be feeling easier, this minute. Hello! What’s that?”

A hand tried the door. Failing to gain entrance, the same hand banged on the panel.

“It’s all right,” answered Starlick. “No need putting your hand to your hip, old man.”

Patsy heard the door open and a gruff voice from the hall:

“We’ve got the riggin’ fixed and are all ready ter lower the desk.”

“All right. There it is.”

“Any idea how long it’ll be kept in storage?”

“No. A year, perhaps.”

Patsy was doing some hard thinking.

He had no desire to spend a year in storage, and it was necessary for him, somehow, to separate himself from the desk.

To do it then was out of the question.

The workmen went to the windows and took out the sash.

Patsy could hear them, and he could also hear Ramsay and Starlick moving about the room.

Finally the workmen came to the desk, took hold of it, and shoved it across the room.

“Empty, boss?” queried one of the men.

“Yes,” answered Starlick.

“Mighty heavy for an empty desk.”

“It’s an old-fashioned roll-top, and that’s the reason.”

“I guess the riggin’ll hold it, all right, but I didn’t figger on havin’ quite so much heft.”

“Better be sure, my man. I wouldn’t want the desk smashed.”

“I’ll risk it. If it’s smashed, it comes out o’ my pay.”

There were other things that couldn’t come out of the man’s pay, if the rigging let go, and Patsy was as near in a flutter as his nerve ever allowed him to be.

A hawser was put around the desk both ways.

Then Patsy heard a hook made fast.

A moment later one of the men went down.

In three minutes, the big roll-top desk was out of the window, swinging in mid air.

The rope creaked and something gave so that the piece of furniture dropped a foot.

“Steady!” whooped the man whose pay was to be docked in case of accident.

“Yes, for Heaven’s sake,” muttered Patsy.

Down went the desk, the man inside breathing only when necessary until it safely rested on the walk.

To load the desk in the wagon did not take much time, and the van hadn’t gone a block before Patsy had exerted sufficient pressure to break the lock.

The rattle of the vehicle drowned the noise he had to make, and he pushed up the top, slipped to the floor of the van, and dropped out.

The two men on the seat of the van drove on, all unconscious of what had happened, and Patsy, the moment he struck the sidewalk, drew a sleeve across his dripping forehead.

“That was a corker!” he muttered. “I wonder if I’ve lost the trail?”

He had lost the trail, as he quickly found, for Ramsay and Starlick had vanished from the building in which they had been but a few minutes before.

“I’ll slide around to the house and tell Nick about it,” said Patsy to himself. “He may want to give me fresh instructions.”

Nick Carter was not at the house, however, nor was Chick.

They had gone out together, Patsy was told.

He waited a long time for one or the other to return, but they did not come.

“I’ll have to go to Boucicault’s,” thought Patsy; “and I can’t wait any longer for Nick.”

Before he went, he left the following memorandum on Nick’s desk:

“Yasmar’s real name is Ramsay. Latter name used by his pals. Guess he is one of the two men you want. Ramsay and his side partner, Starlick, are to meet a man named Gillman in Boucicault’s place, Hamilton Street, Brooklyn, at ten to-night. Look out for a couple of boxes of doped cigarettes.

Patsy.”

CHAPTER VI.

A SMOOTH GAME.

On Wednesday afternoon a prosperous-looking gentleman, of apparently about fifty years of age, entered the private offices of Cruse & Cupell, on Twenty-Third Street.

“Mr. Cruse?” he asked, halting at a desk.

“Mr. Cruse is out,” answered a man at the desk. “I’m Mr. Cupell.”

“My card.”

The caller handed over a bit of pasteboard bearing the name, “Mr. Jefferson Jones.”

“I’m from Albany,” went on Mr. Jones, “and I have run down to be present at the assay of the Royal Ophir ore.”

“Ah,” murmured Mr. Cupell. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Jones? There’s a paper at your elbow. I expect Mr. Bates and the other gentlemen at any moment.”

Jefferson Jones took the chair and the paper.

In a few minutes the expert entered with three other gentlemen, the expert carrying a small bag, bound with a cord and sealed in half a dozen different places.

Cupell welcomed the party, and then presented Jefferson Jones.

Jones did not pay much attention to the Boston men, nor to Bates, the expert, but he gave more than casual attention to Mr. Horace Montgomery.

“Why do you wish to see this assay, Mr. Jones?” asked Montgomery.

“Merely to satisfy myself as to the value of the Royal Ophir mine.”

“With a view to investing?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“I don’t think there will be any chance for you. The Royal Ophir, I am satisfied, is a good thing, and myself and these other two gentlemen want it all to ourselves.”

A slight smile wreathed about the lips of Jefferson Jones.

“I suppose you won’t object to letting me see the assay made?” he asked.

“Certainly not; only don’t deceive yourself with false hopes, that’s all.”

Bates, the expert, here interjected a few remarks.

“This is the Royal Ophir ore, gentlemen,” said he. “I took a fair sample from the main vein of the mine, sacked and sealed it on the spot, and the sample was not out of my hands until deposited in the bank, from which we just took it.

“I will take an oath that it has not been tampered with in any way. On the result of this assay I assure you that you can spend one million, or ten millions, and be perfectly confident that you are going into the deal with your eyes open.

“There, Mr. Cupell.” The expert handed the sack to the assayer. “It is understood that we are all to be present during the assaying.”

“That is my understanding,” said Cupell. “This way, gentlemen.”

He opened a door leading into one of the workrooms.

A dark-faced young man of twenty or thereabouts, wearing a white apron and smoking a cigarette, was busying himself about the room.

On an iron slab Cupell opened the ore sack and emptied the pieces of ore out on the slab for general inspection.

Jefferson Jones, Montgomery and the two Boston men began to look at the samples.

“I don’t think you ought to touch this rock, gentlemen,” said Cupell.

Examination of the ore was instantly stopped.

“I don’t think any of us would put ‘salt’ into this proposition,” said Montgomery.

But, even as he spoke, he cast a suspicious look at Jones, of Albany.

Jones looked innocent enough.

Humming to himself and holding his hands behind him, he was giving his attention to the strange instruments arranged around the room.

Suddenly he asked if there was any drinking water about the place.

Cupell told him he would find a water cooler in the office.

Jones sauntered into the office, took a drink, and then passed into the hall.

“Here, Chick,” he said to somebody who was waiting there, “take this to Clarkson, around the corner on Sixth Avenue, and have him rush the assay through.”

“Sure.”

“Then wait for me downstairs.”

“I’ll be there.”

Nick—for, of course, “Jones” was none other than the detective—gave his assistant two small pieces of Royal Ophir ore.

Chick went away, and Nick returned to the workroom, drying his lips on a handkerchief.

The ore was being put through a small crusher by the young man who wore the apron and was smoking the cigarette.

Cupell watched every move of the young man with eagle-eyed vigilance.

“That’s fine enough, Gillman,” said Cupell; “now use your muller.”

The “muller” was a heavy, iron roller that worked on the slab.

Gillman took the crushed ore, held it on the slab, and then went over it again and again with the roller.

This part of the operation took some time, and Gillman smoked three cigarettes.

Nick noticed that he never removed a cigarette from his mouth, after once lighting it, until it was smoked almost to the gold tip.

When the ashes accumulated, he gave his head a shake and they fell into the ore he was crushing.

“You’ll smoke yourself to death, Gillman,” said Cupell.

“I expect so,” was the lugubrious answer. “I’ve formed the habit, though, and I can’t break myself.”

“I haven’t any patience with a cigarette smoker,” said one of the Boston men, with a shudder.

“Give me a cigar, every time,” said the other Boston man.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Nick; “I enjoy a cigarette now and then myself. If Gillman would oblige me with one, I believe I’d keep him company.”

“Certainly,” answered Gillman, readily enough.

Taking the cigarette box from his pocket, he handed it to Nick.

Nick took one of the “paper pipes,” lighted it, and returned the box.

A moment later the detective sat down, a little way from the group around the muller-board.

When ready to knock the ashes from the cigarette, he brought out a silver match case, emptied it of matches, and carefully deposited the ashes inside.

When he had finished the cigarette, Gillman was “quartering down” the sample.

The powdered ore was then mixed with fluxes, put into little, earthenware dishes, and shoved into a furnace.

When the dishes were drawn from the furnace, there was a drop of bullion in each one.

This drop was put into a glass parting flask with nitric acid, the flask was heated, and the gold in the drop of bullion was separated from the other metals.

All that then remained was to weigh it.

This was done on a pair of scales so finely adjusted that they would weigh a pencil mark on a scrap of paper.

In two hours’ time Cupell had signed the assay certificates, and Montgomery and the Boston men were wildly jubilant.

The assay ran nine hundred and sixty dollars to the ton!

CHAPTER VII.

SHIFTING THE RESPONSIBILITY.

“There’s a five-foot vein of that rock!” declared Bates, “and it’s a true fissure—which means that it will ‘go down’ and get better with every foot.”

“I wonder if I could get a little of that good thing?” Nick inquired.

“No, sir, never!” cried Montgomery.

“We want it all for ourselves,” said one of the Boston men.

“Sure thing,” averred the other.

“We’ll close the deal to-morrow at ten o’clock, at my house,” said Montgomery. “You’ll be there, gentlemen?”

“Certainly we will,” answered the first Boston man.

“And bring our certified checks with us,” added the other.

The capitalists went away, Bates soon followed, and Nick sat down in Cupell’s private office.

“A great mine, that, Mr. Jones,” said Cupell.

“Looks like it,” returned Nick. “Could you do a little assaying for me, Mr. Cupell?”

“Why, yes, certainly. I’ll have Gillman——”

“No, not Gillman. I want you to attend to it personally and send Gillman out somewhere while it’s being done.”

“It isn’t possible you suspect there is anything wrong with that assay?”

“It’s immaterial what I suspect, Mr. Cupell.” The detective walked close to the assayer and bent over him. “My real name is not Jones but Carter——”

“Nick Carter?”

“Yes.”

“And you were here to watch and see that the assay was properly made?”

“I was here for a purpose. How long will it take you to make the assay?”

“Is it an assay of ore?”

“Of cigarette ashes.”

Cupell jumped from his chair.

“Great heavens!” he exclaimed. “Can it be possible that—— No, no! You are wrong, Mr. Carter. Gillman has worked for me for two years and he’s as straight as a string.”

“How long will it take you to make the assay?”

“An hour.”

“Then send Gillman out somewhere for an hour. Be sure and have him come back here this afternoon, however, and don’t give him cause to think that there is anything wrong. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“All right. I will return presently.”

Nick put the silver match case in the assayer’s hands and left the office.

Downstairs, near the edge of the sidewalk, a shabbily dressed man was selling some mechanical toys that ran by clockwork.

Nick kicked over one of the toys as it ran in front of him.

“Ain’t you got no eyes?” blustered the curbstone merchant. “That’ll stand ye in fifty cents.”

Nick picked up the broken toy and saw a folded paper inside of it.

He deftly abstracted the paper and tossed the tin automobile at Chick’s feet.

“Here’s your money,” he said, tendering a bill. “There’s no sense in running those things all over the walk.”

Chick dived into his pocket for change.

“There’s a man in a brown derby and gray clothes around the corner keeping track of this doorway,” said Chick, in a low tone.

“Tall?”

“No, short and thickset.”

“Keep your eye on him. Also take a good look at that young man who’s just coming out of the doorway now.”

Gillman came out and Chick took his measure.

Nick walked back into the building and was soon in the assay office.

On his way he looked at the assay certificate brought by Chick.

“No trace of metal,” read the certificate.

Nick gave a whistle as he dropped into a chair in Cruse & Cupell’s office.

“Salted for a million,” he muttered. “It’s a smooth game.”

In a little while Cupell rushed into the office excitedly.

“What’s the result?” asked Nick, calmly.

“Those cigarette ashes assay close to fifty thousand to the ton!” declared the assayer.

“I wish I had a few tons,” remarked Nick, with a dry laugh.

“To think that I have been bamboozled by that assistant of ours! I must call in those assay certificates and——”

“Do nothing of the kind, just yet,” cut in Nick.

“But are you aware of the position it places me in? Every assay certificate is vouched for by us the moment it is signed. And then, to have the hocus-pocus worked right in our own office—— But, by Jove, it was clever!”

“Certainly it was,” said Nick, “and Gillman was only a tool and not the leader in the swindling game. What I want to do is to get the whole gang. If you’ll lay back on your oars a little while, I shall succeed.”

“But to-morrow morning at ten o’clock a million dollars will be paid over to these swindlers for the Royal Ophir mine.”

“It won’t be paid over,” averred Nick.

“You assure me of that?”

“Yes. What I want you to do is to keep this to yourself. Don’t let Gillman suspect that you know what he has done. Keep him here until five o’clock and then let him go.”

“But my responsibility——”

“I’ll take your responsibility on my own shoulders.”

“Very well, Mr. Carter, I will do as you say.”

Nick went away.

“The young fellow had a talk with the man in the brown derby,” Chick said, as his chief walked slowly past.

“Stay here and watch,” Nick returned. “I’ll be back in an hour. You’ll recognize me. I’m going to shadow the young fellow, and if the man in the brown derby follows me you follow him.”

Nick went to police headquarters and made a few changes in his disguise.

When he came out he looked at least twenty years younger.

There was a cigar store opposite the building in which Cruse & Cupell had their assay office, and Nick stepped in there, bought a weed, and stood leaning on the counter, smoking and watching the doorway across the street.

It was five o’clock and time for Gillman to show himself.

Nick had not long to wait.

The clerk came briskly out and Nick went after him.

Just beyond the corner a man in a brown derby dropped in behind Nick.

Chick, keenly alive to the situation, picked up the single tin automobile that he had left, pushed it into his pocket, and trailed along in the rear of the man in the brown derby.

From the opposite side of the street a neatly dressed man in a sack suit and black Fedora hat took in the situation and gave vent to a muttered oath.

“I like the layout, Mr. Nick Carter,” he said to himself. “Keep on after Gillman and you’ll find yourself in a hornet’s nest. You’ll never live to put those Boston men next to my game, or to bring me to book for that Montana job. Now for Hamilton Street.”

CHAPTER VIII.

BOUCICAULT’S.

At certain times Nick Carter had intuitions that amounted almost to positive knowledge.

It was the “detective instinct,” amplified by years of intelligent practice.

In the present instance he believed that he would be shadowed, and he even figured out to himself the successive links in the chain that brought the conclusion.

Gillman had suspected him and had conveyed his suspicions to the man in the brown derby at the same time that he had reported the result of the assay.

It was this man in the brown derby whom Nick had cast for the part of a shadow, and hence Chick’s instructions to “shadow the shadow.”

The one uncertain element of the situation was Ramsay, or Yasmar, but Nick was depending on Patsy to take care of the Westerner.

Could Nick have been made familiar with the contents of a certain note, at that moment lying on his desk at home, there would have been a decided change in the plan of operations.

Gillman appeared to be very well satisfied with himself, for he carried a cane and swung it jauntily as he walked.

He paid no attention to the ground behind him, and that might mean one of two things—either he did not think he was followed, or did not care.

At Sixth Avenue he hailed a downtown car.

It was an open car, and Nick got aboard three seats behind him.

The man in the brown derby followed the car in a hansom, a difficult but not impossible task considering the slow speed at which the car had to travel in that part of the city and at that busy hour.

The hardest part of the work fell to Chick.

He could not very well get aboard the car with Gillman and Nick, and, as there was no cab in sight which he could hire, he slipped a five-dollar bill to an expressman and told him to keep the hansom in sight.

Thus Gillman, virtually shadowed by three, made his way to his destination, which proved to be a restaurant in the lower part of the town—a place famous for the low price of its “table d’hote dinner with wine.”

There he and Nick had dinner, the man in the brown derby remaining on the walk outside and Chick watching from across the street.

The meal over, the tactics were continued, Gillman leading the chase to Brooklyn, crossing by ferry and winding up at Boucicault’s on Hamilton Street.

It was between eight and nine in the evening, and Hamilton Street was just “waking up.”

A sleepy and quiet thoroughfare by day, it is anything but sleepy and quiet under the gas and electric lights.

“Speak-easies” and other haunts of vice abound, and not the least among the lawless resorts was Boucicault’s.

There were three stories to the building, and Boucicault’s occupied all three, in addition to a good-sized basement.

Of the basement more will be said hereafter.

The main floor was given up to a saloon and restaurant.

The floors above constituted the hotel part of the establishment, and here many a drunken victim had been plucked by the human harpies who made the place their rendezvous.

If darker crimes than robbery were meditated, the intended victim was conducted to the gloomy and vault-like regions under the saloon.

A long, low bar ran along the left-hand wall; off to the right were half a dozen tables; in the rear were four or five small rooms partitioned off.

When Gillman entered the dive it was half filled with a roaring complement of sailormen, every one in the lot considerably more than “half seas over.”

The air was thick with tobacco smoke, heavy with the fumes of cheap beer, and resounding with sea songs—every song pitched in a different key and sung in a different language.

Nick Carter had established his case and was ready to arrest his man.

What he wanted, however, was to make a clean haul of the entire gang, and to this end he had shadowed Gillman.

He was now certain that Boucicault’s was the rendezvous of the swindlers, and he followed Gillman through the fog of smoke, and saw him vanish into one of the rear rooms.

The time had come when the detective thought it would be as well to bring matters to an issue with the assayer’s clerk, to find out what he could from him, and then turn him over to the police for safe-keeping.

Advancing to the door of the room entered by Gillman, Nick tried the knob.

The door was locked, and he applied his knuckles to the panel.

“Who’s there?” called a voice.

“Yasmar.”

“What do you want to give that name for? Haven’t you got another?” asked the voice, anxiously.

Nick saw that Gillman was very suspicious.

He felt, too, that he must act quickly. He had already guessed that Yasmar’s true name was Ramsay, but had never verified it. Now he was face to face with the question.

He took a long chance, and called out:

“Ramsay.”

To his delight he heard the bolts being drawn back, and the door was thrown open.

“You know, Ram——” Gillman began, then he stopped dead, for the man who had entered was not Ramsay, but Nick Carter.

Without taking his eyes off Gillman, Nick closed the door and locked it.

The room was about ten feet square, had paneled side walls and contained a table and four chairs.

It was lighted by an incandescent bulb, pendant from the ceiling.

Gillman showed a good deal of surprise when he discovered that the newcomer was not Ramsay.

“Well, well!” he exclaimed, his right hand groping under his coat. “Who are you and what’s your game?”

“My game is to call yours, Gillman,” answered Nick, sternly, his right hand in his coat pocket. “Bring that hand out in front of you! I’m covering you with a gun.”

Gillman brought the hand slowly to the required position.

“You’ve been crowding me pretty close for the last hour or two,” said he. “What do you want, anyhow?”

“I want you.”

With his left hand Nick brought out a pair of handcuffs.

“What do you want me for?” queried Gillman, sweeping his eyes shiftily around the room.

“For smoking that brand of gold-filled cigarettes this afternoon.”

That was the point where Gillman began to lose his nerve.

“I—I don’t understand,” he stammered.

“Yes, you do,” answered Nick. “Put up your wrists.”

“Don’t you do it, Gillman!”

This counter-command came from the side of the room.

Out of the corners of his eyes Nick could see that a panel in the wall had slid noiselessly back.

A square opening was revealed, framing a man’s head and shoulders.

The man wore a brown derby hat and held a revolver, whose point was leveled at the detective’s breast.

A triumphant smile began to show itself on Gillman’s face; but the smile vanished as a second head appeared in the opening and another voice echoed sharply through the room.

“Put on the darbies, Nick! If this fellow tries to pull the trigger it will be all over with him.”

It was Chick.

He was behind the other man, and was pressing the muzzle of a revolver against the back of his head.

A baffled oath broke from the man in the derby hat.

Nick, realizing that there was no time to be lost, was about to adjust the handcuffs.

Before he could do it, however, a rap fell on the door.

Silence followed.

The rap was repeated more emphatically.

“Ask who’s there, Gillman,” whispered Nick, bringing the weapon out of his pocket and making a significant movement with it.

“Who’s there?” inquired Gillman.

“Ramsay.”

Quick as lightning. Nick put away the handcuffs and developed a second revolver.

Covering Gillman with the gun in his right hand, Nick turned partly around.

“Tell him to come in,” he whispered again.

As Gillman carried out the order, Nick pushed back the bolt with the muzzle of the weapon held in his right hand.

Then two things happened, and happened simultaneously.

The incandescent light was turned off, leaving the room in total darkness, and a rush of heavy feet followed the bursting in of the door.

Nick discharged his revolvers, but the rush of his enemies was not stayed.

He was assailed from all sides, and when he found the quarters too close for revolver work, he gripped the weapons by the barrel and clubbed them to right and left.

But the odds were overwhelming.

In the midst of his desperate struggle, a savage blow on the head sent him down.

The shouts and curses of his assailants died away in his ears, he felt them piling on top of him, and then he remembered nothing more.

CHAPTER IX.

THE DEATH CHAMBER.

Nick opened his eyes in darkness.

Not a ray of light could be seen at any point in the surrounding gloom, and a silence as of the grave reigned all around.

Under him was a hard stone floor, and from the dank, moldy smell of the place he thought he must be in a cellar—presumably the basement under Boucicault’s.

His head was throbbing painfully, and he was lying on his bound arms and wrists.

His ankles were also bound.

“Well, here’s a go!” he exclaimed, aloud.

The words echoed hollowly through the place, and had hardly left Nick’s lips before another voice came from a little distance.

“Hello! Is that you, Nick?”

“Chick! What are you doing here?”

“Not a thing. Can’t.”

“Trussed up?”

“Wrist and ankle.”

“The same gang that laid me out took care of you.”

“We had an enemy in our rear, and he set the longshoremen onto us.”

“The enemy in the rear was Ramsay.”

“Sure,” said Chick. “And that’s one good thing about this little adventure—we have learned that Yasmar is really Ramsay. He has shaved off his beard since we knew him in the West.”

“Where was Patsy that he couldn’t take care of Ramsay?” asked Nick.

“Something may have happened to the boy. These Westerners weren’t born yesterday.”

“They’re clever in their way; but they overshot the mark when they put you and me in the same cell.”

“You bet! If I can’t get you loose with my teeth, I’ll write myself down as a has-been. Roll over this way.”

Nick rolled toward the point from which Chick’s voice came.

As his body turned, he felt something in his pocket.

It was his pocket lamp, undoubtedly, and its presence proved that Ramsay and his pals hadn’t had time for a very exhaustive search through their victims’ clothes.

“This must be the cellar under Boucicault’s,” remarked Chick, as he twisted his body around until it lay parallel with Nick’s, and directly behind.

“When Ramsay and his pals brought us down here,” returned Nick, “they evidently planned that we weren’t to leave until we were carried feet first.”

“Ramsay wants you out of the way, Nick, so he can work his million-dollar graft without being bothered.”

Chick’s hands were bound behind him, just as Nick’s were, and he had to locate the cords by brushing his face against his chief’s arms.

Presently he got to work with his teeth.

“This will be a good, long job,” he said, pausing. “Some sailor put on this rope, and the easiest way to get it off is to chew it in two.”

“All right,” answered Nick.

After half an hour of hard labor, Nick pulled his hands apart and brought them around in front of him.

“Now for a little light,” said he.

Sitting upon the stone floor, he brought out his little pocket lamp—which was one of the things he always carried with him—and pressed the spring that released the electric current.

A shaft of bright light pierced the gloom.

Nick flashed the gleam slowly around.

He and his assistant saw that they were in a vaulted chamber, perhaps a dozen feet square.

The walls and roof were of stone.

There were no openings anywhere—that is, none that could be seen.

“How the dickens did they get us in here?” asked Chick.

“Possibly they lowered us down from the top. There may be a trap in the roof of the vault. Hello! What’s this? A knife, by George!”

In sweeping the ray of light across the floor, it had struck upon a gleaming object that lay less than a half-dozen feet away.

Nick reached for it.

It was a pearl-handled knife, such as gentlemen carry.

On a piece of silver set into the pearl there were two initials.

“‘W. H., said Nick, reading the letters. “Thunder!”

“What now?” inquired Chick.

Nick turned the knife over so that the position of the two letters were reversed.

“Upside down,” said he, “W. H. becomes H. M.”

“What of it?”

“Nothing now,” Nick answered, quietly, opening the knife’s largest blade. “One of the men who brought us here must have dropped the knife. Turn over, Chick, and I’ll cut off your ropes.”

Chick whirled over, and was soon freed of the bonds about his wrists and ankles.

Nick then cut the cords from his own feet, and the two detectives arose and stretched their cramped limbs.

“Wonder if I shot anybody up there during the set-to?” Nick muttered, closing the knife blade and slipping the knife into his pocket.

“Give it up,” answered Chick. “I was down and out about as soon as you were. The instant the light was turned off, somebody let me have it full from behind. Great Scott! My head’s buzzing yet.”

“Mine, too.”

“I wonder if I’ve been touched?” Chick began, turning his pockets inside out. “Oh, no, I haven’t been touched,” he remarked, dryly; “I’ve been grabbed. I haven’t got so much as a toothpick left. Those longshoremen probably got the rake-off for their trouble.”

“I have nothing left but the pocket lamp,” said Nick. “In some way they overlooked that. The thing for us to do is to get out. I have a pressing engagement at Montgomery’s house, in Forty-fourth Street, to-morrow morning at ten. What time do you think it is now?”

“No idea.”

“It can’t be more than nine or ten.”

Picking up a small piece of stone that lay on the floor, Nick started along one of the walls, tapping on every rock.

Chick took his cue, and began doing likewise.

Suddenly Nick paused.

“Smell anything, Chick?”

“I was just going to ask you the same question.”

“What do you think it is?”

“Gas.”

“That’s what I think.”

Nick flashed the light on his assistant’s face and saw that it had become exceedingly grave.

Chick realized what the game was, and it was enough to make him sober.

“They intend to kill us with that gas,” said he.

“And they’ll do it,” answered Nick, grimly, “if we can’t find the jet and plug it up.”

The incandescent light in the pocket lamp, of course, would not ignite the escaping gas, and Nick flashed the penciled beam to every point of the side walls, the floor and the roof.

Not a sign of a gas pipe could be seen.

But the gas was coming from somewhere, and coming in a quantity that would soon fill the chamber.

Breathing was already exceedingly difficult.

“Go on tapping the walls,” gasped Nick. “If we don’t find a way to escape, or get next to that gas plug, we’ll be laid out cold.”

Goaded by the foul atmosphere, which was rapidly becoming more and more poisonous, the two detectives hastily tapped the walls to their full extent.

They found nothing.

“It must come from the roof,” said Nick.

His voice was hoarse and rasping, and his lungs felt as though compressed under a ton’s weight.

“How are we going to do any searching up there?” queried Chick, rising on his tiptoes and stretching his arms. “I can’t come within three feet of the ceiling.”

“Take me on your shoulders,” said Nick.

This plan was carried out without loss of time.

Sitting astride Chick’s broad shoulders, Nick was able to reach the roof.

Beginning at one of the end walls, they proceeded to cover the flat stones of the ceiling with the utmost care.

“I can’t stand this much longer,” said Chick, staggering, and only saving himself and Nick a fall by a quick effort. “This gas seems to sap all my strength.”

“Hang to it, old man,” returned Nick. “By Jupiter! I’ve struck it! Let me down, Chick.”

“If you’ve found the pipe, Nick, plug it up.”

“I haven’t found the pipe, and we can’t stop the escaping gas.”

“Can’t?” echoed Chick.

“No.” Nick jumped from his assistant’s shoulders. “It comes between the joints of those roof stones. If we had tow, and could calk up every crack in the roof, we might save ourselves. But that’s out of the question.”

“What a devilish contrivance!” exclaimed Chick.

“It’s devilish enough to do for us if we can’t find our way out of this hole.”

“You might look for a trap in the roof.”

“As soon as you’re able to bear my weight again, I’ll try.”

“Try now, old man. Every second is worth its weight in gold.”

Nick tried to mount Chick’s shoulders, but Chick was too far gone and could not hold him up.

“You get on my back,” said Nick.

But the deadly fumes had already weakened the detectives so that it was impossible for them to continue their search for an exit.

“Slip off your coat, wrap it around your head, and get down on your knees, your face to the floor.”

Nick made the suggestions in a quick voice, at the same time carrying them into effect himself.

In this manner a temporary relief was obtained.

The foulest air lay near the roof.

It would be only a question of time, however, until every particle of air in the chamber would be too deadly to sustain life.

The light was still burning, and Nick, with an awkward movement, turned the ray upon his companion.

Chick had straightened out along the floor, and was lying still and motionless.

“I guess it’s all day with us,” thought Nick. “To think that we are to be done to death like this, and die like rats in a trap!”

He felt his senses going and fell from his knees.

As he did so, and just at the last moment of consciousness, he thought he saw one of the blocks in the floor begin to rise.

Was it an illusion of his disordered senses?

It could not be!

For, as the stone arose, a draught of fresh air came through the opening it left in the floor.

Nick inhaled a great draught of it, and started to his knees once more.

The ray from the pocket lamp was focussed upon the stone.

Nick turned the ray slightly, and saw the face of a man standing with head and shoulders through the trap.

“Patsy!” he called, in a hoarse voice.

“Nick, by gum!”

CHAPTER X.

BREAKING THE NEWS.

Patsy had arrived right in the nick of time.

He had not tried to get to the saloon before ten o’clock, and he showed up there in the guise of a Swede sailor, “three sheets in the wind.”

Ramsay was not there, and neither was Gillman, nor Starlick—the man in the brown derby hat.

Patsy, of course, knew only Ramsay by sight, but he felt sure that he could recognize the others by their voices.

Failing to find all or either of the three, he caught a low-pitched conversation coming from two longshoremen in one corner.

One remark, which he caught in passing, electrified him.

“It was that prize landlubber, Nick Carter, and his mate, that’s who it was.”

Feigning drunkenness, Patsy flopped into a chair and sprawled out on a table, his head in his arms.

“Was the pickin’s good?” asked one of the men.

“Tollable.”

“And what was done with ’em?”

“They’re down below.”

“Will they ever show above the hatches ag’in?”

“Not this v’yage?”

Marking the first speaker well, Patsy got up and staggered out.

His manner changed when he got clear of the dive, and he rushed away in the direction of the corner.

He was not long in finding an officer, and, after showing his badge and telling who he was, he informed the policeman that Nick Carter was in a bad way at Boucicault’s.

The officer gave a low whistle, a couple of patrolmen were picked up, and the four of them returned to the dive.

To arrest the man whom Patsy had heard telling about Nick to his companion was the work of only a few moments.

The fellow resisted and denied strenuously having raised a hand against the detective.

A search of his clothes, however, developed Nick’s watch and one of his revolvers.

Patsy recognized the articles, and the longshoreman was scared into leading the officers to the place where the two detectives had been confined.

They came up under the chamber and effected an entrance by means of a rusty old lever which worked the movable stone slab.

Nick and Chick were dragged out into the fresher air.

While Patsy was busying himself with them, the officers went upstairs and began a hunt for Boucicault and for any other men connected with the outrage.

Boucicault had vanished—a habit he had when any particularly murderous bit of work had been “pulled off” in his den.

When he appeared in court he usually proved an “alibi,” and—some said—a political pull did the rest for him.

Boucicault could not be found, but three ruffians were discovered with incriminating evidence concealed in their clothes.

Two of them had a pair of nickel-plated handcuffs, one the mate to Nick’s revolver found on the first man, and one had Chick’s revolvers and his watch.

The articles were all identified, the prisoners were taken to headquarters in a patrol wagon, and Nick, Chick and Patsy started for home.

There was nothing more to be done that night, Nick said, and they might as well go home and catch forty winks of sleep before morning.

In truth, Nick and Chick were both in need of a quiet time, for they were still weak from the rough treatment they had received, and dizzy from the effects of the gas.

A few hours’ rest put them in shape, and next morning at nine, Nick started Chick and Patsy off for Forty-fourth Street, suitably disguised.

Chick was to post himself at the front of the Montgomery House, and Patsy at the rear.

When they had been gone a half-hour, Nick left the house in his make-up of “Jones of Albany.”

He hired a cab, and was driven to the Montgomery House.

A man in a white suit was working in the street in front of the house, and this man was Chick.

Nick told the cabby not to wait, paid him and ascended the steps and pushed the electric bell.

A housemaid came to the door.

“I would like to see Mr. Montgomery,” said Nick.

“He’s not at home, sir.”

“Then I would like to speak with Miss Louise Lansing.”

“She is not well this morning.”

“I think she will see me. I wish to talk with her about her brother.”

A voice from the second floor came down the stairway behind the maid.

“Have the gentleman come in, Mary. Show him up to uncle’s study—I will see him there.”

Nick was admitted and ushered up the broad stairs into a large room, lined with books and comfortably furnished.

An open desk, strewed with papers, was at one end of the room.

A young lady of eighteen or nineteen, very pretty but very much depressed, as Nick could see, met him as he came in.

Her eyes were red, and it was evident that she had been weeping.

“Miss Lansing?” the detective asked.

“That is my name, sir.”

“My name is Jones; I’m from Albany, and——”

“I heard you tell the servant that you wished to speak with me about my brother,” broke in the girl, eagerly. “Do you know anything about him? He has been gone since Monday night, and the suspense of not knowing whether he is living or dead is more than I can bear. He disappeared from Boston, as perhaps you know.”

“I will tell you about your brother in a few moments, Miss Lansing. First, however, I would like to ask about your uncle, Mr. Montgomery.”

“Do you know whether John is alive? Oh, tell me that before anything else!”

“Is your uncle in the house?” asked Nick.

“Did not the servant tell you he was gone?”

“When a servant tells a caller that her master is out, it does not always follow that he is.”

“My uncle is not in the house, Mr. Jones.”

Nick passed to the study door and closed it.

Then he came back and took a chair by the desk.

“Your brother, Miss Lansing, is alive and well.”

Louise clasped her hands, and a sigh of intense relief escaped her lips.

“Oh, I am so happy!” she murmured. “You cannot tell, Mr. Jones, what a relief it is to me to know that. I will tell uncle just as soon as he comes.”

“You must not tell your uncle, Miss Lansing,” said Nick, firmly.

“Not tell uncle Horace?” she cried. “Why, what can you mean?”

“Just what I say. In a little while your uncle will know everything, but just now he must know nothing. It is your brother’s wish as well as mine.”

“But I cannot see why you make such a request,” said the girl, perplexedly.

“Jones is not my real name, Miss Lansing,” said Nick.

He had been studying the girl and felt he could trust her.

“No?” she asked.

“I am Nicholas Carter.”

“You don’t tell me! John said he was going to secure your services to look into this mine matter.”

“That is what he did, and that is why I am here now. It is also the reason why I ask you to keep from your uncle the knowledge that your brother is alive and well.”

“Of course, Mr. Carter, if you desire it, I will say nothing.”

“I do desire it. Call me Jones, Miss Lansing, just as though you did not know my real name. If you could continue to act as though depressed and anxious about your brother, whenever you meet your uncle, it would be well.”

Her eyes opened very wide, but she did not ask Nick why he desired all this.

It was evident that she thought it was all in the line of his duty and that questioning would be out of place.

“I will do as you say, Mr. Car—Mr. Jones.”

CHAPTER XI.

THE CIGARETTE MACHINE.

Nick was about to speak on, but his eye caught a flash of something among the papers on the desk.

He picked up the object and found that it was a small, nickel-plated instrument used in manufacturing cigarettes.

“To whom does this belong?” he inquired.

“To uncle Horace. Do you know what it is, Mr. Jones?”

Nick ignored the question.

“How long has your uncle had it?”

“I do not know. I only remember seeing it here during the last two or three days.”

“You would have seen it if it had been here before?”

“I think so.”

“Does your uncle smoke cigarettes?”

“What a curious question, Mr. Jones,” smiled the girl. “No, he does not.”

“Does your brother John?”

“No.”

Nick laid the nickel-plated instrument back on the desk.

“Was your uncle home last night, Miss Lansing?”

“Yes.”

“All night?”

“He was at his club until midnight.”

“Ah! And at what time did he leave this morning?”

“About eight o’clock.”

Nick looked at his watch.

It was five minutes of ten.

“Did he say when he would return?”

“He said he would not return until late this afternoon. Two gentlemen were to call here this morning, he said, and I was to give them this letter.”

She picked up a sealed and addressed envelope that lay on a book on the library table.

Nick apparently gave little attention to the letter.

“Has your uncle a profession?” he asked, casually, settling back in the comfortable chair.

“Not now,” she answered.

“What did he do formerly?”

“He speculated.”

“On the stock market?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long since he quit speculating?”

“Are you asking me all these questions because——”

“Just because I am curious,” Nick smiled. “Detectives are always curious, you know.”

“But has this anything to do with the Royal Ophir mine?”

“Indirectly.”

“Well, it was only a month ago that uncle stopped operating on the stock market.”

“Was he generally successful?”

“I do not know, Mr. Jones. I think he was.”

“Your uncle is wealthy?”

“I do not think he is so very wealthy.”

“Then he could not have been a very successful operator, do you think?”

“I never stopped to think of the matter in that way. Uncle has enough to keep him as long as he lives, I guess.”

The maid rapped at the door, just then, and summoned Miss Lansing away.

“You will excuse me, Mr. Jones?” she asked, before leaving.

“Certainly,” said Nick. “Gladly,” he added to himself.

The instant he was left alone, Nick picked up the letter that lay on the library table.

“J. Edward Bingham, Esq.,” ran the address.

Pulling out a leaf of the desk, Nick picked up a pearl paper cutter and ran the edge around under the flap.

Then he took out the folded sheet and read as follows:

“Dear Bingham: Called away and cannot meet you and Cooper at ten this morning. Yasmar found it impossible to come, but will meet you at another place to-night, and deal will then be consummated. Bring your certified checks to my house at eight this evening, and I will take you to the place where Yasmar is to be waiting.

“Montgomery.”

Picking up a blank sheet of paper, Nick took a pen and wrote another letter.

It was slightly different from Montgomery’s.

He made no attempt to imitate Montgomery’s handwriting, nor did he sign Montgomery’s name.

Experience assured him that receiving the communication from Miss Lansing, and in Montgomery’s house, would make the letter plausible enough for the purpose.

“Dear Bingham: Called away and cannot meet you and Cooper at ten this morning. Deal is off for to-day. Return by first train to Boston and wait there until Yasmar and I come.”

Nick put this in the envelope, sealed it with mucilage found on the desk, and laid the letter on the book on the library table, just as it was before.

In looking for the mucilage he had to disturb the papers a little, and he found something else which he considered of the utmost importance.

This something else was a cigarette box containing five cigarettes which fitted the cigarette machine and also bore a perfect resemblance to the cigarette Nick had smoked, the day before, in the assay office.

Nick sank back in the chair, his face extremely thoughtful.

“Well, well,” he muttered.

Just then Miss Lansing came hurriedly in.

“The two gentlemen whom uncle expected are downstairs at the door,” she said, walking to the table and picking up the letter. “I will return presently, Mr. Jones.”

“I am in no hurry, Miss Lansing.”

When again left alone, Nick picked a cigarette from the box and put it in his pocket.

He was ready to leave when Miss Lansing returned.

“Must you go?” asked the girl.

“Yes, but I would like to leave some one here, if you have no objections.”

“Who, Mr. Jones?”

“One of my assistants. If possible, I would be glad if his presence here could remain a secret between us—even if your uncle should come.”

“It could be arranged, Mr. Jones.”

“Then I will summon my assistant. Will you conduct me to a rear window on this floor?”

The girl was puzzled, but led Nick to a window in the rear, overlooking the back yard between Forty-fourth and Forty-fifth Streets.

In one of the yards, in plain view of the rear of the Montgomery house, a roughly dressed young man was working at a clothes pole.

Nick waved his hand.

The man nodded and started to slide down.

“Now,” said Nick, “if I can go down and admit him——”

“I will do that myself, Mr. Jones.”

In a few moments Patsy was with his chief and had received his instructions.

Louise Lansing accompanied Nick to the door.

“If your uncle should return, Miss Lansing,” said Nick, in a low tone, “please tell him nothing about my having been here.”

“Very good. When will my brother come?”

“To-night; but that must also be kept a secret, especially from your uncle and the servants. Your brother will explain to you.”

When Nick departed he left behind him a very much bewildered young lady, yet a very happy one, nevertheless.

CHAPTER XII.

Montgomery at Bay.

“Meet me at the corner, Chick,” said Nick, as he passed the man who was working on the street.

Nick waited, just around the corner on Sixth Avenue, and Chick came, stripped of his white overalls, blouse and hat and wearing his own garments.

He had traded with the regular street cleaner, for the time being, and the street cleaner was five dollars better off by the deal.

“Did you observe closely the two men who called at the house while I was there?” Nick asked.

“Yes. They drove up in a two-wheeler, and when they came out one of them was reading a letter.”

“Did the letter excite them?”

“They seemed a trifle worked up.”

“They’ll be worked up a good deal more before they finally quiet down,” laughed Nick. “You have got to pass for one of those men to-night, Chick, and Patsy for the other.”

“If it’s pretty dark, I guess we can.”

“Patsy will be busy all day, and you’ll have to secure the disguise for him as well as for yourself.”

“All right.”

“Get both disguises and bring them to the house. First, however, you are to take this cigarette and go to Cruse & Cupell’s. Find Mr. Cupell and confer with him privately. Tell him who you are and that you want him to smoke the cigarette and assay it, just as he did the other.”

“I see.”

“Have him make a rush job of it.”

“Sure.”

“Then find out if Gillman has come back to work this morning.

“Anything else?”

“That’s all.”

Chick boarded a Sixth Avenue car and started for Twenty-third Street.

Nick went to the address given him by John Lansing.

It was an obscure boarding house over on the other side of Broadway.

At the door Nick asked for “Herman Trevor,” which was the name Lansing had penciled on the card.

Mr. Trevor was sick in bed, the servant said.

“He’ll see me,” said Nick.

“Who shall I tell him wants to see him?”

“Don’t tell him. Just say it’s in regard to the Royal Ophir.”

Nick was admitted to the “sick” room and found that Lansing was feigning illness in order to keep in his room without causing remark.

He gave the young man a brief outline of what he had accomplished and of what he hoped yet to accomplish.

Lansing was astounded when he saw the drift of the detective’s logic.

He did not agree with Nick in his deductions, but promised faithfully to carry out his instructions.

Nick went away and proceeded to a secondhand clothing store to buy a suit of clothes that he desired for his own use.

It was difficult to find what he wanted, but at last he succeeded and made for home.

Chick was already there.

“Here’s the assay,” said Chick, handing over the certificate.

“Fifty thousand to the ton,” murmured Nick, looking at the certificate. “The cigarettes all pan out the same. You got the disguises?”

“Yes.”

“Put on yours and be ready to go with me at seven o’clock. We’ll carry Patsy’s get-up with us in a satchel.”

“I’ll be ready. Gillman hasn’t shown up at the assay office to-day, Nick.”

“I didn’t think he had.”

Chick went away and Nick threw himself down to smoke.

At seven o’clock Chick came into the study.

He had a brown satchel in his hand and looked like a red-haired capitalist.

“Good!” said Nick. “You’ll do for Cooper.”

“Providing you don’t throw a flash light on me,” laughed Chick. “You’re good, too, but I don’t know who you stand for.”

“Horace Montgomery.”

Nick wore an iron-gray wig and mustache and chin whiskers, gold-bowed spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose, and a silk hat of slightly old-fashioned block covered his head.

A grayish frock coat, with trousers of same material, patent leathers, dark spats and a gold-headed cane finished the disguise.

In each hip pocket he had one of his small but reliable revolvers, and in the breast of his coat were two pairs of handcuffs.

They rode in a cab to the Montgomery house, the cab was dismissed and they walked up the steps to the door.

As Nick was about to press the bell the door opened and Montgomery himself stepped out.

For an instant the two confronted each other in the semi-gloom.

“Merciful heavens!” gasped Montgomery, gazing as one transfixed at the living and breathing counterfeit of himself.

He recoiled, brushing a hand across his forehead.

His eyes wandered to Chick.

“Cooper,” he cried, “what does this mean?”

“I’ll tell you what it means, Montgomery,” answered Nick, sternly. “Go up to your study. Cooper will go with you, and I will join you both in a few moments.”

As one in a dream Montgomery turned and entered the house.

He walked up the stairs, Chick close behind him.

When they had passed from sight, Nick turned to Louise Lansing, who was standing in the parlor doorway with distended eyes.

“Is—is it really you, Mr. Carter?” she queried.

“Yes.”

“I can hardly believe my eyes.”

“Is everything all right?”

“It is.”

“How long has your uncle been here?”

“Not more than an hour.”

“Now, listen, Miss Lansing. I will give the signal by dropping a book.”

“I understand.”

Nick ran hurriedly upstairs, and, as he turned from the landing, Patsy stepped out of a room and caught his sleeve.

“Anything happened here since I left you, Patsy?” whispered Nick.

“Not a thing of any consequence.”

“You understand what’s to be done?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Lansing knows the signal.”

Nick passed into the study, closing the door after him.

Montgomery, a harassed and apprehensive look on his face, sat in the chair before his desk.

He turned his startled eyes on Nick as the latter entered.

“What does this farce mean?” he demanded, making a great effort to regain his composure.

“It means that I shall pose as Horace Montgomery for a few hours.”

“What sort of a crooked game are you attempting to play?”

“It is not crooked.”

“Who in the fiend’s name are you, anyway?”

“Nicholas Carter.”

Montgomery had started to rise, but at the sound of that name he sank back with glassy eyes.

“You—you——” he faltered. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to have a little talk with you. Could you load a few cigarettes for me, Mr. Montgomery?”

Had a bomb exploded at Montgomery’s feet he could not have been more startled than he was then.

He sprang forward in his chair and stared at the great detective as one fascinated.

“When you speculated with the money belonging to John and Louise Lansing, why did you not tell them?”

Montgomery’s white lips moved but gave no sound.

“After you lost that money, why have you tried to make your wards believe that you were going to invest it in the Royal Ophir mine?”

The guardian swallowed a lump in his throat, and his face was as white as a sheet.

“Did you want to make it appear that you had invested it in a salted mine, after an investigation that was seemingly sincere, and had lost it in that way?”

No answer came from the pallid wretch in the chair.

“What was to be your share of the money to be secured from Cooper and Bingham?”

Still no answer.

“Horace Montgomery, you are a thief!”

CHAPTER XIII.

A NECESSARY CRUELTY.

Nick was on his feet in front of the cowering man, pointing one finger at him.

Montgomery merely writhed in his seat, but did not say a word.

“But that is not the worst,” went on the detective, mercilessly. “You know that your nephew, John Lansing, started for Boston on Monday night, by the Fall River boat.”

Nick drew back to the library table and picked up a book that lay there.

“You told Yasmar—or Ramsay, to give him his real name—that John Lansing was going to Boston to talk with Cooper and Bingham in the attempt to dissuade them from making that investment in the Royal Ophir mine.

“He took the same boat that Lansing boarded.

“At midnight, out in the Sound, they had a talk, angry words were passed, Ramsay struck Lansing on the head in a moment of passion and flung him into the sea——”

“It’s a lie!” cried Montgomery, hoarsely.

“It’s the truth!”

“Are you man or devil?” whispered Montgomery. He made a sudden movement and jerked a revolver from a drawer in his desk. “But, man or devil, stop this bullet if you can!”

Chick made a motion as though he would grab Montgomery’s arm.

With a look Nick warned him not to interfere and threw the book to the floor.

Instantly the hall door opened.

“There,” cried Nick, whirling and pointing to the form of John Lansing standing in the door, “there stands your dead sister’s son, the boy you robbed, the boy you thought murdered!”

The revolver trembled in Montgomery’s hand.

He dropped it, sprang up and stood looking at his nephew as though confronted by a specter.

Suddenly he threw up his hand and fell backward into his seat.

“John!” he groaned; “John!”

Nick sprang to his side.

“Where were you to meet this man Ramsay or Yasmar to-night?” cried Nick. “I knew that you were to meet him and to take Bingham and Cooper with you. Where was it? Tell me, quick!”

Montgomery looked into Nick’s face with frenzied eyes.

It seemed hard for him to comprehend anything.

Nick repeated the question.

“Tell me, I tell you!” he finished. “You thought your nephew was killed, and you kept the matter a secret; and you tried to kill me and my assistant in Boucicault’s last night——”

“Before Heaven, Carter——” began Montgomery.

“Where were you to meet him to-night?” demanded Nick.

“The Obelisk, Central Park.”

“What time?”

“Eight-thirty.”

“Who were to be there?”

“Himself, Starlick, Gillman.”

“You were to exchange money for a deed?”

“Yes.”

“Not at the Obelisk?”

“No. We were to go to a room.”

Montgomery’s desk-chair was a massive piece of furniture, with high carved arms running from back to seat.

With a quick movement Nick slipped the man’s wrists together, one hand under the arm.

The next moment he had snapped on the handcuffs, securing Montgomery to the chair.

Owing to the height of the chair arms the position was not uncomfortable.

“Oh, Mr. Carter,” cried the voice of Louise Lansing from the door, “is it a necessary cruelty?”

“For a little while only,” answered Nick. “I have prevented the steal that your uncle, in connection with Ramsay—or Yasmar, as you have known him—and his accomplices, tried so hard to accomplish.

“Ramsay is wanted in Montana for another crime, but your uncle I shall leave in your hands.”

Nick turned to John Lansing.

“Here is a key to those handcuffs,” he said. “Do not release him until nine o’clock.”

John Lansing was very pale and was trembling visibly.

It was evident that his nerves were greatly shaken at the disclosure he had heard.

“I will do as you say, Mr. Carter,” said he.

“Chick,” went on Nick, facing his assistant, “Patsy is in the hall. Take him that outfit and have him make ready. There’s sharp work ahead.”

In five minutes Patsy was ready, and the detectives departed.

CHAPTER XIV.

AT THE OBELISK.

At eight-thirty sharp a “four-wheeler” dashed up the east drive of Central Park and came to a halt opposite the Egyptian relic known as the Obelisk, otherwise “Cleopatra’s Needle.”

Three men got out of the carriage.

An electric light faintly illuminated that particular spot, and the forms looked dark and indistinct.

But their general outlines were plain enough.

Three more men sat on a park bench hard by the Obelisk.

One of them was tall and wore a slouch hat.

“Here they come,” he said, in a low voice to those near him.

At the same moment Nick Carter had breathed to his two aides:

“Get the cuffs on them as soon as we get within arm’s reach. I’ll take Ramsay. Chick, you’ll attend to the man in the brown derby. Patsy, take the third.”

The three men on the bench got up and spread out, separating so that there were two or three yards between each of them.

The detectives also separated, each making for the man that had been picked out for him.

A mounted policeman, further along the drive, was approaching at a trot.

He had seen the four-wheeler driving faster than the park regulations allowed, and had started after it at a gallop.

Now that the carriage had stopped haste was not necessary, and he came on at a more leisurely gait.

Nick and Ramsay came close together at the railing about the base of the monument, Nick with his right hand thrust into the breast of the frock coat and holding the second pair of cuffs.

“On time, I see,” said Ramsay.

“Always on time,” answered Nick, edging closer.

“Are those fellows all right?”

“Whisper,” said Nick, bending forward.

Ramsay brought his face close.

Snap!

Almost before he could realize what was up the cold steel was about his wrists.

“You’re my prisoner, my dear Ramsay,” said Nick, calmly. “Make a break and you’ll stop a bullet.”

“Nick Carter!” cried the amazed Westerner.

“The same.”

“Curse you!”

He sprang at Nick furiously.

Nick grabbed him by the collar, but he wrenched away, fighting like a demon with his manacled hands.

“Here, none o’ that!”

It was the officer.

He had dismounted to read the riot act to the driver of the carriage, the latter having jumped from the box to fix one of the harness tugs.

Seeing that a row, as he supposed, had started up the incline, toward the monument, he ran in that direction.

“Stop!” shouted Nick to Ramsay, who was a yard or more away. “Stop or I’ll shoot you.”

Nick had a revolver in his hand, but the officer was close enough to grab it.

“Don’t you know better than to——”

“Nick Carter, officer!” exclaimed Nick. “I’m after that man—he’s a thief.”

“Je-ru-sa-lem!” gasped the astounded bluecoat.

By then, Ramsay, making good use of his legs, had reached the officer’s horse.

Without touching his manacled hands to the saddle he sprang to the animal’s back, gave a yell, and dug in with his heels.

Away went the horse at a wild gallop.

Half a dozen jumps carried Nick down the hill.

Another jump landed him on the seat of the carriage.

Grabbing up the lines and the whip, with one movement he plied the lash and the startled horses leaped madly away.

The policeman was close behind Nick, more than anxious to help undo the evil results of his mistake.

He was athletic enough, and he grabbed at the carriage as it started, rested one foot on the turning hub, and gained the box.

“We’ll get him,” he said. “Let me use the whip and you do the driving.”

The horses tore away at a mad gallop, the officer slapping them right and left.

Pedestrians scampered in every direction, but, owing to Nick’s skillful handling of the lines, no one was injured.

Nick did not think he could overtake the fugitive, but he knew that something would happen to the fellow, and he wanted to be near enough to see that he did not escape, in case of accident or other misadventure.

Suddenly a mounted officer appeared in the roadway directly ahead of Ramsay.

Taking in the situation, the officer turned his horse across the road and drew a gun.

“Halt!” he cried.

Ramsay halted, but he did not surrender.

Owing to the nature of the ground on each side of the driveway he could not turn from the road, so he whirled the horse sharply and started full tilt in the direction of the carriage.

Nick divined his object.

He counted on passing the carriage and making off in the other direction—a desperate expedient at best.

In order to keep those on the carriage seat from shooting him, Ramsay leaned down and shielded the upper part of his body behind the horse’s neck.

“I’ll have him now,” muttered Nick, pulling the carriage team to a halt. “Officer, take the lines.”

The officer took them, and Nick made ready for a spring.

On came the horse at a gallop, heading to pass within a few feet of the carriage, on Nick’s side.

The detective watched his chances, and, when the right moment had arrived, hurled himself outward and downward, grabbing the horse’s bits.

The weight on its head brought the animal to an abrupt stop—so abrupt that Ramsay was thrown from the saddle into the road.

Before he could rise, Nick was on top of him, pinning him down.

Ramsay, in spite of the handcuffs, had drawn a revolver from a breast pocket, and Nick jerked it out of his hand.

“Don’t be a fool,” said Nick. “You might have been killed!”

An oath was Ramsay’s only response.

Nick, groping about under the frock coat, found another revolver in his prisoner’s hip pocket and a knife and sheath in the breast pocket.

Both weapons he abstracted and threw to the policeman who had jumped down, caught his horse, and was standing near, ready to lend a hand in case help was needed.

But Nick did not require assistance.

“It’s up to you, Carter,” said Ramsay. “You’ve got me and I cave.”

“Get up, then.”

Nick got off the fellow’s prostrate form, thrusting a hand through his arm.

The policeman picked up Ramsay’s hat and put it on his head, and Nick marched his man over to where Chick and Patsy were holding Gillman and Starlick.

The capture was safely effected, but the great detective had had an exciting three minutes.

Patsy had had no trouble at all in getting the darbies on Gillman, and Chick had not had enough to speak of in making the capture of Starlick.

Starlick showed fight and tried to run around the Obelisk, an empty handcuff dangling from his right wrist.

Chick caught him in two leaps, threw him down, and put on the other bracelet.

The manacles had a quieting effect, and Starlick undertook the rôle of an “innocent bystander.”

“What does this mean?” he cried, angrily.

“If you don’t know you’ll find out quick enough,” replied Chick.

“It’s an outrage, an infernal outrage. Officer,” he turned to the man who accompanied Nick and Ramsay, “I demand that you have these handcuffs taken off my wrists.”

“Keep still!” exclaimed the officer, sharply. “Nick Carter knows well enough what he’s about.”

Starlick toned down, the very name of Nick Carter having a quieting effect.

An hour later the men were in the police station, and Nick had sent a telegram to the chief of police, Helena, Mont., telling of the capture of Ramsay.

Not one of the prisoners was brought to book on account of the clever swindle which would have been perpetrated but for the skill and vigilance of Nick Carter and his assistants.

Starlick was found to be an old offender and badly wanted for a safe-cracking job in Chicago.

He went that far West on the same train that took Ramsay back to Montana.

Both men were tried and sent over the road.

Gillman had all the elements that go to the making of a daring and successful crook.

But there was little to be brought against him, and he was allowed to go his way.

As for Montgomery, he shot himself the day following and was found leaning over his desk, dead.

The revolver was still clutched in his hand, and a letter lay in front of him addressed to his two wards.

A portion of the letter ran as follows:

“I used your money in my speculative schemes without your knowledge. I believe I had a right to do this, for under the terms of your mother’s will I had an absolutely free hand to make use of the money as I saw fit.

“For a time I made money on Wall Street. But my fate was the common fate of all stock gamblers. My own earnings went, and then I used your funds and they went, too.

“I could not bear to have it known that I had lost your inheritance on the stock market, and so connived at this other operation. I was to help Ramsay. Ostensibly the Royal Ophir was to cost a million, of which I was to put up five hundred thousand dollars and the two Boston men the remaining five hundred thousand dollars. Really, only the money of the Boston men was to go into the deal.

“It was my business to interest them and to help on the ‘salting’ operation to the extent of preparing the loaded cigarettes. For this I expected to receive one hundred thousand dollars—which sum I intended turning over to you.

“But I have failed in that, and now the utmost I can do is to die so that you may have the one hundred and fifty thousand dollars insurance which I have taken out on my life. That and this home is to be yours. It is all that is left of your inheritance.”

CHAPTER XV.

THE TENDER-HEARTED WATCHMAN.

Nick’s return to town had not been quite as peaceful as he had hoped. But he was more than satisfied with the result of the work of the last few days.

He had captured one of the men who had escaped him in the round-up of the big Western swindle.

Only one other member of that gang was now at large, and the capture of Ramsay served to make Nick all the more eager to repeat the operation with the missing swindler.

Ramsay was questioned as to the whereabouts of this man, but he was not able to tell anything save that the two had come East together and that Ramsay had parted from his pal in Boston and had heard nothing from him since then.

Nick sought around for clews and finally came in touch with his man through a splendidly organized bank robbery.

The story of the bank robbery indicated that more than ordinary intelligence had been brought into play in consummating this piece of villainy.

The bank was the People’s National, of Latimer, Vt.

The robbery occurred at one o’clock in the morning.

The watchman was making his hourly round of the premises when a voice outside struck on his ears.

“Help! For Heaven’s sake, do something for me!” came the cry. “Call an ambulance, quick!”

The bank occupied the first floor of a corner building.

There were two floors above, divided into rooms and used as offices by lawyers and real estate men.

In front of the building was a lamp-post.

Next to the lamp-post was an upright, bearing a box-like contrivance containing a massive gong.

This gong was connected electrically with the bank vaults, and was supposed to sound an alarm if the vaults were tampered with in any way.

Halting at one of the front windows, the watchman peered through into the ring of yellow light thrown by the street lamp.

Clinging to the lamp-post was a man in a frock coat and silk hat—well dressed, as the watchman could plainly see.

Nor was he drunk, although he wavered from side to side and had all he could do to hold himself in an upright position.

It was evident that there was something serious the matter with him, and the watchman pressed his face close to the window and craned his neck to look up and down the street.

There was absolutely no one in sight who might proceed to the unfortunate man’s assistance.

It was against the watchman’s orders to leave the bank for even a minute, but he was a kind-hearted person and hated to see a fellow being in distress and never raise a finger to help.

While the watchman stood there, the well-dressed individual gave vent to a hollow groan, slipped from the lamp-post and fell prone to the walk.

That was more than the watchman could stand.

The next instant he had unlocked and unbolted the massive bank door and had hurried across the walk.

“Who are you?” he demanded, kneeling beside the man. “What is the matter?”

The man tried to talk, but his voice was no more than a faint whisper.

The watchman bent his ear to the man’s lips.

Then, in a flash, the supposedly sick man’s hands shot upward and gripped the watchman about the throat.

Simultaneously with this movement, a figure darted out of a hallway to the right of the bank, sandbag in hand.

A blow on the head settled the watchman, who pitched along the walk and lay silent and still.

“Into the bank with him, quick!” hissed the well-dressed individual, and the watchman was picked up, head and heels, and hustled back into the room which he had so recently quitted.

The door was again locked and bolted.

“Not a second too soon,” went on the well-dressed man. “Down! Here comes the other watchman.”

The two villains sank out of sight beneath the window.

A slow step was heard outside as some one rounded the corner; then a pencil of light from a bull’s-eye lantern shot into the bank through the window.

The ray swept aimlessly around, vanished, and the steps were heard once more, dying away in the distance.

“It will be two hours before that cove comes around again,” muttered the man who had used the sandbag.

“In two hours, then, we have got to have this job over and be away from here,” returned the other. “Where’s Cricket?”

“On the watch halfway down the main street.”

“And Five Points?”

“He’s watching at the rear of the bank on the cross street.”

“Good! You know about the wires of that burglar alarm, Spark?”

“Sure.”

“Then go below and break the connection.”

“I’ll be back in five minutes, Clancy.”

Spark vanished in the dusky regions at the rear of the bank, and Clancy dropped down beside the watchman.

From his pocket he took a gag and fixed it about the watchman’s jaws; then, with two pieces of rope, he tied his prisoner hand and foot and dragged him out of sight under a customers’ desk that stood near the window.

After that he passed through the cashier’s cage and halted in front of the vault door.

There was a dimly burning light in front of the vault, and above the iron door there was a clock.

“A time-clock,” said Spark, coming up at that moment.

“Did you fix the alarm?” queried Clancy, in a sharp tone.

“Broke the battery that operates it.”

“Then out with the tools.”

Clancy threw off his frock coat, folded it carefully and laid it on an office stool.

On top of his coat he placed his silk hat.

Meanwhile, Spark had produced the “tools”—and peculiar tools they were.

They consisted of a rubber bag, a bar of brown soap, a coil of fuse and some caps.

Each man knew just what work he was to perform, and went about it without a word.

Breaking the bar of soap in two, Clancy handed one piece to Spark, and they set to work plastering up the crack at the edge of the vault door.

This was skillfully and quickly accomplished.

From the top of another office stool, Clancy fashioned a cup of the soap on the upper crack.

The bag contained nitroglycerin.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE CASHIER’S ANNOUNCEMENT.

Spark handed the bag to Clancy, and the latter poured some of the nitroglycerin into the cup.

Then, crouching under one of the counters, they waited while the explosive oozed downward about the vault door on the inside.

“Give me the fuse,” said Clancy, emerging from under the counter when a sufficient period had elapsed.

Again he mounted the stool, fitted a cap to the end of the fuse, placed the cap in the cup and applied a match.

Both retreated for a short distance.

Presently there came a muffled explosion, resulting in the bursting open of the vault door.

The alarm was silent, proving that Spark had done his work well.

For several moments, however, neither of the robbers made a move—simply crouched where they were and listened intently.

There was no sound outside, so it was evident that the explosion had aroused no one.

“Now for the second door,” said Clancy.

The second door was treated in exactly the same manner as the first, and within an hour from the time the night watchman had left the bank to succor the distressed individual on the sidewalk the funds of the People’s National lay at the mercy of the “yeggmen.”

From his pockets Spark brought out a number of canvas bags.

While these bags were being filled a shout came from the rear of the bank, followed by two revolver shots—the two reports echoing out almost as one.

“The devil!” exclaimed Clancy.

“It’s Five Points,” breathed Spark, in a sharp undertone.

Both men hurried to the front door and stood there, revolvers in hand.

Quick steps were heard on the walk, and a face was pressed against the glass in the upper part of one of the doors.

“Cricket!” exclaimed Clancy, and hastily admitted the newcomer. “What is it?” he added.

“The outside watchman discovered Five Points, and they had a wrestle and an exchange of shots,” said Cricket.

“How’s the watchman?”

“Laid out cold, I take it.”

A muffled oath fell from Clancy’s lips.

“And Five Points?” he went on.

“He’s got it bad.”

“Able to get away?”

“Just about. He’s already started.”

“Lay hold of the plunder, you two, and we’ll make a get-away ourselves.”

Spark and Cricket hurried into the vault, and Clancy followed as far as the stool in the cashier’s cage.

There he halted and calmly got into his coat and put on his hat, all the time watching the door and listening intently.

The other two emerged from the vault, staggering under the weight of the bags.

Clancy took one of the bags, and the three walked out of the bank, fading away into the night like ill-omened wraiths.

It was six o’clock the following morning when a patrolman heard a groan coming from the alleyway in the rear of the bank.

Stepping in to investigate, he was horrified to find the outside watchman weltering in a pool of blood.

The wounded man was barely able to speak. He told, gaspingly, of the ill luck that had befallen him, and added that he believed the bank had been robbed.

Running to the nearest patrol box, the officer summoned an ambulance, after which he hurried to the bank.

He found and released the inside watchman, heard his story, and immediately got in some lively work with the telephone.

The chief of police was notified and also the president of the bank.

The latter, in turn, called up the cashier and as many of the directors as he could reach by phone.

By eight o’clock there was a gathering of police and bank officials about the wrecked doors of the plundered vault, the cashier and an assistant being inside checking up.

At eight-thirty the cashier came out of the vault with a white face.

“They got little for all their pains,” he said, loud enough for the police officials and a couple of reporters to overhear. “Only about five thousand dollars, all told.”

A look of relief overspread the faces of the president and the two directors who were present.

The next moment the president, directors and the cashier stepped into the president’s private office.

There the cashier acknowledged that he had made a misstatement.

Instead of taking five thousand dollars, the thieves had decamped with seventy-five thousand dollars.

“We’re a comparatively small and provincial institution,” said the president, slowly, after a brief interval of silence, “and this loss will spell ruin for us unless——” He hesitated.

“Unless what?” asked one of the directors, huskily, mopping the sweat from his forehead.

“Unless we can recover the money before it is generally known that the cashier made a willful misstatement.”

“The police of this town can never do it,” asserted the other director.

“Shall we go down in our pockets and pay out a good big fee to a man who might be able to save us?” inquired the president.

“It may be throwing good money after bad,” said the first director, shaking his head.

“Nevertheless,” said the second director, “I move that we try it, anyhow.”

“Shall I go ahead?” asked the president.

“Yes,” came from both directors and the cashier.

Ten minutes later the following telegram was speeding over the wires:

“Nicholas Carter, New York City: Bank robbery here. Will you name your own fee and take the case?

“Julius Hepner.”

“He won’t come,” said Clarkson, one of the directors. “He has all he can attend to right in New York.”

But Clarkson was wrong, for the following answer came from the great detective within two hours after the president had wired:

“Julius Hepner, Latimer, Vt.: Coming on first train. Keep hands off until I get there.

Nicholas Carter.”

It was fate that influenced Nick’s reply, for he did not guess that in responding to the summons he was going to strike the trail of the man whom of all others he wished to capture—the missing swindler from the West who had come East with Ramsay. Ramsay was now under lock and key, and Nick’s journey to Vermont was to bring him in touch with Ramsay’s pal.

CHAPTER XVII.

“OLD HANDS.”

The bank robbery took place during the night of Monday and Tuesday.

On Wednesday morning, at seven o’clock, a neatly dressed man, wearing a pair of very respectable “Dundrearies,” made his appearance at the Memorial Hospital, in Latimer.

“What can I do for you, sir?” inquired the assistant superintendent, who was in charge at that early hour.

“Albert Gardner, the watchman who was shot during the bank robbery, was brought here, was he not?”

“Yes.”

“I would like to speak with him a moment.”

“I am very sorry, sir, but he died an hour ago.”

“Ah! He left an ante-mortem statement?”

“He did.”

“And it is now in the hands of the police department?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

In half an hour the stranger had called at police headquarters, had introduced himself and had been cordially welcomed.

At his request, the statement made out by Gardner was brought out for inspection.

It had nothing whatever to say about the robbery, but nevertheless, it had an indirect value.

Some time between two and three o’clock in the morning, so ran the statement, Gardner was rounding the block, trying doors as he went.

When opposite the entrance to the alley in the rear of the bank he heard a sound that aroused his attention.

He started into the alley, flashing his bull’s-eye ahead of him as he proceeded.

He had not taken more than twenty or thirty steps when he was set upon, and, for a moment, roughly handled.

Finally he succeeded in drawing his revolver.

Just as he was about to pull the trigger, his antagonist fired a shot.

This deflected Gardner’s aim, for he was hit in the breast. However, he fired and was certain he wounded his man.

Then he lost consciousness, and had come to himself but a few moments before being found by the patrolman.

He could give no description of the man, for the bull’s-eye lantern was knocked to the ground and smashed at the time the watchman was set upon, and thereafter the struggle had been continued in the dark.

“Not much to be learned from this, chief,” said Nick.

“The whole affair is the blackest kind of a mystery,” declared the chief. “The robbers left not the slightest clew behind.”

“You’ve been going over the ground pretty thoroughly?”

“Up to noon, yesterday. Then I got orders to wait for you.”

“How big a town is this?”

“About twenty thousand.”

“Have you brought in any suspicious characters?”

“Six or seven.”

“I’d like to have a look at them. If New York crooks pulled off this graft I may be able to recognize one of the suspects.”

The prisoners were brought in.

They were all of the “bum” variety, and their faces were unfamiliar.

“Better let them go,” said Nick; “they’re not concerned.”

The chief was surprised.

“What makes you think they’re not concerned in the robbery?” he asked.

“Not one of the seven knows enough. If hoboes did this job, they are of a different caliber from those you have run in. And, last but not least, they’d have different hands.”

“Different hands?” echoed the amazed officer.

Nick nodded.

“A tramp who uses an ax, or a buck-saw, to earn a meal, has a palm entirely unlike a cracksman.”

“But you didn’t look at their hands!”

“Yes, I did,” smiled Nick. “Now, if you please, I would like to see the patrolman who found Gardner.”

“You seem pretty well posted, Mr. Carter.”

“I read the newspapers pretty carefully.”

The patrolman was brought in, but the interview with him developed nothing of importance.

From police headquarters the detective went to the home of Alonzo Burton, the bank watchman.

Burton had his head bandaged, and was lying on a lounge in his little front parlor.

The air of the room was impregnated with a smell of arnica, and a buxom young woman was moving about the place, waiting upon the sufferer.

Burton told the ruse by which he had been lured out upon the sidewalk.

He could give only a general and indefinite description of the man in the frock coat and silk hat, and could give no description whatever of the man’s companion.

Like the other watchman, Burton had been knocked insensible very early in the game.

“They are old hands,” thought Nick, as he went away from the watchman’s house. “Too bad that I am twenty-four hours late in reaching the scene. It is a serious handicap.”

He was bound for the bank, now, and in approaching the bank building he came from the rear.

Halting at the alley, he looked in.

“Twenty or thirty paces,” he mused, recalling the statement made by Gardner.

He counted off twenty paces and then saw, a few feet in front of him, on the right side of the alley, evidences of the struggle that had taken place there.

The feet of ruthless people had trodden ruthlessly about and over the spot, but the evidences had not been entirely obliterated.

The building on the right was a one-story structure, occupied by a grocery.

At the rear was a heap of empty boxes, and close to one of these boxes a dark stain of blood marked the place where the watchman had lain.

Nick searched the vicinity carefully.

The outlook for evidence was unpromising, but he knew very well that appearances were not always to be trusted.

In a quarter of an hour he had gone over the ground thoroughly, and under the edge of one of the boxes he had found a square card.

It was made of fine, heavy bristol board, and was the general shape of a visiting card such as a man might use.

On the side which had undoubtedly borne the name and address were two oblong blurs showing where a knife had scraped out the names and numbers.

On its reverse the card bore a stain of blood and these words, in pencil:

“Quarter to twelve, Mechlin, Gotham.”

“Here’s something, at all events,” thought Nick.

He placed the card carefully in his pocketbook; then, with a final look at the spot where Gardner had had his life and death struggle, he started slowly and thoughtfully out of the alley and toward the front of the bank.

Before he reached the bank entrance he came to a sudden halt.

“By Jove!” he muttered.

He did not go into the bank, at that moment, but hastened past the entrance and turned in at a telegraph office further down the street.

There he wrote out and sent the following “rush” message, the contents being in cipher:

“Chickering Carter, New York:

“Investigate No. 1145 Mechlin Street immediately. Send Patsy along by first train.

Nick.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

A MYSTERIOUS BULLET.

It was ten o’clock when Nick Carter walked into the People’s National Bank, halted at the cashier’s window, and asked for Mr. Hepner.

The cashier knew all the customers of the institution, and the sight of a strange face prompted him to put a question on a matter that was uppermost in his mind:

“Are you Mr.——”

“Yes,” interrupted the detective. “I am Mr. Nicholas, the man you are looking for.”

The cashier gave a start and looked at Nick blankly for a moment.

Then his face cleared.

“Ah, yes,” he smiled. “I understand. I will go in and tell Mr. Hepner you are here, Mr. Nicholas.”

“Just a moment. I would like a look at the vault before I talk with Mr. Hepner.”

“Very well, sir.”

The cashier opened the door of the cage, and Nick stepped in, throwing a critical glance about him as he walked to the wrecked doors of the strong room.

Brown soap lay thick on the edges of both doors.

He passed inside the steel chamber, the cashier accompanying him.

“Made a pretty clean sweep, did they?” Nick asked, looking keenly around at the evidence of pillage.

“They seemed to know just what they wanted, Mr. Car—er—Mr. Nicholas.”

“That’s a way they have—sometimes. Did they make off with any specie?”

“Both specie and bills.”

“I see. Now I believe I will talk with Mr. Hepner.”

The cashier took the detective to the president’s door and announced him.

“When did you get in, Mr. Carter?” asked the president, after greeting his caller.

“I would prefer to have you allude to me as Nicholas, Mr. Hepner. Cut out the Carter, for the present.”

“All right, Mr. Nicholas. When did you reach town?”

“Last night.”

“I have been looking for you to call for two hours or more.”

“I was too busy to call before. Just how much more than five thousand dollars did the thieves make way with, Mr. Hepner?”

The president flashed a quick glance into the detective’s face.

“What leads you to believe that they got any more than that amount?” he asked.

“Several things. You would not have wired me to take this case on my own terms for a mere bagatelle of five thousand.”

“Possibly not.”

“And yeggmen with the experience of those who made this haul are not running the risk for so small a figure. They timed their operations so as to catch the vault with plenty of the ready inside.”

“A simple case of deduction, by George!” exclaimed Hepner. “The reporter for the papers here, however, believed the cashier’s statement as to the amount of our losses.”

“A reporter is not a detective, although occasionally a reporter will do good work. Generally, though, they do more harm than good. How much are you out, Mr. Hepner?”

“About seventy-five thousand. Twenty thousand was turned in here on a demand certificate of deposit, at almost closing time, Monday.”

Nick brought his eyes suddenly in line with the president’s.

“Did you see the man?”

“Yes; I was at the cashier’s desk at the time.”

“Please describe him.”

“Short, thickset and prosperous looking, as a man would naturally be who had that amount of money.”

“What name did he give?”

“Leonard Martin.”

“How did he impress you, Mr. Hepner?”

“He impressed me as being a Westerner.”

“Good!” exclaimed Nick. “I am especially interested in Westerners, one in particular, whom I’d give a good deal to lay my hands upon. But tell me more about this fellow?”

“Well, he had an easy, independent way with him, and when he talked he used a vernacular only to be found beyond the Missouri.”

“He was a stranger in town, you think?”

“I don’t think anything about it—I know. He is one of a party of four who are touring New England in an auto car.”

“Still in town?”

“Yes, and liable to be here for a few days, I guess.”

“Why do you guess that?”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the president, suddenly. “It can’t be possible you suspect this man of—of——”

The president paused.

“It is immaterial to you whom I suspect, Mr. Hepner,” said Nick, coolly, “so long as I run down the thieves.”

“Of course, of course! But you’re far afield, Mr. Nicholas, if that is the point you are driving at.”

“Which is your opinion,” commented Nick. “What makes you think that Mr. Leonard Martin and his party are liable to be in Latimer for a few days?”

“Because their chauffeur is sick and the Red Spider cannot proceed without a man to run it.”

“The auto is named the Red Spider?”

“Yes.”

“Where is Mr. Martin staying?”

“At the Central House.”

“He feared to have so much money with him, and left it here for safe-keeping, I suppose?”

“That’s it. A very breezy, genial gentleman he is, too, Mr. Nicholas. I assure you of that.”

“Breezy enough, I dare say,” returned Nick, carelessly.

“You gave a peculiar name to these robbers, a moment ago,” said the president. “What was it you called them?”

“Yeggmen.”

“And what is a yeggman?”

“Originally he was a hobo. Association with professional criminals, either in prison or ‘on the road,’ has taught him a knowledge of high explosives—how to extract nitroglycerin from dynamite, and how to use nitro in blowing open safes, and so on. The methods of the ‘yeggs,’ as compared with the old-time, skilled cracksman, are simple and labor-saving.”

“That is quite interesting. It has been a mystery to all of us how our safe was blown open. Will you explain, Mr. Nicholas?”

Nick complied, very briefly, and then, after a little more questioning, arose to go.

“If I can aid you in any way, Mr. Nicholas,” said the president, rising to accompany the detective to the door, “do not fail to call on me. As for your bill——”

“You can consider the bill when I turn it in,” answered Nick. “There is only one way in which you can help me, Mr. Hepner.”

“How is that?”

“I presume there are several auto cars in this town?”

“Quite a number. I haven’t one myself, but Clarkson, one of our directors, has a very swift machine.”

“If I need that machine will Mr. Clarkson let me have it?”

“Certainly. He will go with you himself and operate it for you.”

“I will operate it, and will stand responsible for any damage I may do. I would like to have the machine held in readiness for instant use.”

“Where are you staying, Mr. Carter?”

“I registered at the Holland Hotel.”

“Then I will have Clarkson send the machine to the Holland Hotel stables, subject to your order.”

“I would prefer that you have the auto sent to the Central House barn, Mr. Hepner. I think of changing my location.”

“Very good. It will be some time, I suppose, before we can hope for any results?”

“Perhaps not so very long,” answered Nick, and took his leave.

Going at once to the Holland Hotel, he paid his reckoning, took his grip and had himself driven to the Central House.

“James Nicholas, Montpelier, Vermont,” was the way he inscribed himself on the register.

Turning away, he lighted a cigar and threw himself into a chair by one of the office windows.

The Central House, in point of location, was anything but “central.”

It was situated on the outskirts of the city, in a neighborhood at once quiet and exclusive.

For fifteen minutes or more Nick sat in the comfortable armchair, smoking and thinking.

He was sifting the evidence so far secured and wondering what Chick’s investigation would lead to, if anything.

Presently, the bell boy came up to him and touched him on the shoulder.

“Mr. Nicholas,” said he, “you are wanted at the telephone.”

“Where is it?” asked Nick, getting up.

“This way, sir.”

The detective was conducted to the rear of the office, some distance back of the counter.

The telephone box was under the stairway, side by side with a ground-glass window overlooking a court.

So close was the side of the box to the window that the glass in the box and in the window were scarcely more than a foot apart.

The receiver was lying on the top of the phone, and Nick took it down and held it to his ear.

“Is this Carter?” called a voice.

“Who is this?” queried Nick.

“Call me the man from Montana. I’m the pal of poor old Ramsay whom you bagged the other day. I’m the only man left of the Western swindlers, and you want me badly. You’re Nick Carter?”

“My name is Nicholas.”

“By thunder, you can’t fool me, Mr. Sleuth!”

“What do you want?” asked the detective.

“Simply wanted to get you into the telephone box. Right here is where you connect with your finish, and——”

The words were lost in a sharp report and a crashing of glass.

Nick felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, and, as he reeled backward and dropped the receiver, he heard a mocking and triumphant laugh come over the wire.

“Great heavens!” he cried; “I’m shot—killed!”

The next instant he burst out of the telephone box and fell into the arms of the chief of police, the latter having arrived at the hotel but a moment before.

CHAPTER XIX.

WARM WORK.

“Great guns!” exclaimed the chief. “What has happened, Mr.——”

“Call me Nicholas,” hissed Nick, clinging to the chief and with lips close to his ear. “I’m shot!” he cried again. “Some one fired into the telephone box from the court. Help me to my room! Send for a doctor—quick!”

There was a great commotion in the hotel office.

The clerk, the porters and the bell boys came running to the scene, inquiring excitedly about the shooting.

The chief turned Nick over to two of the porters, and he was carried upstairs to his room and laid on the bed.

At every step of the upward journey the detective let out a groan of pain.

One of the bell boys rushed away for the house physician.

The porters lingered in Nick’s room, and so did the clerk, who had accompanied them.

“Don’t stay in the room, so many of you,” moaned Nick; “my nerves are all on edge. Where’s the doctor? Isn’t he coming?”

The clerk motioned to the porters, who at once withdrew.

“The doctor will be here in a minute—ah, here he is now!”

The doctor entered hurriedly, hatless and with his medicine case under his arm.

“What in Sam Hill is the matter?” he cried. “Man shot, right in the hotel, in broad daylight? Outrageous! Unheard of!”

“It’s a fact, nevertheless,” murmured Nick, “and I’ve got it good. Leave me alone with the doctor, please,” he added, turning to the clerk.

The clerk went away, closing the door softly behind him.

Then Nick sat upon the edge of the bed, a half smile on his face.

“Why—why, what are you doing that for?” queried the astounded doctor.

“Sh-h-h!” whispered Nick. “The wound is nothing—it simply grazed my shoulder. A piece of court-plaster is all it needs. If you have that with you, doc, you can fix me all right in a jiffy.”

“You acted as though you were half killed,” grumbled the doctor.

“That’s all right,” Nick went on, in a low tone. “I’m a detective, and I want it to appear as though I have received a bad wound and may be laid up for a month. Are you willing to help out the cause of justice by creating such an impression?”

“I don’t understand——”

“Of course you don’t, and it isn’t necessary that you should. I want you to come here about every three hours and pretend to have seen a patient. That’s easy enough, isn’t it? Here’s a twenty to pay you in advance for your services.”

“All right,” answered the physician, taking the money. “Now let me see the shoulder.”

Nick divested himself of coat and vest and opened his shirt at the neck.

The wound was only a slight one, as the detective had said, and the doctor quickly attended to it and prepared to leave.

“Mind,” warned Nick, “you think I may be laid up for some time.”

“All right,” laughed the doctor. “You detectives are queer fish.”

“We have to be,” answered Nick, stretching himself out on the bed again.

The chief came in just as the doctor went out.

“How do you find him, doc?” the chief asked, anxiously.

“Serious,” was the answer; “he may be laid up for a month.”

The doctor went away, and the chief came up to the side of the bed.

“This is too bad, Nicholas!” he exclaimed.

“Lock the door,” said Nick.

The chief was surprised at the strength of the detective’s voice.

When he locked the door, he turned around and found the detective sitting up.

“Say,” muttered the officer, “what in thunder does all this mean?”

“It means that I am faking,” replied Nick.

“Faking?”

“That’s it. I wasn’t badly wounded: only scratched.”

“Who could have done it? What was the motive?”

“The motive was to put me on the retired list. Can’t you imagine who would want to do that?”

“The bank robbers!”

“Exactly. They have discovered that I am at work on the case, and they have tried to take time by the forelock and do for me. It isn’t the first time such a thing has happened, but it is the first time a telephone was ever used as a trap. That was rather clever.”

“I’m over my head, Nicholas; I can’t get next to you.”

“It was a put-up job to get me out of the way, chief. I was called into the telephone box by a man who told me I could call him the man from Montana. This fellow acknowledged that he had lured me there for the purpose of having me shot. That much he told me, and then his confederate in the court blazed away.”

“The audacity of it!” exclaimed the amazed officer.

“More proof that these bank robbers are old hands. Did you look around the court?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t find a trace of anyone who might have committed the outrage.”

“I hardly expected that you would. It was well planned.”

“But why did you act as though you were half killed?”

“Because I want these scoundrels to think that their murderous plan succeeded. If they believe that I am out of the way, it’s the biggest kind of a trump in my hand.”

“By Jupiter, that’s a fact! You’ve got a head on you, and no mistake. Why, you weren’t more than half a second in evolving the plan, were you?”

“Not much longer, chief. The point that now confronts us is this: This farce will have to be carried through to a finish. While I am working outside, the general impression must be that I am laid up in this room.”

“We can work that all right.”

“I think so. The doctor already has his instructions. If you will put one of your trusty plain-clothes men next to the scheme, and send him here as a sort of nurse, I believe the plan can be carried through without any trouble.”

“I’ll arrange it.”

“Then there’s another thing for you to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Send a man to the central telephone office and learn where the call for Nicholas, Central Hotel, came from.

“Let the man go to the place from which I was rung up, and, if possible, get a description of the fellow who sent in the call.”

“I’ll do it. It’s a great game you are playing, Mr. Carter.”

“I’m playing for big stakes. But don’t call me Carter; Nicholas will do for the present.”

“I’ll remember. What are you going to do in the meantime?”

“Lie here in bed until I hear what sort of a report your man makes about the fellow who called me up.”

“Will you stay here alone?”

“You can send one of the bell boys to be with me until your man comes.”

“All right.” The chief got up to go. “I’m surprised to learn that those bank robbers are still in town.”

“I’m not. This town is probably as safe for them as any other part of the country. Hurry that fly cop over here, chief. I have warm work ahead of me, and don’t want to be out of the running any longer than necessary.”

“Trust me to hustle things,” replied the chief, and took his departure.

CHAPTER XX.

THE MEN FROM CHICAGO.

Presently the bell boy came up and found Nick stretched out on the bed.

The boy was a quiet little chap, and brought Nick a pitcher of water and a daily paper, and did a number of other things to make him comfortable.

The detective was reading the paper when the plain-clothes man presented himself.

“I was sent over here to take care of you,” said he.

He accompanied his words with a wink by way of informing the detective that he knew what was expected of him.

“Thank you,” said Nick. “What name?”

“Jerome.”

“Well, Mr. Jerome, may I trouble you to take a dollar out of my vest pocket and give it to this boy?”

The vest and coat were hanging over a chair, and Jerome secured the dollar and handed it to the boy.

As soon as the boy was gone, the detective sprang from the bed.

“You know your duties, do you, Jerome?”

“I’m going to pretend I’ve got you here, whether you’re here or not,” he grinned.

“That’s it; and you’re also to pretend that I’m a mighty sick man.”

“I’ll play the part O. K., sir. Don’t worry about that.”

“I don’t worry about much of anything, Jerome. It’s a waste of energy.”

“You don’t believe in crossing bridges before you get to ’em, then?”

“That depends on the bridge. What is the town of Latimer saying about an attempted murder, in broad daylight, in a great hotel like this?”

“People are talking less about that than they are about the ease with which the man who perpetrated the outrage managed to slip away.”

While Nick was talking with Jerome, he was changing his make-up.

Presently he stood forth a younger man than “Nicholas” by some twenty years.

The spreading “Dundrearies” were gone and a black mustache ornamented his upper lip.

His clothes were different, and he was utterly unlike “Nicholas” in manner as well as appearance.

“By Jinks!” exclaimed Jerome. “You’re a great hand at that sort of thing, Mr. Nicholas.”

“Charlie Gordon now,” corrected Nick.

“Mr. Gordon, then,” grinned the officer.

A rap fell on the door.

Nick motioned to Jerome to answer the summons.

The caller proved to be the chief, and he was at once admitted.

He looked at Nick in surprise, and then cast a quick look at the bed.

“Well, you’ll pass,” he said, as the truth dawned on him.

“What’s new?” asked the detective.

“I called to report on that telephone matter.”

“Good! The man you sent out must have been a live one to get back with a report as soon as this.”

“I attended to it myself.”

“Much obliged, chief. Did you experience any difficulty?”

“None at all. At central they told me that the call for Nicholas, at the Central House, came from a pay station in a drug store.

“I got the number of the drug store, and found that it is less than a block from here.

“At about the time you received your call, one of the clerks in the store remembered seeing a short, thickset man——”

“Short and thickset, eh?” interposed Nick.

“Yes, and with red hair and a full red beard. This man went into the box. When he came out he came in a hurry, and lost no time in getting out of the store and away.”

“That’s A-1, chief.”

“Have you a theory?”

“Regarding the bank robbers?”

“Yes.”

“I’m full of theories. I shall want your help in a few minutes. Will you wait here until I come back? I can promise you that I won’t be gone long.”

“I’ll wait.”

Thereupon Nick let himself quietly out of the room and descended the stairs to the lower hall.

Passing through the hall into the street, he re-entered the hotel by the office doors.

Going to the counter, he drew the register in front of him and began looking it over.

He finally found what he wanted, which was the following, written in an easy and flowing hand:

“Leonard Martin, Chicago.”

This entry had been made on the preceding Saturday, and Nick saw that Leonard Martin had been assigned to Room 13.

Directly following this signature were three names, as follows:

“Leslie Hibbard, Morris Markham and Emil Z. Schiffel,” all hailing from the same place that claimed Mr. Martin.

But there were check marks opposite the names of these three guests, showing that they had balanced their accounts and left.

“May I see the letters and telegrams?” Nick asked.

The clerk handed over a bundle, and the detective proceeded to look at them.

There was a letter for Mr. Leonard Martin, bearing a Chicago postmark; also a telegram for James Nicholas.

Nick slipped the telegram into his pocket, unnoticed by the clerk, and passed out through the doors again.

This time he reversed his tactics, re-entered by the hall, and made his way to his room on the second floor.

He read his telegram.

It was from Chick, and ran thus:

“Look out for a man with a mole on his right cheek, short, thickset, named Clancy. Will come with Patsy. Important that I should see you.”

“This short, thickset man is making himself pretty numerous,” thought Nick, putting the telegram away in his grip.

“What I want you to do, chief,” said Nick, approaching the officer, “is to wire the Chicago chief of police and ask for immediate information about a man named Leonard Martin. If the Chicago people know such a man, I’d like to learn his present whereabouts.”

“I’ll send the dispatch at once,” said the chief.

“Have the answer left with Jerome, when it comes.”

“Very well.”

The chief left the room and passed down the stairs.

Nick went out, a few moments afterward, but did not descend to the first floor.

On the contrary, he made his way along the hall to Room 13.

There was no one else in the passage, and he paused at the door and listened intently.

All was quiet inside.

Stooping, he peered through the keyhole.

The key was not in the lock, on the inside, so it seemed fairly certain that Mr. Martin was out.

With a final swift glance up and down the passage, Nick drew a skeleton key from his pocket and quickly opened the door.

To step inside and softly reclose the door was the work of only a moment.

The room was exactly like the usual hotel chamber.

There were two doors opening to right and left, so that, if desired, the apartment could be used en suite with others adjoining.

On the bed lay an open satchel, its contents very much disarranged.

The owner had apparently left it in a hurry.

Nick went over to the bed and looked down at the contents of the grip.

The first object to catch his eye was a red wig with a false beard of the same color attached.

This interested him mightily.

There was a fat wallet in the satchel, and——

Just at that point the detective, steel-nerved though he was, experienced something like a shock.

A dresser stood at the end of the room, at right angles with the foot of the bed.

Out of the corner of his eyes Nick caught a glimpse of the glass, and in it was reflected the figure of a man.

The man had opened the door leading off to the left and was standing just within it, coolly eying the detective.

Furthermore, this man was short and thickset, and there was a black mole on his right cheek.

Not only that, but he had a revolver in his hand and was training it full upon the intruder.

In a flash Nick had made up his mind as to what he should do.

This man, of all others, must not take him for a prying detective.

It would be better for him to consider Nick as a common sneak thief.

So the detective set about to foster the latter impression.

Catching up the wallet, he slipped it into his coat pocket.

Then he began throwing the other contents of the grip aside in a seeming eagerness to find something else of value.

“There, my man, that’ll do!”

The voice came from the man in the doorway, and Nick sprang round, the very picture of trepidation and fear.

CHAPTER XXI.

NICK BECOMES CHAUFFEUR.

“Don’t shoot!” pleaded the detective, cringing before the pointed gun; “for Heaven’s sake, don’t shoot!”

“What do you mean by sneaking into this room?” demanded the man, making a threatening gesture with the revolver.

Nick thought he recognized the voice.

It sounded strangely like the tone assumed by the man from Montana, through the phone.

“My wife and family are starving,” said Nick, in a choking voice; “I can get no work, and they must live.”

“Bah! What do I care for your wife and family? You can’t ring in a bluff of that kind on me, not on your life. You’re a common, ordinary, go-as-you-please sneak thief, and right here is where you are going to get it in the neck!”

The man took a sidestep to the left, still holding the gun on Nick, and reached his left hand toward the push-button above the speaking tube.

“Oh, don’t, sir!” implored Nick, wringing his hands. “Let me go! I beg of you to let me go!”

“Shut up, you coward!” gritted the man. “If you had any nerve about you, I might be tempted to cut you loose; but I haven’t any sort of use for a sniveling, chicken-hearted coyote like you are showing yourself to be.”

His hand rested on the round piece of wood that framed the push-button, but he did not ring the bell.

Nick gave vent to a hollow groan, sank to his knees, and covered his face with his hands.

“Look here, you!” growled the man with the gun. “You’re pretty well dressed for a man working this sort of graft.”

“I’ve seen better days,” sniffed Nick.

“Bother! Better days don’t count. It’s what you are to-day, not last week, or last year. What do you call yourself?”

“My real name do you want, or the one I have been going by?”

“The one you go by now.”

“Chuffer Jones.”

The man with the gun gave a start.

“Chuffer!” he exclaimed. “You mean Chauffeur, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why were you called that?”

“Because of my trade, sir.”

“You know how to run these automobiles?”

“That used to be my business. But I took to drink, sir, and lost job after job. Then I took to this graft.”

“What’s your record?”

“It’s terrible, sir.”

“How terrible?”

“Five years in Sing Sing and ten in Stillwater.”

A gleam had come into the murky eyes of the man with the gun.

“I suppose you know,” said he, “that I could jab this button and have the house policeman up here in about two minutes.”

“Mercy!” gasped Nick, all but tying himself up in a knot.

“Oh, brace up, brace up!” grunted the other. “Haven’t you got any sand at all?”

“How much sand do you expect a man to have when he’s caught red-handed like this?”

“You ought to back your legitimate amount of nerve, no matter what happens. You know, I suppose, that I could send you up for quite a spell for what you have tried to do here this afternoon?”

“In the name of——”

“Will you hush that yaup?” said the man with the gun, exasperated.

“But if you knew——”

“I know you’re a sneak thief, and that I’ve got you dead to rights. Understand? Now, if you want to do the right thing, there’s a chance for you to square yourself with me.”

“What is it?” cried Nick, eagerly.

“First, hand over that leather.”

The detective forked it over.

“Take anything else?”

“Didn’t have time.”

“Well, young man, my name is Leonard Martin. I’m from Chicago, and I’m touring New England with three friends of mine, traveling in one of these auto cars. The machine belongs to me, but I haven’t the first notion how to run the thing. One of my friends knows the ropes, but he was taken sick a day or two ago, and will be hung up here for quite a spell. Now, if you want to run the Red Spider for me——”

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” mumbled Nick, with another contortion.

“You whining fool!” growled Mr. Martin, testily, “will you shut up?”

“Yes, sir; yes, sir!”

“Then, if you want to save your scalp, you can drive the Red Spider for me.”

“All right, sir.”

“That is,” qualified Martin, “if you can. I’m going to try you right now.”

Once more he reached out his left hand, and this time he pressed the bell.

“Order the Red Spider around to the office entrance,” he called down the tube.

Turning away from the wall, he again addressed himself to the detective.

“I’m taking you into my employ, Jones,” he went on, “but at the first sign of disloyalty I shall turn you over to the police.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Try to run away from me, and I’ll have you hounded down if it costs me every dollar I’ve got in the world.”

Nick shivered.

“And another thing,” went on Martin, “you’re to let whisky alone. There’s a time for lushing, as for everything else, and when I’m ready to have you booze, I’ll let you know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come on, then. And don’t forget that I’ve got this right here, ready for use.”

Martin thrust the six-shooter into his hip pocket with a flourish, and Nick had another shiver.

They passed out into the hall and downstairs to the office.

At the counter Martin halted for a word with the clerk.

“How’s that man who got shot?”

“Poorly, sir, poorly,” replied the clerk.

“Will he be in bed long?”

“He may never leave his bed, Mr. Martin.”

“Tough, mighty tough,” mused the kind-hearted Mr. Martin, and passed out to his waiting auto.

CHAPTER XXII.

FOLLOWING A THEORY.

Nick looked the machine over with a critical eye.

It was an ordinary, two-thousand-dollar, single-cylinder, American-made car, and looked as though it might be able to work up considerable speed.

It was painted red, and had the squat, sprawled-out appearance of the ill-omened thing after which it was named.

Nick Carter could drive any kind of a car, and so could Chick.

The detectives had acquired the knowledge as they acquired everything else which even remotely promised to be of aid to them in their work.

Martin climbed into the machine, and Nick followed.

“Now, then,” said Martin, “let her go!”

Nick started off in fine style, guiding the broad-tired wheels on a hair line.

“You’ll do,” said Martin, approvingly. “I think you can run the Spider better than Emil ever dared to. Keep along this road, right on out into the suburbs. I’ll tell you when I want to stop.”

They reeled off about a mile before Nick got the order to halt.

The stop was made in front of a two-story brick house.

“I’ll get out here, and you can wait for me,” said Martin. “Better turn on the electricity in the lamps, for it will be pretty dark when we start back.”

Martin got out and went up the steps and into the house, and Nick turned the electricity into the side lamps and settled himself back in the seat as comfortably as he could.

Presently he became aware that a roughly dressed man, with his hands in his trousers’ pockets, was sizing up the machine through the semigloom.

“What’s one ov them there dinguses wuth?” the man inquired.

“More than you’ll ever salt away,” answered Nick.

“I want tew knaow! Naow, mister, ef yeou’ll jist tell me——”

Nick started up suddenly in his seat, and swept a quick glance around.

“You’re taking a big risk, chief!” he muttered.

“Got an answer to that Chicago telegram, and had to see you,” the chief replied.

“Do you often tog up like that?”

“Not often; that’s something I leave to my under-strappers. But in this instance, as only Jerome and I know your make-up, and Jerome can’t be spared, I decided to help you out.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“Saw you come out of the hotel, and followed along on a bike that stood at the curb.”

“Bully for you, chief!” exclaimed Nick. “That answer from Chicago got around in short order.”

“It had the right of way, and they must have known all about this Leonard Martin at headquarters.”

“What of him?”

“The Chicago chief says that he’s one of the shining lights of the bar, in that place, and that some time ago he started to tour New England in his auto, the Red Spider, with three friends. The party, at this time, is believed to be somewhere in Vermont.”

“That all?”

“Isn’t it enough?”

“I think so,” returned Nick, musingly.

He was “up a stump,” so to speak.

Something was wrong, for this Chicago information did not jibe with his own deductions—and he was ready to bank on his deductions.

“What in Sam Hill are you running that machine for?” queried the curious chief.

“Following out a theory,” returned Nick. Then he suddenly aroused himself. “We may be watched from the house,” said he, “and you hadn’t ought to hang around long.”

“I’m ready to go now.”

“Wait. I’m expecting two of my assistants from New York—Chick and Patsy. It’s ten to one that I’ll be bowling along through the country in this machine before many hours have passed, and I want Chick and Patsy to follow in another auto.”

“Where’ll they get the auto?”

“There’s one, subject to my order, in the Central House stable—a machine belonging to Mr. Clarkson, one of the directors of the People’s National Bank.”

“I know the machine well. Clarkson has been hauled up half a dozen times for exceeding the speed limit.”

“Well, that’s the machine I want Chick and Patsy to follow with.”

“How will your assistants keep track of you?”

“Trust them for that.”

“But if the Red Spider pulls out before they get here——”

“It won’t. I’ll see that it doesn’t.”

Nick had not got quite through with the chief, but was obliged to break off his talk at that moment.

There came the sound of a closing door from the brick house, and Martin appeared and came down the steps to the sidewalk.

The chief did not attempt to run, but stood his ground.

“Hosses aire good enough fer me, by gosh!” he exclaimed. “I wouldn’t give ye twenty-five cents fer a dozen o’ them there machines.”

Martin paid no attention to the supposed “hayseed,” beyond flashing a curious look at him as he climbed into the auto.

“Back to the hotel, Jones,” said Martin.

“G’lang, ye rubber-tired freak!” whooped the man on the walk, as the Red Spider started off.

“We’re going to pull out of here to-night,” observed Martin.

“Which way do we travel?”

“Never you mind which way we travel!” was the sharp response. “All you got to do is to work the levers and steer where I tell you to.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“We’ll take the Red Spider to the barn,” went on Martin, “and then we’ll go to the hotel.”

“Where’ll I put up?” asked Nick.

“You remember the room next to the one where you were operating this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, it’s empty, and you can occupy that. You’re not going to get out of my sight while we’re in town.”

Nick did not fancy this arrangement, but there was nothing else for him to do except to proceed as Martin directed.

As they trundled into the bar, they saw another auto standing near the door.

“Whose machine is that?” asked Martin.

“It belongs to Mr. Clarkson,” replied one of the men connected with the stable.

It was an electric vehicle—a fact which Nick was glad to observe.

Being electric, it was practically noiseless.

The Red Spider, on the other hand, had a gasoline motor, and pounded along in a way that would make it heard at some distance.

Chick and Patsy would thus have the advantage in the chase; they could hear the Spider fanning along, but those on the Spider would not be able to hear them.

On leaving the barn, Martin and Nick went upstairs to the former’s rooms.

Nick was shown into the room on the left.

This room had a door opening upon the hall, and Martin locked it and put the key in his pocket.

Then he ordered the detective to hand over the skeleton key which had been of such good service several hours before.

Thinking that he now had his chauffeur just where he wanted him, Martin went into the other chamber and threw himself down on the bed with his clothes on.

Martin need not have worried about Nick taking “French leave.”

The detective was only too glad to be in the society of the supposed Chicago men, and would not leave until he had satisfied himself on one or two points.

It was about five o’clock in the morning when Nick was summoned to get up and make ready for the start.

They did not stop for breakfast, but, as Martin said, they would get something to eat at a town a little further on.

As they passed through the office, Nick saw a man seated in a chair, and apparently sound asleep.

The man was Chick, and he was not so sound asleep as he seemed to be.

Martin paid his bill, and he and Nick walked out to the Red Spider, which stood at the curb in front.

Nick cast a casual glance through the window near which Chick had been sitting.

His chair was empty.

There were two men on the rear seat of the automobile; men who had faces of the recognized criminal type.

Martin climbed into the machine, and Nick followed, the two men on the rear seat eying him sharply.

“Start east and take the first turn to the left,” ordered Martin, “then follow that road right out of town and into the country.”

Nick put the car in motion.

As he turned the corner he caught a glimpse of Clarkson’s machine just rounding the hotel from the direction of the barn.

Chick and Patsy were on the seat, and Chick was doing the driving.

CHAPTER XXIII.

OVER THE BRIDGE.

Each man in the touring party carried a large satchel, and Nick noticed that he took very good care of the grip, never letting it get out of his hands for an instant.

The satchels appeared to be rather heavy, and once, when one of them dropped to the bottom of the auto, the detective heard a jingle as of coin.

The morning was bright, the air was fresh, and for five miles the Red Spider cut along at a smart clip.

“Show me how to operate the thing,” said Martin, and Nick instructed him in the art.

“How long have you had this machine, Mr. Martin?” Nick asked.

A silence followed the question, during which Martin exchanged looks with the men on the rear seat.

“Close onto two years,” said Martin, finally. “What do you want to know for?”

“It seems strange that you haven’t learned something about running the Red Spider in two years.”

Martin leaned forward and rapped Nick on the shoulder.

“Look here, Jones,” he growled, “don’t you get too blamed inquisitive. It’s liable to strike in and carry you off.”

After that Nick held his peace for a time, but there were a whole lot of things he wanted to know, and he wasn’t long in opening up again.

“Chicago is a great town,” he remarked.

“Bet your life!” exclaimed Martin.

“I used to do janitor work in the Guggenheimer Building,” confided Nick.

“Is that so?”

“Sure. You know anything about Chicago?”

“Well, rather. I’ve lived there about all my life.”

“Then you know the Guggenheimer Building, corner State and Madison Streets?”

“Like a book. Been in it more times than I can count.”

The detective wanted to laugh.

There was no such building in Chicago.

“Do you remember the orang-outang, carved out of marble, that they’ve got over the door of the Guggenheimer Building?” Nick went on.

“You bet. Seen it a hundred times.”

“Gosh!” exclaimed Nick. “It seems like meeting old friends to run across a man who remembers that orang-outang.”

At the end of the five miles there was a little town called Herkimer, and here the party stopped for breakfast.

When they got down from the machine and went into the hotel, they took their satchels with them.

Nick got outside of his meal and returned to the Red Spider several minutes before the rest of the party had finished and left the table.

The detective knew very well that Chick and Patsy wouldn’t bring their machine up to the place while the Red Spider was in evidence, but he wanted some assurance that his assistants were following.

He got what he wanted, for Patsy appeared in the road, back at a point where it made a turn in the woods, and gave his hat a wave.

Patsy then disappeared, and Nick felt much easier in his mind.

“It’s a cinch,” thought Nick, “that not one of this outfit of supposed Chicago men knows anything about Chicago.

“And another thing, Martin never had the Red Spider for two years, or he’d know how to run it.

“But what did the Chicago chief of police mean by that message he sent to the police department in Latimer?”

Nick was exceedingly thoughtful for a few moments.

“I’d like to pinch the entire outfit, and make them prove that they’re what they say they are,” he said to himself, finally, and gave a look down the road, as though he would summon Chick and Patsy.

But Chick and Patsy were not in sight.

If Nick could have known what Martin and his two friends were talking about in the hotel, however, it is safe to assume that he would have made the effort of his life to arrest the three men before they had gone another mile further.

“I don’t like the looks of that driver of yours, Clancy,” one of Martin’s pals was saying.

“He’s all right, I tell you, Spark,” averred Clancy. “Didn’t I spot him while trying to sneak a wallet in my room? I’ve got the fellow right under my thumb, and he knows it.”

“He looks to me as though he’s playing a part. Don’t you think so, Cricket?”

“He looks all right to me,” replied Cricket.

“We ought to get rid of him,” persisted Spark.

“What’s got you on the run, old man?” queried Clancy.

“Give it up; but I’ve got a feeling that there’s trouble ahead. And look here—I’ll bet I can prove to you that this Jones, as he calls himself, is crooked.”

“If you can do that, Spark,” said Clancy, “we’ll salt him too quick.”

“Can you run the Spider now, Clancy?”

“Well enough to take us where we want to go. But come on, if you’re through. It’s time we hit the trail.”

They got up, picked up their satchels from beside their chairs, and went out and got into the auto.

“Keep right on along the turnpike, Jones, just as we were going before we stopped,” said Martin.

Nick carried out his orders, and they were soon spinning along in a due north direction.

“Did you have any trouble in connecting with the twenty thousand, Clancy?” asked Cricket.

Clancy!

The word was out of Cricket’s mouth before he fairly realized that he had said it.

Savage looks were darted at him by Clancy and Spark, and then all three fixed their eyes upon Nick.

Apparently he had not heard the word.

“No trouble at all,” said Clancy.

“It was easy money,” went on Cricket, “and earned you a hundred per cent. overnight.”

Nick knew that Clancy and Cricket were talking about the demand certificate for twenty thousand dollars which the former had got from the People’s National Bank on Monday afternoon.

Here was proof that the money had been deposited, stolen back, and collected again on the demand certificate.

The detective was more than ready now to take chances in capturing the three scoundrels.

Some parts of the deal were still dark to him, but he was sure of his ground so far as Clancy and his two pals were concerned.

But how were the men to be captured?

With two at his back and one beside him, to attempt to make an arrest single-handed would have been the height of folly.

A startling expedient occurred to Nick.

Why not wreck the machine?

That would give Chick and Patsy a chance to come up and take a hand in the capture.

Nick looked ahead.

The turnpike wound around through the hills, and was bordered with large trees.

Some of these trees stood out close to the roadway, and it would be a comparatively easy matter to speed up the auto and smash against a tree.

The collision would certainly wreck the Red Spider, and it might also cause the gasoline tank to explode.

In the latter event it was a question whether any of the party would be left alive to tell the tale.

Nick had no desire to cut short his career on that lonely turnpike in northern Vermont, but still he realized that he would have to take chances, no matter what course he pursued.

In the distance he could see a plank bridge crossing a stream.

The edge of the bridge was guarded with a low wooden railing, and to run the Red Spider into the railing and off the bridge would not be a difficult task.

But that would be infinitely more dangerous than running the auto into a tree.

Nick, therefore, decided on a collision.

The approach to the bridge was slightly downhill, and he started the Spider at a tremendous clip.

“Slower, slower!” shouted Clancy. “Do you want to wreck us?”

“It’s out of control!” cried Nick. “I can’t do anything with it!”

The Spider was shooting toward a tree, a hundred feet ahead, and Nick seemed to be working frantically at the levers in an attempt to stop it.

Suddenly Spark, who sat directly behind Nick, thrust a hand in his pocket and slipped his fingers through a set of brass knuckles.

Bringing the hand out of his pocket, Spark half arose and dealt the detective a smashing blow on the back of the head.

Nick fell forward, stunned and helpless.

“He was shamming!” cried Spark; “quick, Clancy! Turn the machine, or we’re gone!”

Clancy flung himself on the steering lever and swerved the auto so that it missed the tree by a hair’s breadth.

A moment more and he had halted the ponderous machine.

“He was trying to do for us,” said Spark, excitedly.

“But why in the fiend’s name should he try to wreck us?” answered Clancy. “He would have done for himself as well.”

“He had some game, I tell you,” persisted Spark. “He must be one of Nick Carter’s men. He wants revenge for what you and I did to Carter, Clancy.”

“Bosh! Your nerves are running away with you, Spark.”

“Look here!”

Spark leaned over Nick and tore the false mustache from his lip.

“Now what do you think? This sneak thief of yours, Clancy, has been in disguise!”

Clancy voiced a lurid oath.

“I wish I knew Carter’s assistants,” he added, with a fierce growl; “but I don’t even know Carter himself, except from description.”

“Are you sure we got Carter at the hotel?” queried Cricket.

“Nicholas is the name he uses, now and then, and we know he took that bank robbery case. You followed him from the Holland Hotel to the Central House, Cricket, and ought to know him, if anybody does.”

“Nicholas was disguised,” said Cricket, “and I couldn’t tell what he looked like with the disguise off. But he didn’t look anything like this fellow.”

“This chap is trying to plug our game, anyhow,” said Clancy, a savage gleam in his eyes, “and right here is our chance to get rid of him. Bring out a couple of ropes, Cricket.”

Cricket fumbled around in the bottom of the auto, and finally found a piece of rope, which he cut in two.

Nick was still unconscious, and did not recover his wits until the tying operation had been completed.

When he opened his eyes, Clancy was going through his pockets.

“Guns, and handcuffs, and a pocket bull’s-eye,” muttered Clancy, producing the articles one by one and handing them over the back of the front seat to Spark and Cricket. “A nice equipment for a sneak thief to tote around with him. He’s Nick Carter’s assistant, all right.”

“He has two men assistants,” spoke up Spark—“Chick and Patsy.”

“I have heard of them,” said Clancy, with an oath. “Here, you!” he added, grabbing Nick by the shoulders and giving him a rough shake; “what sort of a deal were you trying to ring in on us?”

“Who hit me?” demanded Nick.

“I did,” asserted Spark. “What did you try to wreck the auto for?”

“I couldn’t manage it.”

“Bah!” snorted Clancy. “You’re one of Nick Carter’s men, we know that, and right here is where our trails divide. I’m from Montana, I am, and Ramsay, a man Nick Carter hounded into the penitentiary, was a pal of mine.

“I swore, when Ramsay got sent over the road, the other day, that I’d never rest until I had played even with Carter on Ramsay’s account.

“I have pretty near succeeded in doing that, I reckon. Cricket shadowed Carter from the Holland Hotel to the Central House and reported to Spark and me. Then I put up that job and called up Carter on the Central House phone. Spark was beside the glazed window in the court, and he fired the shot that put this crack detective of yours out of the chase after these bank robbers.

“I didn’t count on having such good luck as to connect with one of Carter’s assistants; and now that we’ve got you, Jones, or whatever your name is, we’ll see that you’re properly taken care of.”

“You may be able to take care of me,” said the detective, “but you’ll still have Nick Carter to settle with.”

“Carter!” sneered Clancy. “Why, he ain’t in it with me when it comes down to head work. I can think all around him any day in the week.”

“You’re thinking all around him now,” answered Nick, quietly.

“What do you mean by that?”

“You’ll know some time.”

“Quit this fooling!” cried Spark. “Let’s get rid of the fool and then push on toward the Canadian line. I won’t feel easy till we cross the border.”

That was Nick’s first clew to the intentions of Clancy and his pals.

They were working to get into Canada, where an American detective could not touch them without going through a lot of red-tape proceedings.

If these men were captured, it must be before they crossed the line.

“How’ll we fix him?” asked Clancy.

“A gun is good enough,” said Cricket.

“A knife is better,” supplemented Spark. “It makes less noise.”

“What do we care for noise?” asked Clancy, with a harsh laugh; “there is no one within a mile of us. But I know a trick worth two of either one of those.”

“What is it?” inquired Spark.

“We’ll give him a chance to swim without the use of his hands or feet.”

“That’s the talk!” declared Cricket.

“Make for the bridge,” added Spark, “and we’ll toss him over.”

Clancy ran the Red Spider to the foot of the hill and onto the bridge, halting close to the right-hand railing.

Then he and Spark stood up, Nick was caught by the feet and shoulders and swung back and forth.

“One, two, three,” counted Clancy; “now, then!”

The form of the detective was released and went whirling outward and downward.

“Help!” he cried, at the top of his voice; “the river!” Then he splashed into the water and went plunging away on the breast of the swift current.

CHAPTER XXIV.

ONE WAY TO STOP AN AUTO.

Nick’s cry for help and his reference to the river were intended for the ears of Chick and Patsy.

If they failed him, Nick felt that his case was hopeless.

The stream into which he was thrown was narrow and winding, and, at that point, flowed with great force.

The swiftness of the current bore the detective up and kept him from sinking.

The men in the Red Spider watched until he was carried around a bend in the stream, and then continued on, confident that they had been completely successful in their murderous designs.

The torrent was full of drift, and Nick, half strangled and dizzy, felt that his chief danger lay in being struck by some of the logs that were spinning along with him on the surface of the water.

But this fact, so far from being a danger, proved his salvation.

An uprooted tree came sweeping toward him, and he was caught in the spreading branches.

Tangled among the limbs, as he ultimately became, it was impossible for him to sink, and for a short distance he rode along with his head out of the torrent.

Presently the tree lodged in a jam of driftwood, and Nick watched the whirling débris shoot against the jam and pass on, missing his head sometimes by no more than an inch.

“Help!” he called again, “This way, Chick! Patsy! Help!”

He did not call in vain, for Chick and Patsy suddenly appeared on the bank, the former with a coil of rope in his hands.

“We’ll have you in a minute, old man!” cried Chick, cheerily. “I’ll throw the rope and you can catch it.”

“No, I can’t,” answered Nick. “My hands are tied.”

“Here,” said Patsy, grabbing one end of the rope and tying it about his waist. “I can go out on that tree and fish Nick out of the branches. I’m a regular cat when it comes to walking a log.”

“All right, Patsy,” said Chick. “Mind your eye and be careful that the tree doesn’t turn with you.”

Patsy started, made his way into the branches, knelt down, and cut the rope from Nick’s hands.

Nick was then able to help, and his rescue was not long in being effected.

On reaching the bank, he dropped down for a moment, completely exhausted.

“Wouldn’t this give you a jolt?” muttered Patsy, as he cut the rope from Nick’s ankles. “They expected him to swim with his hands and feet tied.”

“They expected me to go to the bottom,” returned Nick, “and I’d have done it, too, if you and Chick hadn’t been handy by.”

He arose to his feet.

“We haven’t any time to waste here,” he went on, giving himself a shake and throwing as much water as he could out of his soaked clothing. “Where’s the auto?”

“On the turnpike, about a hundred yards away,” replied Chick.

“Then let’s get to it and keep on after that outfit. They’re making for the Canadian line, and we’ve got to stop them before they get across.”

“Then we’ll have to rush,” said Chick. “The border isn’t more than twenty miles away.”

They all realized the value of the minutes that were slipping past, and ran for the turnpike, sprang into the auto, and started on at top speed.

After they had crossed the bridge and got some distance beyond, they began to look and listen for some sign of the Spider.

They could hear nothing.

“Give her every ounce of power!” cried Nick, and Chick turned on the current full drive.

“We’ll overhaul ’em,” averred Chick, “providing something doesn’t give way.”

“And providing we’re on the right track,” added Nick; “they may have scented trouble and turned off the main road.”

“We’ll soon find out. Who are they?”

“They are the men who robbed the bank at Latimer, Monday night. One of them is short, thickset and has a mole on his right check——”

“Clancy!” cried Chick.

“If we get near enough,” put in Patsy, lifting a repeating rifle from the bottom of the auto, “we can stop them with this.”

“Where did you get that?” asked Nick.

“The proprietor of the barn, in Latimer, had it, and I borrowed it. There’s more range to this than there is to a six-shooter.”

Again they listened, and a worried look overspread Nick’s face when they failed to hear the pounding of the gasoline auto.

“There hasn’t been a road, so far, that they could turn off on,” said Chick, “so it’s a safe-money guess that we’re behind them.”

“At this rate we ought to come up with them before long,” returned Nick. “What did you find at 1145 Mechlin Street, Chick?”

“It was Mechlin Avenue.”

“That’s immaterial. You found the place?”

“Like a top.”

“What sort of a place is it?”

“A tough boarding house run by a hag who has a son called Five Points.”

“Well?”

“I went to the hang-out in a tough disguise, and had no difficulty in getting lodging. I thought I might have to stay a day or two, but a couple of hours was enough.”

“What did you learn?”

“Lots; and it was hot stuff, too.”

Again they listened and looked for the Red Spider, but in vain.

Nor had they yet passed any crossroad, so they felt sure their men must still be ahead of them.

“Go on, Chick,” said Nick.

“The hag that bossed the roost was having a confab with a brother of hers, in the sitting room of the place.

“The brother was as clear a case of grafter as I ever saw—he had all the marks from soles to headpiece.

“It seems that he was out for the stuff, and wanted to join a gang where there would be something doing.

“The old woman was putting him next to a touch of the warm variety, and, say! I heard enough to land them both in the Tombs.

“The hag was telling about her son, Five Points, and how he had connected with a Montana man who was working a graft that was as novel as it was successful.

“The old woman, you see, thought that her brother might be able to join the same gang, and he was dead anxious to make the attempt.

“From what the hag said, it appears that there were four in Clancy’s party—Clancy himself, Five Points, a man called Spark, and another known as Cricket.

“They came together at some place in Vermont, and captured an auto car belonging to some Chicago people who were doing the New England States.

“Clancy, it seems, had had his eye on this party for some time.

“He is a gambler and appears to have plenty of money, so that he could have bought his own machine if he had wanted to, but that wasn’t his object.

“He lays for the Red Spider, makes prisoners of the Chicago men, and tucks them away somewhere in the Vermont woods where they will be safe; then he and his outfit gets into the Chicago men’s clothes, and go piking around the circle as Leonard Martin, Leslie Hibbard, Morris Markham and Emil Z. Schiffel——”

“By Jupiter!” exclaimed Nick, as the whole graft dawned on him. “That was a clever game, for no one could ever suspect these rich Chicago men of looting a bank, or doing any other crooked work.”

“Clancy has a good head for that kind of business.”

“The old woman was well informed, it seems to me.”

“She got her information through Five Points, I suppose, who knows something about driving an automobile.”

“Why did you wire me to look out for Clancy?”

“The old woman described Clancy to her brother, so that he would know him at sight. She also mentioned that he was a pal of Ramsay’s, and had come East with a double purpose—to clear up as much good money as he could and, incidentally, to settle Nick Carter.”

“He’s tried it twice,” said Nick, “and——”

“Listen!” broke in Patsy. “That other auto is dead ahead. Can’t you hear it?”

They could hear it plainly, the chough, chough, chough coming to their ears with great distinctness.

“Now, then,” muttered Nick, “if this machine holds together, we’ll be up with them in a very few minutes. Let me have one of your revolvers, Patsy.”

“Take ’em both,” said Patsy, tendering the weapons; “I’ll use the rifle.”

“Better let me take the rifle,” returned Nick, a sudden idea coming to him.

“All right.”

Patsy handed over the gun.

The next instant the auto rounded a hill and the Red Spider came into sight.

It was some distance off and racing at a speed which caused it to lurch dangerously from side to side.

“A stern chase is usually a long one, but I don’t think this will be,” muttered Nick. “We’re gaining at every jump.”

“And they don’t know yet that we’re after them,” chuckled Patsy.

“They know now,” said Chick. “One of them, on the rear seat, is turning around. There! He’s trying a shot.”

The report of a revolver echoed out, but the range was too great for effective shooting with small arms.

“Give ’em the Winchester, Nick!” suggested Patsy.

“I will,” replied Nick, “and I’ll cripple the Spider so we can overhaul it in less time than ever.”

He threw the repeater to his shoulder and sighted it long and carefully.

It was a pretty shot that he intended making, for not only must he take into consideration the motion of his own auto, but of the Red Spider as well.

Suddenly he pulled the trigger.

A loud report volleyed out, and instantly the Spider began to wobble.

The speed of the gasoline machine was reduced at least one-half.

“By thunder!” exulted Patsy; “he’s punctured one of the rear tires!”

CHAPTER XXV.

PATSY’S CAPTURE.

“We’ll be on them in a minute,” said Nick. “Got an extra pair of handcuffs, Patsy?”

“Sure!” and Patsy dove into his pocket and brought out a pair of bracelets.

“I was pretty well stripped by Clancy and his gang before they threw me in the river,” went on Nick.

“We’ll get your property back in short order, Nick,” said Chick.

“We’ll have a fight first. By George! they’re jumping from the automobile and taking to the woods!”

“They’re going to make a run of it, the cowards!” exclaimed Patsy.

“You take the tall man, Patsy,” said Nick. “I’ll attend to the short, thickset individual, and you, Chick, can take the other.”

“All right,” came from Chick and Patsy.

Presently the electric auto was alongside the Red Spider, and the detectives leaped into the road and started for the woods.

At the edge of the timber a volley was fired at them, the bullets whistling through the air uncomfortably close.

The fire of the robbers was returned, the detectives leaping forward.

In a few moments they caught sight of Clancy and his pals.

They were separating and making in different directions.

“Here’s where we divide,” said Nick. “Remember, we’ve got to have those men before they get across the line.”

“They’re ours!” said Chick.

“Easy!” added Patsy.

Patsy’s man was Cricket, and the way Patsy sprinted after him was a sight to see and remember.

Through the woods, pell-mell, raced the grafter and the detective, leaping over logs, plunging through bushes, and halting now and again to try a shot at each other.

None of the bullets took effect, and both Patsy and Cricket had soon used up their ammunition.

“It will be a give-and-take with our mitts now,” thought Patsy, “and it’s a mighty good thing that I’m the best runner. Hello! There’s a farmhouse, and Mr. Grafter is making right for it.”

There was a clearing in the woods, and Cricket leaped a fence and made for the farm buildings.

At first he headed toward the house, but a sight of the farmer and his wife, and a contingent of children, with a hired man and a bulldog in the background, caused him to change his mind.

Swerving to the right, he pushed for the barn.

“Hi, there!” cried Patsy. “He’s a thief! Head him off! Stop him!”

Instead of trying to head off the fleeing robber, however, the farmer and his family retreated into the house at a double quick.

“Hurry, Hiram!” cried the woman, frantically. “They’re tramps, and we’ll all be killed, I know we will!”

“Don’t you fret, Mirandy!” whooped the farmer. “I’ll take care of you.”

Then the door was slammed shut, effectually debarring the entrance of the hired man.

“Le’me in!” bellowed the hired man, banging at the door with his clinched fists. “Gosh all hemlocks, d’ye want me tew git killed?”

“You don’t amount to nothin’, Willyum,” called the farmer from behind the door; “they won’t kill you. Set Tige on ’em!”

The hired man whirled and loped toward the barn.

Seeing Patsy making in that direction, William sidetracked into a corn crib.

At any other time the ludicrous side of this situation would have appealed to Patsy, but just now he had his hands too full to consider it.

Cricket had run into the barn, and the detective sprang to the door through which he had vanished.

Just as Patsy reached the barn the bulldog, Tige, became a factor in the case.

The dog was not so easily scared as the farmer and the rest of the household, and didn’t care particularly who he tackled, just so long as he tackled somebody.

It happened that he came up with Patsy, as the latter was about to leap into the barn, caught him by the tails of his coat and pulled him backward.

The instant Patsy recoiled, a pitchfork cleaved the air in the exact place his head had been an instant before.

The detective grabbed the fork, wrenched it out of Cricket’s hands, and turned.

“Good dog!” cried Patsy. “But that’s enough of it,” and he brought the handle of the fork around with terrific force.

Tige was a bulldog, but he was sensible, and realized when he had enough.

He was knocked end over end, and when he picked himself up he raced for the corn crib and tried to get inside with the hired man.

As Patsy once more leaped to get into the barn and try conclusions with Cricket, a currycomb caught him in the shoulder.

“Never touched me!” shouted Patsy.

The next instant he and Cricket were having it rough and tumble on the barn floor.

Patsy had strength, and science as well, and was not long in placing the robber in chancery.

“That’ll do,” said Cricket; “you’re too many for me.”

“Where are your guns?” demanded Patsy.

“Dropped ’em,” panted Cricket. “They wasn’t any good, anyhow.”

“Got a knife?”

“No.”

“You’re another!”

Patsy thrust his hand into the breast of the robber’s coat and pulled out a knife in a leather sheath.

After transferring the blade to his own pocket, he brought out the darbies and attached them to his prisoner’s wrists.

“Now, get up,” he said, hanging on to the bracelets.

Cricket arose.

“Who are you?” he inquired.

“One of Nick Carter’s men,” grinned Patsy. “I should think you’d know the brand by this time.”

“The best thing we’ve done this trip is to fix Carter,” gloated Cricket.

“You starred yourself at that, didn’t you?” returned the detective dryly.

“You bet we did! Who was that duffer that ran your auto?”

“Chickering Carter, the Little Giant’s right-hand man.”

“And that cove in the water-soaked garments and minus the hat. You pulled him out of the river, didn’t you?”

“Oh, no. He swam out and walked up the bank.”

“But his hands and feet were tied!”

“That’s no trick at all for Nick Carter.”

Cricket gave a jump.

“Nick Carter!” he gasped. “Was that man Nick Carter?”

“Sure. Who did you think he was?”

Cricket muttered an oath.

“There’s no use in a lot of pinheads like us going up against Nick Carter,” he said. “When that sleuth enters a race it’s all over but paying the bets.”

“You’re a pretty sensible kind of a grafter, after all,” said Patsy. “If you’re done chinning, we’ll move—out of the barn and toward the house.”

Cricket started, and Patsy walked at his side, still keeping a grip on the comealongs.

The hired man and the dog were just crawling out of the corn crib, and the farmer had mustered up courage to open the door of the house a couple of inches, as the detective passed by with his prisoner.

A feeble plot darted through Cricket’s mind.

“I say,” he shouted, “this man is a highway robber, and he chased me here. Go for him, will you? Help me get away from him!”

“Yeou be derned,” drawled the farmer. “A feller that ’u’d scare honest folks like you did ought tew be robbed.”

“Got anything else you want to tell ’em?” queried Patsy.

Cricket gave a black scowl, and turned away.

“Then it’s us back to the auto,” went on the detective, and marched his prisoner back through the woods to the road.

The two machines were standing side by side, as they had been left, and there was no one around or in them.

“It looks as though I’d make a record for bringing in the first man,” remarked Patsy. “Hello! What’s that?”

A thump of swiftly falling hoofs reached him, and a team and a lumber wagon came slashing into view around a wooded bend.

The horses attached to the wagon were more than laying out.

The lines were dragging on the ground, there was no one on the bounding seat, and the awkward vehicle leaped and buck-jumped like a thing of life.

In the rear of the wagon box were two men, struggling with each other for the mastery.

One of the men was Chick, and the other was Spark.

CHAPTER XXVI.

HOW CHICK GOT HIS MAN.

Spark was not so good a runner as Cricket, and Chick would have made a capture much quicker than Patsy had done, had his man not doubled back to the road, and, fortunately for him, encountered a young woman in a gingham dress and sunbonnet, driving home from town.

“Stop!” cried Spark. “Take me in—I want to ride with you!”

“Not much you don’t!” returned the young woman, with a toss of her head. “I can pick my own comp’ny, thanks!”

“Will you stop?”

Spark displayed a revolver.

That was too much for the girl.

With a scream, she let go the lines and dropped over the wagon wheel to the opposite side of the road.

As she fell out, Spark jumped in.

“Go it, you whelps!” roared the robber, grabbing up the whip and lashing the horses right and left.

The lines were on the ground, but Spark did not care for that.

The faster the horses ran away, the better he would be suited.

Anything to get him out of the vicinity of Chick.

Chick, however, was not to be shaken off so easily.

He reached the road at the precise moment Spark began lashing the team, and, by some quick work, succeeded in grabbing the end gate of the wagon as it flew past.

In a twinkling Chick was jerked off his feet and flung in the air, but he did not release his hold.

His muscular arms alone dragged him into the wagon box.

The team was now tearing down the turnpike at a furious run, and Spark, balancing himself unsteadily, turned to see what had become of his pursuer.

Chick was in the box, and crawling toward him.

Jumping over the wagon seat, Spark hurled himself upon the detective, the latter rising to meet the attack.

That is the position they were in when the wagon dashed around the bend and past the two automobiles.

Chick was far and away a better man than Spark, but skill and muscle could not count in a predicament of that kind.

Finally the two men went down on the floor of the wagon.

The end gate had already been lost, so the combatants rolled over and over, and finally tumbled into the road.

This terminated the struggle.

Spark gave vent to a groan of pain, and relaxed his hold on the detective, and the latter got up, clasping his left wrist with his right hand.

Patsy, leading his prisoner by the irons, came to the scene as rapidly as he could.

“What’s the matter, Chick?” he asked.

“Sprained my left wrist, that’s all,” answered Chick. “It hurts like the deuce, but it’s nothing serious.”

While speaking, Chick was tying a handkerchief tightly around the injured forearm, using his right hand and his teeth.

“Your man seems to have got touched up pretty bad,” went on Patsy.

“He has only himself to blame, if he has. He thought he could get away from me by using that wagon, but I guess he thinks differently now.”

Chick stepped up to Spark, and bent over him.

“Where are you hurt?” he asked.

“My right leg,” groaned the robber; “it’s broken!”

“I don’t wonder at it. That was quite a jolt we had.”

The detective made a brief examination, and found the leg to be as the robber had stated.

“We can’t do anything for you for a while,” said Chick, helping himself to Spark’s weapons. “Just as soon as Nick comes in with the leader of your push, though, we’ll take the back track and get you under the doctor’s care as soon as possible.”

“Nick who?” asked Spark, faintly.

“Nick Carter.”

“What! That man we threw into the creek! Nick Carter?” Spark demanded, forgetting his pain for the moment.

“Who did you think it was?”

Spark voiced some lurid language, then added:

“If we had dreamed that fellow was the prize package himself, we’d have put a bullet into him before we gave him his bath.”

“Even then he would have beat you out,” put in Patsy. “The grafter doesn’t live that can do up Nick Carter.”

Between them, Chick and Patsy succeeded in getting Spark onto the rear seat of the Red Spider.

He was in great pain, and it was not thought necessary to put the irons on him.

When they had made Spark as comfortable as possible, the detectives became aware that the young woman was standing beside them, in the road.

“I want my wagon an’ team,” she said, aggressively, as she caught Chick’s eye.

“All right,” said Chick, cheerfully. “I think you’ll find the team at home when you get there.”

“Maybe I’ll find the team, but I’ll bet the wagon is strung all along the road,” the girl answered. “You’ll have to pay me damages.”

“This is the fellow who will have to stand the damage,” said Chick, indicating Spark.

“What’s his name, an’ where does he put up?”

“That’s too much for me.”

“Well,” said the girl, with a snap of her jaws, “they’ve lynched people in this country for doin’ less than he done.”

With that, she marched off and never turned a backward look.

Chick laughed a little, although he admitted to himself that it was pretty tough luck.

“Here, Patsy,” he said, “run after her and give her this twenty. That will soothe her feelings, I guess.”

Patsy chased after the girl and gave her the money.

“She was tickled to death,” he said, when he got back; “the old rattletrap wasn’t worth any more than the scrap iron that was in it; so it was bargain day for her, all right. I wonder what’s keeping Nick?”

“Clancy’ll kill him,” spoke up Cricket.

“Don’t you believe it,” returned Patsy.

“While we’re waiting,” said Chick, “we’ll get things in shape for the return trip.”

He was looking at the rear, right-hand tire, which hung to the wheel as flabby as a rag.

“Nick made a dead-center shot,” said Patsy.

“It’s a bad puncture, and I doubt if we can repair it.”

“You don’t have to repair it,” put in Spark, who was thinking of getting to a doctor in the shortest possible time. “There’s an emergency tire under the front seat. Use that.”

Chick brought out the tire, and also a force pump.

The machine was then “jacked up” with a couple of stout fence rails, the old tire taken off and the new one put on and inflated.

Hardly was this bit of work accomplished, when a boy came galloping up on horseback.

He was a red-headed boy, and was laboring under so much excitement that it was all he could do to talk.

“Big fight down to the blacksmith shop!” he finally managed to articulate.

“Who was doing the fighting?” asked Chick.

“Couple o’ fellers. Geewhilikins, but you never seen anything like it!”

“Was either of the men killed?”

“Naw; but one of ’em was purty nigh. I was told tew come here an’ have yeou come right down.”

“We’ll come,” said Chick. Turning to Patsy, he added: “You get in the electric machine with your man, and I’ll run this one.”

“You bet,” returned Patsy.

In less than a minute they were all aboard and ready for the start.

“How far away is the blacksmith shop, my lad?” asked Chick.

“’Baout a mile. Say, I want to stand here an’ see yeou start them thingumbobs.”

“All right.”

When the gasoline engine began to pound and the machine to move, the horse thought it had about all it could stand.

With a snort, and a flirt of the head, the animal took down the road for home, the boy yelling “Whoa!” at every jump.

It was a quick run which the two autos made to the blacksmith shop, for both Chick and Patsy were not a little worried over the boy’s story.

But they had their worry for nothing, for when they came in sight of the crossroads and the dingy and solitary little shop which stood there, they saw Nick in front, sitting on a keg, smoking and talking with a number of bystanders.

“Where’s Clancy, Nick?” asked Chick, bringing the Red Spider to a halt.

“Inside, handcuffed to an anvil. It was hard to do anything with him without killing him—and I didn’t want to do that.”

“Did he make you much trouble?” asked Patsy.

“Some. He’s one of that Montana clique, and they never seem to know when they’re downed. Clancy is beginning to scent the situation, though, for he hasn’t made much noise during the last few minutes. He was a pal of Ramsay’s, and you know what a time we had bagging him.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE LAST OF THE SWINDLERS.

Clancy had fought every step of the way through the woods to the blacksmith shop.

Every convenient tree trunk, every rise of ground, and every rock which he encountered in the course of his retreat was taken advantage of and used as a temporary breastwork.

The fact that no serious injuries resulted from the shooting proves how wary the men were.

Nick emptied his repeater at about the identical time Clancy emptied his revolvers.

Clancy saw this, and gave vent to a mocking laugh.

“It’s anybody’s fight yet!” he yelled.

No longer fearing to show himself, he turned and made straight through the timber, coming out on the road in the vicinity of the blacksmith shop.

Coming upon this blacksmith shop was an entirely unexpected event, but it was one of which Clancy did not fail to take instant advantage.

There was only one man in the shop at the time Clancy made his advent on the scene—one man and the red-headed boy before mentioned.

The boy was having the horse shod, and just before he went to work on the horse the smith had been heating a crowbar for the purpose of repointing it.

The crowbar was still in the fire, one end cool, but the other sizzling hot.

The blacksmith looked up as Clancy burst in.

With a quick blow, Clancy knocked him out of the way, and looked around for a weapon.

The crowbar was prominently in his view, and he caught it out of the fire.

Nick was in the door as Clancy possessed himself of the bar.

“I’ll have you!” roared the Montana man. “My second try at you won’t end like the first.”

“This is your third attempt on my life, Clancy,” returned Nick, springing forward and watching the Westerner warily.

“The third time?” repeated Clancy, resting the red-hot end of the bar for an instant on the anvil.

“My name’s Nick Carter, and——”

A torrent of invectives burst from the robber’s lips.

“I’ll have you now,” he yelled. “I’ll strike a blow for Ramsay as well as for myself!”

He jumped through the door of the shop, whirling the bar about his head in a livid circle.

Straight toward Nick he rushed, shouting his imprecations and vowing that he’d have the detective’s life.

Nick waited coolly, the rifle in his hand.

The robber struck at him, and Nick parried the blow with the gun, leaping in with the quickness of a cat and gripping Clancy about the waist.

From that moment the fight was lost to Clancy.

The Little Giant’s phenomenal strength quickly made itself felt.

He contracted his arms, the awful, viselike pressure slowly but surely driving the breath from the robber’s lungs.

Clancy began to gasp, his eyes distended, and the bar fell from his nerveless hand.

“Stop!” he whispered; “you’re killing me!”

Nick bore him into the blacksmith shop and hurled him to the ground.

Clancy struggled to avoid the handcuffs, and Nick, forcing his arms around the anvil, made the wrists fast.

“Now,” said the detective, “you can struggle all you please.”

The blacksmith was bathing his eye in a tub of water.

“Are you hurt much?” asked Nick.

“Thought for a spell I had been kicked by a mule,” answered the smith, wiping his eye on the dingy handkerchief that was tied around his neck. “Sorry I didn’t come through in time tew help ye.”

“Gee whiz!” cried the red-headed boy, “he didn’t need no help. He downed the big feller easier’n anythin’ I ever see. Gosh, mister, but you’re great!”

The youngster looked at Nick with admiring eyes, and the latter brought out a half-dollar, which he had in his pocket, and which had somehow escaped Clancy’s search and the consequent bath in the river.

“Do you want to earn this, my lad?” Nick asked.

“Can a duck swim?” the boy chirped.

“Then get on that horse and ride up the road. You won’t have to go far before you find a couple of automobiles——”

“What’s them?”

“You’ll know when you see them—you won’t make any mistake. If there is any one with the machines say that I want them brought here. Understand?”

“Like a house afire!”

“Then catch!”

Nick flipped the coin toward the boy, who grabbed it out of the air and stowed it away in his pocket.

A minute later he was galloping up the road.

Several men, hearing the commotion at the blacksmith shop, had come in from the neighboring fields, and they were standing around, looking from Clancy to Nick, and trying to get the true inwardness of the affair from the blacksmith.

“Come outside,” said Nick, amiably, “and I’ll tell you all about it.”

And that’s what he was doing when Chick and Patsy bore down on him—smoking and enlightening the natives.

A few hurried words of explanation were exchanged by the detectives.

“Are all the grips belonging to the prisoners still in the Red Spider?” asked Nick.

“There are three here,” said Chick; “they’re big ones, and heavy as lead.”

“It was the heft that kept the grafters from lugging the grips along when they made their break for the timber,” put in Patsy.

“Open one of the satchels, Chick,” said Nick, “and see what’s inside. I’m a little anxious to know.”

Chick complied.

“Whew!” he exclaimed, his amazed eyes fixed on the contents of the satchel he had opened.

“Gold, silver and bank notes?” queried Nick.

“I should say so!”

“It’s the bank money. I’ll travel in the Red Spider with you, Chick, and Clancy and the man with the broken leg will ride with us. Patsy, you and your man can hum along in the other machine.”

It was necessary to rope Clancy’s legs before he could be put into the automobile; but he was finally stowed away and all was made ready for the return journey.

Nick, before climbing into the Spider beside Clancy, turned to the blacksmith, who was standing near.

“How far is it to the Canadian line from here?” he asked.

“See that pile o’ rocks?” the smith returned, indicating a heap of stones about a hundred feet to the rear of the shop.

“Yes.”

“Well, Canady lays on t’other side o’ that monniment.”

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Patsy; “you wasn’t very much to the good, Nick, after all.”

“It was close, mighty close,” added Chick.

“A miss is as good as a mile,” said Nick, jumping into the auto. “Let her go, Chick.”

* * * * * * *

That evening, at about nine o’clock, the two automobiles drew up in front of police headquarters, in the city of Latimer.

The chief was not in evidence, but he was quickly summoned from home by telephone.

“By Jupiter!” he cried; “you’ve done it, Carter—done it, and with ground to spare.”

“A hundred feet of ground,” grinned Patsy.

“Are you sure they’re the right men?” asked the chief.

“That’s the only kind we capture,” said Chick.

“I believe you,” returned the chief, and shook hands heartily with the New York men and tendered his congratulations.

Cricket and Clancy were taken to their cells, and Spark was conveyed to the Memorial Hospital.

Nick went to the place to which he had taken Clancy in the automobile the night before the start north, and found that, as he surmised, Five Points was there.

Spark and Cricket had also stayed at this boarding house after the robbery, and when they left a nurse had been hired by Clancy to look after their wounded pal.

Five Points’ wound, which was at first not believed to be serious, took a turn for the worse and ultimately caused his death.

Before he died he made a statement, telling how he and Spark and Cricket had joined Clancy, had captured the automobile and made prisoners of the Chicago men, and had confined them in a house occupied by Cricket’s father—a worse criminal than Cricket ever dared to be.

Nick was on the point of proceeding to the place where the Chicago men were imprisoned and releasing them, when they saved him the trouble by releasing themselves and coming on to Latimer—the newspapers having informed them that the Red Spider was at that point.

Aside from their jarred feelings, the Chicago party was none the worse for its little experience.

The bank’s funds were found intact in the satchels, including the twenty thousand dollars paid over to Clancy on his certificate of deposit.

The ownership of that twenty thousand is still being debated in the courts.

Clancy, Spark and Cricket were sent to the penitentiary for life, not on a robbery, but on a murder charge.

By the capture of “the Montana man,” Nick Carter closed his experience with a gang of Western crooks, all of whom had proved desperate to a degree, and as courageous and clever as they were desperate.

THE END.

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Table of Contents

- A CIGARETTE CLEW;

- A CIGARETTE CLEW.

- CHAPTER I. WANTED: TWO MEN.

- CHAPTER II. TO THE CREDIT OF THE CATBOAT.

- CHAPTER III. A FAMILIAR FACE.

- CHAPTER IV. THE ROLL-TOP DESK.

- CHAPTER V. BETWEEN EARTH AND SKY.

- CHAPTER VI. A SMOOTH GAME.

- CHAPTER VII. SHIFTING THE RESPONSIBILITY.

- CHAPTER VIII. BOUCICAULT’S.

- CHAPTER IX. THE DEATH CHAMBER.

- CHAPTER X. BREAKING THE NEWS.

- CHAPTER XI. THE CIGARETTE MACHINE.

- CHAPTER XII. Montgomery at Bay.

- CHAPTER XIII. A NECESSARY CRUELTY.

- CHAPTER XIV. AT THE OBELISK.

- CHAPTER XV. THE TENDER-HEARTED WATCHMAN.

- CHAPTER XVI. THE CASHIER’S ANNOUNCEMENT.

- CHAPTER XVII. “OLD HANDS.”

- CHAPTER XVIII. A MYSTERIOUS BULLET.

- CHAPTER XIX. WARM WORK.

- CHAPTER XX. THE MEN FROM CHICAGO.

- CHAPTER XXI. NICK BECOMES CHAUFFEUR.

- CHAPTER XXII. FOLLOWING A THEORY.

- CHAPTER XXIII. OVER THE BRIDGE.

- CHAPTER XXIV. ONE WAY TO STOP AN AUTO.

- CHAPTER XXV. PATSY’S CAPTURE.

- CHAPTER XXVI. HOW CHICK GOT HIS MAN.

- CHAPTER XXVII. THE LAST OF THE SWINDLERS.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE