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Title: Following a Chance Clew; Or, Nick Carter's Lucky Find

Author: Nicholas Carter

Release date: November 11, 2021 [eBook #66708]

Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66708

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

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOLLOWING A CHANCE CLEW; OR, NICK CARTER'S LUCKY FIND ***

FOLLOWING A CHANCE 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., XXVIII.

NICK CARTER STORIES

New Magnet Library

Not a Dull Book in This List

ALL BY NICHOLAS CARTER

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

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

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

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

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

850—Wanted: A Clew

851—A Tangled Skein

852—The Bullion Mystery

853—The Man of Riddles

854—A Miscarriage of Justice

855—The Gloved Hand

856—Spoilers and the Spoils

857—The Deeper Game

858—Bolts from Blue Skies

859—Unseen Foes

860—Knaves in High Places

861—The Microbe of Crime

862—In the Toils of Fear

863—A Heritage of Trouble

864—Called to Account

865—The Just and the Unjust

866—Instinct at Fault

867—A Rogue Worth Trapping

868—A Rope of Slender Threads

869—The Last Call

870—The Spoils of Chance

871—A Struggle with Destiny

872—The Slave of Crime

873—The Crook’s Blind

874—A Rascal of Quality

875—With Shackles of Fire

876—The Man Who Changed Faces

877—The Fixed Alibi

878—Out with the Tide

879—The Soul Destroyers

880—The Wages of Rascality

881—Birds of Prey

882—When Destruction Threatens

883—The Keeper of Black Hounds

884—The Door of Doubt

885—The Wolf Within

886—A Perilous Parole

887—The Trail of the Finger Prints

888—Dodging the Law

889—A Crime in Paradise

890—On the Ragged Edge

891—The Red God of Tragedy

892—The Man Who Paid

893—The Blind Man’s Daughter

894—One Object in Life

895—As a Crook Sows

896—In Record Time

897—Held in Suspense

898—The $100,000 Kiss

899—Just One Slip

900—On a Million-dollar Trail

901—A Weird Treasure

902—The Middle Link

903—To the Ends of the Earth

904—When Honors Pall

905—The Yellow Brand

906—A New Serpent in Eden

907—When Brave Men Tremble

908—A Test of Courage

909—Where Peril Beckons

910—The Gargoni Girdle

911—Rascals & Co.

912—Too Late to Talk

913—Satan’s Apt Pupil

914—The Girl Prisoner

915—The Danger of Folly

916—One Shipwreck Too Many

917—Scourged by Fear

918—The Red Plague

919—Scoundrels Rampant

920—From Clew to Clew

921—When Rogues Conspire

922—Twelve in a Grave

923—The Great Opium Case

924—A Conspiracy of Rumors

925—A Klondike Claim

926—The Evil Formula

927—The Man of Many Faces

928—The Great Enigma

929—The Burden of Proof

930—The Stolen Brain

931—A Titled Counterfeiter

932—The Magic Necklace

933—Round the World for a Quarter

934—Over the Edge of the World

935—In the Grip of Fate

936—The Case of Many Clews

937—The Sealed Door

938—Nick Carter and the Green Goods Men

939—The Man Without a Will

940—Tracked Across the Atlantic

941—A Clew from the Unknown

942—The Crime of a Countess

943—A Mixed-up Mess

944—The Great Money-order Swindle

945—The Adder’s Brood

946—A Wall Street Haul

947—For a Pawned Crown

948—Sealed Orders

949—The Hate that Kills

950—The American Marquis

951—The Needy Nine

952—Fighting Against Millions

953—Outlaws of the Blue

954—The Old Detective’s Pupil

955—Found in the Jungle

956—The Mysterious Mall Robbery

957—Broken Bars

958—A Fair Criminal

959—Won by Magic

960—The Piano Box Mystery

961—The Man They Held Back

962—A Millionaire Partner

963—A Pressing Peril

964—An Australian Klondike

965—The Sultan’s Pearls

966—The Double Shuffle Club

967—Paying the Price

968—A Woman’s Hand

969—A Network of Crime

970—At Thompson’s Ranch

971—The Crossed Needles

972—The Diamond Mine Case

973—Blood Will Tell

974—An Accidental Password

975—The Crook’s Double

976—Two Plus Two

977—The Yellow Label

978—The Clever Celestial

979—The Amphitheater Plot

980—Gideon Drexel’s Millions

981—Death In Life

982—A Stolen Identity

983—Evidence by Telephone

984—The Twelve Tin Boxes

985—Clew Against Clew

986—Lady Velvet

987—Playing a Bold Game

988—A Dead Man’s Grip

989—Snarled Identities

990—A Deposit Vault Puzzle

991—The Crescent Brotherhood

992—The Stolen Pay Train

993—The Sea Fox

994—Wanted by Two Clients

995—The Van Alstine Case

996—Check No. 777

997—Partners in Peril

998—Nick Carter’s Clever Protégé

999—The Sign of the Crossed Knives

1000—The Man Who Vanished

1001—A Battle for the Right

1002—A Game of Craft

1003—Nick Carter’s Retainer

1004—Caught in the Tolls

1005—A Broken Bond

1006—The Crime of the French Café

1007—The Man Who Stole Millions

1008—The Twelve Wise Men

1009—Hidden Foes

1010—A Gamblers’ Syndicate

1011—A Chance Discovery

1012—Among the Counterfeiters

1013—A Threefold Disappearance

1014—At Odds with Scotland Yard

1015—A Princess of Crime

1016—Found on the Beach

1017—A Spinner of Death

1018—The Detective’s Pretty Neighbor

1019—A Bogus Clew

1020—The Puzzle of Five Pistols

1021—The Secret of the Marble Mantel

1022—A Bite of an Apple

1023—A Triple Crime

1024—The Stolen Race Horse

1025—Wildfire

1026—A Herald Personal

1027—The Finger of Suspicion

1028—The Crimson Clew

1029—Nick Carter Down East

1030—The Chain of Clews

1031—A Victim of Circumstances

1032—Brought to Bay

1033—The Dynamite Trap

1034—A Scrap of Black Lace

1035—The Woman of Evil

1036—A Legacy of Hate

1037—A Trusted Rogue

1038—Man Against Man

1039—The Demons of the Night

1040—The Brotherhood of Death

1041—At the Knife’s Point

1042—A Cry for Help

1043—A Stroke of Policy

1044—Hounded to Death

1045—A Bargain in Crime

1046—The Fatal Prescription

1047—The Man of Iron

1048—An Amazing Scoundrel

1049—The Chain of Evidence

1050—Paid with Death

1051—A Fight for a Throne

1052—The Woman of Steel

1053—The Seal of Death

1054—The Human Fiend

1055—A Desperate Chance

1056—A Chase in the Dark

1057—The Snare and the Game

1058—The Murray Hill Mystery

1059—Nick Carter’s Close Call

1060—The Missing Cotton King

1061—A Game of Plots

1062—The Prince of Liars

1063—The Man at the Window

1064—The Red League

1065—The Price of a Secret

1066—The Worst Case on Record

1067—From Peril to Peril

1068—The Seal of Silence

1069—Nick Carter’s Chinese Puzzle

1070—A Blackmailer’s Bluff

1071—Heard in the Dark

1072—A Checkmated Scoundrel

1073—The Cashier’s Secret

1074—Behind a Mask

1075—The Cloak of Guilt

1076—Two Villains in One

1077—The Hot Air Clew

1078—Run to Earth

1070—The Certified Check

1080—Weaving the Web

1081—Beyond Pursuit

1082—The Claws of the Tiger

1083—Driven from Cover

1084—A Deal in Diamonds

1085—The Wizard of the Cue

1086—A Race for Ten Thousand

1087—The Criminal Link

1088—The Red Signal

1089—The Secret Panel

1090—A Bonded Villain

1091—A Move in the Dark

1092—Against Desperate Odds

1093—The Telltale Photographs

1094—The Ruby Pin

1095—The Queen of Diamonds

1096—A Broken Trail

1097—An Ingenious Stratagem

1098—A Sharper’s Downfall

1099—A Race Track Gamble

1100—Without a Clew

1101—The Council of Death

1102—The Hole in the Vault

1103—In Death’s Grip

1104—A Great Conspiracy

1105—The Guilty Governor

1106—A Ring of Rascals

1107—A Masterpiece of Crime

1108—A Blow for Vengeance

1109—Tangled Threads

1110—The Crime of the Camera

1111—The Sign of the Dagger

1112—Nick Carter’s Promise

1113—Marked for Death

1114—The Limited Holdup

1115—When the Trap Was Sprung

1116—Through the Cellar Wall

1117—Under the Tiger’s Claws

1118—The Girl in the Case

1119—Behind a Throne

1120—The Lure of Gold

1121—Hand to Hand

1122—From a Prison Cell

1123—Dr. Quartz, Magician

1124—Into Nick Carter’s Web

1125—The Mystic Diagram

1126—The Hand that Won

1127—Playing a Lone Hand

1128—The Master Villain

1129—The False Claimant

1130—The Living Mask

1131—The Crime and the Motive

1132—A Mysterious Foe

1133—A Missing Man

1134—A Game Well Played

1135—A Cigarette Clew

1136—The Diamond Trail

1137—The Silent Guardian

1138—The Dead Stranger

1140—The Doctor’s Stratagem

1141—Following a Chance Clew

1142—The Bank Draft Puzzle

1143—The Price of Treachery

1144—The Silent Partner

1145—Ahead of the Game

1146—A Trap of Tangled Wire

1147—In the Gloom of Night

1148—The Unaccountable Crook

1149—A Bundle of Clews

1150—The Great Diamond Syndicate

1151—The Death Circle

1152—The Toss of a Penny

1153—One Step Too Far

1154—The Terrible Thirteen

1155—A Detective’s Theory

1156—Nick Carter’s Auto Trail

1157—A Triple Identity

1158—A Mysterious Graft

1159—A Carnival of Crime

1160—The Bloodstone Terror

1161—Trapped in His Own Net

1162—The Last Move in the Game

1163—A Victim of Deceit

1164—With Links of Steel

1165—A Plaything of Fate

1166—The Key King Clew

1167—Playing for a Fortune

1168—At Mystery’s Threshold

1169—Trapped by a Woman

1170—The Four Fingered Glove

1171—Nabob and Knave

1172—The Broadway Cross

1173—The Man Without a Conscience

1174—A Master of Deviltry

1175—Nick Carter’s Double Catch

1176—Doctor Quartz’s Quick Move

1177—The Vial of Death

1178—Nick Carter’s Star Pupils

1179—Nick Carter’s Girl Detective

1180—A Baffled Oath

1181—A Royal Thief

1182—Down and Out

1183—A Syndicate of Rascals

1184—Played to a Finish

1185—A Tangled Case

1186—In Letters of Fire

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

To be published in July, 1926.

1187—Crossed Wires

1188—A Plot Uncovered

To be published In August, 1926.

1189—The Cab Driver’s Secret

1190—Nick Carter’s Death Warrant

To be published In September, 1926.

1191—The Plot that Failed

1192—Nick Carter’s Masterpiece

1193—A Prince of Rogues

To be published in October, 1926.

1194—In the Lap of Danger

1195—The Man from London

To be published in November, 1926.

1196—Circumstantial Evidence

1197—The Pretty Stenographer Mystery

To be published in December, 1926.

1198—A Villainous Scheme

1199—A Plot Within a Plot

Following a Chance Clew

OR,

NICK CARTER’S LUCKY FIND

BY

NICHOLAS CARTER

Author of the celebrated stories of Nick Carter’s adventures,

which are published exclusively in the NEW MAGNET LIBRARY,

conceded to be among the best detective tales ever written.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION

PUBLISHERS

79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1899, 1900 and 1904

By STREET & SMITH

——

Following a Chance Clew

(Printed in the United States of America)

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign

languages, including the Scandinavian.

FOLLOWING A CHANCE CLEW.

CHAPTER I.

ON A SEPTEMBER NIGHT.

“Nathan Lusker.”

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

He noticed that the “regulator” indicated midnight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No; I never saw her before.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did he give any directions to the driver?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why shouldn’t I go away?”

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

“Suspicion! Suspicion of what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wounded!”

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

“Then it was that man——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And who are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very well. Here comes the ambulance.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.

A NOVEL TIMEKEEPER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can that be proved?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But nobody has ever seen Helstone himself.”

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

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

“I went to the hospital.”

“Is the woman dead?”

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

“How was she dressed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It certainly has that appearance.”

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

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

The chief nodded.

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

“And also the woman,” Nick added.

“What is her description?”

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

“Looks like a refined woman?”

“Decidedly.”

“Where is the wound?”

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

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

“I have.”

“Good. You have informed Inspector McLaughlin?”

“Certainly.”

“There’s nothing that I can do.”

“I think not, thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then a card was brought in by an officer.

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

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

He wore neither beard nor mustache.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What else did he take?” asked Nick.

Mr. Parks seemed to be much embarrassed.

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

“What was your total loss?”

“In excess of thirty thousand dollars.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is Mrs. Parks at home?”

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

“Have you received any answer?” asked Nick.

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

At this moment there was a knock at the door.

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

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

He tore it open.

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

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

“Have you her picture?” asked Nick.

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

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

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

“Will you go to her?”

“Can it be true?”

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

CHAPTER III.

THE ONLY WITNESS.

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

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

“It is all wrong,” said Nick.

“And that picture?”

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

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

“Why did you suspect her at first?”

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

“Did you tell the servants of your loss?”

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

“They have been the guilty ones.”

Parks shook his head.

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

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

“How about the nephew?”

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

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

All three went at once to Bellevue Hospital.

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

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

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

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

Inspector McLaughlin could not tell where he had gone.

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

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

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

“Certainly not.”

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

“It is impossible,” said the surgeon.

“Why?”

“Because the patient could not endure the removal.”

“Is there any hope?”

“There is a faint hope.”

“Thank God for that.”

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

“Will you not allow me to see her?”

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

Parks bowed his head.

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

“Yes.”

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

“You may.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is true.”

“And Parks would naturally conceal it.”

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

Nick said nothing.

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

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

“Justice to her?”

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

“Reeves?”

“The same.”

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

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

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

“Lack of witnesses.”

“That seems incredible.”

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

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

“What do you think?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, Chick,” said his chief.

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

“Did anybody see her go in?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What!” exclaimed the inspector.

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

“What will you do?”

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

“Certainly.”

“And they haven’t caught him?”

“Equally true, I’m sorry to say.”

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

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going ahead of him.”

“You are.”

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

“How’ll you do that?”

“I’ll set a trap.”

“A trap?”

“Yes, a mouse trap.”

“For Doc Helstone?”

“For his whole gang.”

CHAPTER IV.

THE DISPLACED BANDAGE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Helstone, Helstone,” murmured the patient.

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

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

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

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

Nick Carter had crept quietly into the room.

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

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

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

“No, I didn’t,” replied the woman.

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

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

He summoned a nurse from the adjacent ward.

As he passed Nick he whispered:

“Is there anything wrong here?”

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

The detective turned to the unfaithful nurse.

“Come with me,” he said.

She obeyed him without a word.

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

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

“What work?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you have any acquaintance with him?”

“No.”

“Why did he come to you?”

“He was advised to come.”

“By whom?”

“Several physicians, he said.”

“Their names?”

“I have forgotten.”

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

“What do you mean?”

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

“You insult me.”

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

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

“What did he agree to pay you?”

“The usual fee.”

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

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

She hesitated to reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what was the effect of it upon the case?

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

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

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

Nick saw at once that she did not know him.

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

“It is true,” said Nick.

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

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

“He is,” said Nick.

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

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

Nick showed it.

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

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

There was no similarity between the two hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V.

BENTON, THE ENGLISHMAN.

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

He was still conversing with the inspector when Chick appeared.

“Benton is your man,” said Chick.

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

“That’s he.”

“Has that crook set up in business again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you find that out?”

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

“What do you suspect?” asked the inspector.

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

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

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

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

“True.”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

“I don’t agree with you.”

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

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

“Good. Do you want any men?”

“No; Chick and I will do the job.”

“Where is Benton located?”

“At No.—Sixth Avenue.”

“In the rear?”

“Yes.”

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

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

“With a sentry guarding each.”

“No doubt of it.”

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

Nick nodded.

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

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

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

“We are followed.”

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

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

Neither gave the faintest sign of having discovered the pursuer.

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

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

“Which of us is he after?” said Nick.

“We must find out.”

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

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

The shadow followed Nick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The positions were now reversed. Nick followed the shadow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He put his head in to make sure.

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

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

CHAPTER VI.

A POINT GAINED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

An ambulance was summoned; Nick was put into it.

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

Nick and Chick presently met again.

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

“He is a slippery rascal.”

“What became of him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yer oughter be.”

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

“Yer can’t see him.”

“Why not?”

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

“Come off, you coon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He darted off in the direction of the alley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then a voice said:

“Al Hardy! When did they let you in?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nick decided to bide his time.

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

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

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

Ten minutes passed and absolutely nothing happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It rang four times.

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

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

How long was this thing going to last?

Was Chick the last arrival?

How could Benton be captured secretly in this dense darkness?

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

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

CHAPTER VII.

IN THE GLOOM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A second time this occurred, and then a third.

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

For the fourth time Benton entered the room.

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

Then dead silence ensued.

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

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

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

Then, for a second, he listened.

Surely Benton was creeping up toward him.

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

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

It was Pete, the negro.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again Nick made a slight movement to attract their attention.

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

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

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

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

The flame flashed up in the faces of his assailants.

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

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

The bright flame dazzled and confused them for an instant.

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

The sight which met their gaze was not reassuring.

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

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

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

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

It would be suicide and nothing else.

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

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

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

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

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

“Now hold up your hands,” said Nick.

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

“Pete,” he continued, “face round.”

The negro obeyed, turning his back to Nick.

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

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

“Benton, come here,” said Nick.

The old man advanced, grinding his teeth.

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

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

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

But the first word barely escaped his lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nick followed with the light.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nick disclosed himself.

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

“How did it happen, my boy?”

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

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

“I don’t think so. How do you feel?”

“Dizzy; but it will pass away.”

Nick examined Patsy carefully.

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

“Sure.”

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.

A SEMICIRCLE OF CRIME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The person whom he ushered in was Chick.

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

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

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

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

In reply Nick rapidly sketched his own adventures.

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

Chick signified his readiness.

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

They were secured without trouble.

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

Each man was secured as he came in.

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

A strange spectacle was presented in that room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It has caught a fair lot of vermin.”

“Shall we take them to headquarters?”

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

The inspector drew Nick into a corner.

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

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

“Coming?”

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

“What?”

“I am going to call on Morton Parks.”

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

“I am going to him,” said Nick.

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

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

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

“No; I am in no mood to sleep.”

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

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

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

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

Parks pressed his hands to his forehead.

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

Parks sprang to his feet.

“Has he been taken?” he cried.

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

“Who is he?”

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

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

CHAPTER IX.

PARKS IN DISGUISE.

The two men left the house immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

“Name it.”

“I wish you to be disguised.”

“For what reason?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do as you wish.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nick replaced the mirror and resumed his seat.

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

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

“It is, as I believe.”

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

“It should not be.”

“What do you mean?”

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

Parks sprang to his feet.

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

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

Parks bowed in assent.

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

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

“With what brokers did she deal?”

“I cannot tell.”

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

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

“How long ago was this?”

“Over a year.”

“And she did not reform?”

“No; she continued to speculate.”

“How do you know?”

“The theft of the jewels proves it.”

“That was on August 3d?”

“Yes.”

“She obtained money as well as jewels?”

“Yes.”

“A considerable sum?”

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

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

“I suppose so.”

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

“You have?”

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

“What have you learned?”

“That she did not speculate.”

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

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

“How?”

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

“This seems incredible.”

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

“You amaze me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait. This is all supposition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And my nephew——”

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

“What!”

“Had she no near relatives?”

“None.”

“She had a husband.”

“Liar! Do you dare to say——”

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

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

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

“Certainly.”

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

“I will face them instantly.”

“Then come.”

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

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

There they found Chick.

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

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

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

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

A volley of oaths was the reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Helstone! Helstone!” they shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parks leaped back as if a thunderbolt had struck him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X.

“SPEAKING OF SELLS.”

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

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

These last words were addressed to Parks.

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

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

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

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

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

“A message from the hospital.”

“Let me see it.”

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

“She is fully conscious. She knows everything.”

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

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

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

Doc Helstone and his friends were taken to police headquarters.

Reeves, the witness, was released.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But how about the diamonds, Nick?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And from this position she refused to be moved.

But Nick did not press the matter.

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

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

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

He had prepared for this trip to Sing Sing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.”

“Help yourself.”

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

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

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

At any rate, that was how Detective Jones felt.

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

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

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

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

“The drugged cigar has done its work.”

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

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

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

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

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

But Detective Jones was still dead to the world.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI.

THE FUGITIVE.

“Now where am I to go?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * * *

“Talk about nerve!”

“What is it now, Mr. Smith?”

“Burglars!”

“What, again?”

“Yes, last night, at my residence.”

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

“What did they get?” asked the chief.

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

“Well?”

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

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

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

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

“Surely they didn’t find much there.”

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

“And no one heard them?”

“Not a soul.”

“Go on.”

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

“Proceed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t always get Nick Carter.”

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

The chief smiled.

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

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

* * * * * * *

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

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

He started to run.

They did the same.

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

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

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

He was partially stunned, but grappled with his assailant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now, Parks, explain.”

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

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

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

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

“How about your own record?” asked Parks.

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

“Nick Carter.”

“The keenest sleuth alive!”

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

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

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

“Then you think he is after you?”

“I am certain of it.”

“And yet, you come here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parks sprang to his feet.

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

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

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

“I don’t think he does.”

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

“I won’t give you a cent.”

Parks started for the door.

“Where are you going?” demanded Gilmore.

“To the police.”

Gilmore opened the door.

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

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

“Did you ring?” he asked.

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

“You see how it is,” he said.

“See how what is?”

“That is a detective.”

“Who hired him?”

“I did.”

“Knowing him to be a detective?”

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

“How?”

“By his coming here and asking that question.”

“I don’t understand.”

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

Parks threw himself back into his chair with an oath.

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

Parks pondered for some moments.

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

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

Parks hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where does your power come from?”

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

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

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

They both dashed out, for it was quite evident that there was serious trouble in the main dining room.

“One of the waiters threw a server of dishes at a customer,” explained an employee.

“Where is that waiter?” thundered Gilmore. “I’ll take care of him.”

“I don’t know, sir,” was the reply. “He was here a moment ago.”

“Where is the customer?”

“There on the floor, sir. He was knocked down.”

The proprietor stepped forward and lifted the fallen man’s head.

It was Geary, his rascally partner in the electric-drill scheme.

“They had some words, sir,” continued the waiter, “and the customer tried to grab the waiter.”

Geary was revived, and the three men went back to the private room together. There a new surprise awaited them.

The plan they had been examining was not there, although Gilmore and Parks had left it on the table when they rushed out.

There was a movement by the door, and Geary turned, to see the man who had struck him stealing out of the room.

“There’s that detective again,” he yelled. “Grab him.”

“Don’t allow him to escape,” roared Gilmore. “He has the missing paper. Shoot him down.”

The proprietor drew a revolver as he spoke, but Geary caught his hand in time to prevent the shot.

“Do you want the police down here?” he said, with an oath.

“I don’t want him to escape,” said Gilmore, making a dive for the young man, who was just passing out of the doorway.

The burglar was a powerful man, but he was little more than a baby in the hands of the man he sought to detain.

He was whirled from his feet in an instant, and thrown against his two companions, who were now advancing to assist him.

Before the three men could do anything more to keep the young man from leaving the room, he had closed the door with a bang and darted through the restaurant to the street.

When Gilmore opened the door the fugitive was out of sight.

“Why didn’t you catch him?” demanded the proprietor. “The man is a thief, and the racket out here was nothing but a scheme to steal some private papers from my room.”

“He went through like a flash,” explained the cashier.

“Nixon followed him,” replied a waiter.

“I am glad that one employee has some sense,” growled Gilmore. “When Nixon comes back, send him to my room.”

Nixon was an old crook, who had been brought on from New York to keep track of things in the restaurant.

“I told you he was a detective, didn’t I?” demanded Gilmore of Parks, as soon as the door of the private room was closed.

“How did you know that?” asked Geary.

“Because he stood in front of the door when I opened it a few minutes ago. Then, to account for his presence there, he asked if I had rung for him.”

“Well?”

“Well, there is no bell in the room. He was there listening.”

“I spotted him when I came in to-night,” said Geary, “and accused him of trying to pick my pocket. He threw the dishes at me, and I made a grab for him. That’s all I know about it. He strikes a hard blow, whoever he is.”

“How long has he been here?” asked Parks.

“Only two days,” was the reply.

“Then he followed me here, and spotted this place the first thing, knowing that I would be likely to come here,” said Parks.

“But what did he dodge into the room for as soon as we left it?”

“To find out what we were up to; and he found out, too.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Gilmore, lifting a piece of paper from the floor as he spoke.

The paper was the missing plan, which the intruder had undoubtedly dropped in the scuffle.

“So the electric-drill scheme is safe for the present, at least,” said Parks, “but there is no knowing how long it will remain so, for the man just in here was Chick, Nick Carter’s assistant.”

“Then you make a skip,” said Geary, “and don’t come here again. We can communicate by letter.”

Parks did not move, but stood pointing toward the now open door.

CHAPTER XII.

“ONE OF THE BOYS.”

“Hello! What’s up, now?”

Nick Carter, sitting in his room, at the Windsor Hotel, on Dearborn Street, looked up with a smile, as Chick rushed into the room and hastened to the window.

“Nothing special.”

Chick peered carefully through the blinds as he spoke.

“I’m glad you came in early to-night,” said Nick, “for I am feeling a trifle annoyed.”

“About what?”

“It’s taking altogether too much time to get this man Parks back to Sing Sing.”

Chick turned out the gas, threw the window blinds wide open, and sat down in front of the window.

“I have a little surprise for you. Parks is at present trying to renew acquaintance with two famous high-power burglars, Gilmore and Geary.”

“What! Have you see him—Parks, I mean?”

“He is there at the Gilmore chop house.”

Chick then explained all that had taken place in the restaurant that evening.

“And what was the paper you got hold of in the room?” asked Nick.

“That’s just what I’d like to know. You see, I dropped it in the scuffle before I had a chance to look at it.”

“What did it look like?”

“It was a drawing of some kind.”

Nick pondered a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “that there are no charges against Gilmore and Geary. I’d run them in to-night.”

“Were they acquitted when last arrested?”

“Yes; by perjury.”

“Well, there will soon be a charge against them,” said Chick.

“What do you mean?”

“The paper I found on the table was a drawing of some kind.”

“You said that before.”

“Yes, and that Gilmore chophouse is next door to a bank. Do you begin to catch on?”

“I was wondering if you had the same idea as myself,” said Nick. “I see you have. We will postpone the rearrest of Parks until we get ready to bag the other villains. What are you looking at out there?”

Chick pointed across the street.

“Do you see that man standing there by the cigar store?” he asked.

“Certainly.”

“Well, that’s the man who followed me from the chophouse.”

“You know who it is, of course?”

“No,” said Chick, with a laugh, “my acquaintance with crooks is not so extensive as is that of my chief.”

“Well, it’s Nixon, the all-around crook from New York,” replied the detective. “I wonder what he’s up to now?”

This last remark was caused by Nixon stepping out on the walk and stopping two men who were passing.

“They’re a tough-looking pair,” said Chick, “and he seems to be well acquainted with them. I believe they are going away together.”

Instead of starting away, however, the three men stepped into the cigar store and stood there by the counter, Nixon never taking his eyes from the doorway through which Chick had entered the hotel.

Nick began to change his clothes.

In about five minutes he looked like the prosperous advance agent of a negro minstrel company—one of the fellows who always talk show, no matter where they are, and who want everybody with whom they come in contact to know that they belong to the “perfesh.”

“How’s this?” he asked. “This will be apt to take down there in the chophouse, won’t it?”

“I should say so. Shall I go along?”

“Not with me, and not in that rig,” was the reply, and the next moment the detective was on his way across the street to the cigar store, having left the hotel by a side entrance.

It took but a moment for Nick to get into conversation with Nixon, for the crook was quick to recognize “one of the boys,” and Nick declared, on entering the cigar store, that there wasn’t a decent chophouse in the whole city of Chicago.

The two toughs stepped back, and the detective and Nixon were soon on their way to the restaurant.

The first thing Nick saw, on entering the place, was the open door of the private room.

Parks stood there pointing out.

Behind him were Gilmore and Geary.

“There comes Nixon now,” Nick heard Parks say, “and we may as well see what he has to say.”

Nick seated himself at a table and ordered a chop, and Nixon went back to the private room.

In a moment the two men who had left Nixon at the cigar store entered the place and sat down at the rear table.

The waiter seemed to know them, for he went back and opened a conversation with them.

Nick could not hear what they were saying, for the distance was too great, but he could now and then catch a word.

The men were talking of highway robbery and burglary.

In a few moments Nixon joined the two men, and then the waiter went away.

“I tell you, it’s a sure thing,” Nick heard Nixon say; “for he’s up there at the Windsor Hotel.”

“How you goin’ ter git ’im out?” demanded one of the men.

“That’s easy enough,” was the reply, and then the men talked in whispers again.

The detective laughed, softly to himself.

“They’ll have a nice job coaxing Chick to come out and be killed,” he thought.

Presently a muscular-looking young fellow entered the room and seated himself at a table not far from that occupied by Nick.

His oily trousers were thrust into the tops of a pair of heavy, unpolished boots, and he wore a baggy, blue woolen shirt under his rough coat, which smelled of machine oil. No vest or suspenders were in sight, and his closely cropped head was covered with a greasy felt hat.

He looked like an iron worker out for a midnight lunch.

He ordered a light meal and took out a huge roll of bills, as if to pay for it in advance.

Nick saw Nixon watching the money enviously.

“Now there’ll be a picnic,” he thought, wondering how the attempt to rob the young mechanic would be made.

He did not think Gilmore would allow any work of the kind on the premises, for it would be certain to become known, and would direct the attention of the police to the place, a thing which the burglar could by no means afford to have done.

Nick’s chop was finished by this time, but he ordered a cup of coffee and a cigar, and sat there smoking and waiting.

Before long one of the toughs walked over to where the young mechanic was sitting.

“I’ve just been strikin’ de boss fer a lunch,” he said, with a grin, “an’ I couldn’t make it stick. Can’t you help me out?”

The mechanic motioned the bum to take a chair, and beckoned to a waiter.

“Fill him up,” he said, shortly. Nick started at the sound of his voice, and then a pleased smile crept over his face.

In a moment the seeming mechanic took out his money again to pay for what the tough had ordered.

The tough sprang from his chair and made a grab for the roll of bills.

The next moment he was one of the most surprised men in Chicago.

His hand did not get within a foot of the coveted prize.

His intended victim had been expecting just such a move.

As the tough leaned forward he caught the other’s right square on the throat, and went down to the floor like a log.

The mechanic went on eating his lunch.

But the affair was not to be allowed to pass off so quietly.

The fallen man’s companion, Nixon, and three or four waiters made for the seeming mechanic, and in a moment all was confusion.

The young fellow put up a hot fight, and the chophouse people were sent tumbling around on the floor in great shape.

Nick watched the battle curiously for a moment, and then sprang to his feet with an exclamation of anger.

There were five to one, and yet the waiters were arming themselves with clubs and meat cleavers.

The detective reached the scene just in time.

A cowardly waiter was aiming a blow at the seeming mechanic from behind, which would have ended the fight right there.

He was not striking with his fist, but held a heavy hatchet in his hand.

Without saying a word, Nick struck out, and the waiter went halfway over a table before he fell.

The dishes, with which the table had been loaded, struck the floor about the time the waiter did, and there was a great crash as the fellow floundered around among the damaged crockery.

The door of the private room was now opened, and the three high-power burglars, who had been perfecting their schemes there, rushed out.

Nixon and his gang drew back, leaving Nick and the seeming mechanic standing by the overturned table.

Gilmore dashed forward and seized the young man by the collar.

“You’ll go over the road for this,” he shouted.

The young fellow threw out his hip and caught the burglar around the body.

It was a pretty case of hip-lock, and Gilmore carried another table to the floor when he went down.

“It’s a conspiracy to rob the place,” cried Geary. “Throw them out and call the police.”

But the employees had had enough of trying to throw the two men out of the place, and they held back.

Geary began pounding on the floor of the room.

“That’s a signal,” whispered Nick, to the seeming mechanic. “If a door leading into the cellar is opened now, get down there, if you can, while I amuse the people up here.”

“All right,” replied Chick, “but you ought to be getting out before long. They’ll suspect it’s a scheme.”

Gilmore arose from the floor, brushing milk, butter and sugar from his clothing, and started for the door.

“This is no chance fight,” he shouted. “These men came here on purpose to get up a row.”

“You lie,” said Chick, coolly, “one of your toughs tried to rob me, and this gentleman came to my assistance.”

Before Gilmore could reply a back door was opened, and three hard-looking men rushed into the room.

“There come the men who are putting in the electric-drill machinery,” whispered Nick. “Now, look out for hot work.”

The two detectives moved toward the door, but the gang closed in upon them.

CHAPTER XIII.

THREE MILLIONS AT STAKE.

“And I tell you they were both detectives.”

“You are crazy on the subject of detectives.”

Gilmore sprang to his feet with an oath and pointed around the room.

“You’ll soon be telling me that no damage has been done here,” he said, “and that the hot fight those fellows put up was all by way of amusement.”

“And you’ll be telling me,” said Geary, “that the advance agent brought in was Nick Carter, and that the mechanic was Chick.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

Geary laughed long and heartily.

The men were still in the chophouse.

The large dining room still showed that a desperate fight had taken place there, for the floor was covered with broken dishes.

The waiters and cooks had taken their departure for the night, and Parks and Nixon had gone out.

“What strikes me as peculiar,” said Geary, “is the way the fellows got out of the place.”

“The men you named a moment ago have a way of doing such things,” replied Gilmore.

“I stood right there by the stairs,” said Geary, “and I’ll take my oath that only one of them went in that rush.”

“Which one?”

“The advance agent.”

“Then, where did the other go?”

“I give it up.”

“I’m afraid the electric-drill scheme is busted,” said Gilmore. “If the detectives are onto us, we certainly can’t carry out the plans made in New York.”

“But there are three millions in that bank vault.”

“If we can’t get them out they may as well be in India.”

“We must get them out.”

“How?”

“By the old plan.”

“With those fellows watching us?” sneered Gilmore.

“I wish Parks had gone all the way to Sing Sing.”

“What’s he got to do with it?”

“The detectives followed him here. They have known where we were all the time,” said Geary, “and when Parks led them here, they guessed he was steering for some more of the ‘crooked’ family, and probably decided they’d look into our history, and run us in with the man they want.”

“Have you any idea they are watching the drill scheme?” questioned Gilmore, anxiously.

“How could they be?”

“There is no knowing what those fellows will find out.”

“The drill scheme is all right, notwithstanding what took place here to-night,” said Geary. “How much money have we?”

“Mighty little. Parks pulled out fifty to-night.”

“Then he must earn some and replace it.”

“How can he earn money, after what has happened to him?”

“In the old way, I guess.”

“Burglary?”

“Of course.”

“But will he do it?” asked Gilmore.

“Of course he will. Morton Parks is not Doc Helstone, leader of criminals, now. He’s just an everyday crook, willing to do anything for money till he gets another gang under his thumb, and that will take time. Didn’t he try to hold a man up in his own house to-night?”

“All right, then; just put him onto that South-Side scheme.”

During the short silence that followed the sound of a scuffle came from beyond the door leading to the cellar.

Then there was a faint cry, and all was still.

Geary started to his feet and turned pale.

“What was that?” he asked.

Gilmore walked to the door and swung it open.

There was the dark staircase leading to the equally dark cellar below, and nothing else.

The two men looked tremblingly in each other’s face for a moment. They were both longing, yet fearing, to ask the same question.

Finally Gilmore spoke.

“Can it be possible,” he asked, “that one of those fellows got down there during the fight?”

“It is possible,” replied Geary. “Get a candle and we’ll go down and look the place over.”

In the cellar everything looked as usual.

There was the double partition which had been built to shut the noise of the motor and the drill from the street, there were tools, pipes and iron bands lying around, and there, just beyond the broken cellar wall, was the heavy granite foundation of the bank vault.

The two men searched through every inch of the place, and then turned to the double wall.

“There is a door through here somewhere,” said Gilmore.

“Yes,” was the reply, “but it fastens from the other side as well as this, and we can never get through without breaking it down.”

“Well, if we can’t get through no one else can, that is one sure thing,” replied Gilmore. “It must have been the rats we heard.”

“Help! Help!”

The men were about to ascend the stairs to the room above when the cry reached their ears.

They drew their revolvers and stepped back.

Again the place was still.

There was no motion anywhere in the cellar.

“The place is haunted,” whispered Geary.

“I shall be glad if it turns out to be ghosts,” was the reply.

While the men waited and listened, the sound of blows and low-muttered curses came from the other side of the double partition.

“One of those detectives did get down here,” said Gilmore. “If he gets out there is an end of our scheme, and all the money we have put into it.”

“You stay here,” whispered Geary, “and I’ll go around in front and get into the other room that way.”

“Well, hurry.”

Geary darted away, and Gilmore stood watching the door.

Then the latter heard steps and voices in the dining room above, and for a single instant left his post of duty.

As he crept to the head of the stairs to look into the dining room, he thought he heard the creaking of a door behind him, and stopped to listen.

The noise was not repeated, and he went on.

Had he returned to the cellar at that instant, he would have found the door in the double partition wide open.

He would have seen the body of one of his pals lying for an instant on the narrow threshold.

He would have seen the body drawn through into the rear basement, and the door softly closed and fastened.

He would have seen a dark figure in the dress of an iron worker lift the body and carry it through the broken cellar wall.

Then he would have seen two figures, one always carrying the other through the almost pitchy darkness, hiding in a corner near the granite wall of the bank vault.

But he saw nothing of this.

He went on up the staircase and stood for a moment on the last step.

Parks and Nixon had returned, and were walking about the place.

The former had procured a new suit of clothes and looked more like himself, though his growing beard and mustache served as a sort of disguise.

“What’s up here?” he demanded. “Where’s Gilmore?”

“Here,” called that gentleman from the head of the stairs. “Did you see Geary as you came in?”

“Yes. What’s he rushing around in that way for? Anything wrong?”

“I should say so. Come into the cellar. Turn the key in the front door first.”

Parks did as requested, and then all three men hastened down the cellar stairs.

“Hello, there!”

It was Geary, calling from the other side of the double wall.

“Well?”

“Everything all right there?”

“Yes.”

“It’s O. K. here. I wonder what it was we heard?”

As he spoke, Geary placed his hand on the fastening of the door and opened it.

“It wasn’t fastened on this side,” he said, stepping through.

“It was on this side, though,” replied Gilmore, “so everything must be all right, after all.”

“Did you look in the space around the vault?”

“Yes; don’t you remember going in there with me?”

“Of course. Then the noise we heard must have been out on the street, or in some adjoining cellar.”

“I suppose so,” replied Gilmore.

Then he turned to Parks.

“Did you find out about that place?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Can you work it?”

“Yes; but it must be done to-night, and I must have help.”

CHAPTER XIV.

THE FLAT BURGLARY.

It was long past midnight, and a slow, winter rain was falling.

Shivering with the cold, and muttering imprecations against the weather, Parks and Nixon left the shelter of the chophouse and walked rapidly toward Wabash Avenue.

“We ought to have been out an hour ago,” muttered the former, “then we shouldn’t have missed the cable.”

“The owl car’s all right for a job like this,” was the sullen reply. “You’ll be wanting a hack next.”

“Why not take a hack down as far as Thirty-ninth Street?” demanded Parks. “It will be daylight before we get there at this rate.”

“Have you the price?”

“Of course.”

“Then call a cab.”

In a moment the two men, fairly well housed from the storm, were whirling southward.

“Who first got onto this plant?” asked Parks, as they rode along.

“Gilmore.”

“He’s a cute one.”

“You bet he is.”

Nixon did not seem disposed to talk.

“How much is there of it?” asked Parks.

“About five thousand dollars, besides the jewelry.”

“The fellow’s a fool to keep so much stuff in his room.”

“He is all of that.”

“And you know the plan of the building well?”

“I was there to-day.”

“And the old man sleeps alone on the third floor away from the rest of the family?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Well, you needn’t be so mighty short about it. Do you want to go in and get the stuff while I watch outside, or shall I go in?”

“Gilmore arranged for you to go in.”

“All right.”

“And there is to be no slugging.”

“Suppose he wakes up and kicks?”

“Snatch all there is in sight and git out.”

“I guess I’ll run the job in my own way,” growled Parks. “I was in the business when Gilmore was working on a farm.”

“Suit yourself.”

The men were so busy talking, and the night was so dark and rainy, that they did not notice that one cab passed them several times, went on south for a block or two on each occasion, and then turned north again.

The man seated in the cab strained his ears each time in the endeavor to hear what the men in the other vehicle were saying, but he could only catch a word now and then.

The pursuing cab finally fell in behind the other, and the two vehicles proceeded together at a fast trot toward Thirty-ninth Street.

There Parks and Nixon got out, and without once looking around to see if they were followed, walked rapidly toward Forty-third Street.

The man in the second cab never lost sight of them.

He, too, left his cab at Thirty-ninth Street and walked south.

About halfway between Cottage Grove Avenue and the Illinois Central Railway tracks Parks and Nixon stopped and slunk into a stairway.

Their “shadow” was not twenty feet behind.

While they consulted together, he passed the spot where they stood, and entered the next stairway to the east.

The apartments in the row—an entire block in length—were all exactly alike.

There were three flats in each division, and each flat had seven rooms.

There were in each one a front and a back parlor, a dining room, a kitchen, a bedroom off the front parlor, one off the kitchen and a bathroom off from the hall leading to the kitchen.

In each instance the back parlor and the bathroom were lighted by an air shaft running from the first floor to the roof.

The men talked for some time in the hallway and Nick, for it was he, at last succeeded in getting near enough to hear what they were saying.

“He sleeps in the back parlor on the third floor,” Nixon was saying, “and he always leaves his watch and diamonds on the dresser, and places the money under his pillow.”

“Give me the key.”

Nick heard the jingle of keys, and then Nixon said:

“His son sleeps in the hall bedroom. Don’t make any noise at the door. When you get the stuff make a run for it if there is any kick made.”

Nick darted away, and entering the next stairway, ascended to the second floor.

Here he rapped softly on the door leading into the flat on the right of the hall.

In a moment the door was opened about an inch.

“What do you want?” demanded a gruff voice.

“Are you alone in the room?”

“Yes; but I have a good gun with me. Keep away.”

“You’ll do,” said Nick, with a laugh. “You won’t get scared if I tell you something?”

“I hope not.”

“Well, they are burglarizing the flat opposite, and I want to get where I can see what’s going on, and make an arrest when the time comes.”

“Who are you?”

“An officer.”

The fellow was becoming more and more suspicious, and Nick was becoming more and more impatient.

“Will you let me in?” Nick finally asked.

“I don’t believe you are an officer,” was the reply. “If the flat over there is being robbed, you must be in with it.”

“In that case I wouldn’t be likely to be here telling you about it, would I?”

“That’s very true, unless you mean to rob this flat, too.”

The fellow finally opened the door, and Nick stepped through the back parlor, passed into the hall leading to the kitchen, and entered the bathroom, from which a full view of the flat across the way could be had.

There was no light in the place, except such as crept in from the street lamps, but this was enough to show the detective that the man who had admitted him was dressed from head to foot, even to his collar and necktie.

“This is a strange time of night for a man to be sitting all dressed in a dark room,” thought the detective. “Perhaps I have come to the wrong place for help in capturing these burglars.”

Nick stood looking across the airshaft to the window of the back parlor opposite, but there was nothing to be seen there.

The window shades were drawn, and there was no sound of life in the dark space beyond them.

Then the detective heard a voice at his elbow:

“What are you doing?”

Nick did not like the fellow’s tone.

“Waiting,” he replied, shortly.

“You can’t wait much longer in my rooms.”

“Why not?”

“I want to go to bed.”

“With your clothes on?”

The fellow muttered something, and struck a match.

“What are you going to do?” asked Nick.

“Light the gas.”

The detective stepped forward and extinguished the flame of the match.

“Don’t do that,” he said. “You will only warn the men who are on their way into the next flat.”

“What do I care about the next flat? I don’t believe there are any burglars about, anyway.”

Nick thought the fellow spoke unnecessarily loud.

He did not like the way he crowded against him.

There was still no light or motion from across the airshaft.

The detective, standing with one hand resting on the window ledge, felt his fingers come in contact with some metallic substance.

He picked it up, and tried to discover its nature by the sense of feeling.

But that was a hard thing to do.

He could hear the occupant of the flat moving away toward the windows facing on Forty-third Street, and, in a moment, lit a match.

The thing he held in his hand was evidently a revolving armature, and in one end was a “chuck,” into which a diamond-pointed drill could be fitted. Nick slipped the article into his pocket and turned away from the bathroom window.

“There is no use in staying here,” he thought, “for the burglary was probably planned in this room. I was a fool to come in here looking for help.”

He had no doubt that the burglars had in some way been warned before he was well in the rooms.

“Where are you going?”

The occupant asked the question as Nick reached the door.

“Going home.”

“Not yet.”

There was a tone of triumph in the fellow’s voice.

“And why not?”

“I want to know who you are, and why you came here with such a story at this time of night.”

Nick was about to brush past the fellow and pass on downstairs, when a low cry came from the direction of the bathroom.

He placed his hand on his weapon and hastened back.

The occupant of the flat kept close to his heels.

“You seem to have changed your mind,” he said, with a sneering laugh.

For a single instant the bathroom was flooded with light.

The window shades across the airshaft were up, and the gas in the back parlor of the opposite flat was burning brightly.

The detective saw a white-haired man sitting up in bed with a look of terror on his wrinkled face.

In front of the bed stood a masked man, holding a revolver within an inch of the old man’s forehead.

By the side of the dresser stood another masked figure, eagerly raking off the articles of jewelry which the old man had placed there on retiring.

The thief’s hand was, for an instant, clearly outlined against the pure white marble of the dresser.

In a second the light went out and the place was in darkness once more.

Nick sprang toward the door.

His purpose now was to reach the stairway below before the burglars descended, and there arrest them both.

As he sprang through the bathroom door he felt himself seized from behind.

The detective had never before met a strength equal to his own.

He tried to dash his assailant aside, but found that he could not do so.

He tried to bring his revolver to bear, but his arms were bound to his side by that terrible grasp.

He raised his feet from the floor and threw his whole weight downward, thinking that a roll and a struggle on the carpet might break the other’s hold.

The two men went to the floor together.

Nick fell on top, but he could not hold the advantage for a single instant.

The next instant he realized that he was fighting three men instead of one, and that they had him in their power.

He knew that he was being beaten about the head, and that a long-bladed knife was flashing before his eyes.

Then everything passed away, and he ceased to struggle.

CHAPTER XV.

THE POISON BALL.

“If you get a hot foot after you, don’t come here.”

“No; the coppers have had pointers enough already.”

“We may come back if we get the boodle and come out all right, though?”

Parks asked the question in a sneering tone.

“As you choose.”

Then Chick heard Parks and Nixon leaving the place, and heard Gilmore and Geary go up the cellar stairs.

He was practically alone in the cellar.

The man he had overpowered on entering lay unconscious by the bank vault.

“I got him through that partition just in time,” thought the detective, as he peered through the broken cellar wall, “for they would have hunted the place over until they found me, had they seen their chum lying there.”

According to instructions, Chick had slipped into the cellar during the fight in the dining room.

At first he thought himself alone in the place.

It was only when he passed through the door in the double wall, on the approach of the men from upstairs, that he realized that the gang had left a watchman there.

While Gilmore and Geary were talking on one side of the wall, the watchman and Chick were fighting desperately on the other side.

If Gilmore had remained in the cellar, Chick would certainly have been discovered.

As it was, the four men, after the arrival of Parks and Nixon, coolly planned the burglary on Forty-third Street, and then left the cellar.

Chick knew that his chief would follow anyone leaving the place that night, and that he would be likely to have something to say about the affair on the South Side.

He fairly ached to be with him.

He did not like the idea of being shut up in the damp cellar all night, and then having to fight his way out in the morning.

He reasoned in this way:

“I have found out all I can about the place.

“I have seen the electric motor.

“I have seen the broken cellar wall.

“I have seen the unprotected granite wall of the bank.

“Why not get out and follow Nick?”

But what should he do with the captured watchman?

He would not remain unconscious long.

The burglars must not know that the detectives had discovered their plot.

He finally handcuffed the fellow’s hands behind his back, tied his ankles together, gagged him, and prepared to leave the cellar.

Then a new difficulty presented itself.

The door in the double wall was fastened on the street side.

It would take a long time to cut through it with such tools as the detective had.

He must pass out, if at all, through the chophouse.

After some little delay he crept to the head of the stairs and listened.

Gilmore and Geary were still in the place.

He could hear them talking in subdued tones.

The lights were out in the dining room, and the place was evidently closed for the night.

They were waiting for the return of Parks and Nixon.

Chick tried the knob of the cellar door.

It turned easily, and the door opened without noise.

It was very dark in that part of the room, and the detective ventured forth.

He had hardly closed the door behind himself when Gilmore sprang to his feet with an oath and lit the gas.

“What’s up?” asked Geary.

“We’re a couple of fools.”

“Well?”

“Did you see the watchman down there?”

“Didn’t know there was one.”

“Well, there was.”

“Where was he when we were there?”

“That’s just what I’d like to know.”

“Probably off on a drunk,” suggested Geary.

“Not much. He’s been arrested,” said Gilmore. “I thought all along that there was something wrong down there.”

Geary laughed.

“I never saw you act as you are acting to-night,” he said. “What has got into you?”

“I tell you that there is something wrong in the cellar.”

“Well,” said Geary, “then we’d better go down and make it right.”

He lit a candle as he spoke.

Gilmore reached up to turn off the gas.

His companion caught him by the arm.

“Wait!” he said, in a whisper.

“What is it?”

“There’s some one in the room.”

Two revolvers flashed in the light.

Chick was in a tight place.

“I’ll stand here with my gun,” said Gilmore, “and you light all the gas jets in the room. Then we can see to kill the spy.”

Geary set about obeying orders.

In another moment the place where Chick stood would be as light as day.

Then both burglars would begin shooting at him.

They would take any chance rather than allow him to escape after having gained admission to the cellar.

Chick moved cautiously toward the cellar door.

As he did so a bullet grazed his hat.

He sprang for an instant into full view, and darted down the stairs, followed by half a dozen bullets.

Gilmore was fairly white with rage.

“He must have been down there all the time,” he said.

“And heard the plans laid for the burglary,” added Geary.

There was a moment’s silence, during which both men took good care to keep out of range of the cellar door.

“He might shoot,” suggested Gilmore, pointing toward the dark opening through which Chick had disappeared.

“Of course he’ll shoot.”

Geary was not in a consoling mood.

“What is to be done?” asked Gilmore.

“Blessed if I know.”

“Think. I can’t.”

“Can he get out?”

“Only by passing through this room.”

“The door in the double wall——”

“Is fastened on the street side.”

“Then let him stay there until Parks and Nixon come back.”

“And a great roast they’ll have on us.”

Gilmore was becoming decidedly savage.

Geary did not take the matter so much to heart. He was sure that it would all come out right in the end.

“Let them roast if they want to,” said the latter.

“I won’t have it.”

“Well?”

“I’m going down there.”

Gilmore pointed to the cellar as he spoke.

“You’ll get your head shot off if you do.”

“I don’t care. I won’t have this scheme ruined now,” said Gilmore, with an oath.

Geary pondered a moment.

“You might go down the front way,” he suggested, “and get a shot at the fellow through the door.”

“Just the thing.”

When Gilmore reached the street door, he saw a man waiting there, and looking through the glass panel as he waited.

The door was hastily unlocked, and the man stepped inside.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

“The devil is to pay.”

“Then pay him, if you can find a member of your crowd that has a soul. I understand that the gentleman you name has a liking for souls, my friend.”

The newcomer was tall and slender, with sharp eyes and very glossy black whiskers, which clung close to a very white face.

He was an important personage in the electric-drill combination, having supplied most of the money with which to equip the chophouse and purchase the machinery.

“You will have your joke,” growled Gilmore.

“Anything new from the South Side?” asked the newcomer, who was a doctor by profession, and always smelled of drugs.

“Parks and Nixon are still there,” was the reply.

“Did they get away from here without being followed?”

“I think so.”

Gilmore locked the door again, and the two men joined Geary in the back end of the room.

“Tell me what’s up,” said the doctor, looking from one man to the other in amazement.

In a moment more it all came out.

A detective had found his way into the cellar.

The doctor cursed until the air was almost blue.

Chick, peeping from the head of the stairs, heard it all, and rather enjoyed it.

“Why haven’t you been doing something?” demanded the doctor. “For all you know, the fellow may be out in the street and halfway to police headquarters now.”

“He can’t get out. The door in the wall is fastened from the street side.”

It was Geary who spoke.

The doctor glanced at him for an instant, and then said:

“An hour ago you would have told me that he could not get into the cellar at all. Go to the street, and watch the front door.”

Geary departed without saying a word.

Then the doctor turned to Gilmore.

“Isn’t it about time the boys were back from Forty-third Street?” he asked.

“I think not,” was the reply. “Have you any fears as to the result down there?”

“None whatever,” was the answer. “Even if Parks and Nixon made a mess of it, my roommate will straighten them out.”

“He will be there, of course?”

“Yes.”

“In the flat across the airshaft?”

“Didn’t we rent it for this special occasion?”

The men conversed for some moments in whispers, and then the doctor crept cautiously to the head of the stairs.

“He is still there,” he whispered back, in a moment.

“In the rear room?”

“Yes.”

“Then throw your poison ball.”

The doctor drew away from the doorway for a second, and took a little round white substance from his pocket.

“You can’t use the place to-morrow,” he said, warningly, as he for a moment held the ball suspended in the air between his thumb and forefinger.

“What is it?” asked Gilmore.

“Something made for just such places,” was the reply.

“Will it produce death?”

“Not at once, but it will make a man lay like a corpse for twelve hours. Then, if restoratives are not applied, death results.”

“Throw it.”

Chick heard something drop almost at his feet.

Then came an explosion, followed by a horrible, choking odor.

Chick tried to breathe, but found it impossible. He felt himself falling, and heard a strange, rushing sound in his ears.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE MAN IN THE WARDROBE.

“There’s a dead man down there.”

“Down where?”

“In the doctor’s flat.”

The man living in the flat above the one where Nick Carter had been assaulted looked up from the morning paper.

“How do you know?” he asked.

The wife gave a little shiver as she answered:

“I saw it.”

The head of the family laid down the paper.

“When?” he asked.

“When I got up,” began the woman, “I stepped to the window looking into the airshaft. I did not sleep well last night, on account of the noise down there, and I thought I would see if everything there looked as usual.”

“Well?”

“Of course I couldn’t see into the rooms under us, so I turned my attention to the rooms on the other side of the shaft.”

“How slow you are. Go on.”

“Well, a heavy black curtain hung over the opposite windows, making an almost perfect mirror of the plate glass in the sash.”

“Well—well?”

“And there, in that mirror, I saw the body of a dead man lying in the back parlor of the doctor’s flat.”

“Was the doctor there?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing—preparing to cut up the body?”

“No; he was cleaning up.”

The head of the house resumed his paper for a moment and then laid it down again.

“Why didn’t you tell me of this before?” he asked.

“Oh, I thought it merely a freak of the doctor’s.”

“What noises did you hear down there last night?”

“You are not in court now,” said the woman, with a laugh. “I don’t know as I can describe the noises I heard. There were blows and the sound of scuffling.”

The man of the house walked to the hall door, and opened it.

“I wonder if the doctor is there yet?” he asked.

“He went away an hour ago,” was the reply.

The man went down and tried the door.

It was locked, and no one answered his call.

“He’s gone, all right enough,” said the man, going upstairs again, “and I’m going to have a look into that room.”

“You have no right——”

“Oh, yes, I have, my dear. The law gives me a right to go anywhere I believe a crime is being committed.”

“Will the law heal your head if you get it hurt?” asked the wife, anxiously.

“I’ll look out for that, too.”

The head of the house got his wife’s clothesline down, and raised the window opening the airshaft.

The flat straight across was unoccupied, and the heavy curtains which had revealed so much still hung across the windows in the flat below, so there was no danger of making a scene.

The man swung himself down, and landed on the heavy ground glass at the bottom of the shaft.

The window was fastened and heavy curtains had been drawn across the panes, but the investigator, by the exertion of all his strength, forced the sash up, and looked inside the room.

The man he saw lying there on the carpet was bound, and gagged, and bloody, but he was not dead.

“Help me out of this,” his eyes said, as plainly as words could have done.

The man removed the gag and stood looking down at him.

“How did you come here?” he asked.

“I didn’t get into this shape for the fun of it,” was the reply. “Take these things off before those men come back.”

“Who are you?”

Nick nodded his chin toward an inside pocket.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said, “so you may look at my credentials.”

The man did look, and in about a second after he had done looking Nick Carter was free of all bonds, and on his way to the flat above.

It took but a few moments for the detective to explain all that had taken place in the building the previous night.

Nick was not seriously injured.

A weaker man would have been laid up for days from the effects of the bruises he had received, but Nick had too much work to do to think of going to bed at all.

He washed and dressed his wounds as best he could, partook of a light breakfast, and then asked the man who had rescued him to inform the officer on the beat below that something unusual had taken place in the old man’s flat the night before.

“That will place the matter in the hands of the police,” he said. “I don’t want to take a hand in it just yet.”

The man soon came back, and reported that the policeman had broken in the door, and found the old man lying bound and gagged on the bed. A large amount of money and some valuable jewelry had been taken.

“And you have the clew?” said the man, inquiringly.

“Yes, but I can’t give it now. I want to have another interview with those people downstairs before the officers get hold of them.”

“And they are in with the burglars?”

“It seems so. How long have they lived there?”

“About two weeks.”

“It is a part of the electric-drill scheme,” said Nick.

“What’s that?”

“I was thinking aloud.”

“But you spoke of an electric drill.”

“Yes.”

Nick Carter, for once, had been caught napping. He had spoken when he should have remained silent.

“That makes me think,” continued the man, “that the two doctors downstairs are cranks on electricity.”

“What do they do with electricity?”

“They have a motor down there, and they have been drilling all sorts of substances.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Ever since they have lived there.”

Nick thought of the armature he had found in the rooms below not long before, and remained silent.

“Now,” said the detective, “I want to be back in that room when the doctors return, and I want you within reach in case I should need help. What do you say to that?”

“All right. I am dying for a scrap, anyway.”

The two men descended to the lower flat, and Nick was placed in the shape in which he had been left.

The gag was in his mouth, and the ropes were on his wrists and ankles, but they were fixed so that they could be cast aside at any moment.

Nick’s companion secreted himself in a huge wardrobe in the room.

In ten minutes the door was unlocked from the outside, and two men entered, only one of whom the detective knew.

One was the man who had attacked Nick and the other was the man who had thrown the poisonous ball at Chick in the cellar of the chophouse.

“It worked like a charm,” the latter was saying. “The spy keeled over in a second, and you ought to see the stuff we got out of his clothes.”

“Money?”

“Yes, money and disguises and letters of introduction. He’ll make an excellent subject for the dissecting table in a day or two.”

Nick trembled, for he knew that they were talking about Chick.

“Is he dead?”

“No, but you know that he will die if restoratives are not applied inside of twelve hours.”

“The twelve hours will be up at two o’clock this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“Why, we’ll cut him up—in the interest of science, of course.”

The doctor laughed brutally as he spoke.

“How’s the chophouse to-day?” asked the other.

“It stinks.”

“Closed up?”

“Tight as a drum.”

“The cellar is being worked, I suppose?”

“Yes, the boys are all at work, except the watchman Chick came so near killing. He’s gone to bed.”

“Things must be about ready down there?”

“The drilling begins to-night.”

Nick thought he heard a faint exclamation from the direction of the wardrobe.

One of the doctors also heard the noise.

“What’s that?” he asked.

His companion made no reply, but stepped up to the place where the detective was lying.

“See here,” he said, “your friend is awake.”

The other advanced, and removed the gag.

“You might have done it yourself,” he said, addressing Nick, “it’s loose enough.”

“How do you like your quarters?” asked the other doctor.

“Not very well,” was the reply.

“You heard what we have been saying?”

“Yes.”

“How do you like the fate in store for Chick?”

“He’s not dead yet,” replied Nick.

“You have an idea that you’ll both get away?”

“Of course.”

“Well, you’ll both be on the dissecting table in twenty-four hours. You’ll make good subjects, too.”

“Put me in a chair,” said the detective. “The floor is like a rock.”

The doctors lifted him up.

“You have only a short time to live,” one of them said, “and we may as well make you comfortable.”

The next moment one of the ruffians stood before the detective with a rag saturated with ether.

“It’s time to put you to sleep,” he said. “You’ll wake up in a place where you won’t need an overcoat.”

The instant the muscular doctor came within reach, Nick sprang to his feet, and struck out with his right, throwing all the strength of his strong arm and all the weight of his body into the blow.

The doctor caught the blow under the ear, and went to the floor like a dead man.

Then the door of the wardrobe was thrown open, and Nick’s rescuer dashed out.

The other doctor sprang for the door, but the man from the wardrobe got there first.

In a moment the doctor was thrown to the floor and handcuffed.

But although captured, the fellow was not conquered.

“There’s one sure thing,” he said, “and that is that you can’t save Chick. He’s got a dose that will finish him.”

“All right,” said Nick, coolly, “I can get another assistant, but you can’t get another neck after the law gets done with the one you have.”

“Will the charge against me be murder?”

“Certainly.”

“Is that other chap asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Then I want to talk to you alone.”

Nick motioned to his friend to step outside.

The next moment there was a sharp report, and a terrible odor crept into the room. The doctor had thrown another poison ball.

CHAPTER XVII.

“THE DOCTOR.”

“There! You may set the electric drill in motion to-night, or as soon as you please.”

Nixon stood by a basin of water in the cellar, washing his hands.

Gilmore and Geary, with smiling faces, stood near the break in the cellar wall.

“Three million dollars are almost within reach,” said the latter, “and then here’s one man for Europe.”

“What’s that for?” asked Gilmore.

“It’s safer over there.”

Gilmore lit a cigar and handed one to his companion.

“It’s safe enough anywhere now,” he said.

“What makes you think so?”

“Haven’t we got rid of Nick Carter and Chick?”

Geary looked doubtful for a moment.

“They are out of the way for the present,” he said, seeing that Gilmore expected him to say something.

“Do you think they will get away?” demanded Gilmore.

“I’m afraid they will.”

Gilmore took the candle in his hand and walked through the break in the cellar wall.

Turning to the right, he faced toward the rear of the bank vault, and lifted the flashing candle above his head.

“There,” he said, “do you see anything there?”

As he spoke he pointed to the figure of a man lying on the floor.

“Yes.”

“Does it look as if he’d get away?”

“Hardly.”

“Do you think the doctors will allow Nick to escape?”

“No.”

“Of course not. They want him too much for that. Don’t you think so?”

“What you say is all true,” said Geary, “but for all that you may rest assured that we are not through with Nick Carter yet.”

As he spoke, Geary and Gilmore felt a hand laid on their shoulders.

Each gave a start of surprise.

The doctor stood before them.

“My friend Chick seems to be behaving himself,” he said, with a smile.

“What brings you back here at this time?” asked Gilmore.

“Restlessness.”

“How did you leave our friend, Nick Carter?” asked Geary.

“A trifle under the weather.”

“Conscious?”

“Yes.”

“Then look out for him.”

“He’s in good hands,” replied the doctor.

“Where’s Richard?” asked Gilmore.

“At the rooms. He won’t be down to-day.”

“What?”

“He won’t be down until evening.”

“What are you down for? We shall have a hard night of it.”

“I want to get this young man away.”

“What young man?”

“Chick.”

Gilmore looked puzzled.

“I thought he was to remain here,” he said.

“And have the officers find him with the broken vault in the morning? I should say not.”

“Where do you want to take him?”

“To a place where we can cut him up, of course.”

“That’s the doctor of it,” said Gilmore, with an oath.

Then Nixon stepped back to where the three men were talking.

“Are you going to cut Nick Carter up, too?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Who let you in?” asked Nixon.

“The fellow at the door.”

“He was there when you came in, then?”

“Yes, and he made a kick about letting me in. He said something about the word having been changed.”

“He must have been drunk,” said Gilmore, “for the word has not been changed.”

“Well,” said Nixon, “the fellow has disappeared.”

The doctor appeared to be very angry.

“You will spoil the whole scheme by putting such men on guard,” he said, “and at this critical time, too.”

“I’ll run that door myself, after this,” said Nixon, “or at least until the drill starts.”

The doctor stepped forward and bent over the still figure lying in the corner by the bank vault.

“He’s about gone,” he said. “We must get him out of this before he dies.”

“Why so?”

“Because you can take an unconscious man through the streets very easily, but you can’t stir with a dead one.”

“You are right about that,” said Geary. “I have tried both.”

“How are you going to get him away?” asked Gilmore.

“In a carriage, I suppose.”

“Well, call one, then, and let’s have done with the affair for good and all.”

Geary went out to call a carriage “for a sick man,” and the doctor went back to the motionless figure by the vault.

Gilmore watched him closely.

Finally he saw him take a bottle from his pocket and press it to Chick’s lips.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Trying to get rid of this accursed smell,” was the cool reply.

“I wish you could take the stink out of the rooms upstairs,” said Gilmore.

“You won’t want the rooms to-morrow,” was the reply.

“I hope not.”

Then Nixon came back and announced that the carriage was waiting.

The doctor and Nixon took Chick by the feet and shoulders, and carried him to the street door of the chophouse.

Then Gilmore called Nixon to the back end of the room, to a place where the doctor could not overhear what was being said.

“What do you think of this?” he asked.

“Of what?”

“Taking Chick away.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Well,” said Gilmore, with an oath, “I don’t like it either. He may escape.”

“Then don’t let him go.”

“But the doctor wants him.”

“Confound the doctor.”

“He’s been a good producer, Nixon,” said Gilmore.

“Yes, and has allowed us to do all the work and assume all the risks. Where was he last night when we were out there at his block? He ought to have been on deck then.”

“I know it, old man.”

Nixon chewed the end of his cigar, and looked ugly.

“I’ll tell you what it is,” he said, in a moment. “I won’t leave this young man, Chick, until I see the knife in him.”

“I was about to suggest that.”

“I’ve had enough of this monkey work with Nick Carter and his gang,” continued the burglar. “I have had Nick and Chick in my power before to-night, and they have always escaped through some soft-heartedness on the part of some member of the party. That don’t happen this time.”

Gilmore seemed greatly pleased.

“You stick to that kind of talk regarding detectives,” he said, “and you’ll wear diamonds.”

Nixon turned away toward the door.

“Remember,” Gilmore whispered in his ear, “any knife will do as well as a surgeon’s knife.”

The doctor, standing at the street door, with his hand on the knob, heard the words, and gave a sudden start.

“Hurry,” he said, when Nixon came up, “help me into the carriage with this sick man and then you can run the place to suit yourself for a little while, but I advise you to keep a closer watch on the door opening on the street.”

“I’m going with you.”

Nixon spoke half angrily.

“Oh, you are?”

There was something so peculiar in the doctor’s tone that the burglar looked up with a start.

“That’s orders.”

“From whom?”

“Gilmore.”

“Very well. Come along.”

“He takes it mighty cool,” thought Nixon. But, then, he could not see the doctor’s face from where he was standing.

Chick was placed in the carriage without difficulty, and then the doctor stepped forward to give the driver his orders.

When he got back to the carriage door, Nixon was leaning over the still figure of the detective.

He held a wicked-looking knife in his hand, and seemed about to strike.

The doctor caught his arm.

“Don’t make a muss in the carriage,” he said, coolly.

With an oath, Nixon threw himself into the front seat of the carriage and folded his arms.

“Keep me away from him, then,” he said. “I shall not wait for the drug if I get another chance.”

The doctor pointed out to the crowded streets.

“See the risk you would run,” he said.

The carriage drove straight to the Windsor Hotel.

Nixon glared about in a suspicious manner, but helped to carry the unconscious man to a room on the second floor without making any remarks.

He cursed and swore at the crowd which gathered around the stairway when Chick was taken from the vehicle, but said nothing to his companion until the door of the room was closed behind them.

“What does this mean?” he then demanded.

He spoke with his hand on the handle of a revolver, but before he could draw it the doctor had him covered.

“It means,” was the calm reply, “that you are under arrest. Throw up your hands.”

“You are joking, doctor.”

The “doctor’s” false beard and wig were off in an instant, and Nick Carter stood revealed.

Regardless of the weapon held within an inch of his face, Nixon, wild with rage, sprang at the detective.

Nick did not care to use his revolver and so attract the attention of the police and the people in the house.

He grappled with his assailant, and the two men rolled on the carpet together.

Nixon was a muscular fellow, and he now fought with all the cunning and all the fierce strength of a maniac.

He had a knife in his possession, and he exerted himself to the utmost to bring it into use.

Nick knew the danger he was in, and tried hard to bring the fight to a sudden close.

Not only his own life, but that of his assistant also depended upon his exertions.

In a moment the struggling men heard steps in the hall, and then the door of the room was thrown open.

Nick expected that the intruder was an employee of the hotel.

Nixon was afraid it was an officer.

It was neither.

It was one of the toughs who had attacked Chick the previous night in the chophouse.

Gilmore had ordered him to follow the carriage.

Nick sprang to his feet, and drew his revolver.

With grins of triumph, Nixon and the thug advanced upon him.

“We’ve got you at last,” hissed the former.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A LONG JUMP.

“The electric drill ought to be working by this time.”

Chester Smith, the wealthy banker, Nick Carter, Chick and two detectives from the city force sat in a room not far from the chophouse.

It was nearly midnight, and they had been waiting there two hours.

“It beats anything I ever heard of,” said the banker. “When burglars took money from under my pillow, stole my revolver, cooked a breakfast in my kitchen, tapped my wine, and left an explanatory tag tied to my dog’s tail, I thought the limit of audacity had been reached; but this robbing a bank by machinery throws all that in the shade.”

The detectives laughed heartily at the banker’s account of the burglar’s visit to his residence.

Then Chick turned to his chief.

“I’d like to know,” he said, “how you got that make-up from the doctor, and how you knew what drug to use in order to help me back to life.”

“Why,” said Nick, “the fool of a doctor tried to catch me by giving me a dose of the same medicine he gave you. I got out of the room mighty quick and shut the door.”

“And he had to take the dose himself?”

“Exactly. Well, the ball wasn’t very strong, and when I went back into the room the fellow was still conscious, although lacking the power of motion.”

“That’s the way I felt at first.”

“He motioned for me to take a bottle out of his pocket, and give him some of its contents. I did so, and he was soon on his feet. So you see I had the remedy right in my own hands. As for the doctor’s rig, I made him give that up at the police station.”

“It was a perfect fit,” laughed Chick. “How Nixon started when you threw it off.”

“You were conscious at that time?”

“Of course. I began to recover the instant you gave me the antidote, but I didn’t want those fellows to catch on. I guess Nixon had an idea that I was as good as dead. When I sprang from the bed and got him by the neck he acted as if he had seen a ghost.”

“You saved my life there,” said Nick. “I couldn’t have fought another round.”

One of the detectives who stood by the window now turned toward the little group.

“It’s time to go,” he said. “The lights are out in the chophouse and the drill must be going.”

“They are two hours late now,” said Nick, “but they may be waiting for Nixon and the two doctors.”

“They’ll have to wait a long time,” said Chick.

The two detectives, Nick and Chick, now left the room and walked down to the chophouse, where they stopped.

The grinding of the electric drill could very plainly be heard.

The city detectives went to the front door of the restaurant, while Nick and his assistant crept down the area in front.

As they expected, the door in the double partition was securely fastened on both sides.

They waited a few moments for the city officers to make their presence known, but the work on the other side of the double wall went on as if there were no officers within a thousand miles.

“Stay here and guard this door,” said Nick, “and I’ll go around and see what’s the matter.”

The detective found the door of the chophouse open, and understood that the city officers were on the inside.

He entered and walked along through the dark room until he came to the door leading to the basement.

There he was met by a quick, sharp challenge.

“Who’s there?”

The detective hesitated an instant, and then answered:

“Nixon.”

His answer was followed by a sharp whistle, and then he heard a rush of feet and the sound of excited voices in the basement.

In an instant the detective realized what had happened.

The city officers had been overpowered by the burglars.

The arrest of Nixon had in some way become known.

At this second invasion of the place the burglars were quitting their work.

Nick knew that if he effected the capture of the gang at all he must act at once, without waiting for assistance.

With a weapon in each hand, he sprang toward the stairs.

The guard there fired one warning shot and retreated to the cellar.

In a moment Nick had confronted the burglars.

“Surrender!” he shouted. “I have a dozen officers at my back.”

His only answer was several pistol shots, but the bullets flew wide of their mark.

Then the outlaws rushed upon the detective.

Only one cowardly rascal turned to the door in the double wall to make his escape.

Busy as he was with the men about him, Nick could not help smiling when he saw the fellow unfastening the door.

He knew what would happen when he got it open.

Nick was now hard pressed, for the burglars were fighting for dear liberty.

He was in a fair way to get the worst of the encounter when the man at the door succeeded in getting it open, Chick having unfastened it from the other side.

As the burglar stepped into the opening he met a hard, white hand which sent him back into the rear room.

Then Chick sprang through the doorway with a yell, and began striking right and left.

Seeing a man creeping up behind Nick with a knife in his hand, Chick drew his revolver and shot the fellow through the heart.

This ended the battle.

The burglars had no means of knowing how many more officers there were in the front cellar, and they did not like the shooting.

So they threw up their arms and surrendered.

Geary and Parks were the first men handcuffed.

Gilmore was nowhere in sight.

“Well, you’ve got me at last,” snarled Parks.

“Yes, and I could have had you much earlier,” retorted Nick, “but when I took up your trail after you escaped on the way to Sing Sing, I knew you would lead me to some other villains, and I thought I might as well bag them too. Now, where is Gilmore?”

“He went over the roof, and I hope you’ll catch him.”

Nick, leaving Chick to guard the prisoners, dashed through the chophouse and up the stairs to the roof.

It was very dark, and at first he could see nothing.

Finally, however, he heard a noise on the roof of the next building, which was several feet lower than the roof of the one upon which the detective then stood.

He crept to the edge and looked down.

A figure stood on the wall at the rear, looking over an alley, at least twelve feet wide.

As the detective looked, the figure sprang into the air and landed on the other side.

It was a desperate act, but well carried out.

“Gilmore still has his old nerve,” thought Nick. “I wonder if I could jump that alley?”

He could, and he did, but when he stood in safety on the other side, Gilmore had disappeared.

Nick prowled around on the roof a long time, and was about to take his departure when a low cry of fright reached his ears.

He crept softly in the direction from which the sound had proceeded, and found a faint light shining through a skylight in the roof.

Looking down, he saw Gilmore standing by the side of a bed containing two young men.

He was evidently pleading with them for protection.

The burglar had been careful to replace the skylight after leaving the roof, and had drawn a table under the opening for the purpose.

Nick pushed the sash aside, and dropped into the room.

One of the young men saw him, but Nick pointed to the badge on his vest, and the fellow remained silent.

Before Gilmore knew that Nick was in the room, the detective was upon him.

There was a short, sharp struggle, and then the most daring house and bank breaker in the world lay handcuffed on the floor.

“What a bank burglar you would have made,” said Gilmore, as Nick sat down by his side for a moment’s rest.

“Think so?”

“What have you done with Nixon, the two doctors and the doorkeeper?” continued Gilmore.

“All locked up.”

“And Chick?”

“Downstairs, keeping cases on the gang.”

“Are they all under arrest?”

“Every one.”

“I suppose it was you that got Chick away?”

“Of course.”

“Again I say what a bank burglar you would have made.”

Gilmore was in a great rage when, after being taken to police headquarters, he learned that the whole gang had been captured by the two New York detectives.

“What became of the city officers?” he asked.

Geary grinned and pointed toward the old chophouse cellar.

“You’ll find them down there behind the bank vault,” he said.

And there the officers were found, nearly suffocated and foaming with rage.

CHAPTER XIX.

AWAITING NICK CARTER.

While these events were transpiring in Chicago the New York chief of police was being interviewed by a woman who had a most remarkable story to tell.

So remarkable, indeed, that the chief persuaded his caller to defer any action till Nick Carter returned home.

The result was that when Nick reached his office he found this note awaiting him:

“Please call and see Miss Louise Templin at the St. James Hotel. Don’t wait to see me first. See her. Very urgent.”

Nick did not need to glance at the signature to find out who had written this characteristic note.

“When the chief says ‘very urgent,’ he means it,” was Nick’s inward comment.

A pile of letters had accumulated in his absence, but it did not take him long to deal with his correspondents; then directing one of his assistants to inform the chief that he had returned and was acting on the urgent message, he started for the St. James and sent up his card to Miss Templin.

He was invited to “come right up,” and he soon afterward stood before the entrance to a suite of rooms on the second floor.

His knock was answered by a woman’s voice, which bade him enter.

Accepting the invitation, he found himself standing in the presence of a young lady, richly and tastefully dressed, and remarkably handsome.

She held in her hand the card which Nick had sent up, and, glancing at it, the young lady said:

“You are Mr. Carter?”

“At your service, Miss Templin.”

“You come from the chief of police, I presume?”

“I have just arrived in the city and have had an urgent message from the chief asking me to call here.”

“Please be seated, Mr. Carter.”

When Nick had taken the chair which the young lady pointed out to him, she continued:

“It can scarcely be necessary, Mr. Carter, for me to apologize for receiving you here, rather than in the public reception rooms of the hotel, where we might be overheard in our conversation.”

“I understand all that, Miss Templin. You wish to consult me professionally.”

“Yes. I called on your chief of police yesterday, and he advised me to put the case in your hands. He also promised to send you to me, and I see he has kept his promise promptly.”

“I will be pleased to hear from you the nature of the work which you have for me to do,” said Nick, in order to hasten matters.

“Briefly, it is to find a man with a long, white beard,” she replied.

“That is rather a vague undertaking,” smiled Nick.

“You will not think so after I have told you more about it.

“Five years ago my father, as I have up to a recent date had reason to believe, died, and was buried. Last week I met either him alive and in the flesh, or his double. I want you to run this mystery down and solve it. That is the gist of the story. Now I will go into details.”

“If you please, Miss Templin.”

“As I said before, I had, up to last week, a perfect belief that my father, Jason Templin, was dead and buried for three years.”

“You were not present at his death and burial?”

“No. I have been in Europe for four years.”

“From whom did you get the news of his death?”

“From my guardian, and my father’s most intimate friend.”

“His name?”

“Lawrence Lonsdale.”

“Where does he live?”

“In San Francisco.”

“Where your father lived, and—is supposed to have died?”

“Yes.”

“Cannot you trust this Lonsdale?”

“I have always believed I could until the sight of that man last week raised a doubt in my mind of Mr. Lonsdale’s honesty. I am very anxious to speedily have the doubt removed, or confirmed, and that is why I applied to your chief of police for help. The affair must be cleared up within the next few days.”

“Why?”

“Because I am the promised wife of Lawrence Lonsdale. He left San Francisco for New York last evening, and we are to be married when he reaches this city. There must be no uncertainty about this affair when he arrives.”

“Well, give me the details of the case, and I’ll see what can be done,” said Nick.

“For several years before his death,” began Miss Templin, “my father was mentally dead and helpless.”

“Insane?”

“Hardly insane. His case puzzled the most eminent physicians on the Pacific Coast. He retired one night, apparently in his usual good health. Next morning he was found lying in bed, helpless, speechless and, as it was soon discovered, with a brain which was mentally a blank.

“After that day he never spoke, or showed signs of possessing the powers of reasoning, understanding or hearing, and he never moved a muscle of either leg.

“The most wonderful part of the case was that his appetite was not impaired, and he took nourishment regularly. Physically, he was as well as ever, except that he never afterward would, or could, walk, talk or hear.

“For two years we called into his case all the medical skill on the coast, but without a particle of success. Mr. Templin lived on, his physical form as perfect as ever, but his mental or spiritual part seemed to have died and left the body.

“At the end of these two years a Dr. Greene, who conducted a sanitarium near Oakland, devoted to mental diseases of the milder form, expressed the belief that he could restore my father to the use of all his faculties, if the afflicted man was placed in his care at his private retreat.

“I visited the sanitarium, and was shown the suite of rooms which Greene offered to set aside for my poor father’s use. He also introduced me to the two nurses and a male assistant, who would be in constant attendance.

“I saw at once that my afflicted parent would receive better attention than he had been getting, and, although Greene’s charges were excessively large, Mr. Lonsdale and I concluded to have him removed to the retreat.

“This was the more readily agreed to by me because I was going to Europe for a four years’ stay among the art studios of Italy.”

“You have been there as a student?”

“Yes. From my mother, who died when I was young, I inherited a love for painting, and it was my father’s dearest desire that when I came out of school I should go to Italy and get the benefit of the best teachers in painting. Mr. Lonsdale, therefore, urged me to place my father in this retreat, where he would have better care than we could give him, and go to Europe, as originally arranged.”

“Your father, as you supposed, died in the retreat?”

“Yes. The first news I got of it was about a year after I had been in Rome. Mr. Lonsdale cabled that papa was dead. Several weeks later I got his letter, which set forth the details.”

“Then the death was tragic?”

“You shall judge for yourself. Mr. Lonsdale, as he wrote to me in his letter, was summoned to the sanitarium by a telegram which informed him that my father was dead.

“He was not surprised at the bare news, for by that time we had surrendered all hopes of a final recovery; but the manner of the death was a shock.

“The weather was cool, and a grate fire burned in my father’s room that night. In the temporary absence of the attendants from the apartment, it was supposed the patient recovered the use of his legs, got up and went to the fire.

“While there it was thought he fell in a fatal faint.

“When the attendant came back, he found the patient dead at the grate, with his head on the fender, and his face nearly burned away.

“Mr. Templin wore a long, white beard, and very white hair. All of the beard and hair had been consumed.

“Dr. Greene wanted to hold an autopsy, but Mr. Lonsdale would not consent. In fact, he had the remains consigned to a vault, because he feared the intense desire of the medical profession of California to get a look at the brain of the man who furnished this remarkable case was so great and so general that the body would not be safe in a grave.”

CHAPTER XX.

AN HEIRESS IN TROUBLE.

“And yet you have some doubts, Miss Templin, whether it really is your father’s body which lies in that vault back there?” commented Nick Carter, as the young lady indicated that her story was told.

“Yes.”

“And that Mr. Lonsdale, your guardian and affianced husband, has in some way deceived you?”

“Mr. Lonsdale was my guardian. I am now of age.”

“But you have not answered my question.”

“Well, I had rather believe that if I have been deceived about my father’s death, he has been deceived also.”

“Why not wait, then, till he arrives in New York before making this investigation?”

“No. I greatly desire that it be made before he arrives.”

“And if you find that the man you saw last week is not your father, you do not want Mr. Lonsdale to know that the investigation was made?”

“I should prefer it so.”

“She knows more than she is willing to tell me,” thought Nick.

“Where did you see the man you believed to be your father?” he asked.

“At the office of the Scotia Life Insurance Company, in this city.”

“When?”

“Wednesday of last week.”

“And this is Thursday. That was eight days ago?”

“Yes.”

“Why so much delay in beginning your search for the man?”

“It was hard for me to make up my mind to stamp my doubts of the honor of the man I love with the brand of investigation. It was only when I realized that he was on his way to claim my hand in marriage that I decided to have that doubt removed when he stood before me again.”

“Did you speak to this man whom you thought was your father?”

“No. He got away before the opportunity offered, or rather before I recovered from the shock of my surprise. When I saw him he was some distance away, and just about to go out upon the street. By the time I had turned back to follow him, he had disappeared among the crowd outside.”

“You made no attempt to find out who he was?”

“No. How could I?”

“What was he doing when you saw him? Was anyone with him?”

“He was alone, and held something in his hand which had the appearance of a note, a check or a receipt. He was looking at this paper the moment I saw him.”

“You went to the Scotia’s office on business?”

“I went there under Mr. Lonsdale’s instructions to get a remittance which he telegraphed to me from San Francisco,” explained Miss Templin.

“He expected to meet me here in New York when I landed, but was detained a week in San Francisco. He therefore telegraphed, asking me to remain till he could come on. At the same time he sent me to his friend, the president of the Scotia Life Insurance Company, for what money I needed. I was just entering the office when I saw that man leaving.”

“Did you mention the matter to your friend, the president of the Scotia?”

“No. I was not well enough acquainted with him to speak on a subject so delicate. I called at the office yesterday, but he was not in—would not be in till to-day.”

“Then we might find him there now?”

“I suppose so.”

“Can you accompany me to his office?”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Certainly.”

“Then let us go at once.”

“What for?”

“To take up the trail of your man of mystery.”

“I scarcely see——”

“Will you leave that to me, Miss Templin?”

“Why, certainly.”

“Then, if you are ready, we will start at once.”

On the way to the office of the Scotia, Nick continued his inquisition:

“Your father was a rich man, Miss Templin, was he not?”

“Yes, sir; very.”

“You are his heiress?”

“I am, so far as I know, the only blood relative he has living.”

“Who is this Lawrence Lonsdale, the man you are going to marry?”

“A lawyer, and papa’s most trusted friend and agent.”

“How did he become your guardian?”

“By my father’s will, under which he was also made executor of the estate.”

“You were lovers before you went to Europe?”

“Yes. Mr. Lonsdale and I have been lovers since I was fifteen years old.”

“Is there any way in which Mr. Lonsdale could benefit by deceiving you about your father’s fate?”

“None that I can imagine.”

“He is anxious to make you his wife?”

“Oh, yes. He wanted to marry me before I went to Europe.”

“Ah! You refused?”

“Yes. I told him I would not marry while my father was lying in that half-dead state. After papa died, he wanted to come to Europe and marry me, but I was determined to finish my studies first.”

“You ought to easily prove your father’s death without Mr. Lonsdale’s testimony, Miss Templin.”

“Why, how? He is the only witness on that point in America.”

“This Dr. Greene?”

“He, as well as the nurses and attendant in charge of my father, went to Australia or New Zealand soon after Mr. Templin’s death.”

“Ah!”

It was only a word of two letters, but it caused the young woman to look at Nick sharply.

The detective pretended not to notice that searching look, but he was confident his little aspirate would set Miss Templin’s mind to work on a brand-new lead.

They found the president of the Scotia Life Insurance Company in his office, and Miss Templin introduced herself. She met with a warm welcome from the friend of her affianced husband.

Then she introduced Nick Carter.

“What! Not the celebrated detective!” exclaimed the insurance president. “How fortunate! I was upon the point of going to your house to consult you on a matter of considerable concern to not only our company, but to four or five other companies in this city, who have been hit equally hard.”

“Hit!” exclaimed Nick.

“Why, yes. A man who insured with us two years ago has died. There are some circumstances about the case which have aroused our suspicions that everything is not exactly straight. Before we pay the money we want the case thoroughly investigated, and we have decided you are the man to do it.”

“How much is involved?”

“Half a million. He was insured for one hundred thousand dollars in each of five companies. If you can show up fraud in the case, it will pay you well.”

“What was the man’s name?”

“Miles Mackenzie.”

“Where does he live?”

“At a town in eastern Pennsylvania named Elmwood.”

“Well, as soon as I finish Miss Templin’s business, I’ll be glad to look into this affair for you, if it can wait a few days.”

“Oh, yes, a week, if necessary. The money will not be paid till you get time to look up the Mackenzie affair. So you have a mystery to clear up, too, eh, Miss Templin?”

“Yes; and we’ve come to you to help us out.”

“I help you out? Why, how can I? What is it?”

Miss Templin explained as briefly as she could what had happened when she called the week previous.

“And you want to trace this man if you can from our office?” asked the president of Nick.

“Yes,” replied the detective.

“But how?”

“He was here on business, I suppose?”

“That seems a reasonable deduction.”

“For what purpose do men usually call?”

“To pay premiums.”

“Then let us make inquiries of your cashier first.”

“Had your man any prominent appearance by which he would be likely to impress the cashier’s memory?”

“I think so.”

“Then I’ll send for him.”

The president touched a button and summoned a messenger.

“Tell Mr. Grandin I wish to see him, and ask him to bring his accounts along for Wednesday of last week.”

The cashier shortly appeared, with an account book under his arm.

“Mr. Grandin, this gentleman”—indicating Nick Carter—“wants to make some inquiries, and I wish you would answer him to the best of your ability.”

“I shall be pleased if I can accommodate you, sir,” said the cashier, bowing to the detective.

“Well, then, Mr. Grandin, a gentleman was seen to leave this office on the day mentioned and our belief is that he was here for the purpose of paying a premium, because he had a piece of paper in his hand when he went out which looked like one of the company’s receipts.”

“And you want to learn who he was—what his name is?”

“That’s it.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Miss Templin can,” said Nick, looking at the young lady. Whereupon the latter said:

“The man was perhaps sixty years old, but looked older on account of very white hair and long white whiskers, white eyebrows and a very red face. He——”

“Wait a moment,” exclaimed the cashier, interrupting Miss Templin. “There is no need of your going any further.”

“Then you know him?” asked Nick.

“Yes. He was here on that day, as my books will show.”

“Well, what is his name?”

“His name was Miles Mackenzie.”

“What!” shouted the president, springing up from his chair. “The man who——”

“The man who died yesterday at Elmwood, in Pennsylvania, who was so heavily insured,” said the cashier.

CHAPTER XXI.

A MAN AND HIS DOUBLE.

“This is astonishing!” exclaimed the president, dismissing the cashier with a wave of his hand.

“It certainly is a remarkable coincidence,” said Nick Carter. “If your cashier is correct in what he has just told us, then the man who was mistaken by Miss Templin for her father was Mackenzie, late of Elmwood, Pennsylvania.”

“There doesn’t seem to be a doubt about that,” agreed the president.

“Then while I prosecute my inquiries for Miss Templin, I can at the same time probably serve your company,” said Nick, addressing the president of the Scotia.

“Not only my company, but the four other companies besides. I have seen the presidents or managers of the other four this forenoon, and they authorized me to take charge of the affair and secure an investigation.”

“When were your suspicions aroused that the Mackenzie affair might not be exactly all right?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“How?”

“By the receipt of a telegram from Elmwood, announcing the death of Mackenzie.”

“Who sent the telegram?”

“It was signed ‘John A. Abbott.’ ”

“Do you know him?”

“No; never heard of him.”

“You thought it strange that the death should thus be announced to your company?”

“Yes. It is quite unusual. But there are other strange features about the case. A similar telegram was received by each of the other four companies. What is more suspicious still, the premiums on three of the other policies would have been due to-day, and the remaining one next week. The first insurance was secured in our company. Nine days later he took out policies in three more companies, and a week later still, in the fifth.”

“This is all you have upon which to base your suspicions that something is wrong in the case?”

“No. After these telegrams were received yesterday, our general manager, during my absence from the city, secretly sent an agent of the company to Elmwood for a little private investigation. This morning we received a message from him. Here it is.”

The president handed a telegram to Nick, which the detective read:

“Better send a shrewd detective at once.”

“Anything more?”

“No.”

“I will go to Elmwood.”

“When?”

“This evening. I can get a train at five o’clock, which will set me down at Elmwood about eight.”

“Good. You will find our man, Foster, at the best hotel in the town.”

“No. I want you to recall your man immediately. He must not be there when I arrive.”

“But you’ll be gone before he can reach New York.”

“Yes. We’ll probably pass each other on the way.”

“Then how can you get the benefit of his investigation?”

“I don’t want it.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I should have said I do not need it. Surely I ought to be able to discover anything he has discovered. Then I don’t want his deductions. They might mislead me. A detective’s own theories are usually better and safer than those of an amateur.”

“Very well, Mr. Carter. We will recall Foster.”

“Before I go, will you give me what information you have of the history of Mackenzie? I mean as to his age, birthplace, family history and other things shown by his application for a policy.”

“Oh, I see. I’ll send and get the application from the files.”

When the insurance company’s application in the case of Miles Mackenzie was laid before Nick, he looked it rapidly over, and mentally noted such points as he thought might be of interest in his investigation.

The application was made two years before.

The applicant’s age was given as fifty-seven years; born in Scotland; only child of parents who were both dead; family history good; father and mother both died at a ripe old age; never had been seriously ill in his life; medical examination eminently satisfactory; married the second time; had one child—a son by first wife; his living wife was made the beneficiary under the policy.

“Seems to have been a good risk,” commented Nick, as he handed the application to the president.

“One of the best we ever had at that age,” was the reply.

“His premiums must have been very large?”

“They were. In the two years he has paid to the five companies more than sixty thousand dollars.”

Nick arose to go.

“You will hear from me, Mr. President, within a few days,” he said.

“Then you think there will be little trouble in showing fraud of some kind in this case?”

“Oh, I did not intend to convey that idea. If there be fraud, it ought to be proven in a very short time. If everything is legitimate, then the fact must also be readily established. Therefore, I anticipate a speedy report, but whether it will be favorable to your interests or not, I cannot promise until I have first gone to Elmwood.”

On their way uptown, Nick said to Miss Templin:

“Did this Dr. Greene own his sanitarium at Oakland when Mr. Templin was a patient at that place?”

“You mean the real estate?”

“Yes.”

“I think he did.”

“Then when he went to Australia, he sold out to some one?”

“That is what I understand—to the man who is now in possession.”

“Can you find out for me the amount realized by him in this conveyance?”

“Quite easily. An intimate friend in San Francisco, with whom I have constantly corresponded, can get the information, through her brother.”

“Then telegraph to her to send it to you without delay.”

“Mr. Carter, do you——”

“Now, Miss Templin, you must ask me no questions, but be ready to answer those I have to put to you at any time. You will stay here in New York a few days?”

“Oh, yes. I must remain at the St. James until Mr. Lonsdale arrives, and that will be nearly a week longer.”

“Then stay in your room as much as is altogether convenient, and hold yourself in readiness to come to me at Elmwood in an hour’s notice, should I send for you,” was Nick’s parting injunction, as Miss Templin got ready to leave the elevated train at Twenty-eighth Street.

Nick continued on uptown, and Miss Templin proceeded at once to the St. James.

Just as she was going into the hotel at the Twenty-eighth Street entrance, she was noticed by one of two men who happened to be passing on Broadway.

One was a man apparently about fifty years of age, of medium height and stockily built. He wore a closely cropped, full beard, of a sandy hue, and was clad in a business suit of light gray.

His companion was a much younger man, whose age could not have been more than thirty-five. He wore no beard at all, but his smooth, pale face showed the close-shaved stubble of a beard which would be intensely black were it allowed to grow, and his closely-cropped head of hair was of the same hue.

It was this younger one of the two who first saw Miss Templin. Instantly he grew excited and exclaimed, as he grasped his companion by the arm:

“Good heavens, Dent! Look there!”

“Look where? Why, what is the matter?”

“Did you see that woman go into the St. James just now?”

“No. Who was it?”

“Louise Templin.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am that you are you and I am I.”

“That’s bad—at this time.”

“I should say it was. I’m going to see what she is doing in New York. I had no idea she was back from Europe. Go on up to the Coleman House. I’ll join you there in the bar.”

The man addressed as Dent continued on up Broadway, and his companion entered the St. James Hotel from the Broadway side.

Miss Templin was standing in front of the telegraph booth, writing a message.

The stranger walked slowly past, behind her back, and managed to read at a glance what the young lady had written, and to which she was putting her signature.

The telegram read:

“Find out and telegraph me at once sum paid to Dr. Greene by present owner of Greene’s Sanitarium.”

The newcomer strolled on up to the office desk, and thence into the reading room, from which place he saw Miss Templin enter the elevator and go upstairs.

Then he left by the Twenty-eighth Street door, and soon joined his companion at the Coleman House.

“Dent,” he said, “it is worse than I feared. That woman is here for no good.”

“What have you discovered?”

“She just now sent a telegram to San Francisco, asking for information as to the price paid for Greene’s Sanitarium by the present owner.”

“Are you sure?”

“I read the telegram.”

“What will you do?”

“What will I do? That telegram sealed Louise Templin’s fate. She’ll never get an answer.”

CHAPTER XXII.

MACKENZIE’S SECRET.

Nick Carter reached Elmwood a few minutes after eight o’clock that night, and went straight to the only hotel in the town—a very comfortable and well-kept, though small, hostelry.

He made his appearance in Elmwood in the guise of a lawyer, and registered as “Wylie Ketchum, New York City.”

As soon as he had been assigned to a room, he inquired of the landlord:

“Can you tell me where Mr. Mackenzie lives?”

“I can tell you where he did live,” was the reply, made in a mysterious tone of voice.

“Where he did live? You don’t mean to tell me he has moved away?”

“Well, he has!”

“Rather sudden, wasn’t it?”

“Very.”

“Do you know where he has gone?”

“Well, not for sure, though, seeing the old man was a good sort o’ person as men go—a member of the Presbyterian Church, and one who never refused a call in the name of charity, I presume he has gone to heaven, if a man ever gets there.”

“Dead?”

“As a doornail.”

“When did he die?”

“Yesterday. Are you a friend of the family?”

“Oh, no; only a lawyer who has done business for him occasionally.”

“Ah, yes.”

“How did he die?”

“Suddenly. Dr. Abbott can tell you all about it.”

“Who is Dr. Abbott?” asked Nick, at the same time remembering that the telegrams to the insurance companies, announcing Mackenzie’s death, were signed “John A. Abbott.”

“Why, he’s the oldest physician in these parts. Has been here since a boy, and——”

“But was he Mackenzie’s physician?”

“Yes; and more than his physician. The two men were intimates. No one in Elmwood knew Mackenzie better than Abbott—not even his minister.”

“Then I want to meet Dr. Abbott as soon as possible,” Nick thought.

Ten minutes later he was introducing himself to “the oldest physician in Elmwood.”

Dr. Abbott was fully sixty years old; he was a large, well-fed, jolly-appearing gentleman, who no sooner looked Nick Carter in the eye than he impressed the latter most favorably.

“No matter how much of a villain Mackenzie was, this man was not his accomplice,” was Nick’s verdict of Dr. Abbott.

“Well, Mr. Ketchum, how can I serve you?” asked the doctor.

“I came to Elmwood to transact a little business with a client, and was shocked to learn as soon as I reached town that he is dead.”

“Who? Mackenzie?”

“Yes.”

“Ah! poor Mackenzie! It was a great shock to me.”

“You were his intimate friend?”

“We were almost like brothers.”

“So I was told, and that is why I came to you.”

“How can I serve you?”

“By giving advice. I came here to draw up a new will.”

“Why, I didn’t know he had made one. He sent for you?”

“No; he arranged for my visit when he was in New York yesterday a week ago.”

“Ah!”

“So I’m too late, and it’s my fault. I should have come several days earlier, but couldn’t get away. Besides, I supposed he was in the best of health and there was no hurry.”

“That was Mackenzie’s secret and mine. We expected a quick ending, but its sudden arrival astonished me, at least, in spite of my knowledge of his condition.”

“Then he has been failing for some time?”

“For about a year. He came to me when he experienced the first symptoms, and told me how he felt. I kept from him the knowledge of his condition as long as I thought it wise. But he grew so rapidly and alarmingly worse, I was forced, a few months ago, to lay bare to him his precarious state of ill-health. He heard his doom like the brave Christian he was.”

“Then death did not find him unprepared?”

“No; certainly not.”

“How long did you know him?”

“A little over two years—ever since he came to Elmwood!”

“Where did he live before he moved to this place?”

“In Australia, though he originally came from Scotland. He was a Scotchman by birth.”

“How did you and he come to be such friends?”

“Well, in the first place he was my tenant.”

“Your tenant?”

“Yes. I own the house in which they have lived ever since they came to this place.”

“He rented it?”

“Yes.”

“Then he was not, as I supposed, a wealthy man?”

“On the contrary, he was worth half a million, besides his large life insurance.”

“And yet he was a renter?”

“He rented, with the privilege of purchasing. You see, he was not sure of making this his home until after he was stricken with his fatal disease, and then I discouraged him from buying for two reasons. One was because the rent he was paying was satisfactory, and the other was because I made up my mind that I would move into the house myself, should he die and his wife go away.”

“Where would she go?”

“Back to her old home in Australia. Mackenzie told me she has never been satisfied since she left that far-off place of her nativity.”

“Then she will return there, now that her husband is dead?”

“I think it quite likely.”

“You have spoken only of his wife. Has he no children?”

“None by the present Mrs. Mackenzie, who is his second wife and comparatively a young woman. But he had a son living—the issue of his first marriage.”

“Where is this son?”

“I don’t know where he is at present. When last heard from he was in Paris and talked about coming here to visit his father soon. Indeed, Mackenzie, when he showed me the Paris letter, said he’d not be surprised if his boy would drop in on him almost any time.”

“He showed you the son’s letters?”

“Oh! yes. You see, Mackenzie made me his full confidant ever since he first met me. He has talked a great deal about his absent son, and has shown me all the letters he received from the young man from time to time, written at different places. He confided in me as if I were his brother.”

“You said something about his life insurance?”

“Yes; Mackenzie had half a million dollars on his life. You see, he wanted to leave his entire possessions to this son, and yet arrange it so that his widow would not receive a cent less at his death. He consulted me about the plan, which was adopted, and it was this: His income was sufficient for the family’s modest mode of living, and for the payment of premiums on a half million of life insurance besides. So, instead of putting the accumulating revenues with the principal, he used them to carry the insurance. Did he never explain this to you, his lawyer?”

“No, I have done very little business with Mackenzie. Had he lived, I should have known more.”

“Well, as his trusted friend, I will gladly consult with you on all matters pertaining to his estate. Now you are here, had you not better remain till after the funeral? Your services may be needed.”

“When will the funeral occur?”

“To-morrow afternoon.”

“Then I will stay.”

“I was just going over to the house to see if I could be of service to the widow in making the arrangements for the funeral. Will you go along?”

It was just what Nick hoped for—this opportunity to visit the dead man’s late home, and he accepted Dr. Abbott’s invitation.

As the doctor was getting ready to leave his office, Nick made a mental summing up in the case, so far as he had got.

“This Mackenzie’s plot, if there be one, was deep-laid. He was probably an excellent reader of human nature, and when he got ready to pick out an innocent aid-de-camp in this town, he wisely selected Dr. Abbott, for the triple reason that Abbott was the most pliable, unsophisticated man in town: because he was a man of high standing in the community, and because he was a doctor by profession.

“He was careful not to let his chosen friend discover the fact that he, himself, thoroughly understood diseases and all their symptoms. Therefore, he easily led Abbott into the belief that he—Mackenzie—was a victim to some deadly malady.

“He has taken Abbott into his confidence about the absent son, even to showing the letters from the latter. Those letters we shall find among his effects, no doubt, and the son may or may not turn up hereafter.

“He even consulted the doctor, and used him in some way to further his ends about the life insurance. I must find out just how, after I have seen the corpse. Yes, I must see the corpse of Miles Mackenzie when we reach the house of mourning.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

A DOG’S INSTINCT.

As Nick Carter and Dr. Abbott walked through the main street of the town of Elmwood, on their way toward the residence of the late Miles Mackenzie, the detective had an opportunity to note the great popularity and widespread esteem in which his companion was held in that community.

Everyone they met had a word of greeting, and received from the whole-souled man some response in return. Very often inquiries were made about the funeral, and it was evident that a very general feeling of regret existed for the death of the man who had so recently come among them.

Abbott explained to Nick that the house, in which Mackenzie’s body lay, was half a mile beyond the edge of the town. The night was pleasant, and they walked along in the full enjoyment of the summer weather.

“Dr. Abbott,” said Nick, when they were fairly out of the town, “your friend died suddenly, you say. Might not the insurance company, on that account, be inquisitive, and be inclined to make trouble before they pay over such a large sum?”

“There are five companies, Mr. Ketchum. He held a policy in each of five companies. When it became evident that he would drop dead some day, we discussed that very point. Mackenzie had a horror of being dug up after burial, and having his body subjected to a postmortem examination. So we prepared against that contingency.”

“Indeed! How?”

“As soon as he died, I telegraphed to each of the insurance companies, notifying them of his demise. If they hold an autopsy, it must be done before to-morrow afternoon. If they fail to do it by that time, they will never be able to set up a plea that the body was removed beyond their reach without giving them a fair chance to investigate the cause of death.”

“But that would not prevent them from digging up the body or having it disinterred for the purpose of an autopsy later,” said Nick.

“Oh! yes, it would. An autopsy after to-morrow night will be impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because the body will be incinerated at the Long Island Crematory.”

“Then, after all,” said Nick to himself, “it is not his body lying in a self-inflicted trance, nor is it a perfectly made wax image. What is it I am up against?”

A huge Newfoundland dog met them at the gate leading into the spacious grounds surrounding the house. The dog greeted Dr. Abbott familiarly and with demonstrations of great friendship.

“Poor Rover!” exclaimed Abbott, patting the Newfoundland on the head. “You have lost your good, kind master.”

Then to Nick he said:

“This dog and Mackenzie were almost inseparable. When the poor brute realizes his loss, he will be inconsolable.”

As they neared the house, Nick said:

“Dr. Abbott, I wish you would not mention to the widow my profession nor the business which brought me to Elmwood.”

“Why not?”

“I mean until after the funeral. Might it not be a source of additional worry to her to know that I had been brought here by her dead husband?”

“You are right, Mr. Ketchum. I will introduce you as a friend from the city visiting me.”

“Thank you.”

The house stood in the center of a large lawn, and there was no other residence within a radius of a quarter of a mile. It was a frame building of moderate size, two stories in height, and by no means of modern architecture.

A very large, buxom woman, of middle age, met Dr. Abbott at the door. He addressed her as “Emma,” and Nick supposed she was a servant.

“Where is Mrs. Mackenzie, Emma?”

“In the sitting room, sir, with Rev. Playfair and Deacon Cotton.”

“Then we’ll not disturb her till they have gone. I’ve brought a friend, who is visiting me, and we’ll go in and look at the remains, if you have no objections.”

“Why, certainly not, doctor,” was the stout woman’s reply, but Nick was aware that she was at the same time staring at him with a gaze which was full of suspicion or curiosity.

Abbott and Nick followed Emma through the first door on the right, into a room which had all the blinds drawn and was but faintly illuminated by a lamp burning low.

The servant turned up the light, and Nick saw a coffin resting on two chairs near the mantel.

Softly and silently he and Abbott walked forward and looked down at the dead man.

They saw the face of what was undoubtedly a corpse; the face of an old man, with very white hair and very white beard.

Abbott looked but a few moments. Then he turned away, while tears trickled down his face.

Nick stood a little longer, carefully noting every feature of the dead man in the coffin, and all this time he was aware of the fact that the stout woman never once took her eyes off his face. When they emerged from the parlor, the minister and deacon were just leaving. Abbott, therefore, instructed the servant to conduct them to the widow.

During that short visit to the corpse, Nick made one very important observation, which was lost upon Abbott and the woman, Emma.

Rover had followed them in, and, while Nick was looking at the dead man, the dog came up to the coffin, also looked at the face of the corpse, gave one or two sniffs and walked away, without exhibiting a particle of canine grief over his loss.

They found the young and comely widow in the sitting room, surrounded by several condoling neighboring women, who took their departure as Abbott entered.

The doctor introduced his friend and visitor, Mr. Ketchum, from the city, and made his excuses for bringing a stranger to the house of mourning.

“The fact is, my dear Mrs. Mackenzie, we may need an additional witness, when the life insurance is collected, and as Mr. Ketchum is a stranger in Elmwood, he will serve as such much better than one of your neighbors.”

This explanation may have been satisfactory to the widow, but Nick noticed that she, too, bestowed more attention upon him than the circumstances seemed to call for.

“You will pardon me, Mrs. Mackenzie, for mentioning such a matter now, I know, because you are aware what good friends your husband and I were; but I’m going to ask whether you have any knowledge of a will which he left?”

“He never spoke to me of a will. Did he to you?”

“Yes. That is why I asked. He told me that it was his design to give you the proceeds of his life insurance, and his estate in hand to his son, Leo.”

“Then he made more of a confidant of you than of me. If there is such a will, it may be in his room—in his desk. Shall we go and see?”

Abbott readily assented, and Mrs. Mackenzie led the way into an apartment between the sitting room and the parlor.

This, as Nick surmised, had been the private room of the late Miles Mackenzie.

A bed stood in one corner. At its foot was a door, partly ajar, which Nick’s quick eye observed gave entrance to a large clothes closet.

The dog followed them into this room also. Nick’s eyes never lost sight of the brute, though to an observer he was giving Rover no attention.

He saw the dog trot across to the closet, push the door further open with his nose, and look up toward the ceiling, while he uttered a very low whine.

The stout woman was right on Rover’s heels, and the toe of her heavy shoe gave him an admonishing punch in the ribs to indicate that his exit from the room and from that closet in particular was greatly desired.

And Rover took the prompt hint.

Nick’s back was turned nearly all the time, while the closet incident was occurring, and the stout woman no doubt said, in her soul:

“Thank Heaven! he didn’t see what the fool dog did!”

And Nick was thinking:

“That brute will tell me more than Abbott can, if I follow the four-footed fellow up.”

“Here is the desk and here are the keys,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, as she unlocked a small desk sitting between the two windows. “Will you search for what you want, Dr. Abbott?”

Abbott accepted the invitation and began a search of the various drawers.

They found numerous letters from the absent son, and such odds and ends as one might expect to find in a private desk of a man whose life was uneventful. But no will turned up.

“This desk is especially arranged to throw off the unwary,” thought Nick, as he watched Abbott sorting papers and investigating pigeonholes. “If I were to search the house, that desk would be the last place I should overhaul.”

The moon was shining brightly as they walked down the path through the lawn, on their return to town. Nick was slightly behind Dr. Abbott, as the path was narrow, and the grass wet with a heavy dew.

Suddenly he saw at his feet a small, square piece of paper, which the wind was playing with. It looked to him like the label from a bottle.

He stooped, picked it up, and, assuring himself that he had made no mistake as to the nature of its former usage, he stuck it into one of his vest pockets.

When he left Abbott, to return to his hotel, he promised the latter to call on him again next morning.

Once safely in his room at the hotel, Nick took the label from his pocket and examined it by the light of his lamp. On it he read:

“Madame Reclaire,

“No. 1871 ——th St.,

“Philadelphia.”

For thirty seconds Nick looked at the address on the label, after reading it. Then he muttered:

“So! so! Madame Reclaire, of Philadelphia! We shall meet again. I have not seen you since I worked out the identity of Daly. I then promised myself to look into your business at some future time a little more closely. Now, here is some more of your peculiar article in trade, and it has been used to further the ends of a stupendous crime.

“This label came from a bottle of your mixture which changes the color of hair, after a few applications, and keeps it of the desired hue.

“What a little thing often works out the fate of man! This small, square bit of paper, which the sportive wind blew to the feet of Nick Carter, has solved the mystery of that man who lies back yonder in his coffin.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE SON RETURNS.

It was ten o’clock next morning before Nick Carter reached Dr. Abbott’s office, and then he found the doctor absent on his daily round among his patients.

At noon he went back, with better success.

“I have promised to accompany Mrs. Mackenzie to New York with her husband’s remains this evening, Ketchum. Can you remain here till we return?”

“When will that be?”

“To-morrow morning. The remains will be incinerated to-night. We must stay in the city over night and come back early to-morrow forenoon.”

“I think I will have to return. But I’ll run up again in a few days,” said Nick, after pretending to study over the situation a little while.

“Then go to New York with us.”

“What time does the train leave Elmwood?”

“At four o’clock.”

“All right. I’ll be on hand. Any of the neighbors going but you?”

“No, and I’m really glad you will be one of our party, for I don’t exactly like being the only disinterested witness to the cremation. I want you to follow the remains with me to the crematory and see them put into the retort.”

“To oblige you, doctor, I’ll do it.”

“Thank you. Now, let us go up to the house. The service takes place at one o’clock. We’ll find nearly the whole town present, for Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie, though they never entertained, were immensely popular.”

“Mackenzie must have been a good citizen.”

“A better man did not live in Elmwood. He and his wife were prominently identified with every good work undertaken by the churches.”

“Church members, eh?”

“Yes. Like nearly all Scotchmen, Mackenzie was a profound Presbyterian of the strong foreordination faith. Yet he was always ready to join hands with the members of any Christian sect in doing deeds of good. You will see in this last tribute how great was the respect in which he was held.”

And what Nick saw during the funeral services went to confirm Dr. Abbott’s assertions.

The attendance was so large that the coffin was carried out under a large tree, near the front of the house, and there the funeral sermon was preached before several hundred neighbors, many of whom shed the tears of sincere sorrow.

The sermon was pronounced by everyone to be the most eloquent effort of the reverend speaker’s life. The subject, it was agreed, was an inspiration.

Nick’s attention was quietly divided between the widow and the dog. The widow’s face was hidden beneath a deep crape veil, and she seemed to weep silently and incessantly.

The dog did not simulate. He expressed no sorrow in his brute way, but to Nick’s practiced eye, the animal was plainly nonplussed. He walked around among the vast crowd, sniffing at everybody and peering up anxiously into the faces of all he passed.

“Rover is looking for his master,” silently commented Nick. “What a splendid assistant I have in that dog.”

After the services, the neighbors were dismissed. Only the undertaker, Dr. Abbott and a few chosen friends remained at the house.

Nick excused himself to the doctor, with the plea that he must go to the hotel and get ready for his departure. He promised to meet Abbott at the depot.

At half-past three o’clock a train arrived from New York.

Among the passengers who left the train at Elmwood was a rather handsome, smoothed-faced young man, an entire stranger to the loungers about the station, who were already collecting to pay a last tribute of respect to the remains of their dead townsman, as he would be borne away forever by the four o’clock train.

The stranger inquired the way to the nearest hotel and set out to walk there, after getting his directions.

With his traveling bag in hand he entered the hotel just as Nick came into the office with his valise, and went to the desk to settle his bill.

The comfort of the parting guest is always made subservient to the welcome which awaits the fresh arrival at country hotels.

So Nick waited while the landlord received his new patron.

The detective noticed a look of surprise on the landlord’s face, as he turned the register around and examined it, after the stranger had written his name.

The good man’s voice had a slight tremble when he asked:

“Just come in on the half-past three train?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Beg pardon for seeming to be impertinent, but are you Miles Mackenzie’s son?”

“I am.”

“Just arrived from foreign ports?”

“Exactly!”

“I’ve often heard your father speak of you. And now I look at you, I think you resemble him somewhat.”

“Is that so?”

“You weren’t expected, I suppose?”

“Well, no. That is why I want to brush up a little before I go to the house and surprise him. So I just stopped in. Can you give me a room with plenty of soap, water and towels?”

The poor landlord was growing very nervous.

“Ahem!” he began, clearing his husky throat. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard any news since you arrived?”

“News? Why, no! I didn’t suppose you ever had any news in such a quiet, graveyard sort of a place. What on earth induced father to come to this town and bury himself alive with all his money, I cannot conceive. I marvel that he hasn’t died of sheer lonesomeness.”

“Mr. Mackenzie, I ought not to detain you here.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“You should go straight to the house.”

“Go straight to the house? What are you driving at?”

“Your father leaves for New York on the four o’clock train. He must now be on the road to the depot.”

“Why, then, I’ll go back and surprise him at the train. I can go along and——”

“How can I tell you? Your father will make the journey in a coffin.”

“What! Merciful Heaven! Don’t tell me he is dead?”

“I must. He died the day before yesterday, and will be taken to New York for burial this afternoon.”

“This is terrible,” groaned the afflicted son, as he let his face fall into his hands and sank back into a chair.

The landlord was so absorbed in the overpowering grief of his new guest, that he scarcely mustered up enough presence of mind to make out and receipt the bill of the departing lawyer, Wylie Ketchum, of New York.

As this task was finally completed, the sound of slowly revolving wheels came in from the street, accompanied by the measured tread of many feet.

The tender-hearted landlord came out from behind his desk, laid his hand gently on the afflicted man’s shoulder, and said, while tears came into his eyes:

“There comes the body, now, on the way to the depot. Will you accompany it to New York?”

The young man raised his face, and looked toward the street. Nick was sure the face was paler than it had been when its owner covered it with his hands a few moments before. The eyes certainly were filled with horror, and a wild expression distorted the countenance.

“No! No!” he muttered. “I couldn’t bear it. It’s too late, now. Let them go on. I’ll remain here till—till—my stepmother returns.”

Then he drew back to a place where he could look through a window into the street without being seen.

From that place he watched the funeral procession pass the hotel, on its slow journey to the depot.

Nick looked, also, and his eyes rested longest upon the dog, Rover, which followed among the crowd, still maintaining that animal expression of puzzled wonder.

Just as the end of the procession passed the hotel, the dog stopped, put his nose to the ground, sniffed vigorously a few moments, and came running back. His nose remained close to the ground, and he came straight into the hotel.

The next moment he uttered a joyful whine, and, bounding across the room, began to lick the hand of the stranger and manifest other signs of doggish joy.

Nick Carter was busy fastening his bag, yet he noticed the look of terror, mixed with rage, which came into the young man’s face.

The landlord was looking on with open-mouthed astonishment.

“Whose dog is this?” asked young Mackenzie, patting the delighted Rover on the head.

“Well, that beats the dickens!” muttered mine host. “Why, that’s your father’s Rover. The instinct of these brutes is wonderful. He knows you are a member of the family, I guess.”

Just then the landlord’s attention was called to another part of the room, and Nick’s head was bent down till it seemed to have his body between his eyes and Mackenzie, Jr. Yet he saw the latter give the dog a vicious kick, which sent the brute howling toward the door.

“Poor fellow!” coaxed Mackenzie, “did I step on your foot! Well, I ask your pardon, old boy, I’m sure.”

The dog approached suspiciously and received the man’s caress, with some misgivings expressed in his honest face.

“Landlord, I’m going to the house to remain till my stepmother returns. I suppose I’ll find some one there?”

“Only the servant, sir.”

“All the better, then; I’ll not be disturbed in my sorrow. Can you direct me?”

“Certainly,” was the response, and the landlord gave the necessary directions, concluding with: “You can’t miss it.”

“Come on, old fellow; we’ll go together,” said the afflicted man to the dog.

And as Nick was driven to the depot, in the town bus, he saw the wandering prodigal walking up the road in the opposite direction, while Rover went gamboling along at his side.

“If men were endowed with the instinct of dogs,” muttered Nick, “crimes like this would never be committed.”

Then he heaved a sigh as he watched the capers of the happy dog, and again muttered:

“Poor brute! Your instinct this time will cost you your life. You know too much to live. And if I was suspected of sharing your knowledge, my life would also be in danger.”

CHAPTER XXV.

THE CREMATION.

It was seven o’clock when the remains of the dead man from Elmwood reached New York City. On the train, Nick yielded to Abbott’s request to accompany them to the crematory.

So reluctantly did the pretended Mr. Ketchum agree to become one of the small funeral party, that Abbott was far from suspecting the fact that his new acquaintance left Elmwood with the determination of seeing the remains in the coffin placed in the furnace, and not lose sight of them until they were reduced to ashes.

It took two hours for the hearse bearing the remains and the carriage in which sat the widow, Dr. Abbott and Nick to cross the city to the Thirty-fourth Street Ferry, reach Long Island City, and make their way to the crematory.

They found the furnace ready for the reception of the body. The manager suggested that the widow had better not remain during the process of incineration, but she insisted in not only remaining, but also in viewing the process.

Much to Dr. Abbott’s surprise, but not to Nick’s, the widow witnessed the cremation without fainting, and without even going into an hysterical condition.

Indeed, her interest in the process was marked and unconcealed. The ceremony seemed to fascinate her, and while her eyes followed every movement of the men who were handling the corpse, Nick’s eyes were watching her just as intently.

Without the twitching of a muscle, she saw the body placed on the reception slab; she saw it covered with the cloth soaked in the acid used for that special purpose; she saw the doors of the retort flung open; she saw the slab containing the body hastily pushed into the incandescent oven; she saw the doors hurriedly closed forever between the world and the mortal form of the man with the long, white beard. Through the place prepared for the purpose, she watched the outlines of the body under the medicated cloth without a shriek of horror—without even so much as a sob she stood there, and saw the covered form on the slab slowly sink, quiver and finally settle down into a thin layer of ashes.

The cremation was finished; the earthly remains of the man in the white beard were nothing but a handful of ashes; the manager of ceremonies gave Abbott a knowing look.

Dr. Abbott drew Mrs. Mackenzie’s arm still closer through his own, and turning, led her away to the waiting carriage. Nick followed, and heard the sigh which at last escaped from Mrs. Mackenzie’s lips.

Dr. Abbott’s construction of the sigh differed materially from that which Nick put upon it.

So they returned to New York City.

At the first opportunity, Nick left them and hastened to the St. James Hotel.

It was nearly eleven o’clock when he sent up his card to Miss Templin’s room.

The boy returned with the information that the lady was not in.

“I might have told you that much before your card was sent up,” exclaimed the clerk, “had not something else been on my mind at the time. Miss Templin has not been at the hotel since last night.”

“Not been here since last night!” repeated Nick, in surprise. “Why, where did she go?”

“Excuse me, sir, but if I knew, I think I should not have the right to answer for her whereabouts to everybody who called, unless I was sure the inquisitor had a right to receive the information,” replied the clerk.

“You are quite right,” assented Nick. “When I tell you who I am, I believe you will not hesitate to give me what information I need.”

The clerk looked at the card Nick had sent up.

“Carter,” he said, as he read the name written thereon. “You are Mr. Carter.”

“Yes. Nick Carter.”

“What!” cried the clerk; “Nick Carter, the detective?”

“That is I,” smiled Nick.

“Well, you beat the dickens in disguising yourself so your best friends don’t know you,” muttered the clerk.

“It’s part of my business,” Nick explained.

“Working for Miss Templin?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s something queer about her disappearance. By the way, here’s a telegram came for her to-day.”

Without so much as saying “by your leave,” Nick tore off the envelope and read the message.

It was, as he expected, from San Francisco, and merely read:

“Seventy-five thousand dollars cash.”

“I’ll keep that,” said Nick, putting it in his pocket.

“But it is her telegram.”

“It is in answer to a message she sent for me,” explained the detective. “Now, what is there strange about her disappearance?”

“There is our house detective. He’ll tell you. I’ll call him.”

“Don’t let him know who I am,” whispered Nick, as the hotel detective came forward, in answer to the clerk’s beck.

“This gentleman is a friend of Miss Templin, the young lady who has been absent so mysteriously,” explained the clerk to the local detective. “Please tell him what you know of the circumstances surrounding the affair.”

Nick and the “local” walked over to a seat near the entrance to the restaurant and sat down together.

“You see,” began the local, “the first suspicious thing about the affair that attracted my notice happened yesterday.”

“What was that?”

“I saw her sending a telegram by the hotel wire yesterday afternoon. My attention was attracted at the time, by the queer actions of a man who came in at the Broadway entrance while Miss Templin was writing out her message.

“The fellow passed behind your friend, and I am sure he looked over her shoulder and endeavored to read what she was writing.”

“You don’t know if he succeeded?”

“No; he scarcely stopped at Miss Templin’s back a moment. Then he passed on, and left by the Twenty-sixth Street door.”

“What do you make of it?”

“Nothing out of that alone. But there is more.”

“More?”

“This man passed on up Broadway to the Coleman House, where he joined another fellow—a man older than he, who wore a full, close-cropped sandy beard. I heard him call this fellow Dent.”

“You followed him?”

“Only that far. The two men walked north on Broadway, when they left the Coleman House, and I came back to the hotel.”

“That was suspicious.”

“But now comes the most surprising part of my discoveries. Last evening those two men came back.”

“Here to the hotel?”

“Yes. The man with the sandy beard was on the box—was driving a spanking pair of horses, to a fine-looking carriage. The other fellow rode inside.

“The latter, without getting out, called the bell boy to the carriage, and sent a note up to Miss Templin. Ten minutes later, the young lady came down, equipped as if for a call, went out, was helped into the carriage and was driven away. That was the last of her, the carriage or her two companions.”

“Can you describe the person who came to the hotel and took her away—the man who rode with her, inside?”

“Like a book.”

And the hotel detective gave Nick a minute description of the man.

“Thank you very much,” said Nick, as he started toward the street.

“Nothing seriously wrong with your friend, I hope?” called the detective.

“No, I think I know who took her away, and what the man’s object was.”

But as Nick went out on the street, he muttered, under his breath:

“If Miss Templin fell into that fellow’s trap, I can do her no good now. I must not risk spoiling the whole case in an attempt to find her at present, especially as such a search would be extremely difficult to prosecute from the points I have to start with.

“This sudden disappearance of Miss Templin will make my work somewhat more difficult, and change my plans materially. With her to accompany me to Elmwood and confront Mrs. Mackenzie and her woman, Emma, my task would have been easy from this point. Now, I am forced to take a new tack, and sail up against the wind.”

He went to another hotel, registered and retired for the night.

But he was up and about his business early the next morning.

When the president of the Scotia Insurance Company arrived at his office that forenoon, he found Nick on hand waiting for him.

“Ah! Mr. Carter,” he cried, “I am glad to see you. What news have you to report?”

“You must pay the money on that premium, sir!”

The president sat down with a decided look of disappointment on his face.

“Then it’s a straight case, after all.”

“I did not say so.”

“You said we’d have to pay the policy?”

“For the purpose of saving your own money and the money of the other four companies.”

“Your words sound queer and paradoxical.”

“It is only part of my scheme to capture the most consummate band of scoundrels who ever plotted to rob insurance companies.”

“Ah! then it was a plot to defraud?”

“Yes. Now, will you trust me fully in the management of the case?”

“Certainly I will.”

“Then please notify the widow that if she will call here at the company’s office at two o’clock to-morrow, and furnish the necessary proofs, a check for the amount of her policy will be given to her.”

“But you don’t want us to give the check?”

“Yes, I do. You will delay that part of it until after the banks have closed. I’ll promise that it will never be cashed.”

“Do you object to telling me more about the case than I already know?”

“Not at all. Listen.”

Nick remained in earnest conversation with the president for nearly an hour. The two men then parted on the best of terms.

Half an hour later he was on his way to Philadelphia.

He went straight from the Broad Street Station to the office of the chief of police, with whom he was closeted for twenty minutes.

When he left the chief’s office, the latter was with him.

The two men took a carriage and were driven to No. 1871 ——th Street, where Madame Reclaire had her rooms.

Nick knocked, while the chief of police stood at his back.

The door was opened slightly by a woman.

Nick didn’t waste a word in parleying, but pushed his way in—the chief of police following.

The woman made a vain effort to stop them, but she was helpless to stay their entrance.

In half a minute they had locked the door, and led her into a better-lighted room beyond.

“What means this outrage?” panted the woman.

The chief of police showed his insignia of office, and replied:

“It means, Madame Reclaire, that you’ll give us some information which we want, or go to jail, charged with being accessory to murder.”

CHAPTER XXVI.

AT MADAME RECLAIRE’S.

Madame Reclaire’s face grew ghastly. Her attempted bravado faded away in an instant. She caught at a chair for support.

“Murder!” she gasped.

“Yes, murder! You must make proper explanation or go to jail.”

“What do you want me to explain?”

“A label from one of your bottles has been found in a case where life was taken unlawfully. It may be you are innocent of wrong in the affair, but your bleaching devices were used in a plot which has, as I said, resulted in murder.”

“As Heaven hears me, I am not a party to the crime.”

“That remains to be seen. It behooves you to speak the truth to us. About two years ago a man with a long, black beard called at this place and purchased some bottles of a wash to bleach his beard and his hair snow-white.”

“I remember him well.”

The chief of police shot Nick a quick triumphant glance. Madame Reclaire saw it, and properly interpreted the meaning of that look. She bit her lip till it almost bled. The shrewd woman knew in an instant that she had been trapped; that her two visitors had no knowledge of any such visit from a customer such as they had described.

The chief had stated a suspicion as a fact, and she admitted its truth.

“Now, we are getting on,” said the chief. “Who was with him?”

“Nobody.”

“There your memory fails you, madam, and I see we might as well take you with us, where we can refresh your recollection with faces.”

“Well, then, he was accompanied by another man.”

“Of the same age?”

“No. Older, I should say.”

“Had he a beard?”

“Yes.”

“Its color?”

“Very light—almost yellow.”

“And hair to match?”

“Of course.”

“You doctored him, also?”

“Yes”—reluctantly.

“What hue?”

“Made his beard and hair sandy.”

“And have supplied both with enough of the washes since then to keep those colors up?”

“Yes.”

“You did not ask what purpose they had in view by changing the color of beard and hair?”

“No. That was none of my affair.”

“Hereafter you had better make it your business. We will leave you now, madam. Until I see you again, do not go to the bother of trying to leave your apartments. You’ll be watched, and it would only lead to your landing in jail. Good-day.”

Her visitors left as abruptly as they had arrived.

Nick went direct to the Broad Street Station, and took a train at that point for Elmwood, where he arrived about nine o’clock at night.

From the Elmwood Station he went straight to Dr. Abbott’s office.

Fortunately he found Abbott in and alone.

“Hello, Ketchum! I’m downright glad you’ve come. Had you been ten minutes sooner, you would have seen Mackenzie’s son, who just left my office. He came in yesterday, and was awfully cut up over the unexpected news of his father’s death.”

“Was the dog, Rover, with him?”

“Why, no. That is a strange question, Mr. Ketchum.”

“Is it? What is there strange about it?”

“Why should you ask whether the dog was with him?”

“I’ll tell you, Dr. Abbott. I was at the hotel yesterday when young Mackenzie arrived. Rover found him there, and took a great fancy to him. I thought, perhaps, the dog might be following him around.”

“There was something more than that to the meaning of your question.”

“Again I ask why you think so?”

“Because somebody killed the dog last night.”

“The news does not surprise me.”

“You know who killed him?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Wait a moment, doctor. What did Mackenzie want just now? To tell you his stepmother had been summoned to go to New York to-morrow by the Scotia Insurance Company to get the money on the policy of that company?”

“Why, yes; but——”

“And he wanted you to go along to furnish proofs of death, and to identify the widow?”

“Yes. Were you eavesdropping?”

“Not at all. I came straight from the depot.”

“Then how on earth do you know so much?”

“I’ll tell you, presently. First, let me ask whether you promised to go to New York with Mrs. Mackenzie?”

“I did.”

“Is this son going, too?”

“He is. And I’ll be obliged if you’ll help them out with your evidence.”

“Oh! I’ll help them out, never fear. But neither you nor I must go with them.”

“What in the world are you driving at?”

“Are we alone?”

“Entirely so.”

“Safe from interruption?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m going to astonish you; probably shock you.”

“How?”

“First, by telling you that the poor dog, which was killed last night, was not so easily deceived as you were.”

“Deceived. Why——”

“Had your perceptions been as clear as the dog’s, you, too, might have met his fate.”

“Ketchum, this is mummery. What are you trying to say?”

“Please don’t call me Ketchum.”

“Why?”

“Because it is not my name.”

“Then, in Heaven’s name, who are you?”

“I am Nick Carter, the detective!”

“What!”

Abbott jumped to his feet, as he made the exclamation, and stood looking at the man before him like one entranced.

“You must have heard of me?” said Nick, dryly.

“Heard of you! Who has not heard of Nick Carter?”

“Would you believe me if I made a plain statement of facts?”

“That depends.”

“Well, I’m going to risk it, and rely on your good, sound common sense. I believe I know you well enough to trust you with an astonishing secret.”

“A secret? What secret?”

“Let me ask you a question. That dog, you told me, was very fond of his master, Miles Mackenzie?”

“Yes.”

“Went with him nearly everywhere; followed him about?”

“That’s true.”

“Wasn’t it strange that the dog did not recognize his master’s corpse in the coffin when he looked at it night before last?”

“Why, I didn’t notice.”

“Then I did. An intelligent dog like Rover would have known even his master’s corpse.”

“Why, you don’t mean——”

“Wait. Perhaps you noticed that the dog was almost constantly searching for something.”

“Well, yes. There was certainly something of that kind in his demeanor.”

“He was looking for his master.”

“That may be.”

“And he found him. That is where Rover, the dog, was shrewder than you, the friend.”

“Found him? How? Where?”

“Listen. I’ll tell you.”

Then Nick described the scene at the hotel when Rover surprised the landlord, and aggravated the newly arrived son.

“Good heavens, man! What is this you are telling me?”

“That the dog could not be deceived. He knew the corpse in the coffin was not the remains of his master as well as he knew the pretended son was Mackenzie himself, without white whiskers, without white hair, without dye on the upper part of the face.”

Abbott sank back into his chair, speechless with amazement.

“Incredible!” he gasped, finally.

“It seems so, but I have the proofs to back up the murdered dog’s cute perceptions—that instinct which cost him his life.”

“Oh! this is beyond belief.”

“No. Even incredulous as you are determined to be, you shall soon agree that you have been wonderfully deceived. Shall I tell you the strange story?”

“As you please.”

“Well, some years ago, a certain Dr. Greene owned a private sanitarium near Oakland, Cal.

“Among his patients was a rich man, who met with a peculiar affliction. The man’s name was Jason Templin.

“His affliction left him helpless, speechless and without the power of thought. He was a living man with a dead brain.

“Templin had a long, white beard, snow-white hair, and a florid face.

“Dr. Greene had a beard equally long, but it was black.

“Among the attendants at the sanitarium was one of Templin’s nurses, a handsome, scheming young woman.

“It was she, I suspect, who conceived the plan to obtain great wealth, and at the same time become the wife of Dr. Greene, whom she, in her way, loved.

“She made the discovery that if Greene’s beard and hair were white, and his face a little more florid, he would be almost the counterpart of the strange patient—Jason Templin.

“Then a plan was probably laid which had in its aim the substitution of Greene for Templin, whereby they might obtain the latter’s great wealth.

“Subsequently, circumstances undoubtedly changed the plan somewhat.

“One day a man met his death in such a way that only Greene and his scheming aids knew anything about it. This man’s body was dressed in Templin’s clothes, the body was laid with the face in the grate fire of Templin’s room till it was burned beyond the power of recognition, and the helpless Templin was put in perfect concealment.

“The mutilated body was delivered to Templin’s friends, who buried it, under the belief that they were burying the unfortunate man’s corpse.

“Shortly afterward Greene sold out, receiving seventy-five thousand dollars cash for his property.

“He announced that he was going to Australia.

“When we investigate further, it will be found that Templin’s handsome nurse and several other of his associates disappeared at the same time, and were seen no more in California.

“Some time later, Miles Mackenzie appeared in this town of Elmwood. With him was his young wife and a stout servant woman.

“This Mackenzie was such a living image of the awfully afflicted Jason Templin that the latter’s daughter, a few weeks ago, caught sight of Mackenzie’s white beard and hair, and mistook him for her father, whose remains she had believed were lying in a vault at San Francisco.

“When Miss Templin saw the disguised Mackenzie, he had just paid a premium on a one-hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy.

“Her mistake led to an investigation.

“The fact turned up that Mackenzie had five one-hundred-thousand-dollar policies.

“A little further investigation showed that in two years he had paid, in premiums, over sixty thousand dollars.

“There was not enough left of the seventy-five thousand dollars to pay another year’s premiums, and still the unfortunate, helpless Templin, hidden away by the man who was masquerading as his able-bodied double, didn’t die, and give them a chance to collect the insurance.

“So a crisis in their plans approached, and the murder, which they had hoped to avoid, seemed to be inevitable.

“Meanwhile, Mackenzie had singled out a physician in high standing at Elmwood, as his chosen friend and confidant.

“He succeeded in winning this doctor’s friendship, and by correctly describing the symptoms, so well known to him as a doctor, of a deadly disease, prepared the deceived friend for the news of his sudden death.

“Then the helpless Templin’s life was sacrificed——”

“No! No! Great heavens! No! This Templin may have died a natural death,” cried Abbott.

“But he didn’t, as I’ll convince you soon. Templin was killed—poisoned, probably—and his body was produced before the Elmwood people as that of Mackenzie.

“Even you were deceived; but it didn’t deceive the dog.

“Meanwhile, Greene disappeared. He cut off his beard, cropped his hair, removed the dye from his face, and appeared in his real character as a comparatively young man.

“He had prepared for his advent in Elmwood in the character of his own son, by showing letters from the supposed young man written in London, Paris and other foreign cities.”

“Who wrote them?”

“One of his companions in crime—a man whose beard and hair of yellow hue had been dyed a sandy color. A man named Dent.”

“Where is he?”

“I haven’t found him yet, but expect to.

“So the false son came home at almost the hour when the remains of the supposed father were being taken away to be cremated.

“But the brute instincts of a dog nearly betrayed the well-laid plot. It so thoroughly frightened the arch-plotter that he concluded to take no further risks in that direction, and while the pretended widow was witnessing the incineration of the remains of Jason Templin, the rejuvenated Miles Mackenzie, alias Dr. Greene, killed his loving dog.

“Do you remember how persistently the supposed widow insisted on seeing the remains cremated?”

“Yes, yes!”

“And did you not wonder at her great nerve during the trying ordeal?”

“Good heavens, how blind I was!”

“Do you know why she would not leave till she saw the body in ashes?”

“I can guess, now.”

“She took no chances on an autopsy ever being held. That is why I am so sure Jason Templin did not die a natural death.”

“Where did they keep Templin all this time?”

“I don’t know, but we will find out.”

“We?”

“You and I. That is why I said you must not go with them to New York to-morrow. I want you, in their absence, to go with me and make a search of their house.”

“And yet I am not blind, nor a fool!” ejaculated Abbott.

“Do you still think it is beyond belief?”

“No. The only thing which is almost beyond belief now, is that I should have been so easily deceived.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE PADDED SECRET PRISON.

Abbott and Nick Carter remained locked up together in earnest conversation nearly all that night. A train left Elmwood for New York at a few minutes after five o’clock in the morning, and it carried away the famous detective on his return to the city.

He went at once to his own house, where he was fortunate in finding his two assistants, Chick and Patsy.

His first move, after having dispatched a hearty breakfast, was to take Chick up to his “den” and remove his disguise as Wylie Ketchum, the lawyer. Then he proceeded to assist Chick in assuming the same character, until another Wylie Ketchum stood forth.

Nick looked critically at Chick thus disguised, and then remarked:

“You’ll do. Mrs. Mackenzie saw me only by lamplight, and through her crape veil, and you are so nearly like I was, that the difference is not discernible to an unpracticed eye.”

“I guess there’ll be no trouble in deceiving her, Nick. The man never saw you?”

“No. Now, remember you are to be at the Scotia Insurance Company’s office at two o’clock prompt.

“Patsy will be on hand to shadow them when they leave the office, and never lose sight of the couple till I return, to-morrow morning.”

About noon Nick went to the Scotia office, and received the following telegram, which had just arrived:

Elmwood, Pa., July 9, 18—.

“TO WYLIE KETCHUM, care Scotia Life Insurance Company, New York City: Impossible for me to accompany Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie to-day. Have sent certificates of cause of death and identification of widow. If necessary, I can come down to-morrow. They leave at ten o’clock.

ABBOTT.”

“It’s all right,” said Nick, as he handed the telegram to the president. “My assistant will represent me here as Mr. Ketchum, and I’ll be off to Elmwood again.”

Fifteen minutes after Mrs. Mackenzie and her pretended stepson had reached New York, Nick, in the new disguise of a farmer, was once more on his way to Elmwood, carrying with him a huge carpetbag.

His train left directly after the Elmwood express arrived, and he had the satisfaction of seeing his party disembark, and start toward the ferry before he stumbled up the steps into the smoking car of his train.

When he was once more in the presence of Dr. Abbott it was necessary to introduce himself anew.

But when Abbott realized that in the old farmer who stood before him he saw the great New York detective, he was not slow in posting Nick on the way the case lay at Elmwood.

“When I pleaded my duty to a sudden very dangerous case, wherein my services were demanded for this afternoon, Mrs. Mackenzie and her pretended stepson were very much disturbed. But when I assured them that you were a personal friend of the president of the insurance company, and had promised me to be on hand for the purpose of proof and identification, they agreed to go on and try it without me.”

“Well, now that the coast is clear, let us lose no time. Are you ready?”

“At your service.”

“Then come on.”

They went straight to the Mackenzie residence.

The stout servant, Emma, met them at the door, and there was a scowl on her face.

“Why, Dr. Abbott, I thought you had such a serious case on hand this afternoon,” she said, placing her large body in the doorway, and thus barring their entrance.

“So I had, Emma—so serious that death has already resulted.”

“Who was it?”

“An old man with a long, white beard; a man who looked as much like your late employer, Mr. Mackenzie, as if they had been brothers.”

The woman’s face grew deadly white, and for a moment Nick believed she was going to faint.

But Emma was not of the fainting kind. By a great effort, she regained some of her courage, and attempting a laugh, which was a dismal failure, she said:

“Do you expect me to believe that? Where does your important patient live?”

“We think he did live in this house, and have come to investigate a little, to satisfy ourselves.”

Emma had slowly thrust one hand into the folds of her dress skirt. Suddenly, and with a movement as quick as thought, she stepped back, raised her arm and flashed a pistol in Abbott’s face.

She was not quick enough for the detective, however. His large carpetbag swung through the air and hit the weapon just as she pulled the trigger.

There was a report, but the bullet went wide of the mark. In another minute, Emma was securely bound and gagged.

“Now, for a search of the house,” said Nick. “First, I want to see if any changes have been made in the building since Mackenzie moved in.”

“There have been none made on this floor, as I told you, for I’ve been all over it dozens of times,” replied Abbott.

“But you’ve not been upstairs since they took possession?”

“No.”

“Then let us go up and take a look around.”

He led the way first to the front room over the parlor. They no sooner entered than the doctor walked across to the dividing wall opposite the front windows.

“Here is something, Mr. Carter,” exclaimed Abbott, staring at the blank wall.

“What is it?”

“There was a large clothes closet at this place when I rented the house to Mackenzie.”

“And now it is a solid, blank wall?”

“Looks that way.”

Nick tapped against the place indicated.

“Brick!” was his decision.

“Brick!” exclaimed Abbott. “Why, the whole house is wood.”

“Not this part, surely. It is brick, covered with plaster, and neatly papered. Did Mackenzie buy any brick after he came here?”

“No. But I now remember he asked permission to remove a small outbuilding, and that was built of brick.”

“That is where he got them, then. Was there a corresponding closet on the other side?”

“Yes.”

“Let us go around and look at it.”

They went into the apartment over the sitting room, and there, too, the closet had been sealed up by a solid, brick wall.

“Now, we’ll go below and take a look into the closet where Rover’s investigations were so rudely interrupted by the toe of Emma’s shoe,” remarked Nick.

The closet was dark, but Abbott produced a lamp, lighted it, and brought it to Nick’s assistance.

A long stepladder leaned against the wall of the closet.

Nick’s eyes made a careful examination of the ceiling.

Then he moved the ladder to a place about the center of the closet, and mounted the steps until he could place both hands against the board surface over his head, which he did.

He pushed against it without avail.

Meanwhile, Abbott stood below holding the lamp, an interested spectator.

“There is a trapdoor here, I am sure,” said Nick, “but it is somehow secured by—— Ah! Let’s try this.”

He pressed his thumb against the head of a nail, which had a slightly different appearance from the rest; at the same time he maintained the upward pressure of the other hand.

There was the noise of a sharp click, and then a section of the ceiling, about four feet square, began to rise from one side.

Nick had found the secret trapdoor.

Pushing the trap open as he went, the detective continued to ascend the ladder until his head protruded through the opening.

For a moment he stopped to look around. Then he drew himself up to the floor above.

A few moments later he called down:

“Leave your lamp below, doctor, and come up. There is plenty of light.”

Abbott obeyed.

The two men found themselves standing in an apartment about ten feet square, inclosed by four solid walls. The roof of the house, twelve feet above, opened into the glass-inclosed cupola, which surmounted the building, and thus, as Nick and Abbott saw, in an instant, was furnished the medium for light and ventilation.

The floor and walls were deeply padded, and covered with white muslin.

The only furniture in the small room was a single bed, of iron, a chair and a small, rough table.

Indeed, there was little, if any, room, for anything more; though a hole in the side next to the chimney showed plainly that some kind of a stove had been used during the winter.

A hand glass, a pair of scissors, shaving utensils, a basin of water, and two or three bottles lay promiscuously on the table, and scattered over the floor was a mass of white hair.

“Behold all that remains of your friend’s venerable whiskers,” said Nick, pointing to the telltale material at their feet.

“He came up here to renew his youth,” exclaimed Abbott.

“Yes, and was so sure of the security of this hiding place that he didn’t lose any time in destroying the proofs of his villainous plot. See! there are the bottles from Madame Reclaire’s laboratory, whose contents bleached his beard and hair. He even used the wash here right in the presence of the helpless man who was so terribly wronged.”

“This was his prison?”

“Evidently. Have you any idea how they got Templin here without arousing suspicion?”

Dr. Abbott remained in thought a few moments before he replied.

“During the first few months of their residence in the house,” he finally said, “there was a man of all work about the place who, from what you tell me, I believe was the fellow with the sandy beard and hair Madame Reclaire described as a partnership patron with Mackenzie. Maybe he had something to do with smuggling the old man in.”

“I have no doubt of it,” said Nick. “It was probably he who constructed this chamber while Elmwood slept; and helped Mackenzie, or Greene, to bring the victim from some other hiding place to this padded prison. I wish I knew where that sandy-bearded man is at this moment.”

If Nick only had known what he expressed the wish to know, it would have saved him from great danger.

For at the very moment the wish was expressed on his lips, the sandy-bearded man was cautiously crawling up the stepladder, in the closet below.

A few moments later his burly form straightened, his arm went up through the opening, his hand caught hold of the trapdoor, and before Nick or Abbott realized their peril, the door fell, with a muffled sound, and the click of the spring lock was plainly heard.

Abbott turned a startled look upon Nick.

“The trap has fallen,” he exclaimed.

“Yes, but not of its own force.”

“You mean——”

“I mean somebody reached up and closed it. Hist!”

Nick had bent his head toward the floor, and was listening for any sound which might come up from below.

For half a minute everything was silent. Then was heard what seemed to be the sound of crashing glass.

“Abbott, we must get out of this, if we can, without delay,” said Nick, in tones which were full of intense meaning. “They have crashed the lamp among the clothing in the closet beneath us, and thus fired the house.”

“They? Who?”

“I don’t know. But the woman has had help, for she could never have escaped from her bonds unassisted; of that I am sure.”

“Good heavens, Carter! There is no chance for us. The roof is too far beyond our reach, and that is now our only way out,” cried Abbott.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE WAY IT ALL ENDED.

“I have been in many tighter places than this, doctor,” said Nick, cheerfully. “I’ll show you how badly the people below us have miscalculated.”

“What makes it so dark?” queried Abbott. “It is not yet sundown.”

“No. I suspect a storm is coming up—ah! I thought so.”

In confirmation of his suspicions, a loud peal of thunder broke the outside silence.

“It is coming fast, too,” said Nick. “Now, see how easy it will be for us to escape.”

He took the table and stood it directly beneath the cupola.

Then he pulled a sheet from the bed, twisted it into a rope, and threw it around his neck.

“Now, then, doctor,” he exclaimed, “just jump upon the table and brace yourself to hold the weight of about one hundred and eighty pounds of human flesh.”

Abbott quickly complied without stopping to ask a question.

Nick followed him upon the table at his back, having first seized one of the empty bottles in his right hand.

“Steady, now, doctor,” urged Nick.

The next moment he was standing upright, with a foot on each of Abbott’s shoulders.

Having secured a safe hold for his hands on the base of the cupola, Nick put his athletic training into use, and drew himself up by the mighty muscles of his arms.

The next instant he was looking through the thick glass sides of the cupola.

Then taking the sheet rope from his shoulders, he lowered it to Abbott, with the question:

“Can you raise yourself hand-over-hand?”

“I can try.”

“Well, lose no time.”

Slowly, and with great difficulty, the portly doctor began his task.

He would not have reached the cupola had not Nick finally let go one hand from its hold on the sheet, and with it caught Abbott by the arm. Then he seized the physician with the other hand, and the rescue was completed. Abbott came through the opening into the cupola as if he were fastened to a derrick.

The thunder was crashing on all sides by this time. Smoke was also rolling out of the house by the doors and windows, and Nick knew that they would have no time to lose in getting down to the ground.

Seizing with a firm grasp the bottle he had brought from the prison room below, he made an assault upon the glass inclosure of the cupola. Crash! crash! went the crystal plates, until an opening was secured large enough to let Nick crawl through to the roof.

He turned and was assisting the doctor through, when the latter suddenly pointed over Nick’s shoulder and cried:

“Look there, under that tree!”

Nick directed his attention to the place Abbott indicated—a large elm tree, about sixty feet from the house.

There, leaning against the trunk, and watching the house, were Emma, the servant, and a man with a sandy beard.

Even while the doctor was looking, the eyes of the sandy-bearded man were raised, and he saw the men on the roof.

He uttered a cry, and made a step as if to leave his place of observation.

At that instant there came a blinding flash, followed by a deafening clap of thunder.

For a brief time Nick and Abbott were partially stunned.

Nick was the first to recover. He looked toward the tree.

The tree was a wreck from the lightning’s bolt, and beneath its shattered boughs lay two forms—a man and a woman.

They hastened to reach the solid earth, and the task was soon accomplished.

The man and woman under the tree were found, upon examination by the doctor, to be stone dead.

The lightning had done its work effectually.

Half an hour later the residence was beyond rescue.

Nick hurried the doctor away, and enjoined him to secrecy on the subject of their afternoon’s adventure.

An hour later both were on the way to New York.

That night Nick, accompanied by Dr. Abbott, Chick, Patsy, the chief of police and the president of the Scotia Insurance Company, surprised Mackenzie and his guilty wife at their apartments in the hotel where they had secured accommodations in order to be in New York the next morning for the purpose of cashing the Scotia’s check as soon as the banks opened their doors for business.

The surprise and confusion of the wicked pair were complete.

They admitted everything but the killing of Jason Templin. Both declared he had died a natural death, a statement Nick knew was not true, but which he realized would be hard to disprove before a jury.

While Chick and Patsy kept close guard over the two prisoners, the chief of police, Nick Carter, Abbott and the insurance president retired to another room for consultation.

Two of the conspirators were dead. If Miss Templin yet lived, it would be hard to convict the two survivors of murder. That much was admitted.

Miss Templin could not be found. Mackenzie declared, a few minutes before, that the young woman was alive, but would never be heard from unless he got ready to speak, which, under his present circumstances, he was not willing to do.

Nick and the chief of police both realized that they were dealing with a desperate man, and they finally agreed to compromise with him if he would accept their terms.

They more readily reached such an understanding when Abbott suggested that for Miss Templin’s sake it would be well, if possible, to keep from her the knowledge of the fate of her father.

So this was the proposition made to Mackenzie and his wife:

First, they were to return Miss Templin to her friends without her having suffered serious bodily harm.

Secondly, they should surrender the five life insurance policies.

Each should plead guilty to a charge of defrauding the Scotia Insurance Company, and take a sentence in the State’s prison of from ten to twenty years.

In return, they were promised that Templin’s fate would never be brought up against them.

To this compromise Mackenzie, speaking for himself and his wife, refused to agree.

It was only after a promise that in addition to a pledge not to prosecute them on a charge of murder, the insurance companies would refund the premiums already paid in that a final agreement was made.

Acting under directions from Mackenzie, Nick found Miss Templin, bound hand and foot, gagged, senseless and almost dead, in a scantily furnished room high up in a half-deserted tenement on Tenth Avenue, where she had been taken by Mackenzie and the latter’s friend, Dent, on the night they decoyed her from the St. James Hotel.

The decoy had been simple.

Early in the day on which she disappeared, Miss Templin made a call on a friend whom she had known in Italy, but who at that time was married, and living in New York.

Greene and Dent followed her to the house.

When Miss Templin was leaving her friend’s residence, the two men strolled past and heard the hostess from the step say:

“If Tom comes home to-day, which is not likely, I’ll send him around after you, and you must come back with him to spend the evening. I know he’ll be glad to meet you, and you’ll be sure to like him.”

This gave the desperate couple their clew.

A forged note, stating that Tom had arrived, after all, and would fetch Miss Templin to the house in a carriage, was written, a livery carriage hired from a public stable, the driver drugged, Dent substituted, and Miss Templin was trapped very easily.

The agreement made with the Mackenzies that night was faithfully carried out, and the couple are serving out a fifteen years’ sentence in Sing Sing.

Louise will never know that her father’s remains were cremated on Long Island, but will be left in the belief that they lie in the vault at San Francisco.

At Elmwood the theory is prevalent that lightning destroyed the Mackenzie residence and killed the two servants; for the body of the dead man was recognized as being that of a person who worked for Mackenzie when the latter first came to the village.

The only mystery that has never been cleared up by the good people of that section is the sudden disappearance of Mrs. Mackenzie and the son.

They went to New York and were never afterward heard from.

Many Elmwood people read in their city newspapers the account of Dr. Amos Greene and his wife, who pleaded guilty to an attempt to defraud an insurance company, but none of them even suspect that the two self-convicted criminals were their former highly esteemed fellow townspeople, Mr. and Mrs. Miles Mackenzie.

Louise Templin became Mrs. Lonsdale, as Nick discovered a day or two later, when a dainty card was sent up to his office with this characteristic message written on the back:

“Just off on our honeymoon, Mr. Carter. I felt I must stop long enough to send up my regards and say ‘thank you’ for making our present happiness possible.

“LOUISE LONSDALE.”

THE END.

No. 1142 of the NEW MAGNET LIBRARY is entitled “The Bank Draft Puzzle.” A mystery story full of exciting incidents in which Nick Carter unravels an intricate plot teeming with interest.

Western Stories About

BUFFALO BILL

ALL BY COL. PRENTISS INGRAHAM

Red-blooded Adventure Stories for Men

There is no more romantic character in American history than William F. Cody, or, as he was internationally known, Buffalo Bill. He, with Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, Wild Bill Hicock, General Custer, and a few other adventurous spirits, laid the foundation of our great West.

There is no more brilliant page in American history than the winning of the West. Never did pioneers live more thrilling lives, so rife with adventure and brave deeds, as the old scouts and plainsmen. Foremost among these stands the imposing figure of Buffalo Bill.

All of the books in this list are intensely interesting. They were written by the close friend and companion of Buffalo Bill—Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. They depict actual adventures which this pair of hard-hitting comrades experienced, while the story of these adventures is interwoven with fiction; historically the books are correct.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

1—Buffalo Bill, the Border King

2—Buffalo Bill’s Raid

3—Buffalo Bill’s Bravery

4—Buffalo Bill’s Trump Card

5—Buffalo Bill’s Pledge

6—Buffalo Bill s Vengeance

7—Buffalo Bill’s Iron Grip

8—Buffalo Bill’s Capture

9—Buffalo Bill’s Danger Line

10—Buffalo Bill’s Comrades

11—Buffalo Bill’s Reckoning

12—Buffalo Bill’s Warning

13—Buffalo Bill at Bay

14—Buffalo Bill’s Buckskin Pards

15—Buffalo Bill’s Brand

16—Buffalo Bill’s Honor

17—Buffalo Bill’s Phantom Hunt

18—Buffalo Bill’s Fight with Fire

19—Buffalo Bill’s Danite Trail

20—Buffalo Bill’s Ranch Riders

21—Buffalo Bill’s Death Trail

22—Buffalo Bill’s Trackers

23—Buffalo Bill’s Mid-air Flight

24—Buffalo Bill, Ambassador

25—Buffalo Bill’s Air Voyage

26—Buffalo Bill’s Secret Mission

27—Buffalo Bill’s Long Trail

28—Buffalo Bill Against Odds

29—Buffalo Bill’s Hot Chase

30—Buffalo Bill’s Redskin Ally

31—Buffalo Bill’s Treasure-trove

32—Buffalo Bill’s Hidden Foes

33—Buffalo Bill’s Crack Shot

34—Buffalo Bill’s Close Call

35—Buffalo Bill’s Double Surprise

36—Buffalo Bill’s Ambush

37—Buffalo Bill’s Outlaw Hunt

38—Buffalo Bill’s Border Duel

39—Buffalo Bill’s Bid for Fame

40—Buffalo Bill’s Triumph

41—Buffalo Bill’s Spy Trailer

42—Buffalo Bill’s Death Call

43—Buffalo Bill’s Body Guard

44—Buffalo Bill’s Still Hunt

45—Buffalo Bill and the Doomed Dozen

46—Buffalo Bill’s Prairie Scout

47—Buffalo Bill’s Traitor Guide

48—Buffalo Bill’s Bonanza

49—Buffalo Bill’s Swoop

50—Buffalo Bill and the Gold King

51—Buffalo Bill, Dead Shot

52—Buffalo Bill’s Buckskin Bravos

53—Buffalo Bill’s Big Four

54—Buffalo Bill’s One-armed Pard

55—Buffalo Bill’s Race for Life

56—Buffalo Bill’s Return

57—Buffalo Bill’s Conquest

58—Buffalo Bill to the Rescue

59—Buffalo Bill’s Beautiful Foe

60—Buffalo Bill’s Perilous Task

61—Buffalo Bill’s Queer Find

62—Buffalo Bill’s Blind Lead

63—Buffalo Bill’s Resolution

64—Buffalo Bill, the Avenger

65—Buffalo Bill’s Pledged Pard

66—Buffalo Bill’s Weird Warning

67—Buffalo Bill’s Wild Ride

68—Buffalo Bill’s Redskin Stampede

69—Buffalo Bill’s Mine Mystery

70—Buffalo Bill’s Gold Hunt

71—Buffalo Bill’s Daring Dash

72—Buffalo Bill on Hand

73—Buffalo Bill’s Alliance

74—Buffalo Bill’s Relentless Foe

75—Buffalo Bill’s Midnight Ride

76—Buffalo Bill’s Chivalry

77—Buffalo Bill’s Girl Pard

78—Buffalo Bill’s Private War

79—Buffalo Bill’s Diamond Mine

80—Buffalo Bill’s Big Contract

81—Buffalo Bill’s Woman Foe

82—Buffalo Bill’s Ruse

83—Buffalo Bill’s Pursuit

84—Buffalo Bill’s Hidden Gold

85—Buffalo Bill in Mid-air

86—Buffalo Bill’s Queer Mission

87—Buffalo Bill’s Verdict

88—Buffalo Bill’s Ordeal

89—Buffalo Bill’s Camp Fires

90—Buffalo Bill’s Iron Nerve

91—Buffalo Bill’s Rival

92—Buffalo Bill’s Lone Hand

93—Buffalo Bill’s Sacrifice

94—Buffalo Bill’s Thunderbolt

95—Buffalo Bill’s Black Fortune

96—Buffalo Bill’s Wild Work

97—Buffalo Bill’s Yellow Trail

98—Buffalo Bill’s Treasure Train

99—Buffalo Bill’s Bowie Duel

100—Buffalo Bill’s Mystery Man

101—Buffalo Bill’s Bold Play

102—Buffalo Bill: Peacemaker

103—Buffalo Bill’s Big Surprise

104—Buffalo Bill’s Barricade

105—Buffalo Bill’s Test

106—Buffalo Bill’s Powwow

107—Buffalo Bill’s Stern Justice

108—Buffalo Bill’s Mysterious Friend

109—Buffalo Bill and the Boomers

110—Buffalo Bill’s Panther Fight

111—Buffalo Bill and the Overland Mail

112—Buffalo Bill on the Deadwood Trail

113—Buffalo Bill in Apache Land

114—Buffalo Bill’s Blindfold Duel

115—Buffalo Bill and the Lone Camper

116—Buffalo Bill’s Merry War

117—Buffalo Bill’s Star Play

118—Buffalo Bill’s War Cry

119—Buffalo Bill on Black Panther’s Trail

120—Buffalo Bill’s Slim Chance

121—Buffalo Bill Besieged

122—Buffalo Bill’s Bandit Round-up

123—Buffalo Bill’s Surprise Party

124—Buffalo Bill’s Lightning Raid

125—Buffalo Bill in Mexico

126—Buffalo Bill’s Traitor Foe

127—Buffalo Bill’s Tireless Chase

128—Buffalo Bill’s Boy Bugler

129—Buffalo Bill’s Sure Guess

130—Buffalo Bill’s Record Jump

131—Buffalo Bill in the Land of Dread

132—Buffalo Bill’s Tangled Clew

133—Buffalo Bill’s Wolf Skin

134—Buffalo Bill’s Twice Four Puzzle

135—Buffalo Bill and the Devil Bird

136—Buffalo Bill and the Indian’s Mascot

137—Buffalo Bill Entrapped

138—Buffalo Bill’s Totem Trail

139—Buffalo Bill at Fort Challis

140—Buffalo Bill’s Determination

141—Buffalo Bill’s Battle Axe

142—Buffalo Bill’s Game with Fate

143—Buffalo Bill’s Comanche Raid

144—Buffalo Bill’s Aerial Island

145—Buffalo Bill’s Lucky Shot

146—Buffalo Bill’s Sioux Friends

147—Buffalo Bill’s Supreme Test

148—Buffalo Bill’s Boldest Strike

149—Buffalo Bill and the Red Hand

150—Buffalo Bill’s Dance with Death

151—Buffalo Bill’s Running Fight

152—Buffalo Bill in Harness

153—Buffalo Bill Corralled

154—Buffalo Bill’s Waif of the West

155—Buffalo Bill’s Wizard Pard

156—Buffalo Bill and Hawkeye

157—Buffalo Bill and Grizzly Dan

158—Buffalo Bill’s Ghost Play

159—Buffalo Bill’s Lost Prisoner

160—Buffalo Bill and The Klan of Kau

161—Buffalo Bill’s Crow Scouts

162—Buffalo Bill’s Lassoed Spectre

163—Buffalo Bill and the Wanderers

164—Buffalo Bill and the White Queen

165—Buffalo Bill’s Yellow Guardian

166—Buffalo Bill’s Double “B” Brand

167—Buffalo Bill’s Dangerous Duty

168—Buffalo Bill and the Talking Statue

169—Buffalo Bill Between Two Fires

170—Buffalo Bill and the Giant Apache

171—Buffalo Bill’s Best Bet

172—Buffalo Bill’s Blockhouse Siege

173—Buffalo Bill’s Fight for Right

174—Buffalo Bill’s Sad Tidings

175—Buffalo Bill and “Lucky” Benson

176—Buffalo Bill Among the Sioux

177—Buffalo Bill’s Mystery Box

178—Buffalo Bill’s Worst Tangle

179—Buffalo Bill’s Clean Sweep

180—Buffalo Bill’s Texas Tangle

181—Buffalo Bill and the Nihilists

182—Buffalo Bill’s Emigrant Trail

183—Buffalo Bill at Close Quarters

184—Buffalo Bill and the Cattle Thieves

185—Buffalo Bill at Cimaroon Bar

186—Buffalo Bill’s Ingenuity

187—Buffalo Bill on a Cold Trail

188—Buffalo Bill’s Red Hot Totem

189—Buffalo Bill Under a War Cloud

190—Buffalo Bill and the Prophet

191—Buffalo Bill and the Red Renegade

192—Buffalo Bill’s Mailed Fist

193—Buffalo Bill’s Round-up

194—Buffalo Bill’s Death Message

195—Buffalo Bill’s Redskin Disguise

196—Buffalo Bill, the Whirlwind

197—Buffalo Bill in Death Valley

198—Buffalo Bill and the Magic Button

199—Buffalo Bill’s Friend in Need

200—Buffalo Bill with General Custer

201—Buffalo Bill’s Timely Meeting

202—Buffalo Bill and the Skeleton Scout

203—Buffalo Bill’s Flag of Truce

204—Buffalo Bill’s Pacific Power

205—Buffalo Bill’s Impersonator

206—Buffalo Bill and the Red Maurauders

207—Buffalo Bill’s Long Run

208—Buffalo Bill and Red Dove

209—Buffalo Bill on the Box

210—Buffalo Bill’s Bravo Partner

211—Buffalo Bill’s Strange Task

S & S

Novels

Means

MONEY’S WORTH

Clean, interesting, attractive—they afford the reader the best possible value in the way of literature of the day. Do not accept cheap imitations which are clearly intended to deceive the reader and are always disappointing.

BOOKS FOR YOUNG MEN

MERRIWELL SERIES

ALL BY BURT L. STANDISH

Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell

Fascinating Stories of Athletics

A half million enthusiastic followers of the Merriwell brothers will attest the unfailing interest and wholesomeness of these adventures of two lads of high ideals, who play fair with themselves, as well as with the rest of the world.

These stories are rich in fun and thrills in all branches of sports and athletics. They are extremely high in moral tone, and cannot fail to be of immense benefit to every boy who reads them.

They have the splendid quality of firing a boy’s ambition to become a good athlete, in order that he may develop into a strong, vigorous, right-thinking man.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

1—Frank Merriwell’s School Days

2—Frank Merriwell’s Chums

3—Frank Merriwell’s Foes

4—Frank Merriwell’s Trip West

5—Frank Merriwell Down South

6—Frank Merriwell’s Bravery

7—Frank Merriwell’s Hunting Tour

8—Frank Merriwell in Europe

9—Frank Merriwell at Yale

10—Frank Merriwell’s Sports Afield

11—Frank Merriwell’s Races

12—Frank Merriwell’s Party

13—Frank Merriwell’s Bicycle Tour

14—Frank Merriwell’s Courage

15—Frank Merriwell’s Daring

16—Frank Merriwell’s Alarm

17—Frank Merriwell’s Athletes

18—Frank Merriwell’s Skill

19—Frank Merriwell’s Champions

20—Frank Merriwell’s Return to Yale

21—Frank Merriwell’s Secret

22—Frank Merriwell’s Danger

23—Frank Merriwell’s Loyalty

24—Frank Merriwell in Camp

25—Frank Merriwell’s Vacation

26—Frank Merriwell’s Cruise

27—Frank Merriwell’s Chase

28—Frank Merriwell in Maine

29—Frank Merriwell’s Struggle

30—Frank Merriwell’s First Job

31—Frank Merriwell’s Opportunity

32—Frank Merriwell’s Hard Luck

33—Frank Merriwell’s Protégé

34—Frank Merriwell on the Road

35—Frank Merriwell’s Own Company

36—Frank Merriwell’s Fame

37—Frank Merriwell’s College Chums

38—Frank Merriwell’s Problem

39—Frank Merriwell’s Fortune

40—Frank Merriwell’s New Comedian

41—Frank Merriwell’s Prosperity

42—Frank Merriwell’s Stage Hit

43—Frank Merriwell’s Great Scheme

44—Frank Merriwell in England

45—Frank Merriwell on the Boulevards

40—Frank Merriwell’s Duel

47—Frank Merriwell’s Double Shot

48—Frank Merriwell’s Baseball Victories

49—Frank Merriwell’s Confidence

50—Frank Merriwell’s Auto

51—Frank Merriwell’s Fun

52—Frank Merriwell’s Generosity

53—Frank Merriwell’s Tricks

54—Frank Merriwell’s Temptation

55—Frank Merriwell on Top

56—Frank Merriwell’s Luck

57—Frank Merriwell’s Mascot

58—Frank Merriwell’s Reward

59—Frank Merriwell’s Phantom

60—Frank Merriwell’s Faith

61—Frank Merriwell’s Victories

62—Frank Merriwell’s Iron Nerve

63—Frank Merriwell in Kentucky

64—Frank Merriwell’s Power

65—Frank Merriwell’s Shrewdness

66—Frank Merriwell’s Setback

67—Frank Merriwell’s Search

68—Frank Merriwell’s Club

69—Frank Merriwell’s Trust

70—Frank Merriwell’s False Friend

71—Frank Merriwell’s Strong Arm

72—Frank Merriwell as Coach

73—Frank Merriwell’s Brother

74—Frank Merriwell’s Marvel

75—Frank Merriwell’s Support

76—Dick Merriwell at Fardale

77—Dick Merriwell’s Glory

78—Dick Merriwell’s Promise

79—Dick Merriwell’s Rescue

80—Dick Merriwell’s Narrow Escape

81—Dick Merriwell’s Racket

82—Dick Merriwell’s Revenge

83—Dick Merriwell’s Ruse

84—Dick Merriwell’s Delivery

85—Dick Merriwell’s Wonders

86—Frank Merriwell’s Honor

87—Dick Merriwell’s Diamond

88—Frank Merriwell’s Winners

89—Dick Merriwell’s Dash

90—Dick Merriwell’s Ability

91—Dick Merriwell’s Trap

92—Dick Merriwell’s Defense

93—Dick Merriwell’s Model

94—Dick Merriwell’s Mystery

95—Frank Merriwell’s Backers

96—Dick Merriwell’s Backstop

97—Dick Merriwell’s Western Mission

98—Frank Merriwell’s Rescue

99—Frank Merriwell’s Encounter

100—Dick Merriwell’s Marked Money

101—Frank Merriwell’s Nomads

102—Dick Merriwell on the Gridiron

103—Dick Merriwell’s Disguise

104—Dick Merriwell’s Test

105—Frank Merriwell’s Trump Card

106—Frank Merriwell’s Strategy

107—Frank Merriwell’s Triumph

108—Dick Merriwell’s Grit

109—Dick Merriwell’s Assurance

110—Dick Merriwell’s Long Slide

111—Frank Merriwell’s Rough Deal

112—Dick Merriwell’s Threat

113—Dick Merriwell’s Persistence

114—Dick Merriwell’s Day

115—Frank Merriwell’s Peril

116—Dick Merriwell’s Downfall

117—Frank Merriwell’s Pursuit

118—Dick Merriwell Abroad

119—Frank Merriwell in the Rockies

120—Dick Merriwell’s Pranks

121—Frank Merriwell’s Pride

122—Frank Merriwell’s Challengers

123—Frank Merriwell’s Endurance

124—Dick Merriwell’s Cleverness

125—Frank Merriwell’s Marriage

126—Dick Merriwell, the Wizard

127—Dick Merriwell’s Stroke

128—Dick Merriwell’s Return

129—Dick Merriwell’s Resource

130—Dick Merriwell’s Five

131—Frank Merriwell’s Tigers

132—Dick Merriwell’s Polo Team

133—Frank Merriwell’s Pupils

134—Frank Merriwell’s New Boy

135—Dick Merriwell’s Home Run

136—Dick Merriwell’s Dare

137—Frank Merriwell’s Son

138—Dick Merriwell’s Team Mate

139—Frank Merriwell’s Leaguers

140—Frank Merriwell’s Happy Camp

141—Dick Merriwell’s Influence

142—Dick Merriwell, Freshman

143—Dick Merriwell’s Staying Power

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

To be published in July, 1926.

144—Dick Merriwell’s Joke

145—Frank Merriwell’s Talisman

To be published in August, 1926.

146—Frank Merriwell’s Horse

147—Dick Merriwell’s Regret

To be published in September, 1926.

148—Dick Merriwell’s Magnetism

149—Dick Merriwell’s Backers

To be published in October, 1926.

150—Dick Merriwell’s Best Work

151—Dick Merriwell’s Distrust

152—Dick Merriwell’s Debt

To be published in November, 1926.

153—Dick Merriwell’s Mastery

154—Dick Merriwell Adrift

To be published in December, 1926.

155—Frank Merriwell’s Worst Boy

156—Dick Merriwell’s Close Call

Western Story Library

For Everyone Who Likes Adventure

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If you like a really good Western cowboy story, then this line is made expressly for you.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

1—Ted Strong, Cowboy

By Edward C. Taylor

2—Ted Strong Among the Cattlemen

By Edward C. Taylor

3—Ted Strong’s Black Mountain Ranch

By Edward C. Taylor

4—Ted Strong With Rifle and Lasso

By Edward C. Taylor

5—Ted Strong Lost in the Desert

By Edward C. Taylor

6—Ted Strong Fighting the Rustlers

By Edward C. Taylor

7—Ted Strong and the Rival Miners

By Edward C. Taylor

8—Ted Strong and the Last of the Herd

By Edward C. Taylor

9—Ted Strong on a Mountain Trail

By Edward C. Taylor

10—Ted Strong Across the Prairie

By Edward C. Taylor

11—Ted Strong Out For Big Game

By Edward C. Taylor

12—Ted Strong Challenged

By Edward C. Taylor

13—Ted Strong’s Close Call

By Edward C. Taylor

14—Ted Strong’s Passport

By Edward C. Taylor

15—Ted Strong’s Nebraska Ranch

By Edward C. Taylor

16—Ted Strong’s Cattle Drive

By Edward C. Taylor

17—Ted Strong’s Stampede

By Edward C. Taylor

18—Ted Strong’s Prairie Trail

By Edward C. Taylor

19—Ted Strong’s Surprise

By Edward C. Taylor

20—Ted Strong’s Wolf Hunters

By Edward C. Taylor

21—Ted Strong’s Crooked Trail

By Edward C. Taylor

22—Ted Strong in Colorado

By Edward C. Taylor

23—Ted Strong’s Justice

By Edward C. Taylor

24—Ted Strong’s Treasure

By Edward C. Taylor

25—Ted Strong’s Search

By Edward C. Taylor

26—Ted Strong’s Diamond Mine

By Edward C. Taylor

27—Ted Strong’s Manful Task

By Edward C. Taylor

28—Ted Strong, Manager

By Edward C. Taylor

29—Ted Strong’s Man Hunt

By Edward C. Taylor

30—Ted Strong’s Gold Mine

By Edward C. Taylor

31—Ted Strong’s Broncho Boys

By Edward C. Taylor

32—Ted Strong’s Wild Horse

By Edward C. Taylor

33—Ted Strong’s Tenderfoot

By Edward C. Taylor

34—Ted Strong’s Stowaway

By Edward C. Taylor

35—Ted Strong’s Prize Herd

By Edward C. Taylor

36—Ted Strong’s Trouble

By Edward C. Taylor

37—Ted Strong’s Mettle

By Edward C. Taylor

38—Ted Strong’s Big Business

By Edward C. Taylor

39—Ted Strong’s Treasure Cave

By Edward C. Taylor

40—Ted Strong’s Vanishing Island

By Edward C. Taylor

41—Ted Strong’s Motor Car

By Edward C. Taylor

42—Ted Strong in Montana

By Edward C. Taylor

43—Ted Strong’s Contract

By Edward C. Taylor

Insist Upon Having the

S & S NOVELS

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RATTLING GOOD ADVENTURE

SPORT STORIES

Price, Fifteen Cents

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Stories of the Big Outdoors

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There has been a big demand for outdoor stories, and a very considerable portion of it has been for the Maxwell Stevens stories about Jack Lightfoot, the athlete.

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1—Jack Lightfoot, the Athlete

By Maxwell Stevens

2—Jack Lightfoot’s Crack Nine

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3—Jack Lightfoot Trapped

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By Maxwell Stevens

5—Jack Lightfoot in Camp

By Maxwell Stevens

6—Jack Lightfoot’s Canoe Trip

By Maxwell Stevens

7—Jack Lightfoot’s Iron Arm

By Maxwell Stevens

8—Jack Lightfoot’s Hoodoo

By Maxwell Stevens

9—Jack Lightfoot’s Decision

By Maxwell Stevens

10—Jack Lightfoot’s Gun Club

By Maxwell Stevens

11—Jack Lightfoot’s Blind

By Maxwell Stevens

12—Jack Lightfoot’s Capture

By Maxwell Stevens

13—Jack Lightfoot’s Head Work

By Maxwell Stevens

14—Jack Lightfoot’s Wisdom

By Maxwell Stevens

The Dealer

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Table of Contents

Following a Chance Clew

FOLLOWING A CHANCE CLEW.

CHAPTER I. ON A SEPTEMBER NIGHT.

CHAPTER II. A NOVEL TIMEKEEPER.

CHAPTER III. THE ONLY WITNESS.

CHAPTER IV. THE DISPLACED BANDAGE.

CHAPTER V. BENTON, THE ENGLISHMAN.

CHAPTER VI. A POINT GAINED.

CHAPTER VII. IN THE GLOOM.

CHAPTER VIII. A SEMICIRCLE OF CRIME.

CHAPTER IX. PARKS IN DISGUISE.

CHAPTER X. “SPEAKING OF SELLS.”

CHAPTER XI. THE FUGITIVE.

CHAPTER XII. “ONE OF THE BOYS.”

CHAPTER XIII. THREE MILLIONS AT STAKE.

CHAPTER XIV. THE FLAT BURGLARY.

CHAPTER XV. THE POISON BALL.

CHAPTER XVI. THE MAN IN THE WARDROBE.

CHAPTER XVII. “THE DOCTOR.”

CHAPTER XVIII. A LONG JUMP.

CHAPTER XIX. AWAITING NICK CARTER.

CHAPTER XX. AN HEIRESS IN TROUBLE.

CHAPTER XXI. A MAN AND HIS DOUBLE.

CHAPTER XXII. MACKENZIE’S SECRET.

CHAPTER XXIII. A DOG’S INSTINCT.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE SON RETURNS.

CHAPTER XXV. THE CREMATION.

CHAPTER XXVI. AT MADAME RECLAIRE’S.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE PADDED SECRET PRISON.

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE WAY IT ALL ENDED.

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