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Title: The Plot That Failed; or, When Men Conspire

Author: Nicholas Carter

Release date: December 2, 2021 [eBook #66863]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Street & Smith Corporation

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

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PLOT THAT FAILED; OR, WHEN MEN CONSPIRE ***

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 Mail 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

- 1079—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 Ring 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

The Plot That Failed

OR,

WHEN MEN CONSPIRE

BY

NICHOLAS CARTER

Author of “A Plot Uncovered,” “The Cab Driver’s Secret,” “Nick Carter’s Death Warrant,” etc.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION

PUBLISHERS

79– 89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1903– 1905

By STREET & SMITH

The Plot That Failed

(Printed in the U. S. A.)

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

THE PLOT THAT FAILED.

CHAPTER I.

TAMBOURINE JACK’S MESSAGE.

“I feared you would not come.”

The speaker, a beautiful woman of two or three and thirty, half reclined on a sofa, in an elegant apartment.

A gentleman, rather old, had entered the room.

He was what he looked to be—one of New York’s money kings.

“It is for the last time, Louise,” he said, toying with his watch guard.

“And why for the last time?”

For a second the woman appeared downcast, and then, rising to her feet, she said, pleadingly:

“You swore that you would always love me.”

“Yes,” he thundered, “but then I was not aware that the shy and modest Louise Calhoun was a common adventuress. Truly, you would be a nice woman to grace my home and be a second mother to my orphan children!”

“I shall force you to keep your promise!” The woman’s eyes blazed and she clinched her hands until the nails sank deep into the flesh.

“Force me—you will force me!” exclaimed the gentleman.

“Those were the words I used, Hilton Field.”

“Why, you are a criminal.”

She buried her face in her hands, and, as she began to sob, dropped upon her knees.

The banker was moved; he had loved this woman, who had introduced herself to him as the daughter of a New England clergyman, and said that she had come to New York with the intention of supporting herself by giving music lessons. Indeed, she bore letters of introduction from a man Mr. Field knew to be trustworthy.

He had helped the stranger along and often called to see her, the outcome of which visits resulted in a proposal of marriage, which was eagerly accepted, as he thought.

He was deceived.

Louise Calhoun could not marry the banker, and none knew this better than herself.

Her whole body seemed to shake with the emotions born of her grief as she knelt at Mr. Field’s feet.

When she removed her hands the old man saw that the face upturned to his was tear-stained and pale.

“How could you, oh, how could you?” she moaned.

“Compose yourself, Louise.”

“Would you be composed if such an accusation was made against you?” she asked, “by one you dearly loved?”

“My information comes from a detective,” Mr. Field said.

“He told you a falsehood! Would you not take my word before his?”

The banker hesitated.

Far better would it have been for him if he had not.

“Perhaps,” he said, “the man was wrong. Do you mind if I bring him face to face with you to-morrow?”

“You will persist in doubting me;” and, as she spoke, the girl appeared to be highly displeased.

“Louise, I owe a duty to my family,” Mr. Field said; “no one can come in contact with them whom even the breath of suspicion might rest on.”

“What is the name of the man who dares to injure my good name?” she asked, her eyes fastened on him as she awaited the answer.

“His name is Nicholas Carter,” replied the banker.

“Nick——”

She suddenly placed her hand over her mouth.

“Yes, Nick Carter. You seem to know him.”

“Only from reading of him in the newspapers. I read of a bold capture of his only this morning,” she replied.

Mr. Field was lost in thought for a second.

Then he raised the young woman from the floor and seated himself beside her on the sofa.

“Tell me you don’t doubt me.”

Her left arm was thrown around his neck, while her right hand fumbled about in her pocket.

Louise Calhoun was all smiles now, as she drew the banker to her so that his head rested upon her shoulder.

Then quickly did she tighten her grasp, drawing a handkerchief from her pocket and applying it to his nostrils.

Mr. Field struggled, and succeeding in breaking away, staggered to his feet.

Then he fell to the floor.

The drug had done its work.

Louise touched the prostrate man with her tiny foot, and assured herself that he was insensible.

“The old fool!” she exclaimed, and her laugh rang shrilly through the apartment, “marry him? I guess not!”

“Louise, you are a trump!”

The speaker, a young man who would be known anywhere for what he was, a sport and gambler, emerged from behind a heavy curtain, where he had been hid.

“How was my emotional acting, Elmer?” she asked.

The fellow kissed the woman, saying:

“Your husband is proud of his wife.”

His praise seemed to please her.

“Where are your men?” she asked.

“They will be outside at half-past eleven”—he pulled out his watch and glanced at it—“why, it is that time now!”

Elmer, as Louise called him, drew a long piece of thin rope from his pocket and pinioned the old man.

When he had completed the job, he said:

“This night’s work will pay handsomely or I’ll eat my head; then for Europe with the swag, sweetheart.”

The rascal left the house and soon returned with two brutal-looking fellows, who awkwardly removed their hats.

Two more villainous-appearing gentlemen in the yeggman line it would be hard to find.

“You, Mackrell, get the old gent by the head,” said one of them, “and I’ll collar his feet.”

“All right, Skip.”

They carried the banker from the house and placed him in a grocery wagon that was in waiting, and drove rapidly off.

This move was accomplished without discovery.

Investigation into some cases of the disappearance of rich persons would establish the fact that they were kidnaped.

The gentlemanly rascal did not accompany his friends.

He could trust them; he had often done so before and found that they would not go back on the man who paid them well.

The pair were members of the gang that Elmer had organized, and without taking active part in their crimes, he was their acknowledged leader.

It seems strange that an organized gang of nearly two hundred ruffians could exist long in the great metropolis, but Elmer Greer’s did until they were—but that is anticipating.

Returning to the apartment where he had left his wife, he said:

“Louise, you must leave here.”

“Why?”

“It is probable that the banker’s friends knew he was coming here.”

“What then?” she remarked; “they know he often calls here; there can be no suspicion cast on me.”

“He spoke about Nick Carter,” said Greer.

“Well?”

“Perhaps he might have come with the old chap and is now waiting for him.”

“Elmer, never until now did I believe you to be an idiot,” said the woman, “but your words force that conviction upon my mind. If Nick Carter were outside do you suppose they would ever be able to carry the old fellow out?”

“I am a fool; I spoke thoughtlessly,” replied Greer.

There was a sharp knock on the door which caused both the guilty pair to start.

The man hid himself in his former place of concealment.

“Come in,” said Louise, faintly.

The door opened and a huge dog sprang into the room, followed by its master.

The woman screamed.

“Don’t be afraid, miss, it is only me and Crackers. We won’t hurt her, will we, Crackers, old boy?”

Louise was not so much afraid of the evil-looking cur as she was of the monstrosity that accompanied it.

The newcomer was not over four feet in height, although his body seemed to have been intended for a man at least two feet taller.

He wore a pair of pants at least a dozen sizes too large and his coat hung about him in folds.

His head was very large, and the heavy shock of red hair that covered it seemed to add to its size.

“Don’t come near me,” cried Louise, as the creature approached the sofa.

“I won’t harm you.”

“Who are you?” exclaimed Elmer Greer, issuing from his hiding place.

“Don’t you know me?”

“No,” replied the villain. “Come, be quick, answer my question.”

The fellow began to laugh and his laughter seemed more like the scream of a hyena than anything else.

“I’m Tambourine Jack,” he said, at length, drawing a tambourine from under his coat and jingling it, at which the dog Crackers set up a dismal howl.

Greer caught the fellow, but released his hold when he felt the dog’s teeth grasp his leg.

“Down, Crackers, down,” cried Tambourine Jack, shaking himself free.

Elmer drew his pistol and pointed it at the cur.

“Don’t shoot, you’ll be sorry,” said the owner. “I have business with you. Come nearer; I must not let the lady hear it.”

The rascal stooped to enable Tambourine Jack to whisper to him.

When he had received the other’s communication, Elmer Greer became deathly pale.

“Great Heaven!” he cried, “what you tell me cannot be true! How do I know you speak the truth?”

“Give me your hand and I will convince you,” said Tambourine Jack, stretching out his grimy fist.

Greer took the proffered hand, and when he released it his pallor deepened.

“Do you believe me now?”

“I do,” replied the rogue. “You are one of us and dare not lie.”

“Come, Crackers, come; we have finished our business here.”

The dog made a snap at Elmer as he passed him, for which he was rewarded with a kick from his master.

When the door closed upon the strange individual and his four-footed companion, Greer said:

“Prepare for the worst, Louise. I fear we stand on the brink of a volcano!”

CHAPTER II.

THE YEGGMEN’S LEAGUE.

At the foot of one of the uptown streets, East River, is, or was, a tumble-down shed, once used as a wholesale oyster depot.

At high tide the water came up under the shed to within a few feet of the street.

Seated around the room, the night following that of the abduction of the old banker, were seven or eight men, while at a rude table in the middle of the shed were two others engaged in playing cards, and on the table between them were several black bottles.

They were a brutal set, the occupants of the place, and more than one of them had received free board and lodgings at Sing Sing.

“I say, you, Jack Frost, that game ought to be about finished,” said the man called Skip. “I’m thirsty, I am, and the bottles are empty.”

“You lose, Dick Denton,” said the fellow addressed as Jack Frost, arising from the table. “Who will go and get the bottles filled? Two quarts, Dick, you know.”

“I’ll go myself,” said the unfortunate gambler, picking up two of the bottles and leaving the shed.

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t be long! I am dying for a drink,” remarked the thirsty Skip.

Dick Denton had not been gone long when there came a double rap upon the door.

The whole gang were on their feet instantly.

“Go to the door, Ben Baker,” said Skip, who seemed to be a leader among them.

“Who is there?”

“Blue!” was the answer.

“Green!” exclaimed Baker.

“Yellow!”

The rough had locked the door when he went to it, but now he drew the bolt.

“It’s Old Man Moses,” cried several, as an old Jew hobbled into the room, and they all laughed heartily.

The newcomer joined in their mirth, with a succession of sounds something like those of a bagpipe with the quinsy.

“You are very glad to see me, my children,” said he, as he rubbed his hands together.

“Of course we are,” said Skip Brodie. “Got anything for us to do?”

Dick Denton rapped on the door, and the Jew started at the sound.

Raising both his hands above his head, he hoarsely whispered:

“Do not open the door.”

“It’s Dick Denton,” said one.

Once more Ben Baker went to the door.

The usual formula was gone through with.

“Blue!”

“Green!”

“Yellow!”

“Stop!” The Jew caught Ben Baker’s arm as he was about to open the door.

“Are you crazy?”

“No! no!” cried the Jew. “Tell me, do you know the voice?”

“As well as I do my own. It is Dick Denton.”

“You are sure?”

Baker admitted Dick.

“Hello, old Shylock!” remarked Mr. Denton.

“Very glad to see you, Dick.”

“You always are, I know, when I have any swag.”

“Say, Moses,” said Ben Baker, “why were you so anxious about my not opening the door unless I recognized the voice? Don’t you know we have hundreds of members I never saw, and I am an old hand?”

“I know all the boys, and they all know old Moses.”

“There is no doubt of that,” remarked Ben Baker, “especially if they ever had any dealings with you. But, come, that is not answering my question.”

They all had gathered around the table, now, and were engaged in helping each other to empty the bottles.

“Boys!” cried the Jew, “you must leave here. You have been betrayed. Detective Nick Carter knows of this place, and may be down on it at any moment.”

“Betrayed!” shouted the brutes, in chorus.

“Tell me, who was it betrayed us?” Skip caught Moses roughly by the arm. “They must have set no value upon their life.”

“Was it Tambourine Jack?” suggested Mackrell.

“No; not him.”

“Who, then?” shouted several of the ruffians.

“Speak, you old screw, speak!” said Skip, tightening his grasp upon the other’s arm.

“You will not strike me?”

“No.”

“It was Dell Ladley.”

“You lie, Jew, the girl is as true as steel; I don’t go much on giving secrets to women, but she is different to the rest.”

As he spoke, Skip Brodie raised his fist and would have felled Old Man Moses to the floor, had he not been prevented by his companions.

“I swear to you what I say is true,” muttered the Jew, quivering with fear, so fierce were the looks that were directed at him.

“What proof have you?”

“I heard her; she did not know that I listened,” replied the old Hebrew; “she is to enter and open the door for Carter and the officers he will have with him.”

“The devil shoot that same Carter, say I!”

The sentiments of the speaker, a burly Irishman, found an echo in the breast of all.

“Excuse me, Moses, I believe you; I was too hasty.”

Skip extended his hand and the other grasped it.

“Why should I tell a lie?” said the Jew; “are we not bound to tell the truth to each other where business is concerned?”

“Hark!” exclaimed Ben Baker, “I hear footsteps.”

“Quick, Barney, the boat!”

The big Irishman, although it was in the dead of winter, leaped through a window into the waters of the river and swam to where a boat was anchored.

While he was rowing it to a position under the window, Skip Brodie went to the end of the shed nearest the land and opened a trapdoor.

“Give me a hand,” the leader said.

With the assistance of Mackrell and Dick Denton he dragged something through the trap.

Covered with grime, in the dim light of the hovel, it would have been hard indeed to have recognized this object as a human being.

Hilton Field, for it was he, more dead than alive, was dragged to the window as if he had been a bag of wheat.

“Ready, Barney?” Skip cried.

“Yes!”

Dick Denton and the others got into the boat—with the exception of Brodie.

“Now, boys, don’t drown him.”

Saying this, Skip flung the helpless banker into the arms outstretched to receive him.

“Pull away and be sure and keep close to the Brooklyn side.”

“Ain’t you coming?”

“No,” replied Skip.

“But if you remain you will be nabbed,” remonstrated the Jew.

“You said the girl was to come first?”

“Yes.”

“Then I shall wait, and when she comes—well.”

The ruffian’s features were distorted with passion.

“Woe to you, Jew,” Skip continued, “if her coming is not followed by that of the police. Pull off, boys; some one is knocking at the door.”

Again the knock was repeated.

Hastily closing the window, the rascal went to the door.

“Let me in! Let me in, I say.”

“That is not her voice,” muttered Skip.

“Blue!”

“Green!”

“Yellow!”

“Who’s there?”

The thief, believing now that they had been betrayed, was very careful.

“Me and Crackers,” was the reply he got.

“Come in—you!” exclaimed Brodie, swinging the door open.

“Crackers,” said Tambourine Jack, addressing the mongrel, “we don’t seem to be very welcome here to-night.”

Jack was a very valuable member of the gang and, notwithstanding his small size and queer ways, there were no large jobs undertaken in which he was not an active worker.

“Anything in the bottles?” asked the visitor, before placing one of them to his lips.

“I guess there is a little left.”

“Say, Skip, I wants to ask you a question,” said Jack. “How comes it that this high-toned rooster, Elmer Greer, bosses the gang?”

“Elmer Greer—I don’t know any such person.”

“Oh, yes, you does.”

“Well, if I do,” muttered Brodie, “how comes it that you know him?”

“Oh, my eye, I knows all the bloods about town,” replied Tambourine Jack. “Crackers here can tell you that we move in the very best society.”

The fellow drew a cigar stub from his pocket and lighting it, said:

“That’s the kind Bill Vanderbilt smokes; he recommended the brand to me, saying: ‘Jack, my boy, lay in a stock of them; they will all be bought up within a few days, there is such a great demand.’”

Skip was in no humor for chaffing.

Dark passions reigned in his breast.

The brute sat on a low stool, his elbows on his knees, his head resting on his hands.

He had determined upon a bloody piece of work, but the still, small voice of his conscience whispered to him not to do what he meditated.

“Tambourine,” he growled, “you can’t stop here.”

“Where are the others?”

“Just left.”

This information did not seem to please Mr. Jack.

“Gone, eh?”

“Yes,” replied Brodie, “they pulled off in the barge as you knocked at the door.”

“Go to sleep, Crackers,” said the little fellow, throwing himself on the floor; “I guess we have as good a right here as anybody else, seeing that we helps pay the rent. We haven’t got our receipt about us for last month, but what of that?—they won’t go to court to have us dispossessed.”

“I told you to go.”

“Now, Skip, we’re come to stay,” answered Jack. “Eh, Crackers?”

“He won’t squeal anyhow,” muttered Skip, “but I’d rather he was not here.”

There was another knock on the door; the ruffian went to it and, after getting the countersign, opened it.

“It’s you, is it? Curse you!”

He caught a young girl who stood in the doorway roughly by the arm, and dragged her in.

“Oh, don’t! you hurt me, Skip.”

The rascal released his hold, and closing the door securely, fastened it.

Returning to the woman, he again caught her and, dragging her toward the light, cried:

“Now, traitor, what have you got to say for yourself? Quick, or I will shake the life out of you.”

Dell Ladley was a fragile girl of about twenty, and she would have been considered very beautiful were it not for the deep marks of dissipation already stamped upon her young features.

“You would not hurt me, Skip,” she said; “you know you wouldn’t.”

“No, not I”—again he shook her—“but if you would jug us all, you know the penalty.”

“What do you mean?”

“That you have betrayed us to that demon, Nick Carter. You grow pale.”

“It is a lie!” she exclaimed.

The ruffian threw her to the floor, and picking up a bludgeon, he lifted it and was about to strike.

“When you were on the point of death, I nursed you,” moaned the girl. “Oh, have pity on me!”

Her words arrested the villain’s arm.

“I have thought over all that,” Skip Brodie said.

“And you will have mercy?”

She dragged herself to him, and clasped her arms about his knees, looking the while imploringly up into his face.

“It is a lie!” Dell continued.

“No, it is not.”

The girl shuddered.

She knew the nature of the man she had to deal with, and was quite aware that to him the taking of a human life was but a passing incident, remembered for a few days, and then forgotten unless something occurred to recall it.

“You will not, oh, you will not kill me!” pleaded the trembling girl.

“But I will, traitor.”

“No, no, oh, mercy!”

The bludgeon was again raised on high and was about to descend.

“Stop!”

Tambourine Jack caught the uplifted arm and placed the cold muzzle of a revolver against the villain’s head.

Skip allowed the club to fall to his side and pushed the little fellow away from him.

“How now? Dare you interfere when a traitor is to be punished?” cried Skip.

“Yes, I dare.”

The wig was torn off and the little fellow straightened himself up, showing himself a good-sized man, as he placed a whistle to his lips.

“Nick Carter, the detective!” cried Skip Brodie, dashing through the window, carrying away sash and all.

The detective sent a bullet after him, but whether the body that splashed into the dark waters was that of a corpse or a living man he could not tell.

CHAPTER III.

ONCE MORE ON HAND.

The bullet intended for Skip Brodie passed within half an inch of his head.

As has been before stated, it was midwinter, but the hardy ruffian did not seem to be at all affected by the cold.

Instead of striking out boldly for some boats that were anchored in midstream, he swam slowly along in the shadow of the piers, heading his course down the river.

The call blown by Nick Carter brought half a dozen police officers to his aid.

“Get a boat,” he said, “the villain has just this moment leaped into the river. If he is not at the bottom, he cannot be many yards away.”

The officers obeyed, but not a trace could they find, under or about the neighboring docks, of Skip.

At one time they were so close to the chase that the bow of the boat came within an ace of striking the fugitive’s head.

The fellow swam nearly a mile before determining to leave the water, and then he pulled himself on board of a low-lying canal boat, anchored at the foot of Thirty-fourth Street.

There were several other vessels lying alongside and, clambering over these, he soon reached the dock.

In the vicinity was a favorite place of his, “Boozing Ken” he called it, and thither he repaired.

Like nearly all saloons resorted to by thieves, it was in the basement.

There was a motley company present—toughs, drunken longshoremen, thieves and, that choice exotic, the young man taking in the town.

“Hello, Skip, what’s up?” said the red-faced barmaid. “Been taking a bath? Rather cold trick, I should say.”

“Hush up! Give me a drink.”

A bottle and glass were placed before Brodie, and, each time filling the glass to the brim, he tossed off three drinks of the fiery stuff in rapid succession.

“What’s up?”

The woman leaned over the bar as she spoke.

“The devil is to pay!” replied Skip. “Where is Jack?”

“In the other room.”

“Anyone with him?”

“Yes.”

“Who?” asked Skip.

“That high-toned friend of yours,” replied the woman. “You know, the kid-gloved bloke. I forget what you call him.”

“I know who you mean.”

“Come in, Crackers; come in, I say.”

Tambourine Jack and his remarkable brute walked into the place.

Skip Brodie started as one who believes he sees a ghost.

A thought struck him, and with him to think was to act.

Rushing upon the little fellow, he caught him by the hair.

“Let go!”

“Damn the dog!” yelled Brodie.

Crackers had sprung upon his master’s assailant.

“Let go, I say!” cried Tambourine Jack.

Skip did release his hold, saying:

“You are genuine; I thought it was another.”

“And has any gentleman arrived in town that resembles me?” inquired Jack. “I should just like to set my eyes on him, I would.”

“And so would I, if I had the upper hand,” muttered the ruffian.

“Strange, you should have taken anyone for me,” said Tambourine. “You might know me by Crackers.”

“That’s where I got taken in,” said Skip. “He had a yellow dog just the size of yours, and he also called him Crackers.”

“Do you hear that, Crackers?” said Tambourine Jack, addressing the mongrel with great solemnity. “There are a couple of fakirs traveling around injuring our good name. We’ll bring an action against them”—the speaker turned to Brodie and held out his immense hands for inspection—“I’ll lay Crackers against a soda biscuit that this nervy chap did not have a pair of flips like them.”

Both the barmaid and Brodie laughed at this.

“Come, Skip,” said the barmaid, leading the way to the back room.

“Can I come?” asked Jack.

“Yes,” replied Brodie; “there is no mistake about your identity this time.”

At a table in the back room was Elmer Greer, and seated opposite him a fellow of the bruiser type, who kept the place.

The pair professed to be glad to see the newcomers, except Crackers.

That member of the party sniffed around Greer’s legs in a manner to make their owner very uncomfortable.

“Jack, get me some dry togs and bring in some roaring hot punch. I swam down from the ranch.”

Skip’s hearers were surprised, and began to ply him with questions, all of which he refused to answer until he had changed his clothing.

When he had effected a change and gulped down more than one glass of punch, he gave them a recital of what had occurred.

They were all attention, especially Elmer Greer.

“Are you sure, Skip,” he said, “that Hilton Field is safe?”

“Of course.”

“But those fellows may go back on us,” suggested Greer; “money is tempting, and in the course of a day or two a large sum will be offered for information of his whereabouts. Then, too, the detectives may discover the hand we had in it.”

“Nick Carter already knows that. Dell Ladley, you may be sure, once she began to talk, kept nothing from him.”

“Where have they taken the banker?” asked Greer.

“To the old house up at Sands Point, on Long Island,” was the reply. “You need not fear for his safety. Mackrell is with them, and he is as true as steel.”

The owner of the face pressed against the glass window that gave light and sometimes ventilation to the room, drank in this last speech of Brodie’s with great satisfaction.

And when the ruffian had finished the face disappeared.

“Our friend here,” said Jack Shea, the proprietor of the den, addressing Skip and nodding toward Elmer, “has a nice lay for the boys.”

“Carrying off another old bloke, I suppose,” remarked Brodie.

“No, something in the bank-cracking line. It’s a soft thing.”

“Yes,” added Greer, “there will not be the slightest trouble.”

“Well, count me out,” said Skip. “New York is getting too hot for me; I guess I’ll rusticate for a while.”

“If you are going to Florida for the good of your health,” remarked Tambourine Jack, crossing one leg over the other, “count me in; my lungs ain’t very strong, and as for Crackers, he has consumption very bad. Haven’t you, old boy?”

There was a knock on the room door and, without waiting to be invited in, the barmaid entered.

“Skip,” she said, “a young woman outside wants to see you.”

The ruffian followed the barmaid and found himself face to face with Dell Ladley.

“You here!” he exclaimed. “You have nerve, at any rate. Don’t you know I will kill you?”

“I care not,” she said, placing her hand tenderly on his shoulder.

With an angry motion he removed it and caught her by the throat.

“I said I would kill you!” he hoarsely cried, his grip becoming tighter and tighter.

The poor girl grew black in the face; she tried to speak, but the sounds were lost in gurgles.

“Don’t kill her,” said one of the roughs who crowded the place.

“What is the matter?” cried Shea, Greer and Tambourine Jack, who came into the outer room, attracted by the noise.

“Matter enough. I have the traitress; she shall not escape me this time,” exclaimed the ruffian.

The dog Crackers seemed to be a natural defender of everybody in trouble.

He fastened his teeth in Skip’s thigh, causing that gentleman to yell with pain.

“Down, Crackers, down,” cried Tambourine Jack, but the dog for once did not obey.

“Do not murder her,” said Elmer Greer.

“Don’t you interfere.”

“I will, though,” exclaimed a man, making his way through the crowd that surrounded the villain.

“Nick Carter!” shouted some one, in the crowd, and everybody rushed from the place, except the barmaid, Brodie and his intended victim.

“Demon or whatever you are!” cried Skip, as he allowed the now senseless girl to drop from his grasp, “is it possible you can read tracks in the water as Indians read them on land?”

“You are my prisoner,” said the detective, drawing a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.

Once again that night he had saved Dell Ladley’s life.

He was as much surprised to see the girl there as was Skip Brodie, when the latter met her face to face.

Poor girl! She knew the detective would come hunting for Skip, and she had determined to warn him.

Dell was not, as the ruffian thought, a traitress.

Old Man Moses deliberately lied when he said so.

“I’ll not go with you,” exclaimed Skip, making a dash for the door.

“Oh, yes, you will.”

The detective struck out with his fist and the ruffian fell like a log.

It was the work of a minute for Nick to fix the bracelets.

While he was doing so, the barmaid approached from behind with a heavy pitcher in her hand, intending to lay him out.

A warning growl from Crackers, who, strange to say, had not left the place, caught Nick’s attention.

He turned quickly on the woman, who ran behind the bar.

Without further interference he led his prisoner from the house.

CHAPTER IV.

A STARTLING REVELATION.

After turning Skip Brodie over to the authorities at police headquarters, Nick Carter began in earnest running down Elmer Greer.

He had all along felt satisfied that the abduction of the banker had never been planned by Brodie and his rough companions.

There was a master hand that pulled the strings, while the puppets danced.

Nick Carter felt certain that he had found the leader in the person of Elmer Greer.

For two days Nick haunted gambling saloons, theaters, sporting resorts and other places where Elmer was likely to be found, without success.

The detective was cleverly disguised as a fop, and his best friend would not have recognized in the dude the celebrated Nick Carter.

On the evening of the second day, the detective was sauntering across the park at Union Square when a gentleman, walking hurriedly, his eyes bent on the ground, collided with him.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the offending party.

“Don’t mention it.”

Carter walked on, but only for a few feet, then he turned.

“Shall I arrest him now?” he thought. “No, I will follow and see where he goes; he can’t escape me.”

The man who had accidentally knocked against the supposed fop was Elmer Greer.

The rascal walked very rapidly, but his pursuer never lost sight of him.

Greer entered a house in West Twenty-fourth Street—the same from which Mr. Hilton Field had been carried.

It was bitter cold and the detective more than once wished that he had arrested his man before he entered the house.

“I’m in for it,” thought the watcher, “if he doesn’t come out again to-night. He will hardly stay in, though; were it a gambling house he might stay until morning.”

The detective kept up a cheerful conversation with himself for about an hour, when Greer again appeared.

Now he was accompanied by a boyish-looking young man.

Nick drew into the shadow of a doorway and allowed the pair to pass.

Greer and his friend turned up Broadway and entered one of the leading hotels.

The detective was at their heels, and witnessed a meeting between them and a man he knew to be a Wall Street broker.

The latter went to the clerk’s desk and engaged a room.

While the porter was showing the guests to the apartment, Nick Carter went to the desk and glanced at the blotter.

The party had engaged room eighty-five.

“Is room eighty-four engaged?” he asked of the clerk.

“Yes.”

“Eighty-six?”

“You can have that.”

“Does it adjoin eighty-five?” asked the officer.

The clerk answered in the affirmative, wondering the while at the question.

Nick took the room and was immediately shown to it.

He was in luck.

A door connected his apartment with that occupied by Elmer Greer and his friends.

The door was locked, but the keyhole afforded him a good chance of listening.

“You have made a nice mess of this business, Greer,” were the first words the eavesdropper heard, and they were uttered by the broker.

“Why, my dear, Tom,” replied Elmer, “old Field hasn’t turned up yet.”

“But he has,” said the other; “read that ‘extra.’”

“It is impossible.”

Greer took the paper from the broker’s hand.

The article was headed “The Lost Millionaire Found.”

And it went on to describe the finding of the corpse of the missing banker floating in the East River.

Here is an extract: “Although the face was so battered that recognition would have been next to impossible, there were no doubts as to the identity of the body. The clothing was the same as that worn by the deceased, and his watch, money, diamond studs and a ring containing a portrait of his dead wife had not been removed. It is generally believed that Mr. Field had been murdered, but the object of the assassin or assassins was clearly not robbery. The police have not a clew to work on.”

“The devil they haven’t!” muttered the listener.

“How will that affect you?” asked Greer, eying the broker very closely. “That will send the stocks he was interested in still lower. You ought to clear a million.”

“I see through the game now,” thought Nick Carter.

For once the shrewd thief taker was in a measure at fault; he did not see through the game yet, by any means.

“What is the stock selling at now?” continued Greer.

“It’s down to thirteen.”

“What was it a week ago?”

“Ninety-two,” replied the broker.

“You must have made a heap of money,” said Elmer, “and I have had but a thousand dollars from you.”

“There are twenty thousand waiting for you, whenever you choose to call.”

“Give me a check for it. I can easily get it cashed. You stand well in financial circles.”

The man hesitated, but finally he filled out a check for the amount demanded and handed it to the other.

“We are doing well, Elmer.”

It was the young fellow who spoke.

“This thing is getting hot,” Nick Carter whispered to himself; “my fine young gentleman seems to be a lady in disguise. I must have that check and also my friend’s next door.”

“It will be a month before the stock will go up again,” said the broker, “and I can’t carry any considerable amount of it for a long time. The death of Hilton Field will send it below thirteen. I don’t care for the money so much.”

“What then?”

“It may be discovered I had a hand in this infernal business and then——”

“And then?” repeated Greer.

“State’s prison!”

The thought sent a cold chill down this highly respectable gentleman’s back.

Elmer placed his hands to his sides and laughed heartily, in which he was joined by his young companion, who was, as the reader must have guessed, Louise Calhoun.

“It is not a subject for mirth,” said the broker.

“That’s where you make a mistake,” said Greer. “I helped to dress that corpse found floating in the river myself.”

“Then Field is alive?”

“He was this morning.”

“Give me your hand,” cried the broker, and most joyously did he grasp the other rascal’s hand.

Nick Carter’s fingers itched to lay hold of the pair.

He took from his pocket a small phial filled with oil and a piece of wire.

After carefully oiling the lock of the door connecting the two rooms, he easily shoved back the bolt.

Then, opening the door, he quietly stepped into the room.

The word “surprised” will fail to describe the astonishment of the three persons.

“What means this intrusion, sir?” asked the broker, angrily.

“Where have I seen that young fop before?” was the question Greer put to himself.

“I dropped in to have a chat,” said Nick, seating himself in a chair near the door opening on the hall; he had locked the door of the apartment he had just left and the key was in his pocket; “I accidentally overheard your conversation.”

The two started as if they had been bitten by an adder.

“How dare you?” cried Elmer, approaching the officer in a threatening manner.

“Don’t come so close, please,” said Nick; “I dislike familiarity. There were some things you did not explain quite as clearly as I would have them.”

“What do you mean? are you a madman?” said the broker, quaking with fear. “Leave this room or I will call for help and have you put out.”

“No, you won’t, and, besides, three men, or two and a girl, ought to be able to handle me,” said the officer, pulling off his whiskers; “I guess Elmer Greer will tell me where the missing banker is.”

“Great heavens, we are lost!” cried Greer; “it is Nick Carter!”

“Not yet!” exclaimed Louise, springing upon the officer with a knife which she had concealed in the folds of her dress.

The detective had paid no attention to the girl’s movements. Had he done so, the three rascals would not have stepped over his bleeding body as they left the room.

CHAPTER V.

THE BANKER’S DAUGHTER.

Nick Carter was found by one of the hotel employees, who notified the clerk.

Upon opening the dude’s coat they saw the detective’s badge.

A doctor was sent for, who, after carefully examining the wound, declared it but a trivial one.

Louise Calhoun had stabbed the officer in the neck, within half an inch of the artery; had her knife penetrated that, Nick’s race would have been run.

The wounded man was very weak from loss of blood, but when he had been given a stimulant he insisted upon leaving.

This the doctor refused to permit; ordering him to remain quiet for a few days, until the wound had completely closed, lest he should get cold in it.

Nick determined therefore to stop at the hotel.

Early next morning a porter came to the detective’s room to tell him a lady wished to see him.

“Did she send up her card?” Nick asked, and he received a reply in the negative.

“She said,” volunteered the servant, “that you would not know her by her name, but that it was a matter of importance both to you and to herself that she should see you.”

“I suppose I must see her,” said Nick. “Show her up.”

A few moments after a lady, young and handsomely attired, entered the apartment.

Her face was covered with a veil, but when she had closed the door behind her, she threw it aside.

A vision of surpassing loveliness burst upon the wounded man’s vision.

She saw the effect and smiled.

“I do not recognize you, madam,” said Nick Carter. “If ever I met you before I have certainly forgotten it, and it is hardly possible that one would forget such a face as yours.”

“For the present call me Mignon.”

“Well, Mignon, what can I do for you?” The officer smiled. “I can’t do much for myself just at present.”

“What’s this?” exclaimed the woman, starting forward and snatching a phial from a small table at the side of the bed.

“Medicine; the doctor sent it here but a few minutes ago,” answered the detective. “I was just about to take a spoonful, when you were announced.”

“You have not taken any of it; you are sure?”

Such was the intensity of her manner and her nervousness that the detective started.

“No,” he replied; “but why do you ask? The physician attending me would not send me anything wrong; he is one of the foremost in his profession.”

“Thank God you did not take it!” Mignon cried. “Your physician did not send you that. A few drops of it would cause your death in the most horrible agony. No antidote would save you.”

She held the phial between her eyes and the light, saying:

“There can be no doubt about it. It is corrosive sublimate.”

“My enemies are still at work.”

The doctor entered now and the lady placed the phial in his hand.

“Did you send me that?” asked the detective, eagerly.

“I did not send you anything,” was the reply, and spilling some of the stuff on a piece of paper, the physician pronounced it corrosive sublimate.

“Look!” he said, holding the paper up for the wounded man’s inspection.

The poison had eaten through it, and the exhibition of the paper caused Nick Carter, brave as he was, to shudder. He would not hesitate to meet in the performance of his duties any man living, but how was he to fight those secret means now used, and which would probably be used again to kill him?

The surgeon examined his patient’s wound and, after dressing it, told Nick that it was healing rapidly.

“When will I be able to get out?” the detective asked. “I must be up and doing as soon as possible, doctor.”

“If you bundle your neck up well, and the weather is no more severe than to-day, you can go out to-morrow.”

The doctor took his leave, but not before the detective exacted a promise from him not to say anything about this fresh attempt upon his life.

When the door closed upon the physician, the detective stretched his hand to his visitor.

“Oh, how can I thank you?” he said, as Mignon placed her small, soft hand in his. “Had you not come I would have drunk the poison, and now I would be a corpse. You have, indeed, saved my life. But how was it that you recognized the stuff?”

“At Vassar College I took the full medical course,” she replied, “and besides, that is a poison easily recognizable.”

“Won’t you be seated?” Nick said, “and tell me what I can do for you. First of all, tell me how you knew I was here.”

“The story of your stabbing is in the morning papers.”

“Those reporters seem to get hold of everything.”

“I was very glad to learn where I could find you,” said Mignon, smiling sweetly, “because I wished to thank you.”

“Thank me,” ejaculated the detective; “for what?”

“Before answering your question,” she said, “I wish to put one to you. It is this: Do you think it improper for a lady to visit a gentleman’s sick chamber alone, when she has that to say which she does not care to have overheard?”

She had not long to wait for an answer.

“Most assuredly not; but you talk in enigmas to me.”

“I am Hilton Field’s daughter.”

Nick Carter almost lost his breath in astonishment.

“Hilton Field’s daughter!” he muttered.

“Yes,” Mignon replied; “and I would not have anyone else come and thank you for the message you sent to us yesterday afternoon but myself.”

“Message?” repeated Nick, amazed. “Why, I sent no message.”

“You forget, perhaps,” she said, and again that kind, sweet smile overspread her features. “Don’t you remember you sent to say that the body found in the river was not father’s, although it had on his clothing?”

“I did not know myself yesterday afternoon,” said the detective, “of the imposture. I only learned it last night, and I have not spoken of the discovery to a living soul. There must be some other friend at work for you. Was my name signed to the message?”

“No, it was a verbal one,” she replied; “the messenger said he was sent by you.”

“What kind of looking person brought it?” Nick asked.

“One of the queerest little fellows I ever saw,” answered Mignon. “He had a yellow dog with him, and when asked inside he insisted upon the dog coming in, too.”

“Did he call the dog Crackers?”

“Yes, and he informed us that he was to be entered for a prize at the dog show.”

Nick Carter burst into a fit of laughter, which he suddenly checked, fearing his visitor might be offended at his unseemly mirth.

“I know the little fellow,” he said; “he is called Tambourine Jack.”

“He lifted a weight off our hearts, God bless him! I could have kissed him in the excess of my joy, ugly as he is.”

The thought of this beautiful girl bestowing osculatory favors upon Tambourine Jack almost upset the detective’s gravity.

“I have not seen the fellow in several days,” said the detective, “and, indeed, I would like to see him, to discover how he learned of the imposture tried by the villains who carried your father off.”

“How could he have known of it, then?” the girl asked.

“He is one of the gang,” answered Nick. “Oh! if I could but get out.”

“You know our address?”

“Yes.”

“Will you inform me from time to time of the progress you make in your quest for father?” Mignon asked.

“I shall be delighted to do anything to please you,” answered the detective.

“Then I will say good-by.”

Next day Nick went to headquarters and there found news which aroused his ire.

Skip Brodie had found some means of communicating with a lawyer, and the latter had sworn out a writ of habeas corpus, by means of which Skip was released.

“I didn’t know what we were going to hold this fellow on,” said the chief. “We could not prove that he had any hand in carrying off the banker, although we are sure he did. When we were asked for proofs we should have none to show.”

Nick said nothing, but left headquarters. He was disgusted, but he was still determined to find the banker.

He sauntered up Sixth Avenue and saw a lady whom he thought he recognized enter a dry-goods store on the corner of Fourteenth Street.

Nick followed.

She was for a moment lost sight of in the throng, but he again found her.

It was the woman who had attempted his life, Louise Calhoun!

CHAPTER VI.

A DANGEROUS WOMAN.

Nick Carter kept Louise Calhoun in sight, and when she left the store he followed.

She walked down Fourteenth Street to Eighth Avenue, and turned up that thoroughfare.

At the corner of Twenty-eighth Street the detective heard some one call him.

He turned, and saw that it was Tambourine Jack.

Crackers was with him.

“I want to tell you a hull lot, Mister Carter,” said Jack.

“I have no time to listen to you,” said the detective. “Do you see that woman ahead, in the long sealskin coat and the red hat?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I want you to follow her and come back and tell me where she stops,” commanded Nick. “She has looked back several times, and I am afraid she recognizes me.”

“I know the lady; we have met before,” said Jack. “She is a friend of Elmer Greer.”

The detective gave the little fellow money in case he should be obliged to take the cars.

“Hurry after her, and don’t lose her,” the detective said. “I will wait for you in that drug store on the corner.”

Tambourine Jack, after first turning Crackers over to Nick, hastened after Louise Calhoun.

He was absent until very late in the afternoon, and Nick Carter became impatient.

“Well?” the detective asked, when Jack returned.

“She led me a terrible chase,” said the little fellow.

“I don’t want to hear anything about that,” remarked Nick. “Where did you leave her?”

“At No.—Madison Avenue,” replied Tambourine.

Nick Carter was thunderstruck.

“Are you sure you took the correct number of the house?” he asked.

“I am certain.”

Louise Calhoun was visiting the home of Hilton Field.

“Jack,” said the detective, “I will meet you here at nine in the morning. You say you have something to tell me?”

This new turn of events puzzled Nick greatly. He returned to his home to plan out his campaign.

It was an old colored man who emerged from the detective’s house hardly three minutes after the latter had entered it.

The negro carried a pail half filled with newly slaked lime and a pair of whitewash brushes.

He crossed over to Sixth Avenue and there took a can to Fifty-ninth Street, where he got off and wended his way to Madison Avenue.

To the servant girl who answered the ring of the basement bell of Hilton Field’s residence, the negro said:

“I wish to see the young lady of the house.”

“Go away; we don’t want any whitewashing done,” exclaimed the queen of the kitchen.

“I don’t propose to do any,” answered the colored man. “I want to see Miss Mignon Field; she sent for me.”

“She is engaged.”

“It does not matter. You go and tell her to step downstairs for a minute.”

The domestic slammed the door in his face as she muttered:

“Sneak thief!”

It was soon reopened and Mignon stood in the doorway, and at her side was the servant.

“What can I do for you, my good man?” said Miss Field. “The girl told me you said I sent for you. There must be some mistake.”

“Send that minx away.”

“Mary, go into the kitchen,” commanded Mignon, much surprised at the negro’s request.

Darting an angry look at the “nagur,” the cook retired to her domain.

“You have a visitor,” said the colored man; “her name is Louise Calhoun; she used to be your younger sister’s music teacher.”

Miss Field was greatly astonished.

“Who are you? You are not what you seem,” said Mignon. “You do not talk like a negro.”

“Nick Carter!”

The beautiful girl clapped her hands for joy.

“You bring me news of father!” she exclaimed. “But why do you come here like a negro minstrel?”

The detective laughed.

“I will tell you at some other time,” he replied. “I want you to place me somewhere, that I may hear the conversation between you and this woman without being seen.”

“Why?”

The girl’s eyes opened to their fullest extent as she put the query.

“That also I will tell you another time,” the detective said. “I hope you did not tell her that you heard your father was still alive.”

“I did.”

Nick Carter’s jaw dropped; he feared Mignon had told her more.

“And did you,” he continued, “tell her the sort of person who brought you the intelligence?”

“No. But I was about to,” answered the girl. “I am forever thinking of that comical little chap.”

“I am glad you did not tell her that,” Nick said.

“She is a particular friend of ours,” remarked the girl, “and I have no secrets from her. Poor thing! she takes papa’s disappearance as hard as any of us. Father he thought a great deal of her.”

“Hum!”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing,” replied Nick. “I was but clearing my throat. I must have swallowed some of the burnt cork when I blackened my face and hands.”

“Please satisfy a woman’s curiosity, and tell me why you wish to overhear our conversation?” the girl asked.

“Not now,” said the detective, “at another time I may. When you go back to the room talk as much as possible about your father.”

Mignon led the way upstairs, and ushered the officer into the back parlor, the doors dividing the parlors being closed.

Louise Calhoun was in the front parlor, and when Miss Field returned to her, she expressed surprise at the young lady’s long absence.

“One of the servants wished to see me,” was Mignon’s ready excuse.

Then, taking up the conversation where they had left off, she said:

“You think that if a larger amount of money was offered, my father would be returned? We have already offered a reward of ten thousand dollars, you know.”

“If he has been kidnaped, as the police think,” said Louise, “you may depend upon it that the villains who have him will ask more than that. How the poor dear gentleman must have suffered!”

The brazen creature applied a small handkerchief to her eyes and pretended to weep, while between her bogus sobs she whispered, loud enough for her companion to hear, however:

“Night after night I lie awake crying; oh, I hope they have not killed him.”

Pretty Mignon Field mingled her tears with the base counterfeits of her visitor.

After Louise had gone through her comedy part and the young girl had dried her eyes, the latter said: “How large a reward should I offer?”

“I would not publish a reward,” was the advice of the other.

“Then how are the rascals to know what we are willing to pay?”

“Put it in the hands of a detective.”

“The money?”

“No,” replied Louise; “although I would give him a few thousands to work on.”

“I have a detective.”

“You have?”

“That is—I mean to say,” replied Mignon, in some confusion, “I mean to hire one, or a dozen for that matter.”

“I know one that would suit you,” remarked the visitor.

Nick Carter’s name was on the banker’s daughter’s lips, but she did not mention it, and, indeed, its owner, on the other side of the parlor door, feared that in an unguarded moment she would.

“I have talked with nearly all the detective sergeants at headquarters,” said Mignon. “Does he belong to that squad?”

“Not he.” This was said with a slight show of indignation. “He is far above those fellows; there is not a first-class detective among them.”

Again did the name of Nick Carter tremble on the girl’s lips.

“He was formerly a secret service officer,” continued Louise, “but he retired long ago.”

“I don’t see why he could help to solve the mystery any better than any other detective.”

“I do,” said the visitor; “there is not a low character in the city that his long arm can’t reach, and I will guarantee, if you furnish him with a few thousand dollars to work on, he will return your father within forty-eight hours.”

“I would like to see this man,” said Mignon. “Will you bring him here?”

“No, I don’t think he would come,” replied Louise. “I talked with him about the case; he is a particular friend of mine”—she made a lamentable failure in an endeavor to call up a blush—“and he said to me that he felt certain he knew the gang that did it. I implored him to take a hand in the search for your poor dear father.”

“And he promised to do so?” interjected Miss Field.

“No,” answered Louise, “he said he had given up the business and did not care to do any more detective work. I pleaded with him and finally he said he would think the matter over.”

“But how am I to see him?”

“He visits me frequently,” replied the visitor. “He is to be at my house to-night. You might drive there. Here is my card.”

The address on the card was No.—West Twenty-seventh Street.

“You have not told me this wonderful man’s name.”

Louise hesitated for a moment, and then she said:

“It is Elmer Greer.”

The mention of the arch rascal’s name was not a surprise to Nick Carter.

He saw through the game from the start, and he was greatly amused at the woman’s tactics.

“Will you come?” Louise asked, rising to depart.

“I don’t know what to do,” replied Mignon. “I will first consult a gentleman friend of mine.”

Louise laughingly said:

“Ah, you, too, have your little romance!”

Had she known the gentleman friend that the banker’s daughter intended to consult, her mirth would not have been very exuberant.

“Bring him along, if you choose,” said she, kissing the girl and bidding her good-by.

It was the kiss of a Judas.

When she had gone Mignon returned to the detective.

“You have heard all; what shall I do?” Miss Field asked.

“Go.”

“Do you know this man, Elmer Greer, whom she so highly praises?”

“I am quite well acquainted with the gentleman,” replied Nick. “Indeed, I would like to know him better. I cannot describe how glad I am that I came here.”

“Is he a good detective?” inquired Mignon.

“He is not a detective.”

“Who or what is he, then?”

“He is the man who had your father carried off,” replied Nick Carter.

The girl screamed and the servants rushed in, but she ordered them out.

“And does this woman know he did it?” asked Mignon.

“Yes,” replied the detective, “and she had a very large hand in the affair herself, or I am greatly mistaken.”

“Heavenly powers! can such things be?” cried the banker’s daughter, “and the traitress dares pollute his grief-stricken home with her presence!”

“She is capable of doing anything—that is, anything that this Elmer Greer, who is really her husband, tells her to do.”

“And you would advise me to go to her house?”

“I most certainly would,” answered the detective.

“I don’t think I could bear the ordeal of standing face to face with the wretches and talking to them,” said Mignon. “Why, I looked upon that woman as a friend—nay, as more than a friend; I stepped across the social gulf that divides us and made her my companion and confidante. Oh, I cannot go!”

“Remember, it is for your father. That thought alone will give you both courage and strength.”

“But they may treat me as they did poor papa.”

“There is no danger.”

“But I fear there may be.”

“You need have no fear. I shall accompany you.”

“But they know you,” said the girl. “Even having you with me, I feel a dread. I can’t describe it, but a nameless fear seems to weigh me down since you told me who those persons were.”

“You will shake that off,” said the detective. “I will return in about an hour and a half.”

Nick Carter was punctual to his appointment, and he was so cleverly disguised that Mignon, although expecting him, did not recognize him.

He was got up as one of those angelic young men who are to be met with on the uptown streets and about hotel corridors and the clubs.

His light mustache was twisted up at the ends, and his plaid suit and overcoat would attract attention anywhere, and its owner be set down for an imitator of the English snob.

Entering the carriage which was in waiting, they were rapidly driven to the address given by Louise Calhoun.

Before they went into the house, Nick told his companion to agree to anything that might be proposed, and she promised to follow his instructions.

“Remember,” he whispered, as they went upstairs to the flat occupied by Louise Calhoun, “that what you are doing is for your father, and have courage.”

Louise was alone, her friend had not yet arrived—he was at that moment in the back room, puffing away at a cigarette.

Nick was introduced as Mr. Deming, and the hostess was most gracious to him.

“You are English, I should judge from your accent, Mr. Deming?” she said, and he answered in the affirmative.

She had been in England, traveled on the Continent, in fact, nearly all over the globe, and if she had not been born an American she would have liked to be English, and in such style she rattled on for some time.

“I think I hear Mr. Greer’s step on the stairs.”

Louise opened the door, crying:

“Why, here you are now! I ought to scold you for being so late!”

She presented her visitors to the newcomers, and Nick saw at a glance that the cunning fox was not suspicious of him.

“This is the young lady whose father has been kidnaped; oh, do something for her, Elmer, for my sake!” said Louise.

Greer seemed in doubt; he was taken so much by surprise, as it were.

He found his tongue, however, and retained control of it long enough to say: “It’s a bad business, a very bad business.”

“Indeed, that it is, and no mistake,” put in Mr. Deming.

“Oh, but for my sake”—Louise placed her hand lightly upon his shoulder—“you will break your resolution never to do any more detective work for just this once.”

Nick Carter would have given five dollars for an opportunity to laugh.

He winked at Mignon, and she, taking her cue, said:

“I will pay you handsomely for your time, whether you are successful or not. Have you any idea where the rascals have carried my father?”

“Yes, madam.”

“You will tell me?”

“I beg your pardon,” Elmer said, “that is my secret.”

“I will pay you for the secret, if its knowledge helps the police any—that is, providing you will not take the case yourself.”

“Oh, do take it, Elmer; both this young lady and her father have been very good to me,” said Louise.

Mignon was utterly disgusted with the shameless woman’s acting.

“Well, I suppose I must take it or you will torment the life out of me,” replied Greer.

“You must know, young lady,” the fellow continued, turning to the banker’s daughter, “that I shall require a good heap of money at the start. There is but one way to reach your father, and that is by bribing some member of the gang who carried him off.”

“Here is a check for two thousand dollars; will that be enough for the present?”

“I don’t like checks.”

“It is made payable to bearer.”

“I will cash it for you, Elmer Greer, with these.”

The false whiskers were plucked off, and Nick Carter, a pair of handcuffs in his hand, confronted the villain.

“A thousand furies!” yelled the rascal, springing into the other room and closing the door after him.

The detective drew his pistol and ran into the hall.

There was no one going downstairs; Greer must be in the rear room.

“Open the door.”

Nick Carter drove his foot through one of the panels.

Greer fired through the door at the detective.

The bullet went wide of its mark, but it found a lodging place in Mignon Field’s bosom.

With a cry of pain the wounded girl slipped off her chair to the floor.

The sight transformed Nick Carter into a madman.

He threw his whole weight against the door and tore it from its hinges.

The room was empty and the bird had flown.

The detective heard the front door close after him, and he rushed downstairs and into the street, but he could not see the fugitive.

“I will arrest this demon of a woman, at any rate.”

Another surprise awaited him.

Louise Calhoun had also disappeared, and he searched the house from top to bottom without finding a trace of her.

Nick was beside himself with rage.

He had the two birds caged, as he thought, and now what had he to show for his work?—nothing!

He returned to the room where the interview had taken place.

Pretty Mignon Field lay upon the floor bathed in her own blood.

The banker’s daughter’s presentiment that harm would befall her had proved true.

CHAPTER VII.

BLACKMAIL.

Mignon Field, fortunately, was not badly injured. It was only a flesh wound, after all, the doctor said, and she would soon be herself again.

Nick Carter was rejoiced to hear this at the Field’s residence, to which he had taken Mignon, for he felt a sincere interest in the beautiful young girl.

When Nick Carter left the banker’s mansion he did not notice a nice, gentlemanly-looking fellow who followed him.

For many blocks he dodged the detective’s footsteps, and when the latter took a car he also boarded it.

Nick went to his home, and the other still kept at his heels.

The detective had but reached his room when his servant announced a visitor.

He supposed that it was some one from headquarters, and he was surprised when the gentleman, who had been following him, was ushered in.

“You will pardon the intrusion of a stranger, I am sure,” said the visitor, giving the detective his card, “when you have heard what I have to say.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Furman,” said Nick, glancing at his visitor’s card.

“I will take my own way, and I hope I may not give offense.”

Nick Carter surveyed the cheeky fellow from head to foot, and were he to express his thoughts the gentleman would have heard little complimentary.

Furman sat down on a lounge and threw one leg over the other.

The fellow was cool, decidedly cool.

“You would like to be rich?” he said. “But that is a foolish question; we all want money, and the more we get the better appetite we have for more. It never surfeits a fellow.”

“Come to the point at once,” said Nick, who seriously contemplated throwing his visitor downstairs. “What do you want? I have no time to listen to your impertinence.”

“Do you want to make a cool hundred thousand dollars?” asked Mr. Furman.

“No,” was the reply; “I certainly could not make it honestly.”

“That is a matter of choice, whether what I propose is honest or not,” said the visitor. “I should say it was not dishonest.”

“What is it that you propose?” asked the detective.

“That you will give up the search for Hilton Field.”

“Oh, that’s your little game, is it?” said Nick. “It is evident that you don’t know me, or you would not have made such a proposition. Who do you represent in this matter?”

“It does not signify.”

“Elmer Greer has no such sum of money to pay,” remarked the detective.

“I am quite aware of that,” said Mr. Furman.

“Then, it is Thomas Smith, the curbstone broker,” remarked Nick.

“Well, we’ll suppose it is Tom Smith,” said the visitor. “It will make no difference to you who puts up the stuff, if you get it.”

“I told you I would have nothing to do with you.”

“Better think it over,” suggested Furman.

Nick did think for a moment, and his visitor eagerly watched his features the while, but he could see nothing there.

“I will accept your offer,” said the detective, hastily, “but when am I to receive this money?”

“You will be paid twenty thousand dollars to-day and the rest in thirty days’ time,” replied Mr. Furman, smiling at his success. “I knew you would come around, after a bit.”

“What man wouldn’t?” said Nick, with great earnestness. “Why, you offer me a fortune. But suppose some other detective finds the old banker, what then?”

“We have no fear of the others,” answered the visitor. “You are the only one we are afraid of. Of course you will not give any of them a clew to work on?”

“Not I.”

“Then we will go down to Wall Street and get your first installment.”

In a dark room, in the rear of the fourth story of a Pine Street building, into which Nick was ushered, sat the broker friend of Elmer Greer.

“You have succeeded, Sam, I see,” said Tom Smith to Mr. Furman.

Turning to the detective, Smith put out his hand, saying:

“I guess we can come to terms. I felt very sorry for that affair at the hotel the other night.”

“I have no doubt you did, sir,” remarked Nick.

“Sam has explained my proposition, I trust,” said the smiling broker.

“Oh, yes. I understand the matter thoroughly,” replied the detective. “I am to receive twenty thousand to-day.”

“Just so, and at the end of a month, eighty thousand more.”

“It is a heap of money,” said Nick, evidently carried away by the magnitude of the sum.

“Oh, I can afford it; and—let me whisper—perhaps you may get more than you bargain for,” remarked the broker. “The disappearance of this old fossil, Field, has been a great thing for me, and you may be sure I am feathering my nest.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said the detective.

Smith went to a large safe and took from it a package of bills.

They were all of large denominations, and the twenty thousand dollars he handed his visitor did not make a very thick bundle.

Nick Carter shoved the money into an inside pocket and buttoned his coat.

“Mr. Smith,” he said, “you must give me your note for the balance, and state on its face what service the money is paid for.”

The broker hemmed and hawed; this proposition was not at all to his liking.

“If you do not,” continued Nick, “our bargain is off.”

There was no resisting this threat, and Smith hastened to satisfy the officer’s demand.

Nick placed the note with the bills and rebuttoned his coat.

“Of course,” said Smith, “you will forget about that business at the hotel. I mean, you won’t ‘pinch’ Greer and the girl?”

The detective smiled in spite of his efforts to refrain from doing so.

“I suppose you have business to attend to?” said the broker, extending his hand.

He had accomplished what he wished and was anxious to bring the interview to an end.

“Y-e-s,” drawled Nick. “I have some business to attend to.”

“Then don’t let me detain you,” said Tom Smith.

The pair of handcuffs that the detective drew from his pocket were neat ones, and the pistol that he brought to light with them was gold-mounted, but their beauty did not strike the broker.

“What do you mean?” he cried, aghast, as he retreated to the furthest end of the room.

“That you will accompany me to police headquarters,” said Nick Carter. “You won’t be lonesome; our friend, Mr. Furman, here, will go along.”

“Will he?” Sam cried, discharging a pistol full at the officer.

The bullet whistled past Nick’s ear and imbedded itself in the wall.

Before Furman could again fire, the detective snatched the weapon from his hand.

Then Nick Carter locked the door and put the key in his pocket.

“Give me back my money,” said Smith.

The detective laughed at the trembling culprit, whom he had so easily taken in.

The broker was very pale, and his knees were so weak that it was with difficulty he managed to stand.

Furman, on the other hand, seemed cool.

“Come, give me your hand.” Nick opened the iron cuff as he approached Tom.

At that moment Furman, who was behind him, sprang forward.

The detective was prepared for this, and turning around, he dealt Sam a blow between the eyes with his pistol Butt, that stretched that gentleman upon the floor.

Nick Carter placed the iron bracelet upon the broker’s wrist without much difficulty, although Smith struggled with all his strength to prevent him from doing so.

Furman arose to his feet, and, before he had time to look around him, the other handcuff was slipped on him.

“Well, you are a lovely pair, ain’t you?” said Nick, surveying his captives.

“Let me go,” said Smith, “and I will give you all that is in the safe—nearly a quarter of a million in government bonds. Give me enough to take me out of the country, and you can have the rest.”

Nick Carter laughed at him.

The safe door was open, and the broker asked permission to close it.

“I will attend to that,” said the detective; “you chaps can amuse yourselves in any manner you choose, while I am at work.”

With an ordinary penknife Nick removed the screws holding the compartment containing the tumblers in place.

It took him but a few minutes to set the lock on a new combination and replace it; then he closed the safe.

Tom Smith was a most interested spectator.

The broker felt that all was up with him.

Had he reasoned, Tom would have known that his money could not be taken away from him.

He had not stolen it, and, although he had made it by dishonest means, it was nevertheless his.

When they reached the street a crowd gathered around the detective and his prisoners.

Nick hailed a passing hack, and the party were driven to police headquarters.

The detective explained fully to his chief the details of the case, and handed over to him the twenty thousand dollars; also the note he had received from Smith.

The precious pair were brought before a police magistrate, and by him committed to the Tombs for attempted bribery.

CHAPTER VIII.

A DAY OF RECKONING.

Hilton Field was first taken to Sands Point, but on a message from Elmer Greer, brought by the Jew, Moses, he was suddenly removed.

The men in charge threw their captive into a small sailboat and headed for the Connecticut shore.

The night was fine, but large cakes of ice were met with, which they had difficulty in avoiding.

The rascals gave their captive an old suit of clothes and a heavy overcoat, and Mr. Field was quite comfortable, as concerned warmth.

It was many hours before they made the shore, but finally, after several hours of groping along the coast, they reached the point at which they tried to disembark.

They ran the boat ashore in a sheltered cove a few miles from Norwalk.

It was broad daylight now, and the rascals feared that their movements might be observed and themselves stopped and questioned.

They had taken so many risks that it would have been most galling to lose their prize now.

“Moses,” said Mackrell, “are you sure we are at the right place?”

“Of course I am,” replied the Jew. “Do you see that house yonder, among the trees—the yellow house with the green blinds?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Sophie lives there,” said Moses.

It was a neat cottage to which Hilton Field was conducted, and so innocent were its exterior and surroundings that the passer-by would most certainly scoff at the suspicion that it was anything else but what it looked—a gentleman’s country residence.

Romping on the lawn were three fine-looking children, and they did not even discontinue their play when the party walked down the broad avenue to the house.

Seated in the parlor, a lady, in the prime of life, but still beautiful, listlessly turned over the leaves of a classical work, while at a piano opposite her was a young lady, evidently her daughter, drumming the keys in a careless fashion.

The bell was rung in a peculiar manner, and at its sound the young woman left the room.

The lady tossed her book upon a table, just as the parlor door opened, and Mackrell and the others were ushered in.

“So, this is our banker friend,” said the woman, who was addressed by her visitors as Sophie, inclining her head toward Mr. Field.

“Oh, lady,” said the wretched captive, “you are a woman; you will have pity on me and save me from these ruffians.”

“Ruffians! What ruffians? you surely do not mean those gentlemen who are with you?” remarked Sophie. “You are tired; I will excuse you this time for speaking so disrespectfully of my friends.”

She touched a silver gong that stood on the piano, and told the servant, an ill-looking colored man, to bring some brandy and wine.

“You will have wine, I know,” Sophie said, filling out a large glass of the liquor and handing it to the banker.

Hilton Field was chilled, and the wine was most acceptable.

He had hardly swallowed it when a sleepy feeling came over him, and he knew that the liquor was drugged.

Dick Denton took the banker’s arms within his own, and, leading him to a lounge, told him to rest himself.

Leaving Denton and the woman alone, Mackrell and Moses went downstairs, not forgetting to take the bottle of brandy with them.

“Where is Wilbur?” Dick asked, when the door closed behind his friends.

“Over in Norwalk; he will be here inside of an hour,” replied Sophie. “But why do you ask?”

“I was thinking, perhaps, he might upset our plans.”

“Not he; why he was tickled to death when he heard of Greer’s success. Don’t you know, it was Wilbur who first broached the scheme to Elmer Greer?”

“No; I didn’t know it,” answered Denton. “There is one thing I do know, and that is, heaps of money are being made by Greer, and some others on the outside, while me and my pals are doing the work and taking all the risks.”

“Haven’t you received anything?”

“Yes, a paltry five hundred dollars, and the promise of more,” replied Dick.

“Greer dare not go back on you. Brodie will soon make him come to terms,” remarked Sophie.

“Yes, but Brodie is in jail, worse luck,” said Denton.

“You are in error. Skip got away yesterday; so the morning paper states.”

“Now, things will work smoothly, or I’ll eat my head,” said Denton, joyfully. “I must go downstairs and tell that to Mackrell and Moses. I suppose the old gent won’t wake up for an hour or two?”

“I will call you if he does.”

Sophie was left alone with the banker.

She bent over him, until her face was close to his, and she could count every wrinkle in his pale face, had she so desired.

There was not a spark of pity in her breast for him.

Instead, she was exultant.

“Hilton Field,” she said, “you turned me from your door, but you did not recognize in the richly dressed woman the poor ballet girl when you came here this morning. For every heartache you caused me, you shall suffer a hundred. Your milk-and-water daughter weeps for you, and it will be long until she dries her eyes.”

The banker slept on, and his breathing was as regular as that of a tired child.

Sophie heaped threat after threat upon the sleeper.

Had she had her way, the woman would have him killed—indeed, she would not hesitate committing the deed herself.

This beautiful woman possessed the heart of a demon.

Black-hearted and unforgiving, there was no crime so dark that she would not engage in, if the commission of it served her purpose or brought with it revenge.

She still bent over the banker, when a hand was placed upon her shoulder.

“Oh, it’s you, Wilbur!”

“They have brought him here, I see,” remarked the newcomer. “He looks badly shaken up. I guess the boys must have given the old fellow rough treatment.”

“And are you sorry for that?” she asked, bringing her face close to his and looking him straight in the eyes.

He hesitated a moment and then answered: “It won’t do for him to die.”

Wilbur walked into the adjoining room, where there was a desk, and, seating himself at it, he began to figure on a sheet of paper.

Sophie followed, and, while he was at work, leaned over him.

“You have heard from the city to-day, or you would not be figuring,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied, “Smith telegraphed me. He has put out every cent he could get hold of, and has invested all ours, too. We shall clear an immense sum. The stock is a drug on the market, and can be got for almost nothing.”

“What does he advise?” Sophie asked.

“He telegraphed that Greer would bring things to a climax.”

“What did he mean by that?”

“Why, stupid, to return the old man,” answered Wilbur, “and then unload. He don’t know but what Greer still has him.”

“And——”

“I don’t know what to do, Sophie. What would you advise?”

“Keep the old man; remove him to some other place, sell this house, and invest the money in the bonds of the railroad. And, above all things, cut Greer.”

“You are a trump, Sophie,” said Wilbur. “You don’t suppose I intend to share with Elmer? Smith engaged him and let Smith pay him. I will have nothing to do with him.”

“Perhaps it might be as well,” suggested the woman, “that you led him to believe he was to receive a share of the profits.”

“What’s that?”

“The old man has awakened,” replied Sophie, going to the door. “You do not wish to see him, I suppose?”

“Why not?”

“I thought——”

“Never mind what you thought,” said Wilbur, “leave me alone with him.”

Sophie went downstairs, and Wilbur walked into the parlor.

At sight of him the banker was greatly startled.

“My son!” he gasped, rubbing his hand across his eyes, as if to dispel a dream.

“You make a mistake, sir,” replied the other, “you have no son.”

“Wilbur!”

The gray-haired banker fell on his knees and lifted his hands imploringly.

“You had a son and how did you treat him? Answer me that, old man?”

Hilton Field did not speak; his lips moved, but no sound came from them.

“Because,” continued Wilbur, “he married the woman he loved, you drove him from your house, and made a villain of him. Your blue blood revolted against receiving a ballet girl as your daughter.”

“You forged my name for large amounts,” said the banker, rising to his feet; “had you not done so, I might have forgiven you.”

“Was I to starve while you rolled in plenty?” asked the son. “You publicly announced that I was no longer a son of yours. Look at your work and be proud of it, if you can”—he stretched forth his hands—“they are dyed in blood. The son of Hilton Field, banker, is a murderer and a thief. Tremble, old man, for it is you, not I, who will have to answer one day for me.”

Wilbur had worked himself up to a high pitch of excitement, and his father quailed beneath his eye.

“I will atone for the past,” said Hilton Field.

“It is too late, old man!” exclaimed the son. “I can never be other than I am, a thief, the friend of thieves, a counterfeiter, a forger and a murderer.”

“Think of your mother!”

“Did you think of her, or did you pay any heed to her appeals when you turned me from your door?” cried Wilbur. “Did you not threaten her, that if she extended any aid to me that you would cast her off? Do I not speak the truth, old man? What do your millions and that blue blood that has always been your boast avail you now? Downstairs are men that at a word from me would take your life.”

“I repeat,” said the father, “that I will atone for the past. I will recognize your wife and children—I believe you are a father—and take you back. Think of your sister, how she suffers because of me.”

“Bah! you taught her to hate me long ago,” said Wilbur.

“Give up this life,” pleaded the banker. “I will give you half of what I possess.”

“I want it not,” was the rejoinder; “all your millions could not make white my blood-stained soul. Some day I may reach the gallows, and it will read nicely in fashionable society that the son of the banker, Hilton Field, was hanged for murder.”

Once more the gray-haired old men knelt at his son’s feet.

“Have you no pity?” he cried. “I always loved you until——”

Wilbur did not allow him to finish the sentence.

“Until,” said the son, “you turned him adrift. I could throttle you.”

Hilton Field, the stern, hard, money-getter, bowed his head and wept.

CHAPTER IX.

A PLOT WELL FOILED.

The next day Tambourine Jack came to Nick with a budget full of news.

He had been shadowing Elmer Greer and had seen him with Louise.

“Good!” said Nick Carter. “Where did the fellow lead you?”

“Well, me and the bloke put in yesterday in Wall Street,” answered Tambourine Jack; “the night before we were at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, he was inside and I was outside. Last night we visited a chap that is a friend of mine. He keeps a crib down near the Thirty-fourth Street ferry.”

“Jack Shea?”

“You’ve hit it the first jump,” said Jack. “This morning he and I, and the gal, took a run down to Flatbush. I got a job from him helping to carry furniture into their house.”

“You are certain you can find this house in Flatbush?” remarked Nick Carter.

“Oh, that’s easy, it’s No. —, Bay Street,” replied the youth.

“Did you see anyone at the house but the man and woman?”

“Yes; there were four or five plug-uglies there. One chap’s name is Luke—leastways, that’s what my gentleman called him.”

It was now late in the afternoon, and when Nick Carter and Tambourine Jack reached Flatbush it was dark.

They turned up Bay Street, but Nick had not gone above a hundred yards when he saw three men approaching, one of whom he recognized by his voice.

That one was Elmer Greer.

The detective’s first impulse was to seize his prey, but he thought better of it.

“There is something new afoot,” he muttered, “and I will discover what it is before I land my fish.”

“Mr. Carter,” whispered Jack, “that chap on the outside is Jack Shea.”

“I tell you everything is easy,” the detective heard Greer say; “there will not be the slightest hitch.”

“We had better bring tools along,” suggested Jack Shea.

“It is unnecessary,” said Elmer, “I know the combination; it is 10-50-75.”

“There may be some slip up,” persisted Shea; “I don’t go unless we have tools.”

“Have it your own way,” said Greer; “where are we to get tools?”

“Don’t worry about that,” replied Jack, “I have a fine set at my place.”

“I will meet you then at the corner of Broad and Wall Streets at ten.”

“No, you won’t, Greer,” said the fellow, who up to this time had not spoken, “you will go with us.”

Nick Carter crept from tree to tree of the large elms that lined the avenue, and not a word uttered by the rascals escaped him.

He knew what they contemplated—the robbery of Tom Smith’s safe.

The two took a car, and Nick Carter boarded the next one.

“You are out rather late, mother,” said Elmer Greer to an old Irish woman, who presided over an apple stand on the corner of Broad and Wall Streets.

“I’m not your mother, I’m a decent woman,” replied the fruit vendor.

“You will get your death out in this cold.”

“Begorra, then, I’ll give you an invitation, now, to me funeral.”

“How much is your stock worth?” Greer asked, ramming his hands in his pockets and rattling some silver.

The old woman was all smiles as she bustled around the stand and took an account of stock.

“I suppose you don’t want to buy the stand itself?”

“Well, no; only the fruit.”

“Let me see,” resting an elbow on one hand while she began to fondle her chin with the other, lost in the mazes of a mathematical calculation.

“I should say twelve shillings.”

“Will you go home when you’re sold out?” Greer asked.

“Where else?”

Elmer threw a dollar and a half on the stand, saying:

“You may have your stock to begin business with in the morning; I don’t want it.”

The old woman was considerably surprised at the gentleman’s generosity, but she managed to mumble loud enough for him to hear:

“God bless your honor.”

“Go home now,” said Greer, as he walked toward Pine Street.

He had not gone far when the apple woman dumped her goods, stand and all, into the gutter.

“You are becoming generous, Elmer Greer,” she said, flinging the money he had given her also into the street. “Some poor devil, I hope, may find that.”

The apple woman, keeping in the shade of the buildings which lined Broad Street, closely followed Greer.

At Pine Street the rascal was met by Jack Shea and two others.

The building in which Smith had an office was but a few steps away.

To open the main door was but the work of a few moments for such an experienced cracksman as Jack Shea.

The door of Smith’s office was forced with still greater ease.

The building was an old one; it did not contain many offices, and the janitor did not reside on the premises.

All this was well known to Elmer Greer.

The old apple woman had taken off her shoes and followed the villains upstairs.

She stood behind the door where she could conveniently see all that took place without herself being seen.

The old apple woman was Nick Carter.

He had Elmer Greer now with no chance of escape.

Villain as the fellow was, there was one thing about him that won even the detective’s admiration, and that was his courage.

Surrounded by dangers, as Elmer Greer knew himself to be, he had the hardihood to remain in the metropolis, when ninety-nine men out of a hundred, if placed in a similar position, would seek safety in flight.

He was no common criminal, but a cool and unscrupulous villain, and he cared not for the quicksands that environed him.

Nick Carter, when he thought of poor, wounded Mignon Field, felt like shooting the rascal down, and he certainly would have done so had he not promised the girl not to injure Elmer until her father had been found.

Two of the party had dark lanterns, and the rays of both were directed against the safe knob, while Greer worked at the combination.

“I am sure,” he said, “that the lock is set on the numbers 10-50-75. I saw Smith open it the other day, and, of course, he did not know I got onto it.”

“Perhaps he changes it daily,” remarked Shea. “I’ve heard of chaps doing that, and I should say that it must be a good idea, where there are many fellows coming into an office.”

Nick Carter smiled at the futile attempts of Elmer to open the safe.

“Luke, the drills,” said Shea; and the party addressed produced half a dozen fine steel drills and a small sledge hammer.

It was but a few moments before a hole large enough to insert a small saw was made.

Next, a large sectional jimmy was brought into use.

The safe was of old-fashioned make, and the cracksmen ripped through the top of it as easily as if it was made of cheese.

There was an iron money box inside, and this was broken into.

It was filled with bonds and money, which the thieves drew out in handfuls until it was empty.

“I should say this was a rake!” remarked Shea. “It is the biggest haul I have seen since that bank up in Vermont. The shares will be larger here, because there were fifteen in that mob.”

The rascals began to stuff the money into their pockets, when Nick Carter sprang into their midst, revolver in hand.

He placed a small whistle to his mouth and blew a shrill blast, whereupon footsteps were heard coming up the stairs.

“The apple woman! Nick Carter!” exclaimed Elmer.

“Gentlemen,” said the detective, “escape is impossible. A dozen policemen are now coming up the stairs.”

Greer edged toward the window, and, suddenly raising it, he sprang out.

The fall was a fearful one.

“That man is dead,” said Nick; “if either of you choose to follow his example and commit suicide, I shall not prevent you.”

They were trapped; but neither of them felt inclined to run the risk of having their brains dashed out on the flags many stories below.

“There are your prisoners,” said Nick Carter, addressing the sergeant in command of the squad of police that the detective had kept in waiting outside.

When Shea and his two pals were handcuffed, Nick went to the window; he could see on the flags below the motionless form of Elmer Greer.

“Well, he has gone to his last account,” muttered the detective. “Perhaps it is better so; his blood is not upon my hands.”

CHAPTER X.

CAUGHT AND ESCAPED.

After the policemen had departed with their prisoners, Nick Carter tore off his disguise and left the building.

He found Tambourine Jack waiting for him, and, telling the youth to follow, the detective went through an alleyway that led to the courtyard, into which Elmer Greer had leaped.

There he was, stretched on the cold stones, his pale face upturned.

He was not dead—far from it.

“You have got me at last,” he moaned, when Nick Carter bent over him.

“I thought you were killed.”

“I would have been, only I struck on some telegraph wires,” replied the fellow; “they broke my fall.”

Nick raised him to his feet and Elmer uttered an exclamation of pain.

“Any bones broken?”

“Every one in my body, I think,” replied the arch rogue. “Take me to some hospital; I must have cut myself. I feel the blood trickling down my leg.”

Tambourine Jack was sent to the nearest station house for an ambulance, and it soon arrived.

Carter accompanied his prisoner.

They went to the station house first, and then to the Hudson Street Hospital.

An officer was detailed to watch the injured prisoner.

Upon examining the patient, the surgeon on duty said that no bones had been broken.

Elmer Greer kept moaning all the while, and this led the physician to believe the man was injured internally.

Nick Carter was not to be taken in by shamming.

He really believed that his prisoner had suffered nothing worse than a bad shaking up, but he was humane enough to give Greer the benefit of the doubt.

The policeman who was to watch Elmer took a seat near the fellow’s cot.

Before leaving, Nick handcuffed Greer to the iron bedstead.

The detective left the prisoner’s bedside, and, as Greer thought, left the hospital.

Nick Carter seated himself in a chair, at the rear of Elmer, who could not see him; although no motion of his escaped the detective.

Soon a nun entered.

It was not an unusual sight.

She spoke kindly to several patients, and then seated herself at the side of Greer’s bed.

The fellow seemed to start when she partly threw back her veil; and Nick drew his chair nearer his prisoner.

The nun, who was dressed in the garb of a Sister of Charity, seemed to take more than usual interest in Elmer.

She drew from her pocket a package of fruit, and gave him a suspicious-looking bundle, which he hid under the bedclothes.

Nick smiled quietly to himself at this, and he laughed aloud when the nun leaned over the rascal’s couch.

The detective was at her side in a second, and tore the veil and bonnet away.

Louise Calhoun stood revealed.

“So! my fine lady,” he said, “you have taken holy orders, I see.”

“You fiend!” she exclaimed.

Nick Carter darted around to the other side of the bed, and drew from its hiding place the package Greer had concealed.

It contained two small files and a revolver.

Louise attempted to leave the hospital ward, but was prevented by the detective.

“I want you,” Nick said, as he caught her by the sleeve.

“Let me pass,” she cried, “I have done nothing.”

“No, not you!” he quietly remarked. “You did not stab me, and you did not attempt to obtain money by false pretenses from the banker’s daughter. You are an abused saint, you are.”

“I hate! I hate you!” she exclaimed, vehemently.

She called to the hospital attendants to save her from being kidnaped.

Nick Carter laughed at this.

He was more than reasonably sure of success; she, he felt certain, would talk rather than remain in prison any length of time.

Not wishing to walk through the streets with a prisoner dressed in woman’s attire, the detective engaged a coach and was driven to headquarters.

The chief was delighted at the capture; like his subordinate, he believed the woman could be made to talk.

She was taken away and locked in a cell, neither of the officers questioning her.

“After the woman is there an hour,” said the chief, “she will be willing to do almost anything to get out.”

In this Nick agreed with him.

Nick remained at headquarters for an hour or more, until he was summoned into the chief’s private office.

Louise Calhoun was there, and Nick’s superior was engaged in questioning her.

No tears dimmed her eyes.

Brazen and defiant, she refused to utter a single word.

While they were thus engaged, coaxing and threatening at the time, one of the attachés of the detective’s office entered the room in great haste.

“Why do you come in here without knocking?” demanded the chief, angrily.

“Excuse me, sir, but I was told to come to you right away,” said the fellow; “a telegram has just come in, saying an important prisoner has made his escape.”

“What!” cried the chief and Nick in a single breath.

“Elmer Greer, sir.”

“Thank God for that!” exclaimed Louise Calhoun, her face instantly becoming wreathed with smiles.

“Where was the policeman who was detailed to watch him?” asked the chief, while Nick gave birth to a series of expressions more forcible than polite.

“He left the room,” said the attaché, “and when he returned he found that the prisoner had slipped his handcuffs and got away.”

“Tell the operator on duty to send a telegram to the First Precinct Station, ordering the policeman to report to me,” said the chief; then, turning to Nick, he continued: “Mr. Carter, this is too bad.”

“I’d like to have the policeman in a room with the door locked, and a supply of horsewhips,” was the sentiment expressed by the detective.

Louise was taken back to the cells, and the chief and Nick Carter had a long conference.

CHAPTER XI.

WITHIN AN ACE.

Two days later Nick Carter received a telegram.

The message was signed by an assumed name, but Nick knew from whom it came.

That afternoon the great detective arrived in Norwalk, Conn., and within an hour was closeted in a room in a hotel with Tambourine Jack.

Crackers, of course, was also present.

The little fellow had done splendid work, and, incidentally, so had Crackers.

Jack related to Nick a long story, which, stripped of its details, was as follows:

No one of the gang had the slightest suspicion that Jack was not with them, heart and soul.

In company with a man named Rusty Owens, he had gone to Norwalk and to the very house where the banker was confined.

“Have you seen Mr. Field?” Nick asked, when the little fellow had concluded his narrative.

“No,” said Jack, “but Crackers had an interview with him, it seems.”

“Don’t joke; this is a serious matter.”

“I am serious.” Tambourine fished up a dirty piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to his friend. “I found that tied to Crackers’ collar this morning.”

Scribbled on the paper, with a lead pencil, were the words:

“I am confined in a house near Norwalk, known as Sophie’s; she is my son Wilbur’s wife. My life is in danger. To the person who gives this to a police officer I will pay ten thousand dollars.

“HILTON FIELD,

“Banker, New York City.”

“His son!” exclaimed Nick; “I never knew he had a son.”

“Nor me either, until I got that; although I have long known Wilbur,” remarked Jack. “He is a promising bird, and if I was his guvnor, I’d be proud of him.”

“And is he one of this infernal gang?”

“Well, he is and he isn’t,” replied Tambourine. “You can bet it was him that put up the job to have the old duck eloped with.”

“Poor Mignon!” thought Nick; “if she but knew who was her father’s jailer it would break her heart.”

“I know where the old gent is,” continued Jack, “even if I didn’t see him. They have him in a room in the garret that has no windows to it. I don’t know how Crackers got to him, but he did, that’s certain.”

“How many men are there?” the detective asked.

“Too many for you,” replied Tambourine. “There were only four there until up to midnight last night, and then two others came along. They were strangers to me, but Wilbur and Rusty Owens seemed to know them. Talking about Rusty—there seems to be bad blood ’twixt him and Skip, and I shouldn’t wonder if they would have it out before morning. They have been growling all day.”

“What about?” Nick asked, evincing a great deal of interest.

“Owens did not want Brodie to kill Moses.”

“Kill Moses!” ejaculated Nick.

“Yes. Brodie found out that Moses was the traitor and not Dell Ladley, and he killed the Jew last night.

“It seems that Rusty did not believe the Jew guilty.”

“I hope they do fight,” said the detective, as he and his little friend left the hotel and made for the house.

They hid themselves in an out-building and remained there for several hours, waiting for the villains to leave the field clear.

Wilbur and his friends were in the kitchen, and they talked so loud that Nick could hear them, although he could not make out what they were talking about.

Then came the sound of a heavy body falling on the floor, followed by a pistol shot, quickly succeeded by several more.

“I was right,” said Tambourine Jack; “I knew it would come to that. Hurry around to the front door; I will let you in.”

When Jack opened the door for him, he gave Nick a key, saying:

“Go right up to the top of the house; there is but one room in the garret, I believe; that’s the key.”

Removing his boots, the detective ran upstairs, while Tambourine slipped out the front door and entered the kitchen by the back.

His passage through the room had not been noticed, so deeply engrossed were the others in the general fight which was going on.

Nick had no difficulty in reaching the banker’s place of confinement; and giving Mr. Field his arm to lean upon, he hurried him downstairs.

The old gentleman was free!

Not waiting to put on his boots, the detective hurried his prize as fast as was possible across the frozen fields toward Norwalk.

The village lights shone clear, and no storm-beaten mariner ever saw a haven with more delight than did Hilton Field view those flickering lights.

They had all but reached the town when Nick heard the sound of hurrying footsteps behind, and knew they were pursued.

Their pursuers overtook them, and the detective determined to make a fight for it, although there were five against him.

The first of them he shot dead in his tracks, but before he could fire again the brave detective was knocked down by the blow of a club from behind.

“Finish him!”

It was Mackrell who spoke, and he raised his pistol to fire.

Another one cracked in some bushes close by, and the ruffian rolled over, a corpse.

The villains were frightened, but they did not leave Hilton Field behind them when they fled.

Rusty Owens threw the banker over his shoulder as if he was a bag of oats, and managed to keep up with his comrades.

Tambourine Jack had saved Nick Carter’s life.

Nick Carter’s wounded head caused him terrible suffering, and it was not until the gray morning light crept in at the window of his room, in the Norwalk Hotel, that he fell asleep.

It was yet early in the day when he was disturbed by a knock.

The door was not locked, and, without leaving the bed, Nick told the person to enter.

The visitor was Tambourine Jack, and the detective brightened at the sight of him.

Jack rammed his hands into his pockets and emitted a long whistle.

“What does that mean?” Nick asked.

“I just did that to relieve myself,” he answered; “the fat is in the fire.”

“Explain.”

“Well, seeing it is you and you are not dead, I will,” said Tambourine. “Above all things don’t forget you are dead.”

“Dead!” exclaimed Nick.

“That was what I said,” answered the little fellow, “and I’ve come to town to put a notice in the paper. Friends and relatives invited to attend the funeral, no flowers, and all that. I told my friends that you had lit out for another world and, as I was never known to tell a lie—why, of course, it must be so. Do you catch on?”

The detective laughingly said:

“It was not a bad idea, Jack, but I trust you won’t carry the matter so far as to bury me. What do you mean by saying the fat is in the fire?”

“Well, boss, we just stand in the same place we did the day after the old gent was carried off,” answered Tambourine.

“Oh, no,” remarked Nick, “we know where to look for him, and I will have the banker before night. I intend to raid the house, if the local authorities will give me help, this afternoon.”

“You won’t find Hilton Field there,” returned the little fellow.

“They have removed him?”

“Well, rather,” replied Jack.

“We can go to the place, no matter if it was on the other side of the Atlantic,” said the detective.

“Of course we can,” remarked Tambourine. “I’ve thought that myself, but first we shall have to find out the place.”

“What, you were there and did not learn where they intended taking the banker?” said Carter.

“No. I tried to find out, but could not,” answered the little fellow. “I asked Skip, and he said when they wanted me I would be sent for. I am to take Dell Ladley to New York this afternoon.”

“Which direction did they take?” Nick asked, very much chagrined at the removal of Mr. Field.

“Dick, Skip and the old fellow went off in a boat about two o’clock this morning,” replied Tambourine, “but I could not make out which way they headed. I know they did not return to Sands Point. They did think about doing so, but changed their mind.”

“Elmer Greer is not with them, then?”

“No, he took the first train for New York this morning,” said Jack. “I hardly knew him when he came downstairs. The whiskers, mustache and goatee are gone.”

“What train do you go on?” Nick asked.

“The two-forty.”

“Well, if you see an Englishman, wearing a red necktie and a loud suit, aboard, that’s I.”

Tambourine Jack, Dell Ladley and a man Nick Carter did not know, drove up to the depot just in time to take the train.

The man went into the smoking car, leaving his companions to shift for themselves.

When they reached the city, Tambourine Jack put his female companion into a street car and rejoined the detective.

“Did you get the slip of paper I dropped?” Jack asked.

“No, where did you drop it?”

“Just as we got on the cars,” he said; “it only had the name Wilbur on it.”

“I didn’t see it,” Nick remarked. “So that chap with you was the banker’s son?”

“That’s the sprig,” replied Tambourine. “Don’t look much like a thief, does he? He made quite a time when Skip took the old fellow away. I thought there would be bloodshed, but Wilbur weakened. Skip seemed to be possessed of a million fiends last night.”

“Does he know where the new hiding place is?” Nick asked.

“You can gamble he don’t, and, between me and you, I don’t think Greer does,” answered the little fellow. “They told him of a certain place, I guess, but my private opinion is, they will dump him unless he soon puts up some more money. They asked for some last night, but he had none to give them.”

“I don’t see where he can get any,” reflected the detective.

“Dick Denton,” said Jack, “spoke to Skip last night, about returning the old man. Field has offered them large sums, several times, to do so. They would have done it long ago, I am thinking, only for the oath that binds them to Greer. I am certain that if Rusty Owens got the old bloke away from them, that he would have given him for the reward, unless the other side paid more.”

“Well, now to work again!” cried Nick. “We must find the new hiding place!”

CHAPTER XII.

TWO VICTIMS.

Through a politician, with whom he was acquainted, Wilbur Field—he called himself John Wilbur—obtained a pass to the Tombs, and, upon presenting it, was readily admitted.

One of the officers on duty within the prison pointed out the cell occupied by Smith.

It was situated at the end of an upper tier, and the visitor found the door open.

Smith had plenty of money, and, of course, favor was shown him.

He dined on the best that a neighboring restaurant could furnish, while less wealthy malefactors were forced to content themselves with meager prison fare.

“Why, Wilbur,” said Tom, throwing down the paper he had been reading and rising from his cot.

The visitor did not press the extended hand very warmly.

“You don’t appear glad to see me,” the broker ventured.

“I came from Norwalk to see you,” was the reply. “Where are my money and bonds?”

“There are ten thousand dollars deposited in your name in the Bank of North America,” answered Smith.

“Ten thousand! why, I gave you more than that to invest. Then there are the profits; they must amount to ten times that sum.”

“Did you not hear about it?” the broker asked.

“About what?”

“The robbery of my safe by Elmer Greer and some of his friends.”

“Elmer Greer!” exclaimed Wilbur; “did that vagabond rob you? I heard of an attempted robbery in your office.”

“Oh, yes. Greer and the others were caught,” said Smith; “there are three of them on the tier below this. The police took the money from them and it is now at headquarters.”

“I know all that,” remarked Wilbur, “but I did not know Greer was in the job. The rascal passed last night at my house. When I again meet him there will be a circus, and I’ll be the leading performer.”

“Indeed, I would be glad if you killed him,” was the pious wish expressed by the broker. “Were it not for him, I wouldn’t be here. Like a fool I allowed him to draw me into the thing.”

“I have all the sympathy in the world for you, Tom, but I haven’t got time to express it,” said the visitor. “I came here to talk business. I must have my money, that is the long and short of it.”

“But I have none,” answered the prisoner. “The police have it all, except the ten thousand dollars, which I deposited subject to your order.”

“You lie!” cried Wilbur, seating himself on the cot beside the broker.

“What I say is the truth.”

“I am not a fool quite,” remarked the visitor, “nor am I a child to be taken in and done for by your gammon. Do you think that I, for a moment, believe that you had everything in an office safe? No, that won’t do.”

“I was going to use the money that afternoon,” said Smith, “but did not. I intended to deposit it and would have done so, but I was arrested. I’ll tell you what I will do.”

“What’s that?” interrupted Wilbur.

“I’ll give you an order for all that is coming to you on the police property clerk,” continued the broker. “I can do no more.”

Smith’s visitor laughed at the proposition, and the prisoner lost his temper.

Under ordinary circumstances he would have feared Wilbur, but he did not now.

“You will not get the money the police have,” Wilbur said, “until you leave prison, and that may be some months or many years. I can’t afford to wait, and I know you must have money stowed away other than this.”

“And I have,” cried the broker. “Heaps on heaps of it.”

“Then everything is all right,” said the visitor, appearing satisfied for the first time since entering the cell. “You are not such a fool after all, Tom. Fill me out a check for fifty thousand on your broker; we can have a final settlement when you get out.”

“Fifty thousand!” muttered Smith; “you are quite reasonable in your demands. Very reasonable, indeed.”

“I am not going to wait here all day,” said the visitor, angrily.

“You can go when you choose.”

“But the money?”

“You will get none from me, neither you nor the other rascal,” cried Smith. “My lawyer tells me the money is mine, and I shall keep it; not one penny shall either of you have. I offered you ten thousand dollars; I take them back.”

“But I gave you over thirteen thousand in cash,” exclaimed the other, becoming greatly excited.

“And, of course, you have my receipt to show?” sneered the broker.

“No, I have not; no!”

Wilbur was furious; up and down the confined limits of the cell he paced, muttering to himself.

Smith, although very nervous, laughed at his visitor’s agitation.

The other saw him, and, standing in front of Tom, looked him in the face.

The broker shrank back from the maddened man.

“Once for all,” said Wilbur, and his voice was hoarse with passion, “am I to have the money?”

“No,” faintly ejaculated Smith. “It is mine—all mine.”

Wilbur sprang upon the prisoner, and the latter attempted to cry out for help, but the other’s clutch on his neck was too tight.

With a strength born of madness, the visitor raised Smith in his grasp, and dashed his head against the stone wall of the cell.

Leaving his victim upon the cot, and drawing the bedclothes over the body, Wilbur stepped unconcernedly out into the corridor.

After leaving the Tombs, the murderer took a Bleecker Street car, and, drawing a newspaper from his pocket, seemed to read it with the utmost unconcern.

Not in the slightest degree did he regret his bloody crime. He did not forget it; it was too fresh in his mind for that; nor did he strive to.

Wilbur was the incarnation of villainy, and at that moment he looked upon himself as a most abused person.

He had lost his money; by killing the man who could have returned it to him, he satisfied his revenge; but still that was not the money.

Wilbur left the car at Sixth Avenue, and, after walking a few blocks, entered a place called “The Cat and Kittens.”

He knew this to be a favorite resort of Greer, and, having a drink, he went into a rear room to wait for him.

Wilbur did not inquire for Elmer at the bar, fearing that when the latter entered and was told a man was waiting for him in the back room, he might take fright and go away again.

For many hours did the banker’s son await the coming of Greer, and at least every fifteen minutes he called for a drink, which resulted in his becoming quite tipsy.

It was near midnight when he heard Elmer’s voice in the barroom, and he went to him.

Greer was surprised to see him, but when Wilbur beckoned, he followed him to the back room.

As soon as they were seated, Elmer said: “Did you see the evening papers?”

“No.”

“Then you haven’t heard about our late friend?”

“What friend?” asked Wilbur, pettishly.

“Tom Smith.”

“What has he been doing?”

“He was murdered in his cell to-day,” replied Greer, expecting that his friend would be carried away with surprise.

“Good for him,” muttered Wilbur. “Have they got the murderer?”

“Not yet,” answered Elmer, “but the paper says the police have an important clew.”

Wilbur became deadly pale, and his heart felt as if made of lead.

“Does it say what the clew is?” he asked.

“No,” replied Greer, a light flashing upon him.

“Why do you look at me so?” inquired Wilbur.

“Oh, nothing.” Greer said this carelessly, but the other could see that his easy manner was forced.

“I am not afraid of you; you dare not inform against me.”

“I thought you knew a little about it,” said Elmer. “You have made a terrible mistake.”

“I could not help it; he goaded me on,” replied Wilbur. “But what do I care? He is not the first that has been removed. What bothers me is the clew you speak of.”

“Smith was my friend,” remarked Greer, drawing his chair back from the table at which the pair were seated.

“Yes, you were quite a good friend of his, too; you tried to rob him, I believe, just to show your friendship. You are a nice gentleman, you are.”

“I am not a murderer.”

“You admit that you are a thief?” said Wilbur. “Cowards like you fear the hangman too much to commit murder. When I die, I hope it is on the gallows that I may spite and disgrace everyone belonging to me. Still, I trust it may be long before my turn comes.”

Greer got up as if to leave, but at the other’s look he again seated himself.

“Did you know that the money at police headquarters, I mean our share of it, is lost to us forever?” asked Elmer.

“You need not worry over that,” said Wilbur. “He has probably provided for you in his will. You were such a good friend of his. The foul fiend preserve me from such friends.”

The banker’s son swallowed a glass of liquor and continued:

“You have also robbed me; that is why I waited to see you.”

“Robbed you? You lie!” exclaimed Greer, becoming angry.

“Had you not broken into the safe, nearly a hundred thousand dollars, which was mine, would now be in my possession and Tom Smith would be alive. You it was who really brought about this murder.”

Greer winced, but he soon recovered his usual coolness.

“What do I care for you or your money?” he said.

Wilbur arose from the table, and, pointing his hand back to his hip pocket, said:

“One murder, more or less, won’t count.”

Elmer was too quick for him.

He had taken out his pistol some minutes before, unperceived, and held it under the table.

“Oh, I’ll block that game!” Greer cried, as he pulled the trigger of his self-cocking revolver.

The murderer of the broker fell to the floor a corpse; even in death, his hand still grasping his pistol butt.

CHAPTER XIII.

GONE.

Between Little Neck and Great Neck, Long Island, is a small settlement of negroes, who make a living by fishing and doing occasional work for neighboring farmers.

At this point Long Island Sound is widest.

This was the place where Skip Brodie and Dick Denton took their captive.

Dick was well acquainted in this section, having been raised on the north side of the island.

“I am afraid to trust those niggers,” said Brodie, when they reached their boat.

“The fellow I intend to go to is all right,” replied Dick; “and there is no danger of others seeing us, because he lives in the woods, half a mile back of the settlement. I will go and bring him here.”

Denton had not been gone long when he returned with a gigantic colored man, whom he introduced to his pal as Sam Cole.

It was dark, and Skip could not make out the fellow’s features.

Sam led them, by a roundabout way, to his hut, a miserable affair, not suitable for cattle, much less for human beings.

Hilton Field followed in silence; indeed, he had not once opened his mouth to speak since leaving the house of his inhuman son.

“You are hungry, I suppose?” the negro said, stirring up the fire. “I can give you some eels; how will they do?”

“Anything will do, Sam,” replied Denton. “Got anything to drink?”

Cole answered by placing a large, black bottle and several glasses on a rickety table that occupied nearly half the cabin.

Dick filled out a glass for the prisoner, and Mr. Field, who was chilled to the marrow, drank the stuff, although it was of the vilest.

After supper Denton and the negro went outside, and when they returned Sam carried a small ladder, which he placed at an opening in the ceiling.

“Climb up, old man,” said Dick, pushing the banker toward the ladder.

Hilton Field did not resist; he was as obedient as a child now that his courage had forsaken him.

When the captive reached the garret, Sam removed the ladder.

“You know,” remarked Skip, “or, at least, I suppose Dick has told you, that this business must be kept secret.”

“This coon don’t blab when he is treated right. Mister Denton knows what I am. It wasn’t to-day or yesterday that we became acquainted.”

“You may depend upon him, Skip!” said Denton, as he took a five-dollar bill from his pocket and threw it upon the table; “Sam, go and get a couple of bottles of whisky.”

When the negro had left, the precious pair had a long conference, which ended in the adoption of a plan.

Dick Denton was to go to New York the next day and see Elmer, and if he did not give the money he had promised, they determined to open negotiations with the banker’s family.

They felt sure the reward would be paid, but it would be dangerous for them to make approaches openly.

The negro brought nearly a gallon of liquor, and, when the three men retired, they were intoxicated. Dick was up at daybreak, and, after awakening his pal, started for New York.

In the morning paper, which he purchased on the cars, he read of the murder of Smith in the Tombs and of the killing of Wilbur at the “Cat and Kittens.”

It was to that place he intended to go to look for Greer, but he was afraid to go near the saloon now, knowing that detectives would be watching it.

He knew of another place where Elmer frequently visited, in Commerce Street, and he made his way thither, going zigzag across town through quiet streets.

Dick was in luck.

He met Greer going into the place, and they went in together.

“I suppose you know what I want?” said Denton.

“Money, I should say.”

“Yes, you have hit the mark,” remarked Dick. “Skip told me not to come back without it.”

“Nice fellow, Skip!”

“What do you mean?”

“That you and he may get out for all I care,” replied Greer; “I have no money for you.”

“Skip told me to say,” added Denton, “that if you didn’t pony up we would do a little business with the banker’s family.”

“Better go and see that member of it who is lying dead at the ‘Cat and Kittens.’ Perhaps you could make an arrangement with him.”

“This is not a joke, Skip, and I mean it.”

“I am very sorry, deuced sorry; I am also sorry that I won’t have the pleasure of your charming society for some little while.”

“Are you going away?” Denton asked.

“Yes; for the good of my health.”

Elmer made a significant gesture, that of slipping a noose about his neck.

“Then it was you that finished Wilbur?”

“He would have ended me if I didn’t,” replied Greer, “and as one of us had to die, I preferred it should be him.”

“Well, you leave us in a nice hole.”

“Climb out of it. I can’t help you; everything has gone to smash, but not through any fault of mine.”

“I wish I never had had anything to do with the business,” said Denton. “Look what we have gone through and for what, five hundred dollars a piece—Skip without getting anything. I would advise you to keep out of his way.”

Greer laughed and said:

“We won’t meet in a hurry. Do anything you like with Hilton Field; kill him if you choose, I don’t care. If Smith had not been a fool and literally given himself to Nick Carter, all hands would be rolling in wealth. Good-day; tell Skip I was asking for him.”

Elmer turned on his heel and left the place.

“Well, if that ain’t rather cool,” muttered Dick. “If Skip was here he would serve him as he did Rusty Owens. What a herd of asses we were to be taken in by that fellow.”

Mr. Denton’s feelings quite overcame him, and as a means of soothing them he had recourse to the bottle.

He was in a state of blind intoxication when he reached the ferry at Thirty-fourth Street of the Long Island Railroad.

Dick had an hour and a half to wait for a train to Little Neck—few trains running to that point in the winter—and he strolled into a den kept by Jack Shea.

After condoling with the barmaid over the unhappy fate that had overtaken the proprietor, Denton settled himself in a chair for a nap.

“Mr. Carter!”

The detective was standing in front of police headquarters, and turning around, he saw Tambourine Jack at his elbow.

The little fellow was puffing and blowing like a steam engine; it was a cold day, but the perspiration rolled down Jack’s checks.

When he caught his breath, Tambourine said:

“Come—Dick Denton.”

“What do you mean?” asked Nick Carter, catching Tambourine by the arm, he having started to run off.

“Dick Denton is down in Shea’s place,” Tambourine replied. “I went in there and saw him asleep in a chair, and the barmaid told me he was going down on the island.”

“Sands Point, I suppose?”

“No; he told her Little Neck.”

Nick was still gotten up as a loud Englishman, and, not fearing that his disguise would be penetrated, he went boldly into Shea’s den while Tambourine Jack waited for him outside.

Denton was still there, sleeping off the effects of the liquor he had consumed.

After having a drink, and treating the barmaid, the detective went to the station and got a time-table.

Dick had missed the train he intended to take and there was but one more that day, which left at eleven o’clock in the night.

Leaving Tambourine behind him, Nick Carter crossed over to Long Island City and loafed about until it was time to take the train.

He saw Dick Denton get aboard, and he was somewhat surprised to see him accompanied by Tambourine Jack and the wonderful Crackers.

When the pair alighted at Little Neck, they took to the woods, but the detective never lost sight of them until they entered Sam Cole’s cabin.

Nick crept close to the hut, and through a chink in the side he was able to see anything that might take place inside.

Upon the floor lay Skip Brodie, tied hand and foot, cursing and roaring like a madman.

His pal cut the bonds, and, springing to his feet, Brodie dashed out of the cabin and ran through the woods like a deer, closely pressed by Denton.

What could it all mean?

Nick Carter called on them to stop, at the same time sending several bullets after them, none of which seemed to take effect.

He tried to follow, but before going a hundred yards, the detective’s head began to pain him, and he was obliged to give up the chase.

Returning to the cabin, Nick boldly entered, but he found no one there but Tambourine Jack, and the little fellow seemed to be almost as much bewildered as himself.

“This beats Banhager, and Banhager beats all,” said Jack. “If this isn’t a pretty go, call me a liar.”

“I don’t understand it,” exclaimed the detective. “Where can Hilton Field be? Surely they have not killed him?”

“He’s missing,” responded Tambourine. “Gone off with a coon.”

“Do you know anything about it?” Nick asked.

“A little, very little,” answered Jack. “This here ranch belongs to a fellow who struggles along under the name of Sam Cole; Dick told me that coming up in the cars.”

“Come down to the present; where is the banker?”

“How should I know?” said the little fellow; “one thing certain, our two friends that took themselves off in such a hurry don’t know either.”

“He certainly has not made his escape.”

“Well, I rather think not.”

“And Brodie was tied hand and foot. Did he say who did it?”

“Yes, didn’t I tell you that before?” inquired Jack; “this culled person got Skip drunk, and when he awoke, he found himself tied up like a parcel of dry goods; Mr. Cole was standing in the door, arm in arm with the ole bloke. I should have liked to be here, just to listen to Skip saying his prayers at that time. Look, there is some one at the window; ’tis a coon.”

Tambourine Jack pointed excitedly at the only window the cabin possessed.

Nick Carter saw the man’s eyes, and, drawing his pistol, he left the hut, followed by the little fellow.

They searched the clearing surrounding the cabin without catching a glimpse of the negro.

The ground seemed to have opened and swallowed him.

CHAPTER XIV.

IN THE FLAMES.

Nick Carter and his little friend remained in the cabin of Sam Cole until daybreak.

Then they sought Skip Brodie and Dick Denton, but, although they searched the country for miles around and questioned everyone they met, not a trace of the fleeing villains could they find.

Tired and hungry, they returned to the negro’s cabin, and, after a short rest, Nick Carter left for New York.

Tambourine Jack had informed him that Denton said Wilbur was killed by Elmer Greer, and the latter intended leaving the country.

It would never do to let the arch rogue escape, and Nick determined that he should not.

The little fellow, when the detective left him alone with his companion, Crackers, felt lonesome.

Jack could not explain satisfactorily to his own mind the depression of spirits.

He found some liquor in the cupboard, and, although he imbibed quite freely, the feeling of heaviness and melancholy did not leave him.

The sun was sinking behind the wood surrounding the hut, when the door was thrown open and Dell Ladley entered.

Before going to Shea’s place, after leaving Elmer Greer, Dick Denton had called upon the girl and given her instructions to open negotiations with the banker’s family for his return.

He had informed her of the location of their hiding place, and, without much difficulty, Dell was able to find it.

“Hello, Jack, you here?”

“Well, I seem to be,” replied that individual, “but I can’t say as how I like it.”

“Where are Skip and Dick?” the girl inquired.

“I don’t know; wish I did.”

The door was flung open and Brodie and Denton entered.

Skip was in a towering passion, as was also his pal.

“Everything is all right,” said Dell, “I saw his daughter, a sweet girl, and she promised to pay the reward and will not prosecute. She will bring the money here or send it.”

Brodie broke into a flood of profanity.

“We can’t return the banker, worse luck,” remarked Denton.

“Why?”

“Because we have lost him, you jade,” cried Skip, “and the chances are we will not find him again. It is all your fault, Dick.”

“I don’t see how you make that out,” said Denton. “I am sure I did not tell the fellow to run away with him.”

“No, but you said the negro would act straight,” replied Brodie. “I did not like the fellow’s looks from the first.”

“Admitting that I was wrong in my estimate of Sam Cole,” said Dick, “you should have watched him more closely if you were suspicious of him. The banker must have reached his car in some way. He did not learn from us who or what our captive was, and you may be sure he had a knowledge of Field’s importance before running off with him. You, and you alone, are to blame; did I not know you so well I should think that you and Sam had combined to dump me.”

“Dick, I was drunk,” said Skip.

“Well, it is no time for recriminations,” remarked Denton, “but I would just like to set my eyes on Cole. You can bet the gates of the nigger heaven would open to receive a permanent boarder.”

“Suppose we were to enlist some of the coons down at the shore in the search?” suggested Brodie. “They would be more likely to get track of Sam than I.”

“You couldn’t get one of them to stir or give you any information,” answered Dick, “the fellow has so terrorized them. He knows these woods thoroughly, and at the present moment he may be hid not a thousand yards away.”

Sam Cole was not ten yards away.

With his eye glued to the chink before used by Nick Carter, the negro took in all that was passing between the inmates of his cabin.

Cole grinned when Denton spoke of killing him on sight, and, indeed, he was tempted to enter and confront the pair.

Sam was heavily armed, and, besides, he was a very daring fellow.

“I will go in,” he muttered, and he did so.

Skip’s pistol was out in a jiffy.

“You!” he roared.

“Hold on, mister.”

Cole also drew a pistol.

“Where is the old man?” Denton asked. “Speak quick, or it will go hard with you.”

“You mean the old gent that occupied the garret?”

“Who else?” cried Dick.

“Well, he ain’t up there any more,” replied Sam. “In fact, he has changed his residence.”

“You carried him off, you black hound!” exclaimed Brodie, toying nervously with his weapon; “I saw you.”

“Oh, yes, I accompanied him to his new quarters.”

“You must give him up,” said Denton.

“Must?”

“Yes, must.”

“I’ll think about it,” remarked the negro; “in fact, I have been thinking something about it, but I have not as yet made up my mind to do so.”

“The sooner you do the better.”

Brodie took deliberate aim at Sam’s head as he spoke.

“How much will I get if I bring him back?” asked Cole.

“You’ll be killed if you don’t conduct us to where he is,” yelled Skip.

“I will see that you get at least a thousand dollars, Sam,” said Dick. “When we first came here, I told you that you would be well taken care of, and here you go to work and play this dirty trick upon my pal and me.”

“It was only a joke,” muttered the negro, “only a joke, Mr. Denton.”

“Confound such jokes,” cried Brodie, “I suppose tying me up was another joke?”

Sam laughed at this, and, had Denton not knocked the pistol out of his hand, Skip would have shot the fellow.

“I came here to take you to the place where the old man is,” said Cole, not in the least upset by Brodie’s effort to kill him. “I would not go back on you, Mr. Denton, but I would advise your friend to be a little more careful with that shooter of his, or I may be compelled to hurt him.”

Sam led the way into the wood, and the pair followed, leaving Tambourine Jack and Dell behind in the cabin.

They had not penetrated far into the woods when, with a loud laugh, the negro sprang away.

He dodged about the trees, and none of the bullets directed at him reached the mark; neither were Dick nor Skip able to overtake the fleet-footed fellow.

It was late when the chagrined pair returned to the hut and found Dell Ladley alone.

Tambourine Jack was absent, but he could not have gone far, because Crackers was left behind.

“What luck?” the girl asked.

“None,” replied Denton; “the black fiend was conning us. I’ll come across him yet.”

Skip Brodie was beside himself with rage, and he paced the floor, growling like a wild beast.

After all his work he found himself without a cent and in danger of his life for the murders he had committed.

“Elmer Greer first,” Brodie said, “then the negro, and I shall feel somewhat resigned when the hangman eventually places the noose about my neck.”

Both he and Denton had agreed to go to the city on the following night and make an effort to find Greer.

A light was made and supper prepared by Dell Ladley.

The turbulence of their passions did not prevent the pair from making a hearty meal of the rough food which the cabin afforded.

Dick Denton made a smoking bowl of punch, and he was about to fill out glasses for himself and his pal, when the door was thrown violently open.

Rusty Owens and five companions entered the room.

At the advent of the newcomers, Skip was on his feet in an instant.

“Don’t let me disturb you,” remarked Rusty; “finish your supper; I can wait.”

“How did you find us out?” Denton asked, greatly surprised.

“You chaps talked pretty loud when you got into your boat over on our side, and a friend of mine overheard you say you were coming here.”

“And what the devil do you want?” asked Brodie.

“Well, in the first place, I wish to introduce my friends here to the old gent,” replied Rusty; “they wants to make his acquaintance.”

“I hope you may find him,” remarked Denton; “he is not here.”

“That’s gammon,” said Rusty Owens.

He sent two of his friends to search the premises, but, of course, they were not successful in discovering Hilton Field.

“Where have you stowed his nibs?” asked Owens.

“He has been stolen from us,” answered Denton. “I don’t know why I should tell you even that much; it is none of your business where he is.”

“You are wrong there, my friend,” remarked Owens; “we have as much right in this business as you have.”

“Put up that pistol!” yelled one of Rusty’s companions.

Denton had drawn his weapon, but when he saw that each of the newcomers covered him with revolvers, he replaced it in his pocket.

Brodie was standing at the table, and the girl was seated at his side.

“I want you and your mob to leave here,” he said angrily, addressing Owens.

“Not quite yet,” Rusty replied. “I have a little matter to settle with you before I go.”

The speaker walked to where Skip was standing, and, catching that gentleman by the ears, spat in his face.

With an infuriated cry, Brodie threw himself upon the other, and the pair fell to the floor.

Rusty seemed to be possessed of prodigious strength.

Very easily did he shake himself free of his powerful antagonist and rise to his feet.

“I guess there is really only one way to settle such carrion as you.”

Saying this, Owens drew a pistol and cocked it.

He emptied the revolver into the body of the prostrate man.

The others threw themselves upon Dick Denton and bound him with a rope they found upon the floor—the one Sam Cole had bound Skip Brodie with.

A cry of agony escaped Dell Ladley when Owens fired upon her husband.

Skip’s pistol lay upon the table; grasping it, she rushed upon Rusty, and when but a few feet from him, fired.

The fellow rolled over upon the body of his victim, dead.

One of the ruffians picked up a chair, and brought it down with such crushing force upon Dell Ladley’s head that she sank to the floor insensible.

Dick Denton raved and swore, struggling the while to free himself, but unsuccessfully.

The ruffians examined their leader and found that he was dead.

“Shoot that fellow,” suggested one, pointing to Dick Denton.

“Yes, kill him,” added another, who was about to do so.

“Let him stay where he is; we’ll burn the house,” cried a third.

This was agreed to by the fellow’s companion demons.

They dragged several straw mattresses outside, and, closing the door, set fire to them.

The hut was old and as dry as a chip.

With fearful rapidity the fire grew until in a few minutes Sam’s cabin was wrapped in a shroud of flame.

No Indian ever died at the stake with more courage than did Denton—not a cry escaped him, even when the flames reached him.

A little figure dashed into the clearing and rushed toward the burning hut.

Strong arms grasped him and prevented him from entering.

“Poor Crackers!” and the creature threw himself on the ground and began to cry.

CHAPTER XV.

RESTORED AT LAST.

Nick Carter went at once, upon arriving in the city, to the place uptown where Tambourine Jack told him Dick Denton had met Elmer Greer.

The murderer was not there, and, leaving the saloon, the detective took a position near at hand, where he could see everyone that entered.

He had been at his post but an hour when a man, wearing heavy, black whiskers and beard, brushed past him.

The man entered the saloon and Nick Carter quickly followed.

“That disguise don’t baffle me,” the detective thought. “I think I should recognize Elmer Greer if I were to see nothing of him but his eyes.”

Walking up to the bearded gentleman, Nick tapped him on the shoulder, saying:

“I would like to have a few minutes’ conversation with you.”

“I don’t know you, sir,” replied the other; “though I am a stranger in town, I am not to be taken in by any confidence man.”

The detective began to laugh at this, and there was something so familiar in this laugh that the bearded fellow became very nervous.

“I guess you and I have met before,” Nick said, playing with his mouse. “What might your name be at present?”

“None of your infernal business, you bloody cockney!”

“Elmer Greer, you are my prisoner.”

Greer reached for his pistol, but before he could draw it, Nick Carter struck him between the eyes, knocking him down.

In an instant the detective had securely handcuffed his prisoner.

“This is an outrage,” cried Elmer. “What have I done? Are all strangers who come to New York treated like this?”

“Well, no.”

The detective removed his wig and whiskers, saying:

“I guess you will remember seeing me before?”

“Nick Carter!” involuntarily exclaimed Greer.

“Or his ghost,” added Nick. “You thought I was dead.”

Elmer saw that it would be absurd to deny his identity any longer, and he removed the beard that disguised his features.

“I suppose I am good for twenty years?” he said, making a sickly attempt to smile.

“Not quite,” replied Nick; “they hang murderers in this State.”

“Murder!” ejaculated the prisoner. “I do not understand.”

“How about shooting Wilbur Field night before last? If you had but a white robe and a golden harp you might pose as an angel.”

“There is no hope for me,” muttered Greer. “But tell me, how in the name of all things infernal have you learned all this?”

“That you shall never know,” answered Nick; “but I can inform you of one thing, and that is, nothing that you have done since carrying off the banker has escaped me. I charge you with murder, and I have the proof to convict you.”

“I have money—heaps of money.”

“You lie, but if you were to make me a millionaire if I would unlock these handcuffs, they would not be unlocked until you reached a prison cell.”

“I will put you on the track of Hilton Field.”

Nick would have laughed had he not had a little compassion for the now abject and trembling wretch.

He begged, prayed and cursed by turns, but his appeals had no effect.

“Send me to prison for my other crimes,” the rascal cried, beseechingly, “but do not make the charge of murder against me. It is horrible to die.”

“No more so to you than to your victims,” said the detective. “No, I will bring you to the gallows.”

When he left the Tombs, whither he had taken Greer, Nick visited a friend of his, who had a saloon in Center Street, and from him borrowed a bloodhound that had been brought from Cuba, where it had been used in hunting down runaway slaves.

The detective had often fondled the dog, and they were very good friends.

Taking the brute with him, Nick went to Long Island City, and learned that the last train for Little Neck had left, but that he could get one to Flushing, which is about halfway.

At Flushing the detective engaged a horse and carriage, and, taking the dog in the wagon, he drove to the negro settlement near Little Neck.

He awoke the occupant of one of the cottages, and engaged him to care for the horse, since he might be absent until late the next day.

Nick Carter found Sam Cole’s cabin a smoking ruin, and by the small tongues of flame that sprang up only to die away in a second, he saw a figure sitting near the edge of the burning hut.

There was no mistaking the person.

“Tambourine!” the detective cried.

The figure leaped to its feet, and the little fellow was at his side in a moment.

“Who set it on fire?”

“Skip’s bones are in the ruins somewhere; he was dead, but poor Dell Ladley and Dick Denton were burned alive.”

“This is horrible!” exclaimed Nick Carter. “How was it you escaped?”

“I was out of the hut at the time,” answered Tambourine, “or I would have been served like the rest.”

Jack went on to tell him all he had learned of the affair from the incendiaries.

“What did you bring the dog for?” Jack asked, when he had finished his narrative.

“To track the negro, of course,” replied Nick. “Where did you see him last?”

The little fellow led the way into the wood where Dick Denton and Skip Brodie had lost sight of Sam Cole.

At first the bloodhound was puzzled and seemed to have several false scents before, with a deep bay, he rushed away through a part of the forest thickly grown with brush.

It was with difficulty that Nick Carter and his friend made their way through the undergrowth.

The dog was lost sight of, but they were guided by his cries.

Suddenly they ceased and Nick knew the hound had reached the end of the trail.

At a clearing on the side of a steep hill they came face to face with a gigantic negro.

“That’s him,” whispered Jack.

The colored man was bleeding at the throat, where the dog had sunk his fangs, and at his feet lay the brute, dead.

“Was that your dog?” Sam Cole angrily asked, approaching the pair with a large, wooden stake in his hand.

“Yes,” replied Nick Carter, drawing his pistol; “it was.”

Sam saw the weapon glitter in the moonlight and advanced no further.

“He had like to kill me,” the negro said, “and I was obliged to kill him; I am sorry, gentlemen.”

“Look out for him,” whispered Tambourine, “he is a bad one.”

“Are you Sam Cole?”

The detective drew near the fellow as he spoke.

“That’s what they call me hereabouts,” was the answer. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes; show me where you have hid the old gentleman you carried away from your cabin,” said Nick.

“Guess you have struck the wrong party, mister. I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Come, now, none of that, if you wish to save yourself from going to prison,” remarked the detective; “I am Nick Carter, of New York, and I know you have this man I am in search of.”

With the hand that held the pistol, the officer threw back his coat to exhibit his badge.

As he did so, Sam Cole threw the stake with unerring aim at him.

It struck Nick full in the breast, keeling him over.

Cole was upon him, and bearing him to the ground, the giant said:

“The police officer has not yet been born who could take me.”

Nick’s pistol fell from his hand when the negro attacked him; Tambourine saw its silver mounting shining in the grass and soon possessed himself of it.

There was a pistol shot; the negro’s grasp relaxed and he rolled over, dead.

For the second time had Tambourine Jack saved his friend’s life.

“See!” cried the little fellow, when the detective arose to his feet, “there is a light yonder.”

The detective saw the light, but before going to it he caught Jack’s hand in his own, saying:

“I hope some day to square accounts as near as possible with you.”

They found that the light came from a fire built in a small cave.

Taking the revolver from Tambourine, the detective entered.

“I tell you, negro, I will pay you well.”

It was Hilton Field’s voice, and Nick Carter instantly recognized it.

In a corner of the cave, tied to a stake driven into the ground, was the banker.

Nick cut the bond and led Mr. Field into the open air.

“Nick Carter!” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” replied the detective, “I have come to take you home.”

That home-coming was joyful, indeed.

The banker clasped his daughter in his arms, weeping from pure happiness.

Still, much remained to be done to break up the gang and punish those already captured.

The work was full of difficulties and entailed many adventures, but eventually Nick succeeded in his task.

The Calhoun woman served a long term in the penitentiary.

Greer was prosecuted on the charge of murdering Wilbur Field, but the jury disagreed. On another indictment he received a long sentence.

Shortly after his return, Hilton Field settled up his affairs and, with his daughters, went to Europe.

While sailing in the Mediterranean one day, a sudden storm arose, and the yacht in which were Field and his children, was capsized. Field alone was saved.

This catastrophe seemed to have dried up the milk of human kindness in Field’s heart. He returned to America, plunged into the vortex of Wall Street, and became known as one of the shrewdest, richest and most unscrupulous operators the “Street” had ever known.

In a few years time he had become one of the richest men in America. He built a palace on Riverside Drive, one of the most beautiful neighborhoods in New York City, retired from active business, and lived in his magnificent home a life of solitary grandeur.

Of the few men who knew him as friends, Nick Carter was one, and although they saw each other infrequently, the feeling of mutual esteem increased with years.

At first, Nick believed that when the scattered members of the gang that had kidnaped him learned of the banker’s return to New York, they would annoy him.

But many years passed without a sign of revenge, and Nick’s anxiety was lulled to sleep.

CHAPTER XVI.

WHOSE THE BRAIN?

It was destined to be rudely awakened.

One morning, twenty-four years after the kidnaping of Hilton Field, Nick Carter was sitting in his office examining some important papers when one of his assistants placed a telegram before him.

Opening it, Nick read this message:

“Come at once to Mr. Hilton Field’s house on Riverside Drive. A murder. (Signed),

“FREDERIC BARNES.”

Nick thrust the message into his pocket.

“Humph!” he muttered. “And Edmund Greer was released from Sing Sing only a month ago!”

Hurrying from his office, Nick boarded a Subway train and, leaving it at the station nearest his destination, jumped into a cab.

According to the dispatch a murder had been committed.

As the cab bowled along Nick wondered who it was who had been suddenly deprived of life.

Perhaps it was Mr. Field himself.

His nearest neighbor was all of five hundred feet distant, and the house was one to tempt the cupidity of the professional burglar.

In due season the cab pulled up before Mr. Field’s house and the detective sprang out.

To the driver he said:

“Just stay here until I send you word. I may want you.”

The detective went up the steps and rang the bell.

He was kept waiting only the fraction of a minute.

“Is Mr. Barnes here?” he inquired of the servant who opened the door.

“Yes, sir. Are you the man he is expecting?”

“I am.”

“Then you are to walk into the parlor. Mr. Barnes is waiting for you there.”

Nick stepped into the room mentioned.

As he did so a man came forward from the rear of the room, saying gravely:

“I am more glad to see you than I can express. A fearful murder has been committed here.”

“Who is the victim?”

“Mr. Field.”

“I had suspected as much. When did it happen?”

“Some time during the night.”

“How did you learn of it?”

“One of the servants came over to my house and gave the alarm.”

“You came over here at once?”

“I did.”

“What did the servant who told you of it have to say?”

“At the time he simply told me that Mr. Field had been murdered. It was not until after I had arrived at the house that I learned any of the particulars.”

“What were they?”

“I will tell you if such is your wish, but as the case promises to be filled with mystery, perhaps it would be better to gain your first impression of it direct from the servant.”

“Well suggested. Where is the body?”

Mr. Barnes was silent.

He acted like a man who is uncertain what answer to make to best aid the course of justice.

The detective did not wait long for an answer, but went on:

“In what room was the deed committed?”

“In his own room.”

“Where is that?”

“On the next floor.”

“The murder is supposed to have taken place during the night?”

“It is known that such was the case.”

“Did anybody see it done?”

“No, although it is known when it was done.”

“Let us go to his room.”

“Very well.”

“As you are familiar with the house, suppose you lead the way.”

With an assenting nod Mr. Barnes did so.

He led the way upstairs and to a room in the front of the house.

As he crossed the threshold of this room he said:

“This room was used by him as a sort of library. His sleeping room is just back of this.”

The detective gave one keen glance around him and then said:

“The murder was not committed in this room?”

“It was not.”

“Then lead the way into the sleeping room.”

Mr. Barnes did so in silence.

Again the detective looked around him.

In this room were numerous evidences of a struggle.

With his gaze fastened on the bed, which was empty, the detective said:

“I do not see anything of the body.”

Waiting for an answer, but not getting any, he went on:

“Has the body been removed to another room?”

“It has not.”

“Then where is it?”

“I don’t know.”

In a surprised tone the detective echoed:

“Don’t know?”

“No.”

“How is that?”

“When I got here I could find nothing of any body.”

“Then it is not certain that he was murdered?”

“Yes, it is.”

“How do you make it out?”

“He was seen after he had been murdered.”

“Ha! By whom?”

“One of the servants.”

“And then, subsequent to that time, the body disappeared.”

“That is the case.”

“There is nothing back of this? Is the servant trustworthy?”

“Perfectly so, I believe. I am sure that Mr. Field had the most unbounded confidence in the man.”

“I must see this man presently. What opinion have you arrived at in regard to the matter?”

“I have none. I cannot see daylight at all. The case puzzles me beyond anything ever presented to my mind before.”

“Do you think that robbery had anything to do with it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because so far as I can determine nothing has been taken. Nor do the servants find anything missing.”

Nick began pacing the floor.

Little as he had learned of the case, it had already developed some strange things.

Crimes usually run in channels somewhat similar, but here had one been committed that was entirely outside of anything embraced in his own experience or heard of in that of a brother professional. At least this was promised, which fact was rather calculated than otherwise to give the case a deep interest for him.

That a crime had been committed there was no question, for on every side could be found evidences of a struggle. But had that crime been of the grave one of murder? Without the presence of a dead body this was impossible to say.

Finally Nick shook his head and growled something under his breath.

To one who knew him well this would have implied that he was not at all pleased with the train of his thoughts.

At last he said:

“Let me see this man.”

The servant alluded to was called.

He was a man past middle life, with an honest, open face and iron gray hair.

Looking at this man, Nick was impressed in his favor. Yet he questioned him as sharply as though he was suspected of being the murderer.

He said, sharply:

“Well, what do you know about this murder?”

“Very little.”

“So? You are inclined to be brief.”

“I am naturally so.”

“What is your name?”

“Joe Timon.”

“In what capacity did you serve Mr. Field?”

“I was almost anything, from valet to private secretary.”

“Ah! Then in all probability you were the last person who saw Mr. Field alive?”

“I may have been, though I am not certain about it. Ordinarily I would have been of a certainty.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I usually was the last one to enter his room at night. But last evening I had a headache and went to my own room earlier than usual.”

“What was the hour?”

“A few minutes past ten.”

“You usually went to bed later, then?”

“I did.”

“At what hour?”

“Between eleven and twelve generally.”

“Well, you went to bed at ten last night. Now, then, how did you learn that a murder had been committed?”

“It came about in this way. About two o’clock I was awakened by hearing the steps of a man in the hall outside of my room. As was natural, I lay as still as possible and listened, trying to catch what was said.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

“I could not hear every word that was said, but what I did hear was to the effect that it was unfortunate that they had not been able to get out undetected.”

“Which you understood as meaning—what?”

“That some of the servants had seen them.”

“Was this view verified by what followed?”

“I think so.”

“Well, you heard words spoken to the effect stated. What followed that?”

“The men paused at my door to listen. They were, I thought, trying to determine if the room was occupied, so I held my breath as long as I could and then breathed as quietly as possible. Yet they heard me and entered my room. Then they proceeded to tie me.”

“You pretended to wake up?”

“Yes.”

“What was said to you?”

“I was ordered to make no noise on penalty of losing my life.”

“What kind of looking men were they?”

“I could not see.”

“How was that? Didn’t they have a light?”

“Yes, but they were masked.”

“Well, what followed of which you have any knowledge?”

“I lay still for some time after they had left my room, and then I began trying to force myself loose from my bonds.”

“You succeeded at last?”

“I did. It took me all of a couple of hours to get my hands free, and as they had tied me to the bed and I had nothing in the shape of a knife at hand, I was then compelled to undo those other knots, which took me the best part of another hour. When I was free at last I went down to the floor below and entered the master’s room.”

“And saw what?”

“Mr. Field lying on the floor.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“Because I went to his side, and kneeling down put my hand over his heart.”

“You could not feel any pulsation?”

“I could not.”

“What then?”

“I thought of going to Mr. Barnes here, who was one of Mr. Field’s warmest friends.”

“What o’clock was it at this time?”

“About five, just before daylight.”

“Mr. Barnes is your next neighbor?”

“He is.”

“How does it come, then, that he did not see you until after seven?”

“The reason of that was, that in my haste I was careless, and in going down the stairs I tripped and fell, as a result of which I landed at the foot in a senseless condition.”

“What stairs were these?”

“Those at the front of the house.”

“There is a stair at the rear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did it happen that you did not first untie your fellow servants?”

“I cannot explain that, sir, even to myself. I merely knew that my master was murdered, and was anxious to get his friend here as soon as possible.”

“How long did you lie at the foot of the stairs in that insensible condition?”

“Until about five minutes before I rang the bell of Mr. Barnes’ house.”

“After recovering consciousness did you go upstairs again before going to Mr. Barnes?”

“I did not.”

“Mr. Barnes came over with you at once?”

“No, sir. Having been told by him that he would soon be over I returned.”

“What did you do first?”

“Unbound the servants.”

“You didn’t go first into Mr. Field’s room?”

“No, sir.”

“I should have thought you would.”

“I did not wish to again see that horrid sight alone. I am not a coward by any means, but it is not pleasant to go in and look at a man now dead who has been to you a warm friend in the past.”

“But, having released the other servants, you made up a party and entered Mr. Field’s room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who first discovered that the body was missing?”

“I did. Having seen it where it was lying, I naturally looked in the right direction at once, and when I found it was not there I could hardly believe my senses. At first I thought that he had not, after all, been killed, but had recovered his consciousness and had crawled to his bed, but on looking toward it I saw it was empty.”

“What next?”

“Why, we had not recovered from our astonishment when Mr. Barnes came in.”

“What was done after the arrival of this gentleman?”

“He wanted to know if robbery had been the motive of the deed, and so a search was made.”

“With what result?”

“We did not find anything missing.”

“Can you be sure that nothing is gone?”

“I would not be willing to swear to it, although I am morally convinced that not a thing has been taken.”

“That will do. You can go now, but do not say a word to the other servants of the line of questions put to you.”

“I will not, sir.”

Joe Timon having departed, Mr. Barnes inquired:

“What do you make of it?”

“As yet—nothing.”

“His story does not give you any clew?”

“Decidedly not. It only serves to make the case more mysterious. You are certain that this man had the full confidence of Mr. Field?”

“I am. I have often heard him speak of the faithfulness of this man in particular.”

Nick did not at all like the appearance of things.

The story that Joe Timon had to tell had an air of truthfulness, and yet it was far from satisfactory to the detective. There were not a few points about it that appeared to him as unnatural.

In the first place it was rather peculiar that the assassins should have taken the trouble to go around and bind the servants if their purpose here was only to take the life of Mr. Field, something which could be accomplished in the fraction of a minute.

Their binding of the servants would, on the face of it, argue that they had need of time, as would be the case only if they were intending to take the time to systematically select the plunder they wanted.

Secondly, while the story of falling downstairs and rendering himself insensible might be true, still it had about it a something that to the detective was “fishy.”

Thirdly, it did not seem to him as being natural that Timon could forget that his fellow servants were bound and in need of assistance. In his opinion the natural course under the circumstances would have been for Timon to have unbound them before seeking Mr. Barnes.

A fact in connection with Timon’s failure to do this stood out before the detective’s mental vision very prominently—and this fact was that, in his interim when, according to his story, he was unconscious, the body of Mr. Field disappeared.

And he asked himself this question:

“If it was necessary to offset some testimony that could be advanced by the other servants, would not some such story as this be concocted to cover the time necessary for the taking away of the body?”

And he quickly gave himself the answer:

“The story is admirably suited to just such a series of circumstances, and if the stories told by the others show a necessity for this tale, I shall at once set Joe Timon down as an accessory, no matter how great the trust Mr. Field may have had in him.”

He now had in his possession practically all that could be told of the main features of the case, and he wanted now to use his eyes a little more before questioning the other servants.

Speaking to Barnes, he said:

“It must have been here that the body lay.”

“It was. That is the spot that Timon pointed out to me.”

From here there was a depression of the nap of the carpet, in two long, straight lines, toward the door.

They were such marks as would be left by the heels of a person being dragged along by the shoulders.

The detective now stepped toward the door to which these marks led, Barnes following him closely and saying:

“I was wondering if you were going to take notice of those marks and follow them.”

Nick Carter dryly said:

“I saw them some time ago, in fact the very instant I stepped into this room. I did not care at the moment to trace them, as I had something else in my mind.”

“I suppose that in your business, as in most others, each man has his own way of working.”

“Certainly.”

The door was by this time reached. It was closed. The detective opened it and saw that the marks were continued across the sill and upon the carpet of the hall.

The hall being dark, he said to Barnes:

“Will you be kind enough to open that window at the end?”

“Assuredly.”

Barnes proceeded to open it, letting in a flood of light.

It was now very bright in the hall, and everything was shown up as clearly as daylight could do it.

One thing was revealed that was very unpleasant to the eyes of Mr. Barnes.

This was a pool of blood.

Shuddering, he said to the detective:

“That is a terrible sight. This pool is larger than that in his own room. They must have stopped here a minute or so when they were dragging him out.”

As Nick made no rejoinder to this, Barnes said:

“Don’t you think that is the case?”

Remarkably brief was the reply:

“No!”

“What do you think, then?”

“I am not prepared to state that, but—I have made a discovery!”

CHAPTER XVII.

A THEORY FOUND.

The discovery Nick Carter made was this:

Where the body had been lying in the room, it had been surrounded by a pool of blood. But, when being dragged across the floor toward the door there had been no dropping of the sanguineous fluid. Then, after crossing the sill, the blood drops became visible and continued irregularly until this spot was reached, where there was quite a good-sized pool!

About this there was certainly something crooked. Blood would not flow plentifully one minute, cease the next, and flow again in that following.

What did he deduce from this?

The deduction was that these blood spots were not the result of the wound that had been inflicted on Mr. Field.

In other words they were placed there.

The purpose for doing so remained for Nick to discover.

The detective followed the tracks in the carpet along the hall. They were not once missing, in fact it seemed as though they had purposely been made very noticeable so that they might be readily followed.

Co-existing with the depressions in the carpet were the spots of blood.

Without once turning aside they led to the top of the back stairs and down those to the floor below. Through the lower hall they went to the rear door and out of this into the grounds.

From the back door was a straight path that led away in the direction of the river.

Down this path the traces were to be seen.

Pausing in the doorway, the detective said:

“I want you to answer me a few questions.”

Barnes returned:

“Go ahead. Call on me for any information that I can give.”

“Has anybody yet followed these tracks here?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I did.”

“Ah! How far did you go?”

“Halfway down the grounds.”

“I suppose, then, that you succeeded in mixing up your tracks with those of the men who had Mr. Field with them?”

“I did not do that. I fancy that even though I am not a detective I am not wanting in common sense.”

“How did you avoid doing so?”

“By walking outside of the path. I thought that in all probability that you would want to examine the tracks, and so did all I could to see that they were kept distinct. I have kept the servants from coming here when they were desirous of doing so.”

“You did well. Few people show as much sense, but usually appear to do all they can to make it difficult, if not impossible, for a detective to get hold of a clew.”

As he said this Nick Carter was moving slowly down the path, taking care not to step upon or in any way obliterate whatever marks may have been there.

The grounds extended toward the river a distance of six or seven hundred feet, in fact nearly to the railroad tracks.

For half this distance the blood drops were visible and then they ceased.

The reason for their so doing was suggested by the marks left by the wheels of a garden barrow, one of those two-wheeled affairs seen in the grounds of the wealthy who employ professional gardeners.

Without a word Nick followed the tracks of the wheels until the limit of Mr. Field’s grounds was reached.

Here the barrow was found.

As might be expected, the inside of it was smeared with blood.

Barnes was a man of a great deal of good, sound, common sense, and he quickly reached and expressed a conclusion.

“From the point where the wheel tracks were seen the body was brought in this barrow to this point.”

“That certainly is what would appear to have been the case. In short, it is as plain as the nose on your face.”

But did this express his own private views?

Let the sequel show.

Barnes said:

“Now, then, it is left to ascertain what disposition was made of the body after this place was reached.”

Passing through the gate that was at the end of the path, they looked around them.

Here ran the ordinary wagon road, and some distance away were the rails of the New York Central.

Nick Carter had eyes for everything.

It was still early in the morning, and not a great many wagons had passed along the road.

Every wheelmark was scrutinized closely, although it was done so quickly that his companion did not think that he had more than glanced up and down the road.

Together they crossed the road, and over the fence, on the opposite side, again saw the blood marks.

The detective, without any show of excitement, said:

“There they are again!”

“Shall we follow them?”

“It is not very material.”

In astonishment, Barnes cried:

“Surely it is material to follow such sure evidence of the body of a man who has been murdered?”

“Who says that Mr. Field has been murdered?”

“I do—the evidence does.”

“Not to me.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes.”

“How can you explain it?”

“I can’t do so yet; but if he was dead, and all the villains desired was his death, why on earth do they remove his body? If you can answer me that, I shall become a convert to your idea.”

“I cannot answer it, and yet he must be dead! Did not Timon say that he could not feel his master’s heart beat?”

“I believe he did say something to that effect, but that does not prove that he is dead.”

“Yet it appears to me to be quite sufficient, when taken in connection with other things.”

“That may be; but, as I said, where is the body? If they merely wanted him dead, their work was done when they accomplished the bloody deed, and they are not going to take the risk of getting away with a dead body unless there is some necessity for it.”

“Perhaps.”

“What is it?”

“He may have recognized them, and they have thought it necessary, he not having been killed by their blows, to take him away.”

The detective smiled.

“Barnes, you are a smart fellow in your line of business, but you are not at home in what belongs to detective work. Had their first blow been ineffective, and they had been recognized by Mr. Field, it would have been far easier for them to have finished their work than taken him with them. Remember, you are then presupposing that they came back with the express purpose of killing your friend.”

“I see it now. Yes, it was a foolish idea on my part.”

Nick laughed and said:

“Come along, and we will see where these tracks lead to.”

Barnes was somewhat abashed by having made such a blunder, and he was silent for some minutes.

He then said:

“How is it about these tracks?”

“How about them in what respect?”

“Did these drops of blood come from Field?”

Without hesitation came the reply:

“They did not.”

“Will you tell me why you can be so positive?”

“You can keep a still tongue in your head?”

“I think so.”

“Then I will show why it is positively true that the blood you see did not come from any wound inflicted on your friend. See that spot of blood?”

“I do.”

“Where is the next one?”

“Right there.”

“How far would you judge it to be removed from the one pointed out?”

“About two feet.”

“Look for the next spot. Do you see it?”

“I do.”

“How far is that removed from the second?”

“About two feet.”

“What is the distance to the next spot?”

“Within a fraction of the distance between each of the others, I should judge.”

“And the one beyond that, and the next, and the next, are they not at nearly equal distances?”

“They are.”

“Well, what does that say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Is it possible? Does it not strike you that Mr. Field, if he shed this blood, bled with remarkable regularity?”

“I see it now!”

And he added:

“If blood drops had come from his wound as they carried him along they would have dropped with less regularity. There would have been considerable space where no drop would have been visible.”

“Exactly.”

“Then his body was not carried along here?”

“That does not follow at all.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No.”

“You puzzle me.”

“There is no reason for your being puzzled, and you would not be if you had brought to bear the same amount of practical common sense that you take to your business.”

“Explain.”

“Why, as I said, these blood drops do not prove that Mr. Field was carried along here. Yet neither do they disprove it.”

“But, if the villains went so far—no matter what their purpose—to create the belief that he had been carried along here, is it not fair to presume that they did not carry him along here at all?”

“Yes, it is fair to presume so. In fact, to think of the possibility of this does honor to your shrewdness. And yet the presumption would be a bad one to act upon.”

“Why so?”

“Because it is evident to me already that the persons who are engaged in this affair are not common criminals, but men keen, shrewd and with any quantity of brains.”

“Then you think Mr. Field was carried along this way?”

“I do not.”

An annoyed expression came into the face of Mr. Barnes.

He had understood from what the other had said that he really thought that Mr. Field had been brought along here.

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“For good and sufficient reasons.”

Barnes saw that the detective did not feel inclined to talk further, and although he would have liked to have the other’s confidence in full he would not risk offending him by asking too many questions or prying into his conclusions and conduct of the case.

The blood spots were followed across a park, and up to a fence that divided it from the grounds belonging to the railroad and covered by their tracks.

Beyond this fence the spots of blood were again found, and continued until the edge of the river was reached.

Every fact and circumstance, however trivial, connected with the trip from the Field house to this point, tended to confirm the detective in an idea that his brain had given birth to.

On the beach he carefully scrutinized the sandy shore in search of some evidence of a small boat having been at this spot.

There was no evidence.

Barnes, however, said:

“It is doubtful if any tracks would be left, for the tide has risen since they have been here.”

The detective nodded.

“Nevertheless, I am sure that no small boat was here. If one had been some track would have survived the effacing action of the tide. But there is a stronger reason than that for being so sure.”

“What is it?”

“Have you used your eyes?”

“I think so.”

“Then you should know as well as I and require no telling.”

“Which proves that my eyes are not as good as yours.”

“Not at all. It would only show that they had not been as intelligently used. Now, then, I believe we traced the course of the villains at first by means of the heel tracks left by Mr. Field.”

“And the blood spots as well.”

“Hang the blood spots! They have nothing to do with it. The marks of his heels were visible up to the point where the barrow was brought into use, were they not?”

“Yes.”

“His body being placed in the barrow these dragging tracks were no longer visible?”

“Right.”

“The barrow was only used until the fence was reached?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if the men were not strong enough to carry Mr. Field before reaching the barrow, but must let his heels drag, why is it that after crossing the fence the heel marks are no longer seen?”

Barnes looked for a minute at the detective in utter silence. Then he slowly said:

“You are certainly a wonderful man!”

“Why so?”

“Because you are able to so quickly see and take a meaning from facts so apparently unimportant that they would escape the attention of an ordinary man.”

“Not if he used the brains which God has given him. If people would only use their wits there would be scant need for lawyers, doctors or detectives.”

As they were going back toward the house, Barnes asked:

“Have you discovered anything which throws light on the mystery?”

“Yes.”

“Can you take me into your confidence?”

“I do not think it would be wise. As the case now stands it will be better for me to keep my own counsel, for you might say something that would tend to divert my mind from the plan already forming in it, which is something I never like to have done.”

“You believe in first impressions?”

“Largely so, for I have very often found them right ones.”

At the fence where the body had been taken out of the barrow the detective and Barnes parted.

The latter returned to the house, while the former remained beside the fence.

One thing that he had noticed here that Barnes had not was that there was a wheel track showing that a wagon had not so very long ago been driven close up alongside of the fence.

After examining this wheel track closely he muttered to himself:

“Here are the tracks made by the wagon in driving up. They show that the wagon contained less weight than when it drove away, for the wheels have not cut as deeply as in departing. This means that Mr. Field’s body, living or dead as the case may be, was transferred to the wagon. Now then, how was this done? Why was it considered necessary to take his body away?”

And he continued:

“As yet that is a mystery. But it can and must be solved. The first thing to do is to find a motive for the assault on Mr. Field. That robbery was not the reason is shown by the fact that nothing was taken. Yet, on the contrary, it would appear that his life was not sought, for if it had been the murderers would merely have made sure of that and left. The taking of his body gives to the case a deeper meaning. He was not killed, is the only conclusion that I can reach under the circumstances, and yet——”

Nick Carter paused.

Never in all his career as a detective had he met with a case in which he had so little foundation on which to base a possible reason for the crime.

Suddenly he uttered a low exclamation.

A new idea had come to him.

It would solve some of the seeming mysteries of the case.

Argumentatively he said to himself:

“Now, then, somebody, for some reason as yet unknown, desires the death of Mr. Field. He or they came here for the purpose of ending his existence. He or they believe it has been accomplished and go away. He or they may have been in league with this Joe Timon—as to which more anon. Contrary: Somebody else turns up and discovers the body of Mr. Field, who may be alive or dead. This second he or they have reason to wish the existence of Mr. Field, to insure which or make his death an uncertainty, he or they carry away his body. Two parties of rascals, with different aims, are concerned in producing this apparently inexplicable state of affairs. I must now see those who are acquainted with the private life of Mr. Field during these last ten years, and ferret out such truths as may tend to prove or disprove this idea.”

Good or bad, right or wrong, he had at last got hold of an idea on which to work, had formed a theory to prove or discover to be worthless.

In taking hold of a case it is positively necessary, if a man is going to do good work, to have a theory or outline in mind on which to work.

This Nick Carter now had.

On reaching the house he called for the servants to question them.

We shall not attempt to follow his questions and their answers, inasmuch as nothing was developed that in any way changed the views he had adopted.

It may, however, be said that the answers he received to his questions left him in doubt as to the part that Timon had taken in the matter. He was not proved innocent, neither was he shown to have had guilty knowledge of the murder or other crime, whatever it was.

Nick now retired to an inner room with Barnes.

“Can you give me some information in regard to the private life of Mr. Field?” he asked that gentleman.

“What do you wish to know?”

“Everything.”

“That is to say, everything that could possibly have any bearing on the case.”

“I mean what I say—everything. In a case like this it is impossible to say what may or may not have bearing on the case. First of all, Mr. Field lived here alone?”

“He did.”

“Was he a bachelor?”

“Practically so for nearly the past two decades.”

“Practically so? What do you mean by such an answer? Was he a married man?”

“Yes. He married seventeen years ago, two or three years after returning to America. Few knew of this marriage.”

“But parted from his wife?”

“Yes.”

“What were the circumstances of that parting?”

“I can answer that only in a general way.”

“Give me the best answer you can.”

“I will do so. As nearly as I can understand it Mr. Field was of a jealous disposition, and thinking he had reason to be jealous of his wife he revealed his feeling to her. She had borne much from him without complaining, but when he spoke to her in this way she quietly informed him that she would no longer remain under his roof unless he asked her pardon. This he refused to do until she had disproved his suspicion. She then said:

“I see that it is best I should go. A woman has no business living with a man who has no confidence in her.” He angrily returned:

“I don’t know but that it is best you should go,” Without another word she turned from him, and a couple of hours later left the house.

“Were they never reconciled after that?”

“No. In fact, they never met.”

“Is the wife dead?”

“I do not know.”

“Did he have any knowledge bearing on the matter?”

“I think not, for it has been his aim for years past to find his wife and her little girl and try to make reparation for his cruelty toward them.”

“He afterward became convinced, then, that he had seriously misjudged his wife?”

“He did.”

“What is your opinion of the matter?”

“That Mrs. Field was a sadly abused woman.”

“And yet you could make a friend of such a man?”

“I did not become acquainted with him until long afterward. I have known him only about six years, and as you can see he was a man much older than myself, and the friendship that existed between us was much like that of father and son. I could not hold any ill will against him for his treatment of his wife, no matter how bad it was, for I knew him only as one thoroughly repentant and desirous of repairing the damage he had done.”

“He was alone in the world?”

“Entirely so for all that I know to the contrary.”

“Who would benefit by his death? In other words, who would become the owner of this property on his decease?”

“I don’t know, unless his wife and child.”

“He had, then, made a will in their favor?”

“I am not sure of that, although I think such is the case.”

At that moment there came a ring at the doorbell.

Both men paused to listen.

They heard the butler go to the door, and they stepped to the head of the stairs.

The door opened and the butler’s voice was heard inquiring:

“What do you wish?”

The reply came in a woman’s voice:

“I want to see Mr. Field.”

In an astonished tone the butler echoed:

“Mr. Field?”

“Yes.”

“That is impossible.”

“Not so, if he is at home, for I am here by his own appointment. He will surely see me. Go and tell him that his daughter is here!”

CHAPTER XVIII.

A PUZZLE TO SOLVE.

The reply given by the girl was as complete a surprise as anything the detective had listened to.

Only a minute before he had been told that it was not known whether this daughter was in existence, and now she was here claiming relationship.

While Nick did not say anything aloud, he did so mentally. And what he said was:

“The presence of this girl is another of the threads of this mystery!”

Meanwhile he was not losing a word of what passed between the butler and the girl.

The former gasped:

“His daughter, you said?”

“Yes.”

“He had no daughter!”

“In that you are mistaken.”

“I am sure he had not.”

“I fancy he knew best, and I have a letter here from him to prove the relationship.”

“Will you let me see it?”

“No. Why should I? Please inform Mr. Field of my arrival; he is the one to determine whether I am or am not his daughter.”

“Don’t you know that——”

“Know what?”

“That Mr. Field is dead?”

“Dead!”

They could hear the rustle of a dress, as though the girl had shrunk back at the announcement.

“Yes, dead.”

“It cannot be.”

“It is true, nevertheless.”

“When did he die?”

“Last night.”

The girl was silent a moment, and then she was heard to exclaim:

“Oh! my poor father—lost as soon as found!”

Mentally, the detective said:

“She is playing her part most beautifully!”

The girl was in the act of leaving when the detective descended the stairs, saying:

“Please wait a minute, I would like a few words with this lady.”

Barnes would have gone down with him but Nick Carter waved him back.

The detective saw before him a beautiful young girl, not more than sixteen, dressed very plainly, but neatly, and looking every inch the lady.

So far as appearance went it was in her favor, but the detective had learned in a hard school not to trust in the slightest degree to appearances, and from the fact of this girl’s coming here to claim relationship on the morning following the murder of Mr. Field, he set her down as being one of the conspirators against that gentleman, and would continue so to look upon her until the contrary was proved.

Bowing to her very politely and thoroughly masking his real feelings, he said:

“Will you please step into the parlor, miss?”

Inclining her head she moved in the direction of the room indicated.

The detective followed her in.

When they were seated he purposely remained silent for some time. Were she guilty in the way he thought, the chances were greatly in favor of this silence embarrassing her and making her uneasy to a degree that would show.

In the course of a few minutes she did begin to show restiveness, but it was not of the kind to indicate any guilty knowledge, such as the detective was determined she would give evidence of.

She appeared to wait with all the patience possible until she became convinced that he would not open the conversation; and then she did so herself. She said:

“I believe you asked me to step into this room?”

“I did.”

“Will you please explain the nature of your business?”

“Do not be in a hurry. I heard you say to the butler that you were a daughter of Mr. Field?”

“I did say so.”

“On what do you base the claim?”

“A letter received from him.”

“You did not know of it before?”

“I did not.”

“Will you let me see this letter?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because, if Mr. Field is dead, the matter is settled so far as I am concerned. Even though his letter tells me I am his daughter, I shall not try to prove it so, now that he is not here.”

“Why not?”

“I do not choose to go into court and stand the fire of a lot of brutal ruffians who masquerade under the title of lawyers.”

Mentally, the detective said:

“That answer goes a good way toward proving her not innocent, since it shows that she has some familiarity with the interior of a courtroom.”

Aloud, he said:

“But, if you are his daughter, you have rights to maintain which you should not desert under any circumstances.”

“I am the best judge of that. I understand that Mr. Field was very wealthy, but if I choose to sacrifice that wealth it is my own concern.”

Nick was eying her keenly.

He did not know what to make of her.

It certainly did look suspicious to the last degree that she should put in an appearance with the claim of being the murdered man’s daughter on the morning following his death. But if she did not intend, and did not take advantage of the claim and endeavor to get the fortune, what was he to think?

The impulse of his heart was that the girl did not have any guilty knowledge of the singular crime, but he would not listen to its promptings when they were opposed to his reason.

He finally said to himself:

“Does she not speak this way for a purpose? Let me see. If she was really concerned in the affair would she not come here this morning so early to put in her claim? Of course. Pretending surprise at hearing of Mr. Field’s death, would it not be a good card for her to play to say, that under the circumstances she would not make any effort to prove her claim? Of course, again, for she would be aware that as the gentleman had no other heirs, one must be found, or let the property go to the State; at which juncture she would come forward again and step into possession with little if any opposition. According to this showing her purpose here this morning is only to show herself and put in a claim in due season, that she may have witnesses afterward.”

And thus concluding, his lips set themselves tightly together. Come what might, he no longer had any sympathy for the girl who was, and would continue in his eyes to be, an impostor endeavoring to profit by the crime committed against Mr. Field.

To further plans of his own, he thought it best to try to make the girl look upon him as a friend, and he kindly said:

“My dear, you are very young and perhaps not so well qualified to judge what is for your best interests as one who has upon him the weight of a greater number of years. If I can give you any advice you are at liberty to call upon me for it.”

“I thank you, but I do not believe that I am in need of advice. I have for so long been compelled to depend upon myself that I have grown accustomed to thinking and acting on my own judgment.”

“Very well. I do not wish to press my advice upon you and will say no more. Still, I think that you would be doing yourself a service to show the letter you say you received from Mr. Field.”

“Why so?”

“There are a number of reasons.”

“Name one.”

“Mr. Field having been murdered, the singular circumstance of your appearing here to claim relationship the next morning, may tend to throw suspicion on yourself as having had a part in it or having guilty knowledge of it.”

The girl’s face paled slightly.

In a voice that was a trifle unsteady, she said:

“That is absurd.”

“That may be, but facts are facts, and appearances are sometimes so strong that men have been hung on them.”

“I know nothing of his murder.”

“I do not suppose for a minute that you do; still, others may think differently.”

“Grant that they do, it does not concern me. They could not prove that I knew anything about the murder.”

“You cannot be so sure of that. Why, if you only knew it, I could offer evidence, based on this interview, that would be most damaging.”

“How so?”

“I might for one thing say that you displayed very little emotion on learning of Mr. Field’s death. It is natural to expect that a daughter would show some emotion on learning of a father’s death.”

“Yes, under ordinary circumstances. But it occurs to me that it would be very unnatural for me to grieve much over the death of a person of whom I have no recollection, and who stands confessed as having treated my mother with cruelty and injustice.”

The detective thought:

“She evidently knows something of the truth in regard to the parting between Mr. Field and his wife.”

Aloud, he said:

“You speak of your mother. Where is she now?”

“Alas! I do not know.”

“Do not know?”

“No.”

“Is she alive?”

“I cannot tell that. Yet I think she must be.”

“And in this city?”

“Yes.”

“When did you see her last?”

“Ten years ago.”

“What were the circumstances of your last seeing her?”

“She had been taken suddenly ill and was taken to a hospital.”

“Did you ever go there to see her?”

“Only once.”

“You saw her?”

“No.”

“How was that?”

“I was denied admission.”

“Did she die there?”

“No.”

“How did you learn this?”

“I paid a second visit to the place after a long lapse of time, and was told she had become well and been discharged.”

“She did not seek you out after being discharged?”

“She must have sought me, although she failed to find me, as I had for some time been away from the tenement in which we lived at the time she was taken ill.”

“You have never seen her, then, since the day she was taken to the hospital?”

“I have not.”

“Nor heard of her?”

“No.”

“Did she ever tell you anything about the fact of her marriage and parting from her husband?”

“No. The only thing that she ever said to me was one day when we were in Central Park and a handsome carriage went past. She said to me: ‘If you were enjoying your rights, my dear, you would be riding in that very carriage.’”

“She said nothing further?”

“She did not.”

“Did you question her?”

“I did, but she answered to the effect, that some day when I was old enough to appreciate the circumstances, she would tell me the story.”

The girl had answered every question without hesitation, and if she were lying, then she had concocted a clever story to cover every point and had committed it thoroughly to memory.

He now began to ask her some other questions, putting them to her in the most wily manner, and taking care to leave pitfalls for her to stumble into.

But she did not trip once.

And he afterward said to himself:

“Either this girl is innocent, or else she is the smartest woman I ever came across in all my life.”

If she was deceiving him she was doing it with an assumption of truthfulness that was artistic in the highest degree.

He could not but acknowledge that he had made nothing of her, and was about to give up the task of trying to do so when there was the sound of a step at the door.

Looking up he saw that it was Barnes.

He had barely noted the fact when he observed something else.

This was that both the girl and Barnes gave a start of recognition.

“Ha! They knew each other!” he exclaimed. “Now, then, what does this mean? Can it be that he has any part in this game?”

It may seem to the reader a little singular that the detective should even for a moment doubt a man whom he was supposed to know as well as Barnes.

But the detective’s experience had been such to make him suspicious of anyone, no matter whom, if the finger of dumb evidence pointed him out. He was a firm believer in evidence of this character, although he did not permit the belief to lead him into injustice.

Coming forward with a smile, Barnes said:

“How are you this morning, Miss Doane?”

At the same time he offered his hand.

Rising to meet him, she gracefully accepted the hand he proffered, and replied:

“I am very well, thank you. I had not expected to see you here.”

“Nor I you.”

Seating herself again, she said:

“Were you a friend of Mr. Field’s?”

“I was.”

“I am informed that last night he was murdered.”

“Such is the truth as near as we can judge.”

Barnes then uttered a low cry of surprise. It had just occurred to him that this was the girl who had claimed to be Mr. Field’s daughter.

The detective guessed what was in his mind, and he was silent while he watched these two closely.

After a brief space, Barnes said:

“It was you who rang a short while ago?”

“It was.”

“I was at the head of the stairs and heard what you said to the butler. You received a letter from Mr. Field?”

“I did.”

“Saying that you were his daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Will you not let me see that letter?”

“For what reason?”

“It may have a bearing, that we do not now see, on this case.”

The girl hesitated.

Barnes urged her:

“Surely, Miss Doane, you can have no doubt of my friendship?”

“None.”

As she gave this reply her head drooped and a flush came into her face.

“Then let me see it.”

“I will do so.”

Saying this, she took a letter from her pocket and handed it to him.

Thanking her for her confidence in him, Barnes took the letter and opened it.

When he read it the detective came forward, and quietly said:

“Well, what do you make of it?”

The reply was:

“It is exactly like every communication made by Mr. Field—clear, concise and businesslike, going directly to the point.”

“Did Mr. Field write it?”

“He did.”

“You recognize the writing?”

“I do.”

“Would you swear to it?”

“I would willingly do so.”

“You have had some knowledge of his writing?”

“I have. I have received many communications from him, know his writing well and am sure that he wrote this.”

“What does the letter say?”

“You can read it for yourself.”

Barnes handed him the letter.

It read:

“MY DEAR CHILD: A few hours ago I learned of your existence, and in seeking to make reparation for the wrong done you years ago do not waste any time in cold formality, but at once sit down to make my confession, ask your forgiveness, and offer you the home that should have been yours these many years past.

“That your mother is not with you I know, but whether because she is dead is knowledge not in my possession. If she has told you the history of her past, then you will understand and be able to read between the lines of the few words that I shall transmit to paper; if she has not told you of it, then I will do so fully when we meet. I would come to you personally, only I feel that I have so deeply wronged you that I have not the right to come into your presence until you shall know all the circumstances and accord me that privilege.

“In a fit of jealous rage, without foundation in reason, I drove your mother from me, and she took you with her. I wronged her cruelly, I confess, and I would not blame either you or her if I am denied forgiveness, and yet I cannot but feel that I am entitled to it, for if ever man repented an action I have repented that one, and have for years been searching for you both that I might be able to repair in part the harm I brought on you.

“If you feel that you can forgive me, come to me at my house and permit me to devote the remainder of my life to you.

“Your distressed father,

“HILTON FIELD.”

When the detective had read it through, he said:

“Have you any other letter written by Mr. Field?”

“I have.”

“With you?”

“Yes.”

“Will you let me see it?”

“Certainly.”

Barnes felt in his pocket and presently produced a letter that had been written him to make inquiry in regard to some matter that he had been attending to for Mr. Field.

Nick Carter scrutinized this closely.

“You know positively that Mr. Field wrote this?”

“I do.”

“Was Mr. Field a methodical man?”

“He was.”

“Where did he usually do his writing?”

“In his library upstairs.”

“At the desk there?”

“Yes.”

“I should imagine that he was very particular in regard to the kind of a pen he used.”

Barnes turned on the detective a look of astonishment.

“Heavens! to hear you speak one would think you had known the man. If I had not seen this day some very remarkable things done and proved by you, I should certainly believe that you were helped by some supernatural agency.”

Nick smiled, and said:

“All of which I may take as verifying what I said about his being a very particular man about his pens.”

“You may so take it. Nothing would make him so cranky as to find that anybody had made use of his pens.”

“He used a quill pen, I take it?”

“He did.”

“Did you ever know of his using a steel one?”

“No. He would not have one around.”

“You don’t think, then, that a search would show one in his desk?”

“I would be willing to stake my life on it. I am so sure in the matter because one night not long since I wanted to do a little writing at his direction, and asked him if he had a steel pen, as I could not make out very well with his quills.”

“He said he did not have any?”

“Precisely. He said further that he had not had one in his possession in over ten years.”

The detective then quietly said:

“That puts me in possession of a good point.”

“How so?”

“I am not prepared to say just now. As to this young lady, you appear to know her?”

“I do.”

“You know where she lives so that she may be found in case she is wanted at any time?”

“I do.”

“That is well.”

Barnes hesitated a minute, and then said:

“Might it not be as well for you also to know her future address?”

“It would do no harm.”

“Then it will be here!”

The detective turned quietly, and softly ejaculated:

“Ah!”

“Certainly. In the face of such evidence as this letter of Mr. Field’s she must remain here. I will attend to it and see that she is introduced to the servants as their new mistress.”

“Well, as you please about that,” returned Nick, “it is none of my business.”

The girl interposed:

“Mr. Barnes, I do not wish to remain here. The money is nothing to me; I have so long taken care of myself that I should be positively unhappy, I believe, if I should make the attempt of playing lady.”

“But you have a duty in the matter. You must remain here and occupy the position to which you are entitled.”

“I will think of it.”

“Think of it? Good heavens, does it require a minute’s reflection to settle the matter in your mind?”

“It does.”

“I will not listen to your going away from here now.”

The girl said:

“Mr. Barnes, I would take your advice in preference to that of anybody else, but I cannot fail to see that, no matter how strong the evidence, in the absence of a living recognition by Mr. Field, I should be thought to be an impostor.”

“Nonsense! That letter is as good proof as human being could ask for.”

And then, turning to the detective, he asked:

“Doesn’t that letter settle the matter?”

For reply, the detective simply said:

“Yes.”

Mentally, he added:

“Yes, it does settle the matter, although not in the way that Barnes thinks it does. I must make some excuse for retaining possession of this forged letter.”

CHAPTER XIX.

PROVING THE LETTER.

Satisfied that the urging of Barnes would result in Miss Doane’s remaining in the house, the detective went upstairs and into the library.

The two left behind were too much engrossed to remember that the detective had possession of the letter.

Arrived in the library he at once went to the desk and opening it, began to look around.

He first took out the ink bottle and carried it to the better light near the window. It was a jet-black ink of heavy consistency, showing that a considerable quantity of gum arabic had been used in its manufacture.

Finding a piece of paper on which Mr. Field had begun a letter, only to afterward cast it aside, the detective wet the writing with a drop or two of water.

At the same time he put a couple of drops on the writing of the letter received by the girl downstairs.

The ink known to have been used by Mr. Field soon began to spread, as the water softened up the portion of the gum that had dried. But, on the ink of this other letter, it had no effect whatever, showing the absence of gum.

To himself he said:

“This little test shows absolutely that these two inks are not the same. Now, then, this letter to Barnes was written only two days ago and this one to the girl is supposed to have been penned yesterday. It is hardly likely that in this interim of a day Mr. Field changed his ink. Still, as it is possible, I must inquire into the matter. It is about what I expected, and if I fail to find steel pens around his desk, I will have a clear bill.”

The most careful search of the desk failed to bring to light anything in the shape of a steel pen.

When thoroughly satisfied that there were none, the detective smiled grimly, and said:

“This proves the letter absolutely to be a forgery. It is in the writing of Mr. Field, or at least his penmanship has been so cleverly imitated as to deceive the best experts, so far as the strokes are concerned, but the villain who is so deft with the pen did not know that Mr. Field never used anything save a quill. If he had known it he would not have written this letter with a steel pen!”

This was an absolute fact.

The letter brought by the girl had been written with a steel pen, an article that, as shown by the evidence, Mr. Field never used and had a great antipathy for.

Further, the ink in Mr. Field’s bottle was a black ink containing a great deal of “body,” or gum, while this ink with which the letter was written was a thin black ink made by an acid process.

Hence, it stood proved that the letter was a forgery.

And, if the letter was a forgery, what about the girl?

Nick Carter’s opinion, an offhand one, without any evidence either one way or the other, was that she was an impostor, and in some way connected with the crime.

Yet he hated very much to think of the girl in this way, for she certainly looked, and spoke, and acted like an honest, upright young woman.

Still, up to the present moment hard, stern, cruel facts pointed at her with unwavering finger.

One thing that he decided on before descending the stairs was that he could not any longer take Barnes into his confidence, and especially where the girl was concerned, for it was evident with half an eye that he had some great interest in her.

On going downstairs he found them together in the parlor, and Barnes had so far prevailed on the girl that she had taken off her hat and wraps.

Looking up, and giving the detective a bright glance, Barnes said:

“After a great deal of hard persuasion, I have induced Miss Doane, as I have known her, to remain. She is very much afraid she is not doing right.”

Smiling, the detective rejoined, aloud:

“She is doing perfectly right. So far as I am concerned, I am pleased to see her remain here.”

Under his breath, he added:

“It’s the truth I utter when I say I am glad to see her remain here, for I want to know exactly where to find her should I want to put my hand on her.”

The girl’s face brightened as she listened to the words uttered by the detective. She at once left her seat, and coming forward, laid one hand on his arm, looked up into his face, and said:

“I am glad to hear you commend my doing so, after hearing me say that I would not do this very thing, as indeed I would not had not I met Mr. Barnes so unexpectedly.”

“You should not be surprised that anyone commended a resolution to stand up for your rights. As you are aware, I suggested the same thing to Mr. Barnes.”

“Yes, I remember.”

She gave him a bright smile as she said this, and then added:

“Mr. Barnes has told me about you!”

“Has he?”

“Yes.”

“Did he paint me very black?”

“On the contrary, he painted you in glowing colors, as a man of great ability.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. And he said that you were a detective come here to try and solve the mystery surrounding the death or disappearance of Mr. Field—my father. It comes very hard,” in an apologetic tone, “to think of him as being such.”

“Yes, I am here for that purpose.”

“I hope you will find the murderers; from the bottom of my heart I hope so.”

To this Nick answered:

“Your earnest desire to have them captured is creditable to both your heart and your head.”

These words appeared to please the girl, who said:

“Thank you for saying so. I had feared you might have considered me something of a barbarian, from the way I answered you a while ago. And yet, I spoke the truth, as you must know.”

“So I do. As a matter of fact, it would be a little singular if you showed much grief over the death of a man you never saw.”

“Besides which, you must remember that I have always in my mind’s eye the fact that mother was forced to suffer through the insane jealousy of my father.”

“True again.”

“Had I come in contact with him for a time, that feeling might have eventually been changed, but at the present I cannot think of him without coupling my mother’s wrong with it.”

The detective bowed.

Presently remarking something to the effect that he did not have any time to waste, he asked Barnes to step aside with him for a minute.

They went into another room.

Being here, Barnes at once said:

“From your manner I am convinced that you have found some clew to the mystery. Am I not right?”

“In part only.”

“But you have found something in the nature of a clew?”

“Yes.”

“What does it point to?”

“I am not prepared to say just now. What I want to see you about is to ask some questions in regard to the girl in yonder room.”

“Ah!”

A reserve at once became noticeable in Barnes’ tone.

“What about her?”

The detective pretended not to notice anything unusual in the other’s tone, and quietly said:

“I want to know what you can tell me about her in a general way.”

“Is this because you would in any way try to connect her with this case?”

“Let future events determine that. At present I do not specifically suspect anybody. For instance, I would like to know how it is that you chance to be acquainted with her.”

“I cannot help saying to you that I consider this as a trifle personal.”

“Just as you please,” in a calm tone. “You can answer or not as you think best. The information I want can easily be obtained from other sources.”

“Tell me frankly if you have any idea that she is in anywise connected with this mystery.”

“I am not saying anything about it just now.”

“Your answer is almost equivalent to saying that you do suspect her, which, being the case, I wish to say that I will stake my very existence on it that she is all that a good, pure and honest woman should be.”

“Ah!”

Nick Carter opened his eyes a trifle.

Barnes colored under the scrutiny to which he found himself subjected.

“You are a very warm friend of this girl?”

“I am.”

“You might even be said to be her champion.”

“Yes. I should be proud to bear the title.”

“Will you answer my question?”

“I will do so since you make a point of it, until you reach a certain limit.”

“Name it.”

“It will be when your questions tend to an attempt to say that she has any knowledge of this horrible affair.”

“Very well, I accept the conditions. You met her when and where?”

“I met her in a store two years ago.”

“How frequently have you seen her in the meantime?”

“At first very often, but latterly only once in a great while.”

“You ceased, then, to be as good friends as formerly?”

“No.”

“How do you explain not seeing her as much, if that be so?”

Barnes hesitated a minute before replying, and then he slowly said:

“While I do not see how my private affairs can in anywise be mixed up in the death of Mr. Field, nor see how telling the same to you is going to help elucidate the mystery, still I have seen so much of your astuteness to-day that I will throw aside all reserve in the matter and tell you the whole truth. My acquaintance with Miss Doane was of so agreeable a nature that I fell in love with her, although she was ignorant of the character of my visits until I openly declared them. She then promptly, but kindly, refused me, while at the same time assuring me that she valued me highly as a friend, and trusted that she might not lose my friendship through her refusal of my hand.”

“I begin to understand. After that time you did not feel like going to see her so often?”

“No.”

“Still, you occasionally called on her?”

“Yes.”

“For what reason did she refuse you?”

“That is a hard question to answer, seeing that I do not know all the lady’s thoughts.”

Taking another tack, the detective said:

“There might have been another lover in the case of whom she thought more of than yourself.”

Barnes shook his head.

“It may have been the case, although I am inclined to doubt it. I never saw a man call on her, and never heard her speak of any save one.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know, as I never saw him.”

“But did she not mention his name?”

“Yes, I believe she did.”

“Do you remember what it was?”

After a moment’s reflection Barnes said:

“If I recall it correctly it was Demas Lorton.”

The detective’s lips compressed.

“You are pretty positive that this was the name?”

“Quite so.”

“You say you never saw this man?”

“I have not.”

“Perhaps she may have had a picture of him in her abode?”

“She did not.”

“You know this for a certainty?”

“I do.”

“How is it?”

“Why, it so chanced that one day when she was speaking of him I inquired if she did not have a picture of him. She said that she had not, and that he would never have one taken.”

“Do you know how it came about that she knew him?”

“Yes.”

“Will you repeat what she told you?”

“There is not much to tell. He met her at a time when she was in difficulty, and was very kind to her. She always thought a great deal of him.”

“What was the nature of the feeling she entertained for him—gratitude or love?”

At that Barnes gave a start.

He was not in the slightest degree of a jealous character, and when refused by Miss Doane he had not in any wise attributed his rejection to a love entertained by her for this man. But, now that the idea was suggested by the detective’s words, he recalled many things that she had said of him, recalled that when speaking of him her eyes had grown luminous, recalled and looked upon in a new light a thousand things that at the time had produced on him little, if any, impression.

In a lowered voice, he said:

“To answer that question with any degree of accuracy would be impossible. At the time I certainly thought she entertained for him no stronger feeling than gratitude, although at this minute I cannot be so sure of it.”

“The chances are, however, that she does entertain for him the stronger feeling of the two. Does not your common sense tell you this is true?”

“It does—and Heaven knows how much against my will.”

The detective paused on the point of saying something to Barnes.

“I guess it will be as well not to say anything, for nine chances out of ten he would give the thing away in his manner, and defeat the object I have in view. It will be as well to let him go on for a couple of days longer thinking of her as a good, true, pure woman, instead of being in all probability the wife of one of the worst scoundrels now unhung,” Nick soliloquized.

The name of Demas Lorton meant something more to the detective than it did to Barnes.

He was on the point of departing when Barnes said something to him about the letters.

“With your permission I should like to retain possession of them temporarily. But first, I would like you to put on them some private mark so that you would be able to swear to them in case it becomes necessary.”

“You will be very careful of the letter to Miss Doane?”

“Certainly.”

“I should hate to have it lost.”

In pursuance of the detective’s desire, he put a private mark on each of the letters, and then they were carefully placed in the detective’s pocket.

Thanking him, Nick Carter left the house.

He went by the back way, and having got downstairs he began looking about him as he went. Finally he appeared to see what he wanted and took possession of it.

It was a scrap of paper, and on it were some drops of blood.

There was a peculiar smile on his face as he put this in his pocket, and through his mind this thought was running:

“I would like to be as sure of getting ten thousand dollars as I am that the verdict of the microscope will be—not human blood!”

CHAPTER XX.

AT THE CHEMIST’S.

Nick Carter went downtown.

He turned his steps toward the East Side after leaving the cars, and finally ran up the steps of a house.

In response to his ring a servant came to the door, of whom he inquired:

“Is the professor in?”

“I don’t know, sir. If you will step into the hall, and give me your name, I will go and see.”

The detective entered the hall, then said:

“Now, please be kind enough to tell me positively if the professor is in?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I say I don’t.”

“And I know better. If he is in I promise you he will see me, while if he is out I will not waste my time waiting for your red tape.”

The servant was rather taken aback by this plain talk, and for a moment hardly knew what to say.

Then the half-laughing reply was made:

“While I cannot say positively, I think he is.”

“Are you not quite sure that he is?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Now, go ahead and don’t waste any time, for I have none to spare.”

The servant departed, and soon returning, escorted Nick into the professor’s office.

The person alluded to as the professor was one of New York’s most celebrated chemists.

He came forward, with a smile, to meet Nick Carter, explaining heartily:

“Glad to see you, Carter. It is all of two months since I have set eyes on you.”

“So am I glad to see you! Yet I would not be here if it were not that business made it necessary.”

“Business, eh?”

“Yes.”

“You are the greatest fellow to have your hands full of business I ever saw. Well, what is it this time?”

“I’ve got something here that I want you to look at.”

“Let’s see it.”

Nick took out the paper that was spotted with blood.

This he quietly handed to the professor, saying:

“Take a look at that through the microscope.”

“Blood? What do you want to know?”

“I want to know if you can say positively what animal’s blood that is?”

“Animal’s blood?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t suspect it of being human blood?”

“I am not saying anything about that.”

“I see. Your idea is to set a trap for me. Well, let’s see if you can catch me.”

Laughing softly as though he had heard a good joke the chemist took out a microscope and put the blood-spotted paper under its powerful lens.

As he spent only a comparatively few minutes in scrutinizing the spots of blood, it was fair to presume that their characteristics were so distinctly defined as to give him little trouble in determining from what animal they had come.

Nick Carter had watched him throughout, and a grim smile flickered about his lips as he saw the look of certainty and satisfaction that came over the professor’s face.

When the latter finally looked up, the detective inquiringly, said:

“Well?”

The professor laughed softly, then said:

“If your purpose here is to try me and see if you can trip me up, I’ll tell you what I will do.”

“What?”

“I’ll make you a wager of a box of good cigars that I am able to tell you the first time what blood this is.”

“I am not here to try you, but to ascertain through you what this blood came from.”

“Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“And you do not know whence this blood came?”

To acknowledge entire ignorance would not be politic, so Nick said:

“I am not prepared to answer that question further than to say that I may have well-founded suspicions.”

“Do you think that it is a goat’s blood?”

“You may as well tell me what your own opinion is, or you will not get anything out of me.”

“Well, that blood came from—a chicken.”

“You are sure of that?”

“I am.”

“Would you swear to it?”

“With great willingness.”

“How can you be so positive?”

“Easily enough. The red corpuscles in the blood are different in everything that lives and breathes, and as a rule this difference is so great that there can be no mistake between corpuscles of man and beast, or between any two beasts. As between human blood and that of fowls the difference is very distinct, so in this case there can by no possibility be a doubt. Singularly enough the closest approach to similarity is between the red corpuscles of a human being and the hog.”

“Will you now kindly seal up that piece of paper and preserve it for use in case of necessity?”

“I will.”

The blood-spotted paper was inclosed in a stout wrapper and then fastened with sealing wax, the latter being impressed with a seal belonging to the professor and another that the detective improvised on the moment, but which he could swear to.

This last was necessary, as if it should ever get into court the paper would have to be sworn to as being the one examined this day. Had it borne only one seal, it is evident that the wrapper might be opened and a substitution made.

A double seal, of which each possessed one, made it equally evident that the wrapper could not be tampered with.

On leaving the professor’s, Nick Carter went to his office.

His assistant, Chick, was there. Nick knew his aide had recently been doing some shadowing on the East Side, and, after greeting him, he said:

“Chick, you have been piping on the East Side of late?”

“I have.”

“Whom have you run across recently in the cracksman line?”

A number of names were mentioned, but not the one Nick wanted to hear.

He then questioned:

“Did you see Dick Maxwell on your rounds?”

“No.”

“Nor Sandy Pete?”

“No.”

“Nor Jim Noonan?”

“I did not.”

“How about Demas Lorton? Did you see him?”

“No. But it so chanced that I heard of him only last night.”

“What about him?”

“Nothing special. I only heard a couple of chaps speaking of him and wondering what had become of him. It is said that he has not been seen around the city for a month or more.”

“Did the men who said this know who you were?”

“No. Why?”

“I didn’t know but that they had known you and were saying it for a blind.”

“I am sure that is not the case.”

“You are under the impression that they spoke what they believed to be true?”

“Decidedly. Do you want to know anything special about Lorton?”

“Only whether he was in the city. I don’t even suspect the man, but I wanted to learn who in his class are around. By the way, did you ever know much about him?”

“Yes, considerable.”

“Was he married?”

“As to his being married I can’t say, but he used to live with a woman who passed as his wife.”

“Lived with her?”

“Yes.”

“They had rooms together?”

“No, not exactly. That question brings up things more clearly in my mind. The woman who passed as his wife was seen with him quite frequently, although she did not live with him regularly, and I am under the impression she was employed somewhere in a store.”

“You are not positive about that?”

“No. Yet I think it is so, for I made some investigation at the time, thinking it possible that this woman was in the store for the purpose of ‘laying the pipes’ for a job, and I wanted to be posted and ready for a pounce on them in case there was a burglary.”

“I suppose you saw this girl?”

“I did.”

“Do you recall what she looked like?”

“Yes.”

“How old was she?”

“She was very young, not a day over sixteen, and very much of a lady in appearance.”

“Innocent looking, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Handsome?”

“As a picture.”

“Dressed modestly?”

“She did, almost to shabbiness, although I thought that was due to Demas being down on his luck.”

“Brown hair?”

“Yes.”

“Eyes to match?”

“Correct! You must have seen the girl yourself.”

Without paying any attention, Nick Carter went on:

“A small, slender figure?”

“Yes.”

“A ripe, full mouth?”

“That suits her!”

“A soft and winning way of looking up at you when she speaks?”

“Even so! She was as well calculated for the ‘siren’ business as any woman I ever saw.”

“Do you remember what name she answered to?”

“Yes. She was called Helen by Lorton.”

Nick smiled, grimly.

This girl at Mr. Field’s house bore that name; Helen Doane she called herself.

And the description of this other Helen, who had passed as the wife of Demas Lorton, suited her in every particular!

From the detective’s standpoint the sequence was plain.

Helen Lorton and Helen Doane were apparently one and the same person.

The girl who played so innocent, and who had taken the stand of not wishing to remain and claim her place as Mr. Field’s daughter, for fear that somebody might think her claim a fraudulent one, was merely a very clever actress, and a decidedly dangerous woman, who ought to be shut up as speedily as possible for the welfare of the community at large.

Thanking Chick for his information, Nick left his office much pleased with the result of his investigations thus far.

His reflections ran in this channel:

“It is a fortunate thing that Barnes happened to remember Lorton’s name, as it gave me possession of a most valuable clew. As to Lorton’s being out of the city I think it is all bosh! Of course, he would try to keep shady if he was working a game, so it is rather to be expected than otherwise that even his boon companions should not know that he was here. I consider it dead sure that Lorton has a hand in this mysterious affair, and I must try to-night to locate him in some of his old haunts.”

On his way uptown to the house where this mystery had been evolved, he went over what he had discovered, in doing which he was constantly seeking for some new light in which to view what he had learned thus far.

He mused thus:

“The part Miss Doane is playing in the game would appear to indicate that somebody who is familiar with Mr. Field’s family history was seeking to play upon it to gain possession of his property. Knowing that he could not be deceived into accepting this girl as his daughter, it was decided that he should die, leaving behind him the apparently good evidence of this letter, which, under ordinary circumstances, would have accomplished the result aimed at. In carrying out this scheme Mr. Field would, however, have been killed, and his body left behind to establish the fact of his death, for they must know that as long as there is any uncertainty about the matter they would be kept out of possession of the property. This feature of the case puzzles me sadly, and the fact of the disappearance of the body almost upsets the theory, since I cannot but know that villains never take any steps to interfere with their plans.

“Yet no other reasonable conclusion is left me in face of the letter, and the girl’s turning up so promptly the morning after he is no longer able to deny her claim to kinship.

“Another puzzling thing is why they should seek to give the impression that Mr. Field’s body was taken away by water, sufficient blood being dropped on the way with the evident purpose of creating the belief that he was dead or bleeding to death rapidly. If it were not so wild I should be inclined to believe that there are two schemes on foot in relation to Mr. Field, the crossing and conflicting of which has caused this mixed-up condition of affairs.

“Yet this may prove to be the true solution of the matter. One thing is certain—I shall not be in as deep ignorance in regard to the case in a week from now as I am to-day. And here is the house. Now to see if there have been any new developments since I left.”

CHAPTER XXI.

NEW DEVELOPMENTS.

Entering the house Nick Carter found Barnes still there.

The latter greeted him with:

“Well, did you learn anything in your trip downtown?”

“Something that may ultimately prove to have bearing on the matter. How has it been here?”

“In what respect?”

“Anything new?”

“There has been a new development.”

“Ah! What is it?”

“It seems that, after all, the motive was primarily robbery.”

“So?”

“Yes.”

“Something has been missing, then?”

“There has.”

“What is it?”

“A portion of the silver.”

“But not all of it?”

“No, only the most portable pieces of it.”

“Who made the discovery?”

“The housekeeper.”

“She takes charge of the silver, then?”

“Yes, or rather that portion of it in ordinary use. The remainder of it was under the care of Mr. Field personally, who retained the key to the safe in which it is kept.”

“Where is the key of that safe now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has it been searched for?”

“It has, within the last half an hour.”

“Then it is not known if that safe has been robbed?”

“It is not.”

“Where is this safe?”

“In a small room back of the dining room.”

Barnes led the way thither.

Reaching the room the detective inquired:

“Who has recently been in this room?”

“Nobody but myself and the housekeeper.”

Looking sharply and swiftly about him the detective was only the fraction of a minute in arriving at a conclusion.

He said:

“That safe has not been tampered with.”

Giving him a surprised look, Barnes exclaimed:

“This is wonderful!”

“What is wonderful?”

“Why, that you can come into this room and after one glance can say positively that this safe has not been tampered with.”

“There is nothing wonderful about it.”

“It appears so to me.”

“That is because you do not look below the surface. Can you see any evidence of tools being used on the safe?”

“No.”

“But, had it been forced, such marks would inevitably be seen?”

“Yes.”

“Then it was not forced?”

“Of course not. However, it was not my idea that it had been entered that way. I took it that they might have found the key on Mr. Field and helped themselves.”

The detective quietly said:

“They were not even in this room, so they could not well have opened the safe.”

“How can you know that?”

“Easy enough. The feet of the persons were muddy, as was shown by the marks and dirt left upon the carpet of the rooms upstairs. In this room is no trace of anything of the kind.”

Barnes exclaimed:

“Now that you bring it to mind, it is as clear as day! Do you know one thing?”

“No.”

“I should hate to have committed a crime and know that you were on my track.”

Nick smiled.

“You are not the only person who entertains that idea! More than one criminal would prefer to hear that the Evil One himself was pursuing him than that I was. But where is the housekeeper?”

“Downstairs.”

“I want to see her.”

A few minutes later he had an interview with the woman.

Whatever his suspicions as regarded other members of Mr. Field’s household, this woman he believed to be perfectly innocent. That she had been devoted to her master’s service he felt no particle of doubt.

He had seen her before, when he questioned all the servants.

She it was who had been the one to discover that there were strangers in the house, which incident had made it necessary in the estimation of the criminals that all the servants should be bound.

She had been in the service of Mr. Field ever since he and his bride had returned from their wedding tour, now more than eighteen years ago.

She had been in his service when the little daughter was born to them, and had also been here when the outraged wife had resented the cruel insinuations of her husband and had left him, taking their child with her.

She explained how it had chanced that she had discovered the taking of the silver so long after making what had been thought to be a thorough search.

Feeling that he could trust her, the detective inquired:

“Do you consider all the servants as being above suspicion?”

“I do.”

“Without exception?”

“Yes.”

“How about Timon?”

“He is not for an instant to be suspected of doing anything that would lead to the hurting of a hair of Mr. Field’s head. He was just devoted to him.”

While the detective was at heart glad to thus have the character of a fellow-being sustained, he yet was greatly dissatisfied on hearing so positive a reply, for it tended anew to upset theories built up as being the only ones tenable.

Masking his real feelings in the case, he took another tack, and said:

“Mr. Field was married, they tell me?”

“He was.”

“You knew his wife?”

“I did.”

“She was a lady?”

“In every sense of the word, sir.”

“Mr. Field used her badly?”

“He did, sir, in a way. But he never struck her or did anything bad in that way.”

“They had a child?”

“Yes, sir. It was a little girl, and they called her Helen, after Mr. Field’s mother, who died only a little while before, and of whom he thought a sight.”

“Whatever became of the mother and child?”

“That is what Mr. Field would have given all he was worth afterward to have found out. He had detectives at work, but they could never seem to find anything of them.”

Watching her very sharply, although his eyes were to all appearance buried under their lashes, the detective said:

“There is a girl in the house, I believe?”

“There is.”

“Have you seen her?”

“I have.”

“Did you ever see her before?”

“No, sir; unless——”

“Unless what?”

“Why, sir, I have been wondering who the girl is, and why Mr. Barnes didn’t tell us something about her, for she is the living image of Mrs. Field!”

Nick Carter gave a start.

Had everybody combined in a league against him?

It almost seemed so. Here was the housekeeper testifying to a remarkable resemblance between this girl and Mrs. Field, just as he was firmly settled in the conclusion that she was a rank impostor.

He said, sharply:

“You must be mistaken!”

“I am not. I never saw a resemblance more strongly marked than this girl bears to Mrs. Field as I remember her.”

“What has been said to you about this girl?”

“Nothing.”

“You are sure?”

“I am.”

“Not even one word?”

With a different inflection, she repeated:

“Not even one word!”

“Has it not been suggested to your mind that this girl is the child who went away with Mrs. Field?”

“It has not, even by a look.”

Nick bit his lip.

As fast as he built one thing it was knocked down by something else.

But, come what might, the letter purporting to come from Mr. Field, and shown by this girl, was a forgery!

This fact there was no gainsaying.

The points of difference were too distinctly defined to admit of the slightest question.

It was written with different ink!

A steel pen had been used!

The test applied to the ink proved that part of it. And while a quill pen always leaves a soft and wavy edge to the lines it produces, a steel one makes a line that is clear-cut, distinct and sharply defined. The difference between the two was so great that it was not possible to make a mistake.

Leaving the housekeeper, he sought Barnes again, and taking him so suddenly as to give him no time for preparation, he said:

“I understand that you have introduced Miss Doane as the daughter of Mr. Field!”

Without a particle of hesitation, Barnes rejoined:

“It is not the case, for I have not said a word to anybody, and, I may say, have not so much as implied it by a look.”

“Not even to the housekeeper?”

“Not even to her. A funny circumstance, though, is that the minute she saw Miss Doane she gave a start and for a second or two I thought she was going to take her into her arms and hug her.”

Nick turned away.

He was far from being in good humor.

Each individual whom he questioned appeared to corroborate everything said by any other that was in opposition to the theories he had formed.

After a moment’s thought he decided to see Miss Doane, and he sent for her to come to the parlor.

When she had arrived he greeted her pleasantly.

“Miss Doane, I would like to ask you a few questions.”

“You are at liberty to do so.”

“I would like to know a little something further in regard to your past life.”

“Very well. I will answer anything that is not too personal in its character.”

“I will try to keep within the line. Where have you recently been residing?”

She unhesitatingly gave the address.

“How long have you been in this house?”

“Nearly two years.”

“Where did you live before that?”

As in the former instance, she gave the address without hesitation.

“Did you have any particular friends in either of these houses?”

“I did not. In all my life I never had half a dozen friends.”

“Were these mostly ladies?”

“Yes.”

“But were there not one or two gentlemen?”

“Only two whom I could call friends.”

“Who were these two?”

“One was Mr. Barnes.”

“And the other?”

“A gentleman by the name of Lorton.”

“What was his other name?”

“Demas.”

“Did you know him well?”

“Quite so.”

“How frequently did you see him?”

“Sometimes every month, but generally not oftener than once in two or three months.”

The prompt and apparently truthful way in which the girl was answering puzzled the detective anew.

If this was acting, then it was the finest that he had ever seen.

And were not the proof so strong the other way, he would have cast all suspicion to the winds, and said:

“This girl is what she seems, an honest, upright, high-principled girl!

“But the letter?

“What could be better than dumb evidence?”

The girl must be lying. But as long as she appeared willing to answer it might be as well to go on questioning her, using his judgment to sift out what was truth and what untruth.

So he asked:

“When did you last see this Mr. Lorton?”

“Just a month ago.”

“Did he say then when you might expect to see him again?”

“Yes.”

“Ah! When was it?”

“He said he was going away, to be gone a couple of months, and that he would come to see me as soon as he came back.”

“Do you know what business this Mr. Lorton was in?”

“Not exactly. He told me once that it was traveling, I think in connection with some patent right.”

“You said something this morning that induced the belief in my mind that you had been inside of a courtroom. Am I right?”

“You are.”

“What business could you have had to take you into a court of law?”

“There was a poor woman living in the house where I one time had a room, whose husband took part in a street fight. He was passing when a couple of men began to fight. He tried to separate them, and they set upon him for interfering, and then while he was defending himself a policeman came up, and arresting him, took him to the station house. The poor woman heard of it and was beside herself with grief, and as she was on a sick bed at the time, I lost a day to go to the court and try to get his freedom. And, sir, it made my blood boil, the way the judge mocked and laughed and jeered the poor wretches who were brought before him.”

As she said this her checks glowed with natural indignation.

Nick Carter could not say it was affected!

He left her presently, convinced against his reason that she was not the guilty thing he had painted her in his mind.

Cold-blooded judgment was against her! Dumb evidence pointed directly at her! But some finer sense told him it could not possibly be that this girl was guilty.

Leaving the house for the second time that day and going downtown, his ears were assailed by the cries of the newsboys, who were selling extra editions based on the strange crime—murder or abduction.

He went to the last place of residence given him by the girl.

Ringing the bell, he inquired for the landlady.

It was a cheap but respectable boarding house, suited to the means of a girl who was compelled to make her living standing behind the counter of a large dry-goods store.

The landlady presently entered, beaming all over.

Seeing in the stranger a prospective new boarder she greeted him with her very sweetest smile of welcome.

Nick Carter did not mean to leave her under the impression that he was seeking board.

Quickly disabusing her mind of this idea, he said:

“I came to see Miss Doane on a matter of business, but am informed that she is not in.”

This was the case, although not so reported by the servant.

He went on:

“I asked to see you, judging that perhaps you could tell me what I want to know and thus save me a second visit here.”

Like most landladies, this one had a weakness for talking, and the detective had taken her on a weak point. To be able to give some information, and be of importance in somebody’s eyes, if even for a few minutes, was sufficient to mollify the woman in face of the disappearance of prospective profits and less troublesome butchers and bakers.

She complacently arranged the folds of her dress and settled herself to be interrogated.

“Miss Doane has been with you some time?”

“She has.”

“How long?”

“Nearly or quite two years.”

“She is a very estimable young lady, I take it?”

“She is, indeed. I never want a nicer lady in my house, and I never before had one.”

“She is very circumspect in her relations with gentlemen?”

“She couldn’t be more so.”

“Did she ever have any gentlemen visitors?”

“Once in a very great while. There was one gentleman who came occasionally that I liked very much. He was tall and dark-complexioned, with a pair of excruciating side whiskers.”

The detective smiled to himself, as he recognized in this description Mr. Barnes.

“But he was not the only one?”

“No, there was another, and a very nice man he seemed to be. He never came as much as the first one I spoke about.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Yes. A tallish man, too, rather chunkily built, with a mustache and a goatee.”

That suited Demas Lorton, all but the goatee. This, however, might very easily have been false.

Returning to the charge, the detective inquired:

“Did Miss Doane often go out in the evening?”

“Seldom or never.”

“Do you remember an instance?”

“Only one, and then she went out with the side-whiskered chap.”

Nick was getting deeper into the mire.

The landlady certainly could have no interest in deceiving him, and if she told the truth, then this Helen Doane could not be the Helen Lorton who had so frequently been seen with Demas Lorton!

“But, perhaps this being seen with him so frequently had occurred prior to the time of her coming here to live,” he thought.

That would soon be ascertained.

He was about to rise to take his leave when the landlady said:

“I—I—beg pardon, but has—has—Miss Doane met with any good fortune?”

Turning a piercing look on her, Nick Carter asked:

“Why do you make that inquiry?”

“Oh! I’ve always had the idea that she was a lady born and quite out of her place in working in a store, and so I was not surprised when a genuine lady came this morning and inquired about her.”

“A lady here this morning, you say, asking for Miss Doane?”

“Yes.”

“What did she look like?”

To this question the woman rejoined:

“Did you ever see Miss Doane?”

“Yes.”

“Well, the lady who called is as much like her, only older, as though they were mother and daughter.”

Nick gave a start of surprise.

What did this mean?

To himself, Nick Carter said:

“I wonder if these complications will ever cease. Now, then, who can this other woman be?”

Aloud, he asked:

“What did you tell this lady?”

“I told her that Miss Doane was out.”

“What did she say?”

“She asked when she would be in.”

“What reply did you make?”

“I told her that Miss Doane had this morning gone somewhere else instead of to the store where she was employed, and that in consequence I could not say when she would be back.”

“Well?”

“She seemed thoughtful for a minute, and then left.”

“Did she say anything about calling again?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

“She said to ask Miss Doane to remain home to-morrow and that she would be here at noon to see her.”

“You said this lady was here this morning?”

“Yes.”

“What time was it?”

“I said this morning, but I suppose it was really in the afternoon, for lunch had been cleared away.”

“Was it two o’clock?”

“Just about.”

Thanking the woman for the information given him, and telling himself that he would be on hand to-morrow to meet this woman who had called on Miss Doane, he took his leave.

He went direct to the other place of residence, the address of which the girl had furnished him, but here as in the place he had just left he heard nothing but the best of character given Miss Doane. She had never gone out in the evening, was very circumspect and ladylike in all her actions, and had never received half a dozen visits from gentlemen during her stay there, and these had always been in the parlor and in the presence of other boarders.

“This beats the Dutch!” muttered the detective, as he left this place. “I don’t think it will pan out well to spend any further time in looking up the character of this girl. Everybody appears determined to speak well of her, and for the life of me I can’t attribute it to any gum game on her part, for each of these persons appears to speak from honest conviction.”

Walking briskly along, his footsteps now turned in the direction of his home, he mentally said:

“One of the next steps must be an attempt to find out something about Lorton.”

By this time the day was well spent.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE BIRTHMARK.

High noon was striking when Nick Carter entered Mr. Field’s palatial house the following day.

Stepping into the hall he met Barnes.

Offering him his hand, he said:

“Well, I left you here when I went away, and I find you here now. Have you slept here?”

With a laugh, the other replied:

“Not quite so bad as that. I have been here the greater part of the time, though.”

“Anything new turned up?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“A certain person has put in an appearance since last night.”

“Who is it?”

“A lady.”

“Her name?”

“Field.”

“Ha! What does your answer imply?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“Mrs. Field has returned?”

“She has!”

“Does she bring any substantial proof of her identity?”

“She brought no proof at all.”

“Ah! How do you know that it is she?”

“Because she was recognized.”

“By whom?”

“Several of the servants.”

“How did she come?”

“She came to the door and inquired for Miss Doane. She did not give her name or attempt in anyway to explain who she was, but the woman who saw her exclaimed: ‘You are my lady!’”

“What was her reply?”

“She said: ‘So you recognize me after all these years!’”

“What then?”

The other rejoined:

“Don’t you think it would be as well for you to see the lady yourself?”

And the detective said:

“I think it would. Suppose you send her to me.”

“Here?”

“Yes. Or no, let her come to the back parlor, which is more private.”

“Very; well.”

Nick Carter had been an inmate of the back parlor only a few minutes when the rustling of a dress told him of the approach of a lady.

Rising as she entered, he found himself facing a lady of most striking and graceful proportions, with queenly carriage. She was a person once seen, seldom forgotten, which fact, trivial as it was, had weight for him.

“Pray be seated!”

She uttered those words with the air and tone of one who had been accustomed to receiving and speaking with strangers.

Her self-possession could never have been obtained save by familiarity with the duties of a hostess.

As the detective accepted the invitation, she said:

“I believe you wished to see me?”

“I did and do.”

“Mr. Barnes informed me that you are the detective who is engaged in trying to solve the mystery of my husband’s death or disappearance?”

“I am.”

“You think it possible that I may help you?”

“Yes. You are Mr. Field’s wife?”

“I am.”

“You were separated from him years ago?”

“I was.”

“You took your child with you?”

“I did.”

“What became of that child?”

“I was taken ill and removed to a hospital in an unconscious condition. Hence I could give no directions as regarded my daughter.”

“Well?”

“When I recovered and was discharged from the hospital and went in quest of my child I could find nothing of her. On returning to the hospital afterward I learned that she had been there in search of me, but I lost all trace there, and never was able to discover anything of her until a couple of days ago.”

“Yet you were both in the city all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it a trifle singular that you could not find her, and that you never met?”

“I suppose it is. And yet New York is a large place, and a person might live next door to a long lost friend and not know it.”

“True! But a detective might have solved the problem for you in a very short time, if you had been anxious to find your child.”

“I employed a detective.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“And he could not find any trace of your child?”

“Apparently not.”

“Well, I don’t think much of him as a detective. But to business! You got on the track of your daughter a couple of days ago?”

“I did.”

“How?”

“I advertised for information in the personal columns of a daily paper, offering a reward.”

“Somebody gave you the information you wanted?”

“Yes. A girl who worked in the same store with Helen saw the personal and came and told me of her.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went yesterday to the place where I had learned she was boarding, to see if by any possibility this Helen Doane was my child.”

“Well?”

“I found she was out.”

The detective rejoined:

“And left word that you would return to-day at noon?”

Giving him a surprised look, the lady said:

“You know, it seems, of my visit there?”

“I do.”

“You were there after I was?”

“Yes.”

He was looking sharply but covertly at her, and she knew it.

Quietly, he now said:

“You came here last night, I am told?”

“I did.”

“And asked for Miss Doane?”

“I did.”

“If, when you left her boarding house at one or two o’clock, you did not know that she was here, how could you have come here and inquired for her with such perfect confidence as to the result?”

Looking him fairly in the face, the lady returned:

“I can see, sir, that you suspect me, or if you do not, at least you want every circumstance that seems at all strange explained to your satisfaction.”

“That is the truth.”

“Well, the explanation is easy. Instead of waiting until to-day to go back to her boarding house, I went there later in the afternoon. In the meantime she had returned with Mr. Barnes and had left word for me that she could be found here, on learning which I at once came to this place.”

“Had you then heard of what had befallen your husband?”

“I learned it while on my way here, from the columns of an afternoon paper that I bought in the car.”

“You found Miss Doane here?”

“I did.”

“And recognized her as your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“You would swear to her being your child?”

“I would.”

The woman spoke in the most decided way.

The detective said:

“There is no possibility that you could be mistaken?”

“None in the world.”

“Can this be proved in any way that you know of?”

“Yes, by a birthmark.”

“It was known to others besides yourself?”

“Yes.”

“To whom, then?”

“Mr. Field and all the servants who were at the tame in our service.”

All this was evidence of the most positive kind that Helen Doane was really the child of Mr. Field, and not, as he had firmly believed, an impostor. That this lady was Mrs. Field, the wife who had left her husband because of his jealousy, he had no doubt whatever.

But, was she not mistaken about Helen Doane?

Come what might, that letter brought by the girl to prove her kinship was a forgery!

That was a fact about which there could be no doubt.

And, as it was a forgery, did not her possession of it imply that she was a party in the guilty transaction?

It certainly was strong evidence.

As he sat there he asked himself if it was not possible that Helen was really the daughter and yet a schemer?

It was hardly reasonable that she should be, for as Mr. Field was only too desirous of finding wife or child, or both, there was no need of her doing anything underhanded if by coming to her father she could prove her identity by so excellent testimony as a birthmark of which he knew and with the appearance of which he could be presumed to be familiar.

The more Nick twisted the case, the more inexplicable it became.

Having thanked the lady, he took the trouble to see and speak with one of the servants, the same one with whom he had talked before and with whom he had been favorably impressed.

On asking her about the birthmark that the little Helen Field possessed, she said at once that she remembered it well.

“You know it so well that you could swear to it if you saw it again?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever seen it since the little Helen went away with her mother?”

“Never until last night.”

“You saw it then?”

“I did.”

“Under what circumstances?”

“I was present at the meeting of Mrs. Field and her child. The birthmark being spoken of, the young lady who came here as Miss Doane removed such portion of her clothing as was necessary to show that she possessed the mark.”

“There could be no mistake about this?”

“There could not be.”

“You would take an oath to it that Miss Helen Doane and Miss Helen Field are the same?”

“I would!”

“That is all.”

Nick Carter left the house then and went slowly downtown, wrapped in deep thought.

The clouds were growing thicker this morning, and this in spite of the fact that he felt himself near the solution of the mystery.

That Helen Doane was the daughter of Mr. Field it would appear insane to doubt in the face of a recognition by her mother and an old servant who had been with her from the time of her birth until the mother left with the child.

But the forged letter!

Could it be possible that she had received it as she said, and that she was an innocent holder of it, no matter what scheme might be back of it?

The detective said to himself at last:

“That is the only way of accounting for the thing, and yet who was to be benefited, and how, if the girl was proved to be Field’s daughter and placed in possession of the property? It could not be done without her sanction, hence she must have been a party in it.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE STOLEN SILVER.

The next step was to ascertain if Lorton had been to any of the well-known “fences” the night before, and if he had, to learn what he had sold.

If he could learn absolutely that Lorton was in the city something would be gained. And if it should prove that the goods he had disposed of included the silverware that had been taken from Mr. Field’s house, then he would have a good case, and it would only remain to get together evidence. As it stood now he not only had to find evidence, but also to make that evidence point to somebody.

With this purpose in view, then, he turned his steps in the direction of Gorse’s place, patronized as extensively by crooks as any in the city.

This man carried on business in a peculiar way, but one that was well calculated to meet with success in his trade.

What had originally been a single store had been divided by a partition into two parts. In one of these half-stores there was carried on what might by courtesy be termed a jewelry business, as the window contained old watches of little or no value and a quantity of worthless trinkets. This business was run under the name of a tool of Gorse’s, who had his name over the door of the other half-store as “Retailer of Wines, Liquors and Fine Cigars.”

A man entering the liquor store might be supposed to be doing so simply to obtain a drink, while under his coat would be concealed the proceeds of some burglary that he was about to dispose of.

The “fence” proper was located at the rear of the jewelry part of the premises, a door at the back of the saloon communicating with it.

Nick Carter so thoroughly disguised himself that he could not by any possibility be recognized, and then sauntered into the saloon.

Gorse himself was behind the bar.

Nodding to him, Nick said:

“I want to see the proprietor. Is he in?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“The nature of your business.”

“It is important.”

“What might it be?”

“That is for him alone to know. From a description that was given me, I should judge that you were the man himself.”

“I ain’t.”

Nick Carter knew better than this. He was positive that this was Gorse, for he had seen him a number of times before, and he said:

“If you are Gorse, I’ve got something to say to you of the utmost importance. If you are not Gorse, then something will have to go by the board that you’ll be sorry for.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

And, turning around as though about to depart, he said:

“Good-day to you!”

Gorse, as he had expected, called to him to stop.

“Hold on a minute!”

Facing him, the detective said:

“Did you call me?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“I was going to say something.”

“What?”

“That, if your business is very important, Gorse might be found.”

“I told you before that it was important.”

“Who are you?”

“A friend.”

“Well, I am Gorse.”

“Are, eh? Well, that is just what I thought.”

“Now, then, what is your business?”

Nick Carter rejoined:

“It would be as well if we could have it a little private, instead of out here where we are likely to be interrupted by somebody coming in for a drink.”

“Good enough! I will call my bartender.”

This individual put in his appearance, after which Gorse said:

“Step into the back room.”

This was just what Nick wanted.

He desired to get into the room where the “loot” was examined and purchased, in the hopes that if what he was after had been purchased it would not yet have been removed from sight.

In this he was disappointed.

If Gorse had bought the stolen silver it had been taken to some other and less public place, as indeed was dictated by prudence to be the only proper course.

When they were both seated, Gorse said:

“Now, then, friend, I am ready to listen to what you have to tell me.”

The detective coughed and replied:

“There are conditions.”

“Conditions!”

“Yes.”

“I don’t take!”

“Don’t? That’s funny! I spoke plainly enough. There are certain conditions under which alone I can tell you a particular thing that may be of great consequence to you.”

“What are these conditions?”

“That you will truthfully answer me certain questions.”

Gorse’s teeth shut together with a snap, and he said:

“I don’t like the looks of this!”

“Why not?”

“If you have anything to tell me there can be no need of asking me any questions.”

“In that I know better than you do.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Let me tell you one thing!”

“Go ahead.”

“I will not answer a single question until I know who you are.”

“As you please about that.”

The detective’s coolness had the effect aimed at, which was to make the villain more desirous of hearing the communication the other had come to make. In addition to this, his curiosity was excited.

Biting his lip, the villain said:

“I mean it!”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ve got nothing to tell you.”

After a silence of several minutes’ duration, Gorse asked:

“Did you come here of your own accord?”

“No.”

“Ah! Who sent you?”

“That question I cannot answer until I know something of you?”

“In other words, I must answer your questions before you will answer mine?”

“That is it exactly.”

“You can at least tell me the circumstances under which you came here?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“What are they?”

“They are simply these: A man who is a good friend of yours asked me if I would come and see you, and I said I would.”

“He wanted you to tell me something?”

“Yes.”

“But, under conditions?”

“Precisely.”

“Who is this friend?”

“One who has, I believe, warned you of danger before now.”

“Ha!”

The villain’s eyes glistened.

“Perhaps”—speaking in a slow tone—“he is connected with the police force?”

“It is possible.”

For some reason Gorse now appeared to be inspired with a confidence that had been lacking a few minutes before.

“What is it you were to ask me?”

“I want to know something about the customers you had last night.”

“What about them?”

“Who were they?”

“It would be necessary to show me that the danger was great before I would consent to give the boys away.”

“I don’t want you to give them away.”

“What do you want, then?”

“I want to know simply who was here last night.”

As Gorse did not seem likely to reply to the question, as thus put, Nick went at it in another way. He said:

“I’ll put it to you in this shape: Did you take in any silverware last night?”

Gorse gave the questioner a swift look of suspicion.

“What are you driving at?”

Calmly and in an offhand tone came the reply:

“As I have told you, it is optional with yourself whether or not you answer my questions.”

“Well, suppose that I admit having taken in some silverware?”

“Then the next question is: Who brought it?”

“That I won’t tell.”

The detective coolly said:

“In refusing to do which you make a grave mistake! Possibly you will tell me if it bears a certain mark?”

“A mark, you say?”

“Yes.”

The detective followed this answer by giving a description of the mark on Mr. Field’s silver.

Gorse promptly said:

“I never saw such silver as that!”

But, as Nick Carter was describing the mark, his face had worn a conscious look that did not escape the speaker’s keen eyes, and he said, mentally:

“The rascal is lying! He has seen that very silver if, indeed, it is not now in this very house.”

Aloud he said:

“Very well, then, you’re safe.”

“Safe?”

“Yes.”

“I say!”

“What is it?”

“You are talking to me in riddles.”

“I can’t help that. The circumstances under which I have come are peculiar. The person who sent me dared not come himself, nor send the customary messenger, and it would not do for it to appear that you had received warning of a certain thing since this information is in the possession of so few that, in case of any leak, it would not be hard to locate it.”

Gorse, it was plain to be seen, was not a little troubled by what had been said, although he said in a sneering way:

“All very nice, and told in about the style in which fortune tellers talk to their dupes, so that no matter what transpires the tale will cover.”

“Treat this so if you choose. As I have said, it is none of my affair. But, I know this, that freedom of speech on your part might save you some trouble.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Then I may as well go.”

“So you had, for you can’t work any game on me.”

“That’s all right. Before I go, just to show you that I am not playing on you, let me say that it is known about certain silver coming here. And, further, the man who brought it is tricking you.”

“What! De——How do you know that?”

Nick quietly smiled.

“De——” Gorse had begun to utter the name of Demas Lorton, but remembering himself, had cut it short.

Nick Carter had practically gained what he wished to know.

He was quick to think and plan, and in less than a minute after this admission he said:

“See here, Gorse!”

“What now?”

“Demas Lorton brought certain pieces of silver to you last night. They must be gotten rid of.”

“So?”

“Yes.”

“For what reason?”

“The best in the world! And, what is more!”

“Well?”

“The melting pot will not answer!”

Gorse gave a start of surprise.

At last he was thoroughly aroused.

“What do you mean?”

“The melting pot will not hide the traces of that particular lot of silver! It is all part of a game; the silver was prepared for the job!”

“You mean that it was alloyed in a certain way?”

“I do.”

“I can destroy that!”

“You cannot. The fact of its impossibility is the reason why I was sent here.”

“Do you mean that I am to infer that Lorton is playing a double game?”

“I have nothing more to say, unless you admit that Lorton did bring such silver here last night.”

“Very well, I admit it. What, then?”

“I am instructed to give you certain advice.”

“Which is?”

“That you send him back the silver so that he gets it at nine o’clock to-night.”

“Why that particular time?”

“You will see afterward.”

Gorse was silent a minute, and then said:

“I laid out good money on that stuff.”

“Hang on to it, then, if you wish!”

“I don’t want to do so at any risk.”

“Then send it back!”

“I will do so.”

“So that he will receive it at the time I mentioned?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, I will so report to the person who sent me.”

“Who was that?”

“He said you would know that!”

“I don’t, though.”

“But you will before long, even though I do not tell you, as I shall not.”

“How, then, will I know?”

“He said that he would arrange to see you some time after ten to-night.”

The detective took his leave at this juncture. Gorse did not now in any way doubt the man, although he could not understand the necessity for all this mystery. If a certain person connected with the police department, who had before now given him warning of approaching danger, wished to warn him again, why could he not have done it in a way as openly as before?

Nick Carter had played a shrewd game, based on a supposition that Gorse had a friend in the department, which he had thought to be the case since it had never been possible to secure evidence that had been positively known to have been in his possession.

Nick might have disclosed his identity and forced Gorse to restore the silver to him. But, for him to have taken this step would have resulted in a widespread alarm that would certainly reach the ears of Lorton and thus defeat the main object he had in view.

He believed he had arranged the matter a great deal better, and it could not but prove so if Gorse did as he said he would, and sent the silver back to Lorton at nine that night.

Nick now hurried away to headquarters and was closeted for some little time with the chief.

The men he asked for were placed at his disposal. Then he proceeded to his office, and made arrangements with his two assistants, Chick and Patsy, to accompany him on what all knew would be a dangerous errand.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE PLOT THAT FAILED.

It was half an hour in advance of the time when Gorse was, according to agreement, to return to Lorton the silver taken from Mr. Field’s house.

Deep in the shadow of a doorway near the entrance to the “fence’s” quarters stood the figure of a man. It was Nick Carter.

Around the corner, within signaling distance, were Chick and Patsy and six police officers.

Twenty minutes passed.

Suddenly the door of Gorse’s place opened and Gorse himself stepped out.

Nick drew back further into the doorway, but he kept his eye on the man, and noticed that he carried a large and what seemed to be a heavy bundle under his arm.

He passed quickly down the street, glancing furtively behind him from time to time.

But despite his caution he was closely shadowed by Nick, who had taken up the trail after giving an odd whistle that could be heard around the corner.

Several blocks were passed, the man in front carefully avoiding the well-lighted streets.

Finally he paused before the door of a house in a narrow little street, and started to ascend the steps.

He had scarcely done so, however, when he felt a hand clasped on his shoulder and, looking quickly around, he found himself looking into the barrel of a gleaming revolver.

He gave one look at the man who held the weapon and his face turned to ashes as he gasped:

“Nick Carter!”

“Yes, my man. It’s Nick Carter. No noise, now. Come this way lively.”

Gorse was too much surprised to refuse, and before he knew it he was handcuffed and led back the way he had come.

The two did not go far before Nick stopped abruptly on hearing a slight noise ahead of him. It proved to be his assistants and the police approaching, and turning his prisoner over to them, he told them to await his signals opposite the building he had spotted.

Nick now proceeded toward the house Gorse had attempted to enter. He was confident he was about to make some important discoveries, and his face wore a smile of satisfaction at the clever way he had tricked the proprietor of the “fence.”

Nick stealthily approached the basement door and listened a few minutes to make sure no one was in the hallway within.

He cautiously tried the door and, as he expected, found it locked.

The lock that secured it proved to be one, although of a pattern supposed to be complicated, very easily picked.

Less than ten minutes’ work sufficed for him to master it, and he was free to go in.

It took but a moment to see that no one was on the basement floor.

He took no step in the direction of the upper part of the house until he had by listening assured himself that nobody was in the immediate vicinity of the head of the stairs.

On reaching the head of the stairs he paused again.

The silence that hung over the interior of the house was like that of the tomb. It was unbroken by even the slightest sound.

Going softly along the hall he finally reached a door, which he judged to be that opening on the street.

This gave him his bearings, so to speak, and he went back along the hall. He paused before a door leading into one of the rooms.

From within came no sound.

The detective told himself:

“It is deserted, and if I can manage it I mean to go in and have a look around.”

To his surprise, in trying the door, he found that it was not locked.

Softly pushing it open he entered.

There was a lighted lamp in the room.

He had not been given more than two minutes to look around when he heard steps approaching.

At once he cast his eyes about him in search of some place in which he could conceal himself.

The only place that offered was a space behind the sofa. Poor as this might prove, it was all that could be found, so he lost no time in taking advantage of it.

Just as he settled himself comfortably the door of the room opened and two persons entered.

One was a woman.

The woman’s first words were:

“If I had done such a thing I would never have heard the last of it!”

“That would depend on circumstances.”

“Indeed it would not. If I had gone away from this house, leaving it unguarded and unlocked you would have threatened to cut my throat if I was ever as imprudent again.”

“Let it drop! I’ve heard enough.”

“All right. Is everything moving well?”

“Tolerably so.”

“Have you been out to-day?”

“Yes.”

“What was the result?”

“I could not learn anything.”

“Which means that we are practically balked.”

“I suppose so. Until it can be conclusively shown that the old man is dead, we have mighty small show of handling a copper of his money.”

The woman said in a bitter tone:

“I don’t know as I am sorry.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t like a part of the game.”

“You mean my marrying the girl?”

“I do.”

“Pshaw! That should not excite your jealousy! There will be nothing of it, except to play the part of a loving husband until I get the ducats, and then I’ll skip and come back to your arms.”

“Of course!”

“Business, my dear—simple business, nothing more!”

“That’s what you would have me to believe.”

“Because it is absolute truth. In all the world you are to me the one and only woman.”

Although Nick Carter could not see what was done, his ears were sufficient of a guide to the truth to inform him that the man at this point put his arm around the woman and kissed her affectionately.

It was all that Nick could do at this time to prevent gritting his teeth so that they would hear. It fairly made his blood run cold to hear that man talk so coolly of the foul wrong that it was intended should, through him, befall a young and innocent girl.

Like a revelation had been these few words that he had thus far overheard.

That the woman was mollified by his caresses was shown by the tone of her voice when she next spoke.

“I am sure, Demas, that you do not care for any other woman, and yet at times I cannot think but that you must, and it drives me nearly mad with jealousy. I long thought that you cared a good deal for this namesake of mine that you used to go to see once in a while.”

“Pish! Helen; I never cared a copper for her. But, when I saw that she was fool enough to fall in love with me, I believed it would not be a bad idea to keep it alive, for even then the plot we are working out had begun to frame itself in my mind.

“I never believed, as you did, that she was really the daughter of Field.”

“That was the result of your jealousy. It made you nearsighted where she was concerned. I wish I was as sure of some other things as I am that she is really his child.”

“You think that she will marry you for the asking?”

“If I had not been sure of it, do you suppose that I would have gone into the scheme under the circumstances that I have? Of course I am sure of it.”

“How can you be?”

“How do I know that you love me and are the best and most daring woman in the world, where my best interests are concerned, my dear?”

The woman laughed. She said, returning to a subject previously touched upon:

“Well, what about Field?”

“I can’t make it out.”

“You were up there to-day?”

“Yes.”

“And learned nothing?”

“Just precisely that. Appearances are that he was taken to the river bank and away in a boat.”

“Who could have done it?”

“I don’t know. I can’t even guess.”

“Nor what the reason was?”

“No. If I could once get at a reason I might spot the person who carried Field off. What the fellow wanted with his dead body, unless it was to play counter to me, I cannot understand.”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“Yes, that and nothing else, but I can’t think of anybody who would be likely to be in the game, as nobody knew what I was up to.”

The woman’s jealousy led her to revert to that other Helen again, saying:

“You will not think of marrying her until it is settled that she is dead certain of getting the money as well as the credit of being old Field’s daughter?”

“Of course not. But, hark!”

While the man and the woman were listening to some sound that had reached their ears the detective was busily thinking.

What he had heard was a revelation to him in every sense of the word.

While in some unimportant particulars it proved his first theory wrong, in the main it supported it amply.

Holding the key to the mystery now, he saw how it had all been brought about, save for one point. This was the precise motive that had led to Mr. Field being carried away.

Nick now understood precisely the relation that was held by Helen Doane to this man.

In some way he had gained an inkling of whom she really was, but instead of telling her had kept it to himself, biding a time when the fact could be made to turn to his advantage.

At last he had arranged a scheme for doing this.

Ostensibly leaving New York for a considerable length of time, he had gone only a short distance. On the day preceding the crime he had returned to the city, and had mailed the forged letter to Helen. That night, accompanied by an accomplice, he had entered Mr. Field’s house, and the gentleman had been attacked and left for dead. Lorton would not have left, unless he believed him dead, since his death was a necessity of his scheme. If it had not been, and Helen was really the missing child, then he might have returned her without harming Mr. Field. This would not do, however, as under those circumstances Helen would not be permitted to see and marry him, in which way alone could he hope to get his fingers on the Field millions. After he had departed, some one had carried away the unconscious form of the millionaire, and the better to cover up his tracks this second crook had resorted to the spilling of the blood down the lawn walk and to the river front, while in fact he took Mr. Field into a light wagon and drove him away.

That was the case summed up in a nutshell. It only remained to learn who this second crook was and when he had stolen Mr. Field’s body.

The detective had just about got this straight in his mind when he heard the woman say:

“I think it is Luke coming.”

The next minute there came a knock at the door.

The man who entered was addressed as Luke.

When the door was closed, Luke inquired:

“Have you learned anything?”

“No.”

“That’s funny.”

“So it is. Have you been out looking around?”

“I have.”

“And you could not learn anything about Field?”

“No.”

At this juncture came a ring at the bell.

The woman said:

“That’s the front doorbell! I wonder who it can be?”

Lorton rejoined:

“I think that you had better go.”

The woman arose to go and answer the ring.

She returned shortly after, ushering in a man who said:

“How are you, Lorton?”

At the man’s first words Nick could hardly repress a chuckle, for he recognized his voice as that of his assistant, Patsy.

“How are you? What are you doing here?” returned Lorton.

The woman put in with:

“He’s come from Gorse, he says.”

“From Gorse?”

The man said:

“Yes, he sent me.”

“What for?”

“To bring back the silver you left with him last night. He says he’s been warned and don’t want anything to do with it.”

“Tell Gorse he’s a fool. The melting pot would fix it in half an hour.”

“He don’t think so.”

With a sneer in his tone, Lorton said:

“Does he expect to get his money back?”

“I guess not. He’s glad enough, I take it, to get rid of it so cheaply!”

Starting up in surprise and alarm, Lorton demanded:

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing, only that the old man seems to be pretty well scared about the stuff for some reason and wanted to get it safely out of his hands. I don’t know for sure, but I think it has been traced that you were concerned in the Field matter, and the ‘boodle’ to him.”

“Nonsense!”

“Not at all! You know that you fixed the old man, and it is possible, I think, that somebody tumbled to you.”

“See here, it will be wisest for you to keep a still tongue. You’re letting it wag a trifle too freely for your best good health.”

“That’s all right. You don’t think I would go around blabbing all I know and all I guess, do you? I speak of it to your face as a fact, and would not have done it if you hadn’t invited it.”

“Well, they can’t say I murdered the old man unless they find his body.”

“But you did, all the same!”

“Yes, and I’ll murder you, too, if you don’t get out of here in a hurry!”

“I rather think not.”

As the disguised young detective gave this reply Nick Carter arose from his place of concealment and echoed:

“I rather think not!”

Turning in the direction of this new speaker, Lorton uttered an oath and demanded:

“What is the meaning of this?”

Nick smilingly answered:

“I will show you!”

As he spoke he ripped off his disguise with one hand, while with the other he snatched out a revolver and brought it to bear on Lorton.

The woman was the first to recognize him. She gasped:

“Nick Carter, the detective!”

Bowing to her, he returned:

“At your service, madam!”

Then to the man who had brought the silver:

“Your disguise is admirable, Patsy. Your own mother wouldn’t know you.”

The woman shrieked:

“It is all clear now! We’ve been trapped!”

And, in an excited tone, she added:

“The trap—the trap! There are only two of them! We ought to be able to master them!”

“Only two of us, eh?”

Saying this, Nick drew out and blew a whistle.

With a thunderous crash the front door was carried from its hinges and a full dozen of policemen rushed into the room.

The game was up.

The conspirators saw it at a glance.

Just after the handcuffs had been placed on the wrists of the two men there was a bustle at the door, and then Mr. Field stood before them.

At sight of him both men turned pale, while even Nick started with surprise.

Looking at Lorton, Mr. Field said:

“That is the man who struck me!”

And turning to Luke:

“That is the man who carried me away from my house in an unconscious condition and has kept me prisoner ever since.”

The eyes of Lorton and Helen fairly flamed with anger when these words were uttered.

The former hissed:

“So you turned traitor, did you?”

The man sullenly returned:

“Yes, and for good reason. You were plotting for a big stake and only wanted to give me a paltry ten thousand. When we looked at Mr. Field just before leaving the house I saw that he was not dead, and, after we parted, I returned and carried him away, knowing that while I had him in my hands I held the power to make what terms I pleased. Now the plot has failed!”

The answer fully explained the last thing that was a mystery to the detective.

After the two men and the woman had been taken away, Nick turned to Mr. Field.

“Permit me to congratulate you. I thought you had fallen into our old friend Greer’s hands.”

Mr. Field extended his hand and caught Nick’s in a grateful clasp, while he asked:

“Who called you in, Mr. Carter?”

“Mr. Barnes.”

“My blessings on him! He’s a manly, noble fellow!”

“Now, can you tell me anything about the occurrences of the night on which you were attacked?”

“I cannot tell you much.”

“You did not go to bed?”

“I did not. I remained up thinking over some matters and arranging the details of a certain matter when I was suddenly made aware of the proximity of somebody by hearing a suppressed cough. I turned around and saw a man close to me, with a club in his hand, and was on the point of calling out when struck. The club hit me squarely on the head and I knew no more until I found myself in the arms of a man in a narrow, dark hall. Recovering consciousness then, I began to struggle with him, and, although I did not succeed in getting away, I gave him a great deal of trouble. He got the best of me by striking me again, when my senses once more left me. In that condition I must have been carried upstairs, for I imagined the dark hall to have been that of this house, and, on my showing signs of returning consciousness, the man drugged me. All this last I recall in a dim and confused way only.”

Questioned as to how he escaped from his captor, Luke, Mr. Field said the man had evidently drugged him every time he left him alone, for the hubbub caused by the detective’s entrance had awakened him from a deep stupor, and when he arose from the couch on which he was lying, there was no one to dispute his escape. His captor no doubt thought the drug more powerful than it was.

Despite Luke’s villainy, Nick could not but admire his courage in secreting his prisoner in the very house his pals were occupying.

Nick now asked some questions that went to prove the truth of the story told by Timon, the butler, in whom Mr. Field reposed the utmost confidence.

The replies satisfied the detective that the servants in the house were guiltless of any participation in the crime.

Nick then said to him:

“Excuse me, Field, if I refer to a period in your past that must arouse sad memories, for I have a special purpose in view in doing so. I do not refer to your previous similar experience, but to a fact concealed by you from the world. You married after your return to this country, and had a child?”

“I had.”

And he sadly added:

“But I drove them from me.”

“You would like to recover them?”

“I would give half my fortune to be able to do so.”

“Have you never been able to learn anything of them?”

“I have not.”

“Not of your wife, or of both wife and daughter?”

“I mean both.”

“Then you do not know that your daughter is alive?”

“I do not.”

“And you did not, the day before being paid that burglarious visit, write a letter to her?”

“How could I when I did not even know that she was alive?”

The detective smiled with triumph, while a great look of relief spread over his face.

Nick’s next step was to acquaint his old friend with the fact that he would find his wife and daughter at his home.

Nick said:

“Wife and daughter!”

He had no hesitation now in saying the latter, for Helen Doane stood proven as an innocent party in a dark transaction. And yet the circumstantial evidence against her was sufficient to have convicted her.

It is needless for us to go into details of the happy meeting that followed between the members of the reunited family, of how Mr. Field begged for forgiveness, and was forgiven; of how his wife proved that she still loved him; of how happy they were in having found so good and true a daughter; of how they lived so happily afterward in each other’s society.

Helen Field, as she now was known, explained to Mr. Barnes on a subsequent occasion how it was that, being of a somewhat romantic turn of mind, and feeling that the service done her by Lorton was of signal value, she had determined to place her life at his disposal in return for having, as she painted it, saved it for her. It was this that had led her to refusing Barnes’ suit.

After listening to this naïve confession he did just what any sensible man would have done in his place—took her in his arms and kissed her over and over again, and ending up by a request that she would name the “happy day.”

And, as all obedient girls do, she “referred him to her father.”

Father in this case was not a stern tyrant, and acquiesced heartily and gave them his blessing—and a check for a hundred thousand the day they were married!

Demas Lorton, Luke and Helen Lorton were tried, convicted and sentenced to prison for the longest possible terms.

Nick’s reawakened anxiety in regard to Mr. Field was, long before this happy event, finally and fully relieved.

Two weeks after Lorton’s trial and sentence, an unknown man was killed by a fall from the elevated railroad station at Thirty-fourth Street.

Nick Carter happened to go to the morgue on other business, and the keeper, knowing his familiarity with members of the criminal class, invited him to view the body.

Nick identified it at a glance.

It was Elmer Greer!

“So,” thought Nick, “this is his end. It’s funny! I never knew a criminal who led a happy life. From the first fall, jail and the hangman’s noose haunt their waking and their sleeping hours. If they don’t die in jail or the poorhouse, they meet a fate similar to this of Greer’s. It’s incomprehensible to me why men should ever take up a life of such misery and unhappiness!”

And the great detective shook his head.

For once he had propounded a question he could not answer!

THE END.

In the NEW MAGNET LIBRARY there is shortly to appear No. 1192, a splendid tale showing great detective skill, under the title of “Nick Carter’s Masterpiece,” by Nicholas Carter.

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 Hickok, 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 Marauders

- 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.

A CARNIVAL OF ACTION

ADVENTURE LIBRARY

Splendid, Interesting, Big Stories

This line is devoted exclusively to a splendid type of adventure story, in the big outdoors. There is really a breath of fresh air in each of them, and the reader who pays fifteen cents for a copy of this line feels that he has received his money’s worth and a little more.

The authors of these books are experienced in the art of writing, and know just what the up-to-date American reader wants.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

By WILLIAM WALLACE COOK

- 1—The Desert Argonaut

- 2—A Quarter to Four

- 3—Thorndyke of the Bonita

- 4—A Round Trip to the Year 2000

- 5—The Gold Gleaners

- 6—The Spur of Necessity

- 7—The Mysterious Mission

- 8—The Goal of a Million

- 9—Marooned in 1492

- 10—Running the Signal

- 11—His Friend the Enemy

- 12—In the Web

- 13—A Deep Sea Game

- 14—The Paymaster’s Special

- 15—Adrift in the Unknown

- 16—Jim Dexter, Cattleman

- 17—Juggling with Liberty

- 18—Back from Bedlam

- 19—A River Tangle

- 20—Billionaire Pro Tem

- 21—In the Wake of the Scimitar

- 22—His Audacious Highness

- 23—At Daggers Drawn

- 24—The Eighth Wonder

- 25—The Cat’s-paw

- 26—The Cotton Bag

- 27—Little Miss Vassar

- 28—Cast Away at the Pole

- 29—The Testing of Noyes

- 30—The Fateful Seventh

- 31—Montana

- 32—The Deserter

- 33—The Sheriff of Broken Bow

- 34—Wanted: A Highwayman

- 35—Frisbie of San Antone

- 36—His Last Dollar

- 37—Fools for Luck

- 38—Dare of Darling & Co.

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.

39—Trailing The Josephine

By William Wallace Cook

40—The Snapshot Chap

By Bertram Lebhar

To be published in August, 1926.

41—Brothers of the Thin Wire

By Franklin Pitt

42—Jungle Intrigue

By Edmond Lawrence

43—His Snapshot Lordship

By Bertram Lebhar

To be published in September, 1926.

44—Folly Lode

By James F. Dorrance

45—The Forest Rogue

By Julian G. Wharton

To be published in October, 1926.

46—Snapshot Artillery

By Bertram Lebhar

47—Stanley Holt, Thoroughbred

By Ralph Boston

To be published in November, 1926.

48—The Riddle and the Ring

By Gordon MacLaren

49—The Black Eye Snapshot

By Bertram Lebhar

To be published in December, 1926.

50—Bainbridge of Bangor

By Julian G. Wharton

51—Amid Crashing Hills

By Edmond Lawrence

Love Stories

All the world over love is very much the same, whether it be found in a palace, or a hovel, or in a vine-covered cottage.

It is the one subject that is vitally interesting to every man and woman, irrespective of nationality.

This is why the love stories in the New Eagle Series, the Bertha Clay Library, and the Southworth Library are so eagerly sought for. They are worthy of your attention.

If you have not a series catalog, send us a two-cent stamp and we will be very glad to send a copy to you by return mail.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION

79 Seventh Avenue  New York City

The Dealer

who handles the STREET & SMITH NOVELS is a man worth patronizing. The fact that he does handle our books proves that he has considered the merits of paper-covered lines, and has decided that the STREET & SMITH NOVELS are superior to all others.

He has looked into the question of the morality of the paper-covered book, for instance, and feels that he is perfectly safe in handing one of our novels to any one, because he has our assurance that nothing except clean, wholesome literature finds its way into our lines.

Therefore, the STREET & SMITH NOVEL dealer is a careful and wise tradesman, and it is fair to assume selects the other articles he has for sale with the same degree of intelligence as he does his paper-covered books.

Deal with the STREET & SMITH NOVEL dealer.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION

79 Seventh Avenue  New York City

Transcriber’s Note:

1. Obvious printer, spelling and punctuation errors have been corrected silently.

2. Where appropriate original spelling has been retained.

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Table of Contents

The Plot That Failed OR, WHEN MEN CONSPIRE

CHAPTER I. TAMBOURINE JACK’S MESSAGE.

CHAPTER II. THE YEGGMEN’S LEAGUE.

CHAPTER III. ONCE MORE ON HAND.

CHAPTER IV. A STARTLING REVELATION.

CHAPTER V. THE BANKER’S DAUGHTER.

CHAPTER VI. A DANGEROUS WOMAN.

CHAPTER VII. BLACKMAIL.

CHAPTER VIII. A DAY OF RECKONING.

CHAPTER IX. A PLOT WELL FOILED.

CHAPTER X. CAUGHT AND ESCAPED.

CHAPTER XI. WITHIN AN ACE.

CHAPTER XII. TWO VICTIMS.

CHAPTER XIII. GONE.

CHAPTER XIV. IN THE FLAMES.

CHAPTER XV. RESTORED AT LAST.

CHAPTER XVI. WHOSE THE BRAIN?

CHAPTER XVII. A THEORY FOUND.

CHAPTER XVIII. A PUZZLE TO SOLVE.

CHAPTER XIX. PROVING THE LETTER.

CHAPTER XX. AT THE CHEMIST’S.

CHAPTER XXI. NEW DEVELOPMENTS.

CHAPTER XXII. THE BIRTHMARK.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE STOLEN SILVER.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE PLOT THAT FAILED.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE