Title: Nick Carter Stories No 120 - 160 / Dec 26, 1914 - Oct 2, 1915 - The Pressing Peril; Dared for Los Angeles
Author: Carter, Nicholas (House name), Phillips, Roland Ashford
Language: English
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                          NICK CARTER STORIES

  _Issued Weekly. Entered as Second-class Matter at the New York Post
 Office, by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Ave., New York. Copyright,
 1915, by_ STREET & SMITH. _O. G. Smith and G. C. Smith, Proprietors._


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=No. 139.=      NEW YORK, May 8, 1915.          =Price Five Cents.=



                          THE PRESSING PERIL;


                     Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.



CHAPTER I.

THE WOMAN WHO VANISHED.


“Oh, I say, old top!”

Nick Carter stopped short and looked at the speaker.

There was no mistaking his nationality.

He was English to the bone. English in aspect, attitude, attire, and
accent. English of the most pronounced and impressive type--but
impressive upon as keen and thoroughbred an American observer as the
famous New York detective chiefly because of the insipid and mildly
obtrusive aristocracy that stuck out all over him.

He was tall and slender. He wore a suit of pronounced plaid. He was
about twenty-three years old, with yellow hair and the fair skin of a
straight-bred Anglo-Saxon. He wore a monocle with a cord dangling from
it, and through which one watery blue eye glared larger and brighter
than the other.

He had been hurrying up Fifth Avenue for about five minutes in a sort of
subdued and desperate agitation, threading his way quite rudely through
the stream of pedestrians always in that fashionable thoroughfare
shortly before six on a pleasant October afternoon, and he incidentally
had overtaken Nick Carter near the corner of Fifty-ninth Street.

He did not accost the detective because he knew him, or had the
slightest idea of his vocation. It was purely by chance that he had
appealed to the man he most needed. He obeyed a sudden, irrepressible
impulse, that of one who scarce knew what else to do, when he grasped
Nick’s arm and stopped him, exclaiming apologetically:

“Oh, I say, old top!”

Nick sized him up with a glance. He saw more than others would have
seen, that this stranger not only was deeply disturbed, but also in
doubt what course to pursue. Nick merely said, nevertheless,
tentatively:

“Well?”

The other responded with a forward thrust of his head, a more appealing
scrutiny, and with native accent and characteristics that no attempt
will be made to even suggest on paper.

“You’ll pardon a chap, old top, won’t you? I’m in a bally bad mess, so I
am, and jolly well upset. Would you tell me where I could find an
inspector--what your blooming people call a detective? I don’t want any
gumshoe bobbie, don’t you know, but a ripping roarer who knows his
beastly business and can keep his mouth closed. You see, old top----”

“What’s the trouble, young man?” Nick interposed. “I may be able to aid
you, or advise you. I am a detective--what your blooming English people
call an inspector.”

The subtle retort in the last was wasted upon his hearer. He gazed more
sharply at Nick through his monocle, nevertheless, saying quickly:

“That’s blasted lucky, then, don’t you know? I can’t account for it,
’pon my word, this running bunk against a man I wanted. What name, sir,
may I ask?”

“My name is Nick Carter,” replied the detective indifferently. “But
what----”

“There it is again!” exclaimed the Englishman, interrupting with
countenance lighting. “This is a blooming, blasted good wheeze. I’ve
heard of you, sir. You’re bally well known by name even in old Lunnon.
I’m deuced well pleased, Mr. Carter, so I am.”

He seemed to have temporarily forgotten his trouble, in his surprise and
pleasure upon discovering the detective’s identity. He even smiled and
extended his hand, which was accepted and shaken in a perfunctory way.

Nick saw plainly, in fact, that the young man really was instinctively
very frank and genuine, and that under his somewhat insipid and
superficial personality he was possessed of true manly sentiments and
probably some depth of character.

That he was a well-bred gentleman was equally manifest, moreover, and
Nick was impelled to assist him, if possible. He brought him to the
point at once, nevertheless, by replying:

“Granting all that, young man, what is your trouble? Why do you need a
detective?”

“Because I’m blasted hard hit, don’t you know?” he replied, serious
again. “I’ve been jolly well robbed.”

“Robbed of what?”

“My wife, sir.”

“Robbed of your wife?” questioned Nick, surprised and almost inclined to
laugh.

“That’s the blooming truth, Mr. Carter, or how it looks to me. I’m as
hard hit as if I’d got a jolly bash on the beak. She’s a bally American
girl, is Mollie, and----”

“Stop a moment,” Nick interrupted again. “My time is valuable. I cannot
listen to your digressions. Answer my questions briefly and to the
point. I then may be able to aid you, if there is any real occasion.”

“That’s deuced kind, old top, on my word. If----”

“When did you lose your wife, and where?” Nick cut in a bit sharply.

“I didn’t lose her. She was jolly well stolen; I’m sure of that.”

“Where and when? By whom?”

“Blast it, how can I tell?” protested the Englishman, with wagging head.
“We were walking down the avenue, Mollie and I, don’t you know? A
limousine shot by us, heading uptown. I heard it come to a blooming
quick stop. A chauffeur came running back, a bally bounder in
bottle-green livery. He tipped his lid, respectfullike, and said as how
his fare had caught sight of Mollie when passing us and wanted to speak
to her.”

“His fare, eh? He was the driver of a taxicab, then?” put in Nick
inquiringly.

“I reckon that’s right, sir, but I won’t be cock-sure.”

“What more did he say?”

“Mollie asked the name of his fare, but he could not tell her. He said
she had sent him to say a friend wanted to speak to her.”

“His passenger was a woman, then?”

“I’m jolly well sure of that. I saw her hat and veil through the
window.”

“The taxicab must, then, have stopped quite near you,” said Nick.

“A matter of thirty yards, sir, not more.”

“Your wife went to see who was in the conveyance?”

“That’s precisely what she did,” nodded the Englishman. “Wait here,
Archie, she said, and I’ll return in a moment. I was jolly well
surprised, don’t you know, but what else could I do?”

“Nothing at all, perhaps.”

“I always do what Mollie says. She hurried to the taxicab and stuck her
head through the door. She shook hands with some one, too, as well as I
could tell. Then the bally chauffeur shoved her into the car, or so it
looked to me, and bounded to his seat and drove away at top speed. Dash
it, what d’ye think of that?”

“What did you think of it?” Nick inquired.

“I was so beastly hard hit I couldn’t think,” cried the Englishman. “I
chased after the bally cab as fast as possible, hoping it would stop and
let Mollie down, but it sped out of sight into the park, and here I am.
I’m deuced well convinced there’s something wrong. Mollie wouldn’t bolt
off in that fashion. She’s above serving me a scurvy trick. She----”

“One moment,” Nick again interposed. “You feel quite sure, you say, that
you saw the chauffeur force your wife into the cab?”

“It looked jolly well like it, Mr. Carter.”

“Did you hear her speak, or utter a cry?”

“I did not, sir.”

“Were there other persons near the taxicab at the time?”

“None nearer than I, sir, nor quite as near. I ran after it as fast as I
could. I felt cock-sure, even then, it was a beastly job of some kind.”

“Do you know of any reason for which your wife might be abducted?” Nick
asked, more gravely.

“No, no reason at all, Mr. Carter. There can’t be any reason.”

“And you know of no person who might have designs upon her?”

“I do not,” said the Englishman, with a groan at the mere suggestion.
“What designs could one have? Mollie is my wife. She thinks the world of
me. She’s true-blue and deucedly clever and self-reliant. She----”

“Wait!” said Nick, checking him again. “You are English, I judge.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And your wife is an American girl?”

“She is, sir, and none better.”

“Do you reside here in the city?”

“We are here only for a time. We are boarding in Fifty-third Street,
near the avenue.”

“Let’s walk that way,” said Nick. “It’s barely possible that your wife
will have been dropped at the boarding house before we reach it. How
long before you appealed to me did this incident occur?”

“Not more than three or four minutes. We were about three blocks below
here.”

Nick remembered having seen a taxicab speeding up the avenue noticeably
faster than usual at about that time. He had not observed it
particularly, however, nor could he recall anything distinctive about
it.

There were other reasons than that, moreover, for the interest he was
taking in this stranger. He regarded the episode quite as seriously as
the young Englishman himself. He knew much better than the other what
daring and audacious crimes are committed in New York, and he began to
suspect that this might be one of them.

Nick had decided to look at least a little deeper into the matter,
therefore, and it was with that object in view that he suggested going
to the Englishman’s lodging house, which was only a few blocks south of
where the two men had met.

Nick continued to question him while they walked briskly down the
avenue.

“How long have you been in New York?” he inquired.

“I have been here only two weeks, Mr. Carter, this time,” was the reply.

“Your second visit?”

“Yes. I was here about two months ago for the first time. I have been
out in the bally Cripple Creek country to invest in some mines. Deucedly
rough section, old top, with a beastly lot of bally bounders, but they
dig out a jolly quantity of rich ore. ’Pon my word, I----”

“You are a man of means, then, I infer,” put in Nick.

“Well, I have a bit of a fortune in my own name.”

“By the way, speaking of that, what is your name?” Nick pointedly
inquired.

The Englishman hesitated for half a second. Most men would not have
noticed it. Nick was quick to detect it, suspecting deception, however,
as well as some secret occasion for it.

“My name is Archie Waldron.”

“Archie Waldron, eh?”

“Yes. I am English, you know, as you remarked, though I’m jolly well
puzzled as to how you discovered it.”

Nick did not inform him. Instead, as they turned into Fifty-third Street
and approached the boarding house occupied by the Englishman, he
inquired, more earnestly:

“Where had you been with your wife, or where were you going, Mr.
Waldron, when this strange separation occurred?”

A tinge of red appeared in the Englishman’s cheeks. He appeared somewhat
embarrassed. He gazed at Nick for a moment, then said:

“We went out for a bit of a walk, Mr. Carter. It’s deuced tiresome, you
know, sitting around a bally boarding house. Here we are, too, and----”

“Wait one moment,” Nick interrupted, as they arrived at the steps of the
house. “I have something to say to you, Mr. Waldron.”

“Glad of it, old top, on my word. What is it?”

“You already anticipate it,” Nick replied impressively. “I can read that
in your face. Now, young man, this matter may be even more serious than
you really think. I have no idea that we shall find your wife here.
There is no telling when she will return, by whom she was carried away,
or how she can be traced and the truth discovered--unless you tell me
the truth.”

“But----”

“Your name is not Archie Waldron. You did not come out merely for a walk
with your wife. You were going, or had been somewhere, with a definite
object in view, and that possibly may have some bearing upon what
followed.”

“’Pon my word, sir----”

“Oh, there is nothing to it,” Nick insisted. “I mean just what I say.
You will be perfectly safe, Mr. Waldron, in frankly confiding in me.
You must do so, too, or I shall drop this matter immediately. Under no
other conditions will I enter this house.”



CHAPTER II.

DOWN TO CASES.


Nick Carter had a way of making himself felt under such circumstances.
His impressive remarks were immediately effective. The Englishman turned
even more pale and grave, gazing apprehensively at the detective, while
he replied, with agitated voice:

“You’re deucedly well right. I’d be a blooming idiot, Mr. Carter, if I
couldn’t see that. Come into the house, sir, and I’ll tell you the whole
beastly business. Your word is as good as a Bank of England note, sir,
and I’ll keep nothing from you.”

“You have decided wisely,” said Nick, while they mounted the steps. “In
so far as the circumstances permit, I shall consider your disclosure
strictly confidential.”

“That’s mighty kind, sir, and I’ll pay you handsomely.”

“Payment is an afterconsideration. I will accept no more than my
services warrant.”

“You’re deucedly clever, old top, and I’m proud to know you. Some jolly
good fairy must have sent you my way in an hour of need. Come up to my
room, sir.”

The Englishman had opened the door with a latchkey, and he now led the
way to an attractively furnished room on the second floor.

Among the first articles to catch Nick’s eye, amid other evidence of
feminine taste and sentiment, were two artistic photographs on the
mantel. One was a likeness of his companion.

The other was that of a very beautiful girl still under twenty, a face
that reflected culture and vivacity, and the winsome features and
expression of which, with the finely poised head and shapely shoulders,
might have been the ideal of a Raphael or Correggio.

Nick at once inferred rightly that this was the girl who apparently had
been spirited away so boldly, as well as mysteriously, in so far as a
motive had yet appeared.

The young Englishman looked disappointed when Nick’s prediction was
verified, his wife not being found there, and he at once waved the
detective to a chair, saying with nervous haste and in his own peculiar
fashion, which was much less frivolous than appears:

“You were jolly well right, Mr. Carter, and I’m confoundedly upset. What
the devil can a poor chap do? I’m going to tell you all about it. How
the dickens did you know, old top, that my name isn’t Archie Waldron?”

“Because you hesitated when I questioned you,” said Nick. “No man would
shrink from stating his true name under such circumstances.”

“Dash it! that was blasted clever, don’t you know? I was a fall guy not
to think of that. But you hit the bally nail on the nob. My name is not
Waldron, ’pon my honor. I’m the fifth son of the Earl of Eggleston, and
an only son by his second wife, the late Countess of Waldmere, from whom
I got my title and a bally bit of a fortune. She died when I was born,
and I became Lord Waldmere.”

“I suspected something of the kind,” Nick replied. “I find that I sized
you up correctly.”

“Did you really, now? Well, that’s deuced kind and clever, ’pon my word.
What’s to be done, my dear fellow? We can’t stay here, old top, while
Mollie----”

“Now, Lord Waldmere, you’re talking,” Nick interrupted. “We must get
down to rock-bottom as quickly as possible. You must leave me to
determine what shall be done. I know more about New York and its
deviltry than you could possibly imagine.”

“That’s jolly well right, sir, of course.”

“All I require of you, Waldmere, is to tell me a straight story, as
briefly as possible,” Nick added familiarly. “What are you doing over
here? Who was your American wife? Why are you living under an assumed
name in a New York boarding house? Tell me all about it with as few
words as possible.”

Nick then obtained a straight story, in so far as the essential facts
were concerned, but not without comments and digressions, from which
Lord Waldmere appeared utterly unable to refrain, and which divested his
story of anything like desirable brevity.

Briefly stated, however, it appeared that his young lordship, who in
most respects was a worthy representative of one of the wealthy and most
conservative families of the English aristocracy, had fallen deeply in
love with a beautiful American chorus girl about three months before,
who then was one of an American opera company singing in London.

In spite of the violent opposition and threats of his father, Lord
Waldmere had married the girl, one Mary Royal, then only nineteen, but a
girl of remarkable beauty and many accomplishments, and of unblemished
and enviable reputation.

What followed was in line with the old, old story. His lordship was
promptly disowned and disinherited. He at once left England and came to
America with his bride, already having small interests in several
Colorado mines, and bent upon investing in others a part of his personal
fortune, which amounted to something like fifty thousand pounds, then
tied up in English securities and mortgages.

Lord Waldmere had remained only ten days in New York after his arrival.
He then went to Colorado with his wife to investigate various mining
properties, concerning which he already was partly informed, and in
which he anticipated investing quite heavily.

Lack of ready money, however, and his inability to realize immediately
upon his home investments, had led him to take an unusual step, one
taken upon the suggestion and advice of his wife, pending receipt of
funds from a London agent.

Lord Waldmere had, in fact, raised ten thousand dollars by placing in
pawn with the Imperial Loan Company his wife’s valuable jewels, given to
her before her marriage, and valued at about thirty thousand dollars.
This not only had been done upon his wife’s suggestion, but she also had
made the deal and conducted the entire transaction, having had far more
experience and being of a much more practical business mind than her
husband himself. All of this money had since been invested in Colorado.

Returning to New a week before, Waldmere then communicated by cable with
his London agent, who, during the interval, had converted some of his
lordship’s property into cash, and drafts were immediately sent him
more than doubly sufficient to redeem the pledged jewels.

These funds had arrived that afternoon and were immediately placed on
deposit. A little later Waldmere went with his wife to the office of the
Imperial Loan Company to redeem the jewels, arriving there soon after
five o’clock.

They were told, however, that the jewels were in a time-lock vault that
had just been closed for the day, and which could not be opened until
nine o’clock the following morning, when the jewels could be redeemed
and the transaction ended.

This was perfectly satisfactory under the circumstances, of course, and
Lady Waldmere promised to call with her husband the following morning.
It was while they were returning to the boarding house, however, that
they were separated in the extraordinary manner described.

Such was his lordship’s story, told in his own peculiar way, and to
which Nick Carter very attentively listened. It revealed the truth in so
far as Waldmere could reveal it--but it by no means explained the
disappearance of her ladyship, the beautiful American chorus girl for
whom Waldmere had lost his heart and sacrificed his prestige.

Nick smiled somewhat significantly when the Englishman had finished. He
glanced at the photograph on the mantel, remarking agreeably:

“Well, well, Waldmere, you were hard hit indeed by the pretty American
girl. In view of the incentive to many of our international marriages,
your conduct is really quite refreshing. I rather like you for it. That
is a photograph of Lady Waldmere, I infer.”

“Yes, taken in London,” bowed Waldmere, evidently deeply pleased with
the detective’s comments.

“A very beautiful girl, indeed.”

“She jolly well is, Mr. Carter, and worthy of----”

“Of all your devotion, Waldmere, no doubt,” Nick familiarly interrupted.
“But we must not drift away from the matter. We must get onto our job
and stick to it, or valuable time may be lost.”

“I agree with you.”

“None of the circumstances you have stated seem to present, on the
surface at least, any reasonable explanation of what has occurred, nor
any consistent motive for felonious designs upon her,” Nick added.
“Unless she soon returns, nevertheless, there can be no doubt that she
is a victim of knavery of some kind, that does not appear on the
surface. Let me ask you a few questions. I then may hit upon some theory
to fit the case.”

“That’s a ripping good idea, old top,” Lord Waldmere nodded. “Come on
with them.”

“To begin with, then, has your wife many acquaintances here in town?”

“Hardly any, sir, ’pon my word. She is a Kentucky girl, and has spent
but little time in this bally city. We have met none during either of
our visits. We live very privately.”

“It is quite improbable, then, that the occupant of the taxicab was a
friend, or even an acquaintance,” Nick pointed out. “Deception having
been employed, therefore, we must assume that she was forcibly carried
away. That also appears in the fact that you think the driver thrust
her into the cab.”

“I’m deuced well sure of that, Mr. Carter,” Waldmere again declared.
“The bally bounder placed his hand squarely on her shoulder, sir, and
gave her a push. I can almost swear to that. If she----”

“Let me do most of the talking, Waldmere,” Nick interrupted. “I wish to
get at the salient points as quickly as possible. Answer me with merely
an affirmative, or negative, when you can.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Has your father, or any of your family, ever threatened the girl
because of your marriage?” Nick then inquired. “In other words,
Waldmere, do you believe any of them capable of a conspiracy against
her?”

“No, sir,” protested the Englishman quickly. “They are above anything of
that kind. Besides, Mr. Carter, they have jolly well cast us both out.
No one knows where to find us.”

“You think, then, that they may be safely eliminated from any connection
with this affair?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“We must seek nearer home, then, for a motive,” said Nick. “Had Miss
Royal any former admirer who might----”

“No, no; nothing of the kind.” Lord Waldmere quickly shook his head.
“Her sweet heart has been an open book for me to read at will. There is
nothing in that, sir.”

“And you recall no incentive, or circumstance, that might have a bearing
upon this matter?”

“No, none, Mr. Carter.”

“Let’s consider, then, the one nearest to it--your visit to the Imperial
Loan Company,” said Nick. “I think you said that Lady Waldmere did most
of the business.”

“She did the whole blooming business,” Lord Waldmere quickly assured
him. “She’s jolly well fitted for it, is Mollie, while I’m a doughhead
and----”

“I understand,” Nick cut in. “You went with her to redeem the jewels,
which had been pledged for ten thousand dollars. Did she have the money
on her person? That may have been the incentive for the crime, if such
it turns out to be.”

“But that can’t be, don’t you know?” Waldmere at once protested. “Mollie
had the bally ticket for the pledge, but she had no money. I had a
certified bank check for the amount. Here it is, sir. See for yourself.”

Nick merely glanced at the check, which Lord Waldmere hastily drew from
his pocketbook. It bore the current date and corroborated the
Englishman’s statements.

“It seems to knock that theory on the head,” Nick said thoughtfully,
after a moment. “Nevertheless, by Jove, it may be that the jewels----”

Nick broke off abruptly, not stating what he had in mind. Instead,
drawing forward in his chair, he said, more earnestly:

“By the way, Lord Waldmere, did your wife transact this business under
her own name, or a fictitious one?”

“An assumed name, of course.”

“The one by which you are known here?”

“No. She used another.”

“What was it?”

Lord Waldmere scratched his head, staring desperately at the carpet for
several moments.

“Dash it, sir! I’ve jolly well forgotten,” he cried dubiously. “’Pon my
honor, Mr. Carter, I can’t remember.”

“Rack your brains for a moment,” Nick suggested, though he had no great
hope of any desirable result.

“Hang it, sir! I’m giving them a ripping racking. But Mollie always kept
the bally ticket, you see, and I had no hand in the blooming business.
She has a head for it, don’t you know, and I always let her run things
for me. Blast it, sir, I can’t remember!”

“Well, well, never mind,” Nick said, a bit bluntly. “Whom did you see in
the loan office?”

“The jolly manager, I think.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“’Pon my word, sir, I don’t,” said Waldmere, with a groan over his
inability to be of any material aid. “I don’t know that I heard his
bally name, sir, as far as that goes. Molly did all of the talking.”

“What was said, or done?”

“Very little, sir, ’pon my word. Mollie turned in the ticket to a dinky
clerk in a window. He took it to a back room, as I remember, and in
about five minutes the bally manager came out.”

“What did he say?” Nick inquired.

“He said as how the jewels were in the vault, which had been closed
about five o’clock for the day, and that it couldn’t be opened until
to-morrow morning.”

“He stated that it had a time lock, didn’t he?”

“Exactly. That’s just what he said.”

“And that your wife could redeem the jewels if she were to call
to-morrow morning?”

“Precisely,” Lord Waldmere nodded. “That’s all there was to the blooming
business.”

Nick did not feel so sure of it. He saw plainly, however, that there was
nothing more to be learned from the titled Englishman, who obviously
knew as little of business as a lad in knickerbockers.

More than an hour had passed since the episode on the avenue. There was
no indication of Lady Waldmere’s return, nor did Nick really expect it.
He glanced at his watch and found that it was nearly seven o’clock.

“Dash it! I’m deucedly upset,” Waldmere remarked, and he really looked
so. “What the dickens am I to do? What----”

Nick interrupted him kindly, but impressively.

“There is only one wise thing for you to do, Lord Waldmere,” said he.
“You must leave this matter to me and do precisely what I direct. If
your wife has been abducted, or is a victim of other knavery, I will
leave no stone unturned to find her and punish the crooks. I can
accomplish both, perhaps, while you would surely fail.”

“You’re jolly well right, Mr. Carter, as far as that goes,” Waldmere
frankly admitted.

“You must see, then, that my advice is sound,” said Nick. “I will take
the case, if you wish, but you must promise to follow my instructions.”

“That’s deucedly kind, sir, and I’ll do so. I will, sir, ’pon my honor.”

“Very good,” said Nick. Give the matter no publicity, then, at present.
Remain here quietly until to-morrow morning, stating to others in the
house merely that your wife is away for a short time. I don’t want the
matter to reach the newspapers.”

“Dear me, no!”

“Be silent, then, and discreet. Here is a card with my address and
telephone number. Is there a telephone in this house?”

“There is, sir,” Waldmere nodded.

“If your wife returns before morning, then, call up my office and inform
whomever answers you,” Nick directed. “That would probably end the
matter. If she does not return, however, which now seems more probable,
you may expect me here at half past eight to-morrow morning. I then will
begin a thorough investigation. In other words, Lord Waldmere, I’m going
at this like a bull at a gate.”

The last was added chiefly to encourage the down-hearted Englishman,
who, strange to say, appeared to detect it. For he pulled himself
together with a manly effort, then adjusted his monocle to gaze more
intently at the detective, whose hand he warmly grasped with both of
his.

“’Pon my honor, old top, I can’t find words to thank you,” he said
gratefully. “I really can’t, don’t you know.”

“Don’t try, Lord Waldmere,” Nick replied, pressing his hand. “Merely do
only what I have directed. Keep a stiff upper lip and leave this matter
to me. I’ll call the turn, all right, as sure as you’re a foot high.”



CHAPTER III.

HOW NICK SIZED IT UP.


Nick Carter came out from dinner in his Madison Avenue residence after
eight o’clock, two hours later than usual. Instead of going to his
business office, he entered his private library, saying to Joseph, his
butler, as he passed him in the deep, attractively furnished hall:

“Send Chick and Patsy to me. They’re in the office.”

Nick had waited only a few moments, when he was joined by his chief
assistant, Chick Carter, who was presently followed by Patsy Garvan.
Both knew that something of importance was in the wind, and Nick at once
proceeded to tell them of what it consisted, covering all of the
essential points of the case.

“Gee, that’s some puzzle, chief, for fair!” commented Patsy, after
listening attentively. “What’s the game? His royal nob from England must
be a decent sort of a chap, after all, don’t you know. He sure has been
dead square with the chorus girl.”

“So he is, Patsy, and less shallow than he appears,” Nick replied. “But
he don’t know enough about business to last him overnight. Evidently,
however, his wife is a keen and clever girl, as well as handsome.”

“Why not? She’s an American girl,” said Patsy.

“That’s one reason why I took on the case,” smiled Nick.

“The Imperial Loan Company,” put in Chick. “Why, I know that concern.
It’s nothing else but a high-grade pawnshop. It was established by Isaac
Meyer several years ago. I knew him when he had a shop in the Bowery.
But he’s nearly down and out, now with creeping paralysis. He never
leaves home.”

“Where is that?” Nick inquired.

“Over in Columbus Avenue.”

“Who runs his business?”

“His manager,” said Chick. “A man named Morris Garland. He has been with
Meyer since he opened the Fifth Avenue place. It’s only a few blocks
from where you met the Englishman.”

“I know the place very well, Chick, but none of the inmates,” said Nick.
“What do you know about Garland?”

“He’s all aboveboard, Nick, as far as I know,” Chick replied. “There is
only one out about him, if that really cuts any ice.”

“What is that?”

“I have seen him quite frequently with Stuart Floyd. They appear to be
very friendly. You know Floyd, of course. He’s about as keen and slick a
fellow as can be found in this old town.”

“Do you think so?”

“Don’t you?”

“I don’t know much about him, Chick, save that he is a well-known man
about town. The police have nothing on him, have they?”

“No, nothing that I know of,” Chick admitted. “Floyd has no record, to
be sure, barring a record that makes him a mystery to me, at least.”

“Why a mystery?”

“Because he has no visible means of support, yet he always has plenty of
money, or appears to have,” said Chick. “He inherited nothing,
nevertheless, for I knew his people, as I have known him for years.”

“I see.”

“He has lived by his wits since he was fifteen. I never knew him to do a
stroke of work. At thirty, nevertheless,” Chick pointed out, “he
frequents the best hotels and restaurants, lives like a lord, dresses
like a millionaire, and spends money more lavishly than most of them. He
apparently is a thoroughbred sport and man about town. But where does
the coin come from? How does he get by? If that don’t constitute a
mystery, Nick, what the dickens does? I’m from Missouri. You’ll have to
show me.”

Nick laughed.

“We are drifting from the more important matter,” said he. “You know of
nothing wrong in his relations with Morris Garland, do you?”

“No, nothing,” Chick allowed. “I’ve told you all I know about him.”

“He is not alone in those respects,” Nick replied. “There are hundreds
like him. I have heard, of course, that Stuart Floyd is a slick fellow.
He really looks it, as far as that goes, for he is as clean-cut,
attractive a man as one often meets. That’s neither here nor there,
however, at this stage of the game. We’ll get back to Hecuba.”

“Do you suspect the Imperial Loan Company, chief, in connection with
Lady Waldmere’s disappearance?” asked Patsy.

“I do.”

“Why?”

“For two reasons,” said Nick. “First, because there seems to be no one
else to suspect. Second, because the episode occurred so soon after her
visit to the loan company. That suggests a possible connection between
them.”

“I see the point.”

“Furthermore, there are ten thousand dollars involved, or jewels valued
at close upon thirty,” Nick added. “Those may be the incentive to
knavery of some kind. There seems to be no other motive for a crime, in
fact, assuming that a crime really has been committed.”

“That’s right, too, chief,” nodded Patsy. “There seems to be nothing
else to be gained, if Lord Waldmere had told a straight story.”

“I have no doubt of that.”

“But what could the loan company gain by abducting the woman?” Chick
questioned, perplexed. “The jewels must be in their possession.”

“Very true,” Nick admitted. “They knew that Lady Waldmere had called to
redeem them, and that she must have brought the funds with which to do
so. They may not have known, however, that she intended redeeming the
pledge with a certified check. They may have thought that she had the
ten thousand dollars in cash on her person.”

“Gee! that listens good to me, chief!” cried Patsy, quick to see the
point. “That seems to be the only way to size it up.”

“That is one way, at least,” Nick replied, smiling a bit oddly.

“But it must have been a mighty slick job, Nick, in that case,” Chick
objected, with manifest doubt of the theory advanced by the other.

“It was a slick job.”

“But how could they have framed it up so quickly?”

“What are you driving at?” Patsy demanded, turning upon Chick. “Why
quickly?”

“That ought to be plain enough even to you,” Chick retorted. “Lord
Waldmere stated that he and his wife were in the office of the loan
company only about five minutes.”

“Well, I admit that.”

“It is obvious, too, that their visit could not have been anticipated,”
Chick proceeded to argue. “Neither Morris Garland, nor the assistant
manager, Moses Hart, could have known that Lady Waldmere had any
intention of redeeming the jewelry at just that time.”

“True again, old man,” nodded Patsy, with an expression of perplexity
returning to his face.

“That’s what I mean, then, by their having framed up the job so
quickly,” Chick forcibly added.

“I get you.”

“They would have had only five minutes in which to have laid their plans
and made all the arrangements for executing them. That’s a mighty short
time in which to shape up such a job, to say nothing of getting ready to
carry it out. It’s not a simple stunt to pick up a woman on Fifth Avenue
and get away with her from under her husband’s eyes.”

“Say, you’re getting wiser every minute, Chick,” cried Patsy, laughing.
“I begin to think there really is something in what you say.”

“You ought to have seen it before.”

“What do you say, chief?”

Nick laughed and knocked the ashes from the cigar he was smoking.

“Chick’s argument is all right, Patsy, as far as it goes,” he replied.
“We know that the couple were only a short time in the office of the
loan company, and that their visit could not have been anticipated. We
are not pinned down to five minutes, however.”

“What do you mean?” questioned Chick.

“What Lord Waldmere really said was this--that, after talking with one
of the clerks, who very likely was the assistant manager, the latter
went into Garland’s private office, where he remained about five minutes
before either of them came out to resume the discussion.”

“Gee! that’s right, too,” nodded Patsy.

“And it is quite significant,” Nick added. “It certainly would not have
taken Hart five minutes to state merely what the couple wanted.”

“Surely not.”

“Garland could have come out and joined them in half a minute, as far as
that goes. Why, then, did he not do so? What were the two men doing that
occupied five full minutes? It looks very much to me as if they were
framing a job.”

“But----”

“One moment, Chick,” Nick interposed. “I know you’re going to object
again to my theory. I advanced that, however, as a matter of fact, only
to point out that there could have been a reasonable motive for
knavery.”

“Ah, that’s different,” said Chick, smiling.

“I have no idea, nevertheless, assuming that Garland and Hart are back
of this business, that they aimed to rob Lady Waldmere of money supposed
to be on her person,” Nick continued. “They would not have acted upon a
mere supposition. They first would have made absolutely sure that she
had the money.”

“Certainly,” Chick nodded. “That goes without saying.”

“All the same, chief, there was a job framed up for some reason during
those five minutes,” Patsy said roundly. “I’d wager my bankroll on
that.”

“I think so, too,” Nick agreed.

“But what’s the game?” Chick questioned, still doubtful.

“Can’t you think of one that may have been necessary?”

“Not on the spur of the moment.”

“I can,” said Nick, smiling.

“Well, well, out with it,” laughed Chick, coloring slightly. “What do
you suspect?”

Nick laid aside his cigar.

“Pull up a little nearer,” said he. “I can tell you with very few words
what I suspect--and how we may contrive to clinch my suspicions.”



CHAPTER IV.

NICK DECLARES HIMSELF.


Nick Carter’s anticipation proved to be correct. He received no
telephone communication from Lord Waldmere, informing him that his
pretty American wife had returned. In accord with his promise to the
Englishman, therefore, while Chick and Patsy prepared to carry out the
instructions given them, Nick appeared at the boarding house in
Fifty-third Street at precisely half past eight that morning and rang
the bell.

As the saying goes, however, Nick’s own mother would not have recognized
him. He was clad in a rather obtrusive plaid suit of pronounced English
cut. He looked portly and imposing. He carried a heavy ebony cane. His
strong, clean-cut face was artfully disguised. He could have walked
through the Strand or Piccadilly, and readily have been taken for a Bond
Street banker on his way to business.

Nick directed the servant to inform Mr. Waldron that the friend he was
expecting had arrived, and the detective was presently conducted to the
first-floor front, which he entered and closed the door.

Lord Waldmere, looking white and haggard after a sleepless night, stared
at him in blank amazement.

“Oh, I say!” he exclaimed. “There is some beastly mistake. I’m not
expecting----”

“Yes, you are, Waldmere,” Nick interrupted, smiling and speaking in his
customary tones. “There is no mistake. I told you, you know, that I was
going at this case like a bull at a gate.”

Waldmere’s face lighted wondrously.

“Oh, by Jove!” he cried, hand extended. “You are----”

“The man you expect,” Nick interposed, more seriously. “Don’t be
surprised at seeing me thus disguised. My face is very well known to the
denizens of the underworld, and I frequently must get in my work under
cover.”

“You are jolly well covered, sir, as to that,” Waldmere replied, smiling
significantly. “I’d never know you. I’d take you for some blooming
banker, or----”

“That is precisely what I aimed at,” Nick replied. “But we have no time
to waste. You have heard nothing from your wife, of course?”

“Not a word, or----”

“Or you would have advised me, certainly,” Nick cut in again. “We will
get right at this matter, then. Sit down while I give you a few
instructions.”

Lord Waldmere complied, all attention.

Half an hour later, or about quarter past nine, a taxicab stopped in
front of the quarters of the Imperial Loan Company, which Nick and his
companion entered, or that part of the establishment open to its
patrons.

There was an atmosphere of dignity and business solidarity in the place.
A long counter with a high brass lattice divided the public room. Back
of it were two clerks and the assistant manager, Moses Hart, the former
talking in whispers to customers through narrow windows. Three large
steel safes and a vault in one of the walls had an imposing appearance.
Off to the right were two private rooms, accessible only through the
latticed inclosure. The doors of both were partly open.

There were half a dozen customers engaged at the windows, or waiting
their turn, when Nick and Waldmere entered.

One among them was a seedily clad man with a sallow countenance and a
scraggly brown beard, who appeared decidedly down in the world. A rusty
derby hat was pulled nearly down to his ears. He was waiting to pawn a
bit of jewelry, and a certain shifty light in his restless eyes denoted
that he awaited the transaction with some misgivings, indicating that
where he had obtained the bauble might consistently be questioned. He
glanced suspiciously at Nick and the Englishman, then turned his head,
as if to avoid observation.

Nick paid no attention to the fellow, however, but at once approached a
window at one end of the long counter and nearer the private office,
Lord Waldmere following at his elbow.

Moses Hart came to meet them at the window, a short dark man of forty,
with gold-bowed spectacles astride his somewhat prominent nose.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said he, rubbing his hands and leaning over
the counter. “What can I do for you this morning?”

Nick already had directed Waldmere to let him do all of the talking.

“Are you the manager here?” he inquired.

“The assistant manager,” Hart corrected, smiling and bowing
obsequiously. “What is your business?”

“We wish to redeem some valuable jewels which you are holding as
collateral,” said Nick. “You loaned my friend, here, ten thousand
dollars on them, which he now is ready to pay, with the accrued
interest. He called yesterday afternoon with his wife, who----”

“Dear me!” Hart quietly exclaimed, interrupting. “Yes, yes, I remember
that one of the clerks mentioned it. Unfortunately, the vault containing
the jewels had been closed for the day and could not be opened. Let me
have our ticket, or voucher, given you for the pledge and I will get
them.”

Nick had had a constant eye on Hart’s face. He saw that the man lost
color, that an apprehensive expression in his squinted eyes evinced a
perturbation that he could not entirely conceal. This convinced Nick
that he was on the right track, though he realized that he still was
laboring under some difficulties.

“Unfortunately, too, we are not in possession of the ticket for the
loan,” he replied. “It is in the keeping of his wife, who has gone away
for a time with a friend.”

“You must communicate with her, then, and have her send you the ticket,”
Hart rejoined.

“We cannot do that.”

“Not do it?”

“No. We are not informed of her address.”

“But you cannot expect us to redeem the pledge to any person except the
holder of the ticket,” Hart quickly protested. “That is the only
safeguard for both parties. You must bring the ticket, of course, in
order to obtain the jewels. Otherwise, we cannot possibly let you have
them.”

“But----”

“Oh, there is nothing to it,” Hart insisted. “We do business in no other
way.”

“See here!” Nick exclaimed, and his voice took on a somewhat threatening
ring. “Unless you----”

“One moment, sir,” Hart again interrupted. “I will speak to our manager,
Mr. Garland. He will talk with you. Wait just one moment.”

Hart vanished from the window, and through the brass lattice Nick saw
him hasten into one of the private offices.

Five minutes passed and he did not reappear.

“This looks deucedly like not getting them, by Jove,” whispered
Waldmere, gazing dubiously at the detective.

“I don’t expect to get them,” Nick muttered.

“No?”

“I came here only to size up these fellows and hear what they would
say,” Nick quietly added. “Say nothing while I am talking with the
manager, if he ever decides to show up.”

“You think----”

“There’s nothing to it. The two men are discussing the situation. They
don’t like it for some reason. I must find later of what that reason
consists. It may be the key to the whole business.”

“I’m jolly well convinced that----”

“Quiet. Here comes the manager.”

A tall, somewhat cadaverous man of forty was approaching from the
private office. His bushy brows were knit, and he had an aggressive
aspect that gave promise of nothing favorable. He came straight to the
window at which Nick and Waldmere were standing.

“Are you the gentlemen who wish to redeem some jewels?” he asked
abruptly.

“Yes,” said Nick shortly.

“I am Mr. Garland, the manager. My assistant has told me what you have
said. There really is nothing we can do for you. You will have to bring
the ticket for the pledge in order to redeem it.”

“But we cannot get the ticket until this gentleman’s wife returns,” Nick
replied.

“Where has she gone?”

“We don’t know. She is away with a friend.”

“Is the ticket in her name?”

“Yes.”

“What name?”

“We don’t know that, either,” said Nick. “She used a fictitious name
when she negotiated the loan.”

“Why did she do that?” Garland demanded. “There should have been no
occasion for it. We do all of our business aboveboard and expect no less
of our patrons. Really, gentlemen, this matter don’t look quite right to
me. You will have to wait until the woman returns, or sends you the
ticket.”

Nick Carter’s disguised face took on a more threatening frown. He
pressed nearer the window, replying, in peppery tones:

“This don’t look right to you, eh? What is it, sir, that don’t look
right to you.”

“We will not discuss that point,” said Garland curtly. “I have told you
the only way by which you can redeem the pledge and obtain the jewels.”

“No, you haven’t,” snapped Nick hotly. “I can appeal to the authorities.
I can call in the police. I’ll do it, too, unless you come down from
your high horse.”

“Don’t be foolish, my man,” said Garland, frowning.

“I’m not at all sure that the jewels are here. I’ll find out--I’ll make
it a point to find out.”

“Nonsense! You talk like an ass,” Garland protested.

“Produce them, then,” frothed Nick. “Let’s have a look at them, at
least. If they----”

“They are in the time-lock vault, with a thousand other pledges,”
Garland hurriedly explained. “I cannot produce them without searching
the entire vault. You cannot tell me the name under which they are
pledged. I have no other means of finding them immediately. It would
take me half a day to go through the vault and identify them. You talk
like a fool, sir. Bring the ticket and the amount of the loan, and you
shall have the jewels within half a minute.”

Nick continued to storm and argue.

While this was in progress, attracting the attention of all in the
place, Moses Hart came from the private office. He did not pause to join
in the dissension, however, but at once went on to a narrow window at
the lower end of the long counter--that at which the seedy,
sinister-looking man then was waiting.

Bending close to the window, Hart winked significantly and said, with
his voice lowered:

“Do you want to make a bit of money?”

The fellow’s shifty eyes lighted eagerly.

“Does a hungry cat want meat?” he returned, in an expressive whisper.

“What’s your name?” Hart asked.

“Jerry Nolan.”

“I want to find out who that man is who----”

“The gink doing the talking?”

“Yes.”

“I get you, boss.”

“I want you to follow him when he leaves here, and find out,” Hart went
on. “Pick both of them up when they leave.”

“I’ll do it, boss! I’ll find out for you, or break a leg,” Nolan
earnestly assured him.

“Don’t return here to tell me, however,” Hart added. “I want you to
inform my partner.”

“The geeser having the spiel with the hothead?”

“Yes. I will tell you where you must meet him.”

“Come over with it,” nodded Nolan.

Hart hastily informed him.

“I get you, boss,” Nolan repeated. “I’m on to the job, and will be
there, all right.”

“Make sure you’re not detected,” Hart cautioned.

“Leave me alone for that.”

“And say nothing about this.”

“And for that, too,” whispered Nolan, with an expressive leer.

“That’s all, then. Go ahead.”

Nolan turned away from the window. He bestowed another swift, furtive
glance upon the detective, then hitched up his baggy trousers and
sneaked out of the place.

Nick Carter, after an apparently vain mission, departed with Lord
Waldmere five minutes later.



CHAPTER V.

NOLAN MAKES A DISCOVERY.


Jerry Nolan proved as good as his word, in so far as what he had been
directed to accomplish was concerned.

He followed Nick Carter and Lord Waldmere from the quarters of the loan
company, and something like an hour following their departure after
their apparently vain mission, Nolan put in an appearance in the upper
section of Amsterdam Avenue, where he had been directed to await the
coming of Mr. Morris Garland.

If one were to have judged from the expression on Nolan’s sinister face,
however, one would have felt reasonably sure that he could not be wisely
trusted, that he had sized up the circumstances from his own evil
standpoint, and was bent upon taking further advantage of them than he
seemed likely to derive. In other words, Nolan appeared to suspect that
there was something crooked in the wind, and was resolved to make the
most of it.

All this would have been even more obvious to an observer of Nolan’s
actions upon approaching the appointed rendezvous.

He did not wait on the corner, as he had been directed. Instead, he
slunk around it, apparently watching the pedestrians within his range of
vision in the avenue, and presently he stole over to an opposite
doorway, which seemed to afford a more desirable vantage point, and from
which he continued his sinister vigil.

Presently he sighted among the comparatively few people then in that
part of the avenue the man he was expecting. He recognized him at once,
though he then was nearly a block away and on the opposite side of the
thoroughfare.

There could be no mistaking the tall figure and dark, cadaverous face of
the head manager of the Imperial Loan Company.

Nolan’s eyes lighted when Garland appeared in the near distance. One
would have said that he was thinking of the reward for the scurrilous
work he had agreed to do.

“Here’s where I’ll get mine, all right,” he said to himself. “I’ll make
him settle sooner or later. I reckon I’d better hike over to the corner
where I’m to meet him, or he might suspect that I----”

Nolan’s train of thought was brought to an abrupt end by a sudden,
unexpected move of the other.

Morris Garland turned from the sidewalk and quickly crossed the avenue.
He then walked quite slowly, with his gaze directed to the side from
which he had come, and once he paused for a moment to gaze at the door
and windows of an opposite house, one of a long brick block.

Nolan took a look at it, also, but he could discover nothing warranting
Garland’s manifest interest in the house.

The door was closed. The curtains at most of the windows were drawn
down. Some of the windows were dusty, and the front steps had not
recently been swept. The house looked, in fact, aside from its
furnishings, as if it was unoccupied.

“What’s hit him, now?” Nolan asked himself. “Why is he sizing up that
crib? Nobody home but the gas, and that’s leaking out. I wonder----”

Another move by Garland broke Nolan’s train of thought.

Garland quickly recrossed the avenue, then hastened up to the appointed
corner, glancing sharply in all directions.

“Looking for me,” Nolan tersely thought, slinking back in the doorway.
“I’ll let him look for half a minute and see what he’ll do next.”

Garland did not look as long as half a minute. He evidently assumed that
Nolan had not yet completed his work and arrived there. He turned
abruptly and hastened to a house on the opposite corner of the
cross-street, entering with a key.

“That must be where the bloke lives,” Nolan reasoned. “That’s why I was
told to come up here to report. I’ll see--huh! there he is again.”

Nolan caught sight of him at one of the front windows. He could see his
dark face between the lace draperies. He watched it intently, with even
a more sinister look in his own keen eyes.

Garland evidently was watching for the expected man.

“I’ll sneak out when he isn’t watching, and then show up on the corner,”
Nolan said to himself. “He won’t be wise, then, to the fact that I got
here first. I’ll put something over on him, all right, or I’ve doped out
this business all wrong.”

Something like five minutes later, after waiting for a favorable
opportunity, Nolan appeared on the street corner opposite Garland’s
residence. He had been waiting only a moment when the latter emerged
from the house and hastened over to join him.

“Well, you’re here, Nolan, at last,” he said, a bit curtly.

“Sure I’m here, boss,” Nolan nodded. “You can always bank on my making
good.”

“Have you done what Hart directed?”

“The geeser who hired me? Yes, of course. I sure have done it. If I
hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here,” said Nolan, with an expressive leer.

“Well, what did you learn?” Garland demanded, more sharply eying him.

“I followed the two blokes down Fifth Avenue about three blocks, but I
couldn’t get next to anything they were saying,” Nolan proceeded to
report. “They parted on a corner, and then I followed the big guy, him
as put the peppery spiel in the pawnshop.”

“Where did he go?”

“Over to a house in Madison Avenue.”

“Did you find out his name?”

“Sure I did,” Nolan declared, much as if such a question was needless.
“Trust me for that. I was wise to it, all right, when I piped him going
in that crib.”

“Who is he? What do you know about him?”

“He’s a fly gun, boss; that’s what he is. He’s the biggest squeeze in
the whole dick outfit. His name is Carter.”

“Not Nick Carter?”

“That’s what.”

“Are you sure of it, absolutely sure of it?”

“As sure as if a house fell on me,” Nolan forcibly asserted. “Why
wouldn’t I be? I’ve had him after me more’n once. He was made up with
grease paint and spinach, all right, but I was wise to his true mug when
he went up the steps and into the house. I knew before where the dick
lived. What’s the game, boss? I could help you further, if you fancied
putting me wise.”

Garland’s dark face had, upon learning the name of Waldmere’s companion
that morning, taken on a look of more serious concern. It vanished
almost instantly, however, and his teeth met with a vicious snap,
smacking defiance, which evidently impelled Nolan to venture offering
his further assistance.

Garland received the suggestion with a darker frown, however, and
quickly shook his head.

“There isn’t any game, my man,” he said, quite sternly. “You put that
idea out of your head, and keep it out. You were not employed for this
work because of any game, but because we had no one else whom we could
send conveniently at that time.”

“Beg pardon, boss,” Nolan quickly responded. “I’m wise, all right, now
that you’ve put me next. It was the two coveys, Carter and the other
gink, whom you think were playing some kind of a game.”

“That’s just the size of it,” Garland hastened to assure him.

“I’m wise, all right, boss, now that you’ve told me.”

“Both men were strangers to me,” Garland added, in an explanatory way.
“We suspected them of trickery and wanted to learn who they were, or
more particularly the one you say is Nick Carter.”

“You can bank on that, boss.”

“It’s all right, then, no doubt, for Nick Carter would not have engaged
in any crooked work,” Garland proceeded. “He must have had some other
object in view. I shall probably be informed sooner or later. What do I
owe you for your services?”

“That’s up to you, boss,” said Nolan, apparently content to drop the
matter and accept what was offered, as well as the explanation just
made.

“Will a ten-dollar note pay you?” questioned Garland, taking out a roll
of money.

“Sure thing, boss, and then some.”

“Let it keep your mouth closed, also,” Garland added, stripping off a
bank note from the roll. “I wouldn’t want Carter to think I have any
reason to have suspected him.”

“I’m dumb,” Nolan assured him, eagerly accepting the money.

“You will say nothing about it, eh?”

“On my word.”

“Not even if----”

“Forget it!” Nolan cut in pointedly. “Forget it, boss; I have.”

“Very good,” Garland said approvingly. “See that you don’t recall it.”

He turned away with the last, quickly crossing the street and entering
his residence. From one of the windows, however, he proceeded to watch
Nolan down the avenue, until the seedy, sinister fellow vanished around
a distant corner.

But Mr. Jerry Nolan was nothing if not crafty. He did not so much as
glance back before turning the corner. Nor did he then pay further
attention to Garland to see whether he left his house.

As he was passing that at which the pawnbroker had paused to gaze,
however, Nolan glanced furtively at the door. He saw there was no name
plate on it. He saw the dust on the steps and the soiled windows on the
second floor, and he came to a perfectly natural conclusion.

“There’s been something doing in this crib, or that Pawnee Indian would
not have had so much interest in it,” he said to himself. “It appears to
be unoccupied. I’ll nose around a bit and make sure of it. Then I’ll
find out whether there’s only ten bucks for me in this job.”

Nolan fixed in his mind the precise location of the house by counting
from the end of the block. He then walked around to the next street,
from which he stealthily picked his way through an alley until he could
see the back of the suspected dwelling.

It would have confirmed the suspicions of any discerning man. The drawn
curtains, the soiled windows, the closed shutters of those in the rear
yard--all denoted that the house, though furnished, had not been
recently occupied, unless for some covert purpose.

Nolan promptly came to another conclusion--that he would sneak into the
house and see what more he could learn.

He went about it with the skill and caution of a professional sneak
thief, which he looked more like than anything else. He crept through
the alley and into the yard back of the house, where he crouched briefly
under the high board fence to study the back windows of all the near
dwellings.

Feeling sure that he had not been seen, he then took several skeleton
keys from his pocket, quickly selecting one which he thought would serve
his purpose.

It did.

Within half a minute Nolan had quietly unlocked the rear door and
stepped noiselessly into a back basement hall, closing the door after
him.

There he waited and listened, scarce breathing, until five full minutes
had passed.

Not a sound came from any part of the house.

Not a sign of life could be seen in the dusty, dimly lighted hall.

Nolan then crept up the narrow stairway, still listening and alert.

There seemed to be, however, no occasion for such exquisite caution.
Nolan reached the next floor, that on the level with the front street.
He peered into one room after another, but discovered nothing wrong.

The kitchen looked cold and out of commission. The shutters were closed.
The range and iron sink were smeared with vaseline to prevent rusting.
Dust had collected on them, and they looked gray and dirty.

The dining room was uninviting. The sideboard was destitute, the
polished table bare. The library, sitting room, and parlor, all were in
order, but dim, cheerless, and deserted.

Nolan crept up to the next floor.

He peered into two front chambers, both neatly furnished, but he saw
nothing of special interest.

He then stole toward the rear of the house.

He came to the open door of an interior room, one having no window. It
was lighted only from the hall, save the artificial light, then switched
off.

Nolan stopped and peered into this dim bedroom. Something on the
unopened bed caught his eye--and Nolan involuntarily caught his breath.

He beheld a motionless figure, clad in a dark-blue suit, with shapely
white hands crossed on its breast, with upturned, hueless face, as
colorless as if death had lately claimed her--the face and figure of a
surpassingly beautiful woman.



CHAPTER VI.

HOW IT WAS DONE.


Jerry Nolan was not rattled by the discovery he had made. It was not in
his nature to be upset by anything short of a cyclone or an earthquake.

He gazed in for several moments at the motionless form on the bed, then
tiptoed into the room to make a closer inspection.

“Is she dead?” he asked himself. “Has she been croaked by crooks?”

Nolan paused beside the bed, bending above her.

It seemed to him that he had never beheld a more beautiful face.

He touched her hand and found it cold, then listened and looked in vain
for any sign that she was breathing.

There was an ugly gleam in Nolan’s eyes when he straightened up and
turned toward the door. He caught sight of a switch key on the wall, and
realized that with more light he could better determine the woman’s
condition. He turned the key and a flood of electric light filled the
room.

When he swung round again other objects met Nolan’s gaze. The woman’s
hat and jacket were lying on a chair. Beside them lay an open hand bag.
It contained only a dainty lace handkerchief. Her purse and other
valuables evidently had been stolen.

Her kid gloves had been tossed upon a bureau. Near them on the bureau,
placed in a small china tray, was a slender object, that glistened
brightly in the electric light.

Nolan approached and gazed at it.

It was a small glass hypodermic syringe, nearly filled with a colorless
fluid.

A scrap of paper, on which a few words were typewritten, had been placed
under the tray.

Nolan drew it out and read:

“This woman is only drugged. Inject the contents of the syringe into her
arm to revive her.”

Nolan did not hesitate.

He took up the syringe with the familiarity of a physician, or of a dope
fiend accustomed to using one, and again approached the bed.

Drawing up the sleeve from the woman’s shapely arm, he plunged the
needle through the fair skin and injected the contents of the syringe,
which he then replaced on the bureau.

Nolan then put a chair near the side of the bed and sat down to await
the result of this treatment.

He had not long to wait.

Scarce five minutes had passed when a tinge of color appeared in the
woman’s pale cheeks.

Her lips parted slightly and Nolan then could detect that she was
breathing. Another minute brought a deep-drawn sigh and a low moan, soon
followed by a fluttering of her eyelids.

“She’s still in the ring, all right,” Nolan congratulated himself. “They
were a clever bunch, for fair, that did this job. Ten bucks, eh? I’ll
soon see about that ten bucks’ gag. They’ll come down handsomely for
this, those two rats. Ah, now her lamps are lighted!”

The woman had opened her eyes.

She stared up at Nolan vacantly for several moments, too dazed and
prostrated for returning consciousness to bring any immediate
appreciation of her surroundings and what had befallen her.

Nolan did not speak, but waited patiently, knowing it then would be vain
to question her.

The woman broke the silence. She seemed to be slowly grasping the
situation, for she suddenly faltered vacantly, scarce above a whisper:

“Where am I?”

Nolan saw that she could not be moved immediately. He asked, a bit
indifferently:

“Don’t you know where you are?”

“No.”

“Or how you came here?”

“No. I----”

“Wait a bit,” Nolan interrupted. “Your head will clear in a few more
minutes. Then you’ll be able to tell me. What is your name? Can’t you
remember that?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, with more strength. “My name is Mary
Waldmere.”

“Ah!”

“I am Lady Waldmere, of----”

She broke off abruptly, starting up from the pillow, only to sink back
again, too weak to rise. A frightened look in her eyes, however, told
that she was beginning to remember.

“Where am I? Where is his lordship?” she cried, with lips quivering.
“Why am I here? Who are you?”

“Hush!” Nolan cautioned. “Don’t get excited, madam. It might not be good
for you. Wait until you can recall all that happened to you. Then I’ll
see what can be done for----”

“Oh, oh, I remember--I remember it now!” cried Lady Waldmere, rising to
her elbow. “I was seized and carried away by wicked men--and a woman!
Tell me where I am. Tell me why I was brought here, and----”

“You calm yourself,” Nolan interrupted, with some authority. “Keep cool
and tell me the whole business. Do you know the men who brought you
here?”

“No, no; I do not,” moaned the woman.

“Or the woman who was with them?”

“No, nor the woman. She was veiled.”

“How did they get away with you?”

“With the help of their chauffeur,” Lady Waldmere brokenly explained.
“He enticed me to the taxicab he was driving. I was told that a friend
wished to see me. I did not know--did not suspect. I went with him to
the taxicab door, leaving my husband waiting on the avenue.”

“And then?” Nolan tersely questioned.

“There were two men and a woman in the taxicab,” Lady Waldmere went on,
quite hysterically. “The woman was veiled, as I told you. She held out
her hand to me and I supposed that she knew me. I did not dream of
anything wrong.”

“Sure not,” Nolan nodded.

“But when she grasped my hand, she seized it firmly and drew me into the
taxicab. At the same time I felt the chauffeur push me from behind. I
fell on the floor of the cab. One of the men seized me and held me,
while the other covered my mouth with his hand.”

“Brutes!”

“I nearly fainted,” Lady Waldmere went on, moaning. “I knew, then, that
I was being abducted. I tried to struggle and scream, when the taxicab
sped away, but my efforts were futile. Then I felt a sharp pricking
sensation in my shoulder----”

“The needle of a syringe,” put in Nolan.

“I don’t know--I don’t know!” moaned the woman. “I know only that I
fainted or lost consciousness. That is all I remember till now. I cannot
tell who or why I----”

“One moment,” said Nolan. “Were the men smooth shaved, or----”

“No, no! Both wore beards.”

“They were in disguise.”

“I cannot tell. I know only that I am in despair. I know----”

“Try to be calm,” Nolan again interrupted. “Wait till you regain your
strength. You then will be able to leave here, and----”

“Leave here?”

Lady Waldmere looked at him with a sudden wild hope leaping up in her
tear-filled eyes.

“That’s what I said,” Nolan nodded.

“Do you mean--do you mean that you are not in the employ of my
abductors?” Lady Waldmere asked, in faltering, frantic whispers. “Do you
mean----”

“Oh, I’m in their employ, all right,” Nolan dryly put in.

“Alas, then----”

“But not as you infer,” Nolan added.

“Tell me what you do mean, then,” entreated the woman, white and
trembling. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Am I to remain here and----”

“Not by a long chalk!”

“You will take me away? You will restore me to my husband?” Lady
Waldmere’s voice took on a hopeful ring. “Oh, I will pay you any sum if
you will do so. Tell me----”

“Do you feel able to leave here?”

“Able--yes!”

“At once?”

“Heavens, man, yes!” Lady Waldmere started up from the bed. “But don’t
deceive me! I beg that you’ll not deceive me. Will you take me away from
here? Will you restore me to my husband? Will you----”

“You bet I will, madam!” cried Nolan. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“But if in the employ of those men----”

“Oh, that’s another story,” Nolan again interrupted, assisting the woman
to rise. “I am also in the employ of your husband.”

“My husband!”

“I am a detective. My name is Chick Carter.”

The last was instantly taken up by a fierce, threatening voice in the
adjoining hall.

“Throw up your hands, then, and keep them up! Let the woman alone--or
you’ll be a dead one!”

Chick swung round like a flash.

In the open doorway stood Morris Garland, with face as black as midnight
and as threatening as his leveled weapon.

Behind him loomed the burly figure of a red-featured cabman, with blood
in his eye and a blackjack in his hand.

Two other figures, those of women, were crouching against the wall
farther down the hall--out of view of the startled detective.



CHAPTER VII.

NICK CARTER’S DOINGS.


It now is obvious, of course, that Chick Carter lied to Mr. Morris
Garland--which was entirely warranted by the circumstances, since
knavery can be successfully met only with its own weapons.

Nick Carter had turned only the nearest corner after leaving the
quarters of the loan company, when he was overtaken by Chick, who, in
reality, had been there only to note what followed Nick’s visit with
Waldmere, and to watch any move that either Garland or Hart might
afterward make.

It so happened, however, owing to an unexpected opportunity afforded
Chick, that their own respective designs were reversed.

“Well, what was doing?” Nick immediately questioned, when Chick hastened
across the street and joined him. “I saw Hart talking to you through the
window.

Chick hastily informed him, and Nick’s face underwent a decided change.

“That does settle it,” said he. “We have given them a fright, and now
have them on the run. It’s dollars to fried rings, now, that my
suspicions are correct. It is necessary only to clinch them and nail all
of the culprits involved in the game.”

“What game?” asked Lord Waldmere curiously. “I’m jolly well mystified by
this. Why----”

“Don’t question,” Nick interrupted. “Be patient, Waldmere, until I have
got in my work. I then will answer all the questions you care to ask.”

“But, hang it, old top, I----”

“You must do what I say,” Nick cut in. “Time never was more valuable.
One minute’s delay may queer all of my work.”

“What next?” Chick tersely asked, when Waldmere subsided.

“We’ll change mounts,” Nick replied pointedly. “Go ahead and keep the
appointment with Garland. Meet him, as directed, though he’ll not be
likely to show up there for some little time, providing I rightly
anticipate what’s coming.”

“What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him who I am,” Nick directed. “Give it to him straight, in your
own way, but only what will be consistent with your assumed character.
Got me?”

“Dead to rights,” Chick nodded.

“Be off, then, and I’ll do the rest,” said Nick. “I have left Patsy in
the office, in case of sudden need. Call him up yourself, if occasion
requires it.”

Chick responded with another nod and hurried away.

“Now, Waldmere, you return to your lodgings,” said Nick. “You will only
be in my way, if you remain. Wait right there until I come.”

“But----”

“Don’t stop to question, dear fellow,” Nick interrupted. “Every minute
is of value.”

“By Jove, I’m all at sea, don’t you know, but here goes!” exclaimed his
lordship, seeming suddenly to realize that he was indeed in the way.

He smiled with the last, nevertheless, and hurried across the street,
presently vanishing around the nearest corner.

Nick Carter stepped into the corridor of a near building. The janitor,
with a broom and a pail of rubbish, the result of his morning’s
cleaning, was just approaching a small storeroom under the rise of
stairs.

Nick overtook him at the open door.

“One moment, janitor,” said he, stepping into the narrow room. “I am
Nick Carter, the detective, and I’m on a rush case. Hang onto this cane
and disguise until I call for them, will you? I then will make it worth
your while.”

“Sure, sor, I’m glad to do it,” cried the janitor, eyes lighting. “Who
don’t know Nick Carter?”

“Good on your head,” Nick nodded. “I want to reverse my trousers and
coat, also, which will take but half a minute.”

“Go ahead, sor. The room is yours for the asking.”

Nick emerged from it in precisely thirty seconds, so changed in looks
and attire, the latter expressly made to be quickly reversed, that he
bore not even a remote resemblance to the man who had entered it. Then
wearing no facial disguise, he again thanked the janitor and hurried
away from the building, retracing his steps to Fifth Avenue.

Not more than five minutes had passed since he departed from the loan
company office, when, from a doorway on the opposite side of the avenue,
he was in a position to cautiously watch the place.

He had returned none too soon. He scarce had turned his gaze in that
direction, when Garland came from the loan office in company with a
handsome, flashily dressed woman of twenty-five, whom Nick had seen at a
typewriter through the partly open door of Garland’s private office.

“Garland’s stenographer,” he muttered. “I thought I recognized her,
though she sat with her face averted. Vera Vantoon, eh? I have seen her
with Stuart Floyd, of whom Chick was speaking last evening. She may be a
connecting link in this chain. By Jove, they are off at a canter, for
fair. On the run is right.”

Garland and Vera Vantoon, a pronounced brunette with a striking face and
figure, were hurrying up Fifth Avenue, evidently on as important a
mission as the detective had been led to suspect.

Nick immediately followed them, though on the opposite side of the
avenue.

They had covered less than two blocks, however, when an approaching
taxicab swerved to the curbing and a man sprang out, who evidently had
seen them from within the conveyance.

“By Jove, there’s Stuart Floyd himself,” thought Nick, stepping into a
near doorway to watch them. “He was bound for Garland’s office, as sure
as I’m a foot high. I have forced the game, all right, plainly enough.”

The last was occasioned by the earnest conference at once begun by the
three, Garland doing most of the talking, and presently slipping a small
cloth parcel into Floyd’s coat pocket--a move undetected by Nick because
of the intervening taxicab.

Floyd was an erect, splendidly built man with a smoothly shaved,
clean-cut face, with regular features of an almost classic cast, an
intellectual brow, and remarkably keen and expressive gray eyes. He was
scrupulously well dressed and in strict accord with the dictates of
fashion. He would readily have passed, as Chick had stated, for a
millionaire or a prominent figure in the Gotham smart set. He was very
well known, too, from Harlem to the Battery, though for more and varied
reasons than any was yet led to suspect.

Nick saw plainly that he could not wisely undertake to overhear what the
three were discussing so earnestly, nor did he attempt to do so. He knew
very well, or thought he did, and was content to await what followed.

Nick had not long to wait. After an earnest conference lasting about
five minutes, Garland and the woman entered the taxicab, which sped
rapidly away, while Stuart Floyd walked briskly down the avenue.

“What’s the meaning of that?” Nick asked himself. “They may have gone to
make sure the abducted woman is still in safe keeping. Be that as it
may, it’s long odds that Floyd will rejoin them sooner or later. I have
no course but to stick to him. I’ll head him off, by Jove, and see what
he will say for himself.”

Nick did not immediately do so. He shadowed Floyd, instead, to one of
the leading jewelry firms, who were large importers of diamonds and
other gems, and through one of the broad plate windows he saw Floyd
speak to the senior member of the firm and then retire with him to his
private office.

Half an hour passed before Floyd emerged. He paused and shook hands with
the merchant, bowing and smiling as if he had not a care on his mind,
much less a burden, and he then left the store and walked briskly to a
near hotel, entering the barroom and buying a drink.

Nick suspected what he was doing all the while, but he was not
absolutely sure of it, and he continued the espionage. Passing through
the hotel office to keep an eye on his quarry, he suddenly came face to
face with Floyd in the adjoining corridor, the latter having just left
the barroom.

It was an opportunity for which Nick had been waiting. He stepped
directly in front of the man, saying familiarly:

“Hello! You’re just the man I want to see, Mr. Floyd. Give me half a
minute, will you?”

Floyd knew Nick Carter by sight. If he had seen a ghost, he would not
have turned more pale for a moment. That he was a man of extraordinary
nerve and self-possession, however, appeared in that, aside from his
momentary paleness, not a feature of his clean-cut face evinced a sign
of fear, or even secret perturbation.

“You are Mr. Carter, I believe,” he replied, looking Nick straight in
the eye.

“Yes.”

“Why have you stopped me? What can I do for you?”

“Tell me what you know about the Imperial Loan Company,” said Nick,
straight from the shoulder.

Floyd heard him without a change of countenance.

“All that I know may be told with a single word--nothing,” he replied.

“You know of the concern, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you acquainted with the managers?”

“Yes.”

“Well acquainted?”

“So well acquainted, Mr. Carter, that I am not inclined to discuss them
with any detective, not excluding yourself, before knowing the purpose
of his inquiries,” Floyd said coldly.

“If you know only good of them, Mr. Floyd, a detective is the very man
with whom you should be most willing to discuss them,” Nick retorted.

“I will not argue the point,” Floyd said, flushing slightly.

“There is no occasion,” said Nick. “Do you know anything about the
inside workings of this loan company?”

“What do you mean, sir, by inside workings?”

“The methods they employ.”

“I already have said, Carter, that I know nothing about them, aside from
a personal acquaintance with the two managers,” Floyd stiffly asserted.
“Mr. Garland is a gentleman. Mr. Hart is another. That is all I can tell
you.”

“All that you will tell me, Mr. Floyd, is what you mean,” Nick said
pointedly. “You should have learned, nevertheless, that reticence is
equivalent to----”

“Stop a moment,” Floyd interrupted, with lips curling. “What’s the big
idea? What’s it all about? Do you suspect the loan company of anything
wrong?”

“Frankly, Mr. Floyd, I do,” Nick nodded.

“Of what?”

“Of having abducted, or caused to be abducted, a woman known as Mrs.
Archie Waldron. Did you ever hear of her?”

“Never! Permit me to add, Carter, that I never heard of anything more
absurd.”

“Than what?” questioned Nick, still sharply regarding him.

“Such a suspicion,” snapped Floyd, his eyes dilating. “What earthly
motive could they have for abducting a woman, or for any other breach of
the law? Both are married and have families. Both are men of eminent
respectability, of sterling integrity, and they manage a very profitable
business. What earthly incentive could they have for committing crime?
That’s absurd, utterly improbable. You detectives go over the traces
much too often, Carter, in your still-hunts after victims. You are worse
in a way than the crooks, for you smirch the reputation of honorable
men, while crooks get only their purses. Good morning, sir. That is all
I have to say.”

Floyd apparently had worked himself up to a state of righteous
indignation, and none could better feign any sentiment he chose. He drew
himself up and turned to go, but Nick detained him with a gesture.

“One moment,” he replied. “You have said considerable, Floyd, for one
who knew nothing about the Imperial Loan Company. I should be blind,
indeed, if I did not see that. You extol them in order to divert my
suspicions. But the fact that you think it is necessary to do so proves
quite conclusively, not only that you know much more than you have
stated, but also that my suspicions are correct. I could logically go
even a step further, Floyd, and suspect you of being in their game.”

Floyd’s thin red lips parted scornfully, revealing a double row of sharp
white teeth. It gave him for a moment the vicious expression of a dog
about to bite. Instead, he vented a cold and mirthless laugh, as cold
and mirthless as the ring from rapiers crossed in mortal combat.

“You go to thunder, Carter,” said he, sneering contemptuously. “I would
not lower myself by even denying your slanderous insinuations. In their
game, or in any game--bah! You disgust me! Go to thunder!”

And Mr. Stuart Floyd, with the air and aspect of one who felt that he
had squelched the famous detective, turned on his heel and entered the
hotel office.

Nick Carter smiled and passed into the barroom.

“That will keep you going, all right,” he said to himself. “That’s all I
want of you. I’ll get you hands down at the finish.”



CHAPTER VIII.

HOW NICK MADE GOOD.


Nick Carter did not remain long in the barroom, only long enough to
deftly put on a simple disguise, unobserved by any person in the room.
He then passed out to the street and approached the hotel office--just
as Stuart Floyd came out, departing quite hurriedly.

He walked by Nick, nearly touching him, but he did not recognize him. He
glanced furtively into the barroom when passing it, nevertheless, which
convinced Nick that he still was supposed to be there, and that his
quarry was bent upon making a quick get-away.

Nick followed him cautiously, as before, noting that Floyd now appeared
more hurried and apprehensive, but evidently not suspecting that he was
being shadowed.

Floyd hastened over to Broadway, where he entered the quarters of the
Crosstown Collateral Trust Company, one of the largest concerns of this
kind in the country, if not in the world.

Nick watched him from outside.

Floyd appeared remarkably familiar with the place. He nodded to several
of the clerks, waving his hand to the bookkeeper, and at the same time
he proceeded directly to the private office of the president of the
company, which he entered without the formality of knocking.

Nick Carter’s eyes took on a gleam of increasing satisfaction. He
continued to wait and watch.

Presently a clerk hurried into the private office, evidently having been
summoned. He emerged in a few moments and vanished into the business
inclosure, where the doors of several huge vaults in the rear wall gave
the place the appearance of a safety deposit, or a wealthy banking
institution.

Five minutes later the same clerk again visited the private office,
remaining only a moment, and half a minute later Floyd came out and
started for the street.

Nick stole into a near doorway.

Floyd emerged in a moment and walked rapidly to a drug store on an
opposite corner, proceeding directly to a telephone booth in the rear of
the store, quickly entering and tightly closing the door.

Nick already was at the open door of the store. He saw that the booth
stood in an angle formed by two of the counters. He saw, too, that there
then were no customers and only one clerk in the store, just then
engaged in wiping one of the show cases.

Nick stepped in and instantly caught the clerk’s eye, though one of his
own was constantly fixed upon the back of Floyd’s head, visible through
the window in the door of the booth. Floyd then was hurriedly looking up
a number in the telephone-exchange book.

Nick cautioned the clerk with a significant glance and by holding up his
forefinger. He then turned the lapel of his vest and displayed his
detective’s badge.

The clerk appeared to grasp the situation. He nodded and continued his
work.

Nick stepped back of the opposite counter, quickly crouching out of
sight behind it. He then crept to the rear of the store and within half
a minute he was directly opposite one side of the telephone booth.

On hands and knees under the counter, he placed one ear against the side
of the booth--and he then could faintly hear the voice of the man
within.

The following broken remarks reached his ears, broken by the occasional
responses from the person with whom Floyd was talking, whom the
detective of course could not hear:

“There is no question about it,” Floyd was forcibly saying. “I know
positively that he is on the case.... Yes, yes, of course! But we can
prevent that and bluff him to a standstill. He cannot prove that you
know anything about her.... That’s true, but I’ve got the goods and will
show up shortly. The best way, then, will be to phone directly to his
office and state where she can be found. That probably would end the
matter, and there will be no way of telling from whom the information
came. He could only guess at that.... The sooner the better, of course.
I have hastened to notify you only to put you on your guard in case he
shows up there again before I arrive. Stave him off in some way until I
come. It then will be soft walking. I’ll come at once. So long!”

Nick heard the sharp click of the hook when the receiver was replaced.

Floyd came from the booth almost immediately and left the store without
so much as a glance at the clerk.

Nick crept from under the counter and entered the booth. He paused
briefly to size up what he had heard. He felt sure Floyd had telephoned
either to Hart, or Garland, at their place of business. He turned to the
telephone and rang up his own business office.

“Line’s busy!” called the exchange operator.

Nick waited.

“Who is on it?” he asked himself. “Patsy must be there. I directed him
not to leave. Chick may have called him up, as I suggested, but for what
reason? Hang this delay! It may prove expensive.”

Nick tried again and succeeded. He heard the familiar voice of Patsy
Garvan over the wire.

“This is the chief talking,” said Nick.

“Oh, gee!” Patsy exclaimed. “I was just wondering how I could get next
to you.”

“What’s up?” Nick questioned, deferring his own communication.

“Some one just phoned here that the woman we’re seeking can be found at
No. 1680B Amsterdam Avenue. The speaker evidently was a man, but I did
not know his voice, nor could I get anything more from him.”

“I can guess who,” said Nick. “I was about to tell you that you would
soon receive that information.”

“What shall I do?”

“Take Danny and a couple of plain-clothes men to aid you,” Nick quickly
directed. “Raid the house quietly. I hardly think you will find any one
else there. If you do, however, make sure that none escapes.”

“Trust me for that.”

“I’ll nail the culprits elsewhere.”

“Good enough! I’ve got you.”

“That’s all, then.”

Nick came from the booth, said a few words of explanation to the
astonished clerk, and he then hurriedly left the store and hailed a
passing taxicab.

Ten minutes later, still in disguise, he entered the quarters of the
Imperial Loan Company--not more than an hour after his visit with Lord
Waldmere.

The first person he caught sight of was Moses Hart, and he saw at once
that Stuart Floyd had not yet arrived.

The assistant manager, nevertheless, appeared much more at ease than an
hour ago. He was engaged in the latticed inclosure. He was smiling and
humming a popular air. He saw Nick approach one of the windows and he
turned to meet him.

“Is Mr. Garland busy?” Nick blandly inquired, bowing and smiling.

“Mr. Garland is absent just now,” Hart suavely rejoined.

“H’m, is that so?”

“I think he will return before noon,” Hart added. “Is there anything I
can do for you?”

“Are you the assistant manager?”

“I am.”

“Perhaps, then, you will do as well, though Mr. Garland was mentioned to
me,” said Nick. “It’s about a loan I wish to negotiate on some valuable
jewelry. The amount is considerable, and----”

“Ah!”

Hart breathed an expressive sigh, one of avaricious anticipation, and he
then hastened to open a door leading into the inclosure.

“Walk in, sir,” he said cordially. “Step into our private office. We
then can discuss the matter without interruptions.”

Nick was waiting only for an interruption.

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” he demurred. “I can tell you
briefly what I require.”

“Very well.”

Hart stepped out and joined him.

“My name is Peterson,” Nick continued. “I have in my charge a quantity
of valuable jewelry. It is part of the estate of a very wealthy widow.
The estate has not been settled, owing to long litigation, and it has
become necessary to raise quite a sum of cash with which to meet legal
expenses.”

“I follow you,” Hart nodded, anticipating an unusually profitable deal.

“I may require ten thousand dollars, possibly more.”

“What is the value of the jewelry?”

“Fifty thousand, at least.”

“Ah! In that case, Mr. Peterson, we will be delighted to accommodate
you,” Hart warmly assured him. “No loan is too large for us to make on
satisfactory collateral. Our capital is unlimited. We can refer you
to----”

He broke off abruptly.

Stuart Floyd had entered and was hurriedly approaching.

“One moment, Hart!” he exclaimed, diving into his coat pocket and
failing to recognize Nick. “Excuse yourself for one moment. Here is that
package which----”

“Let me have it, instead,” Nick interrupted, thrusting Hart aside.

Floyd recoiled as if struck on the head.

“You!” he gasped involuntarily.

Nick whipped off his disguise.

“Yes,” he said sternly. “I may need it to prove my case--and your
relations with the Imperial Loan Company. Let me have it.”

Floyd staggered and then uttered a cry and pulled himself together.

“Not by a long shot!” he shouted. “Get rid of this, Hart, before he can
learn what it----”

But he got no further, for Nick Carter did not stand on ceremony. He
leaped at Floyd and wrenched the package from him, as the latter was
about to toss it to Hart, and then he forced him fiercely against the
wall.

Then came the jingle and snapping of steel--and Floyd was in handcuffs.

“Let those keep you quiet,” said Nick sharply. “I think, now, we are in
a fair way to settle this business--and settle it right!”



CHAPTER IX.

THE LOOTING GAME.


The situation in which Chick Carter suddenly found himself with Lady
Waldmere was not an enviable one. Without knowing just how it had come
about, Chick realized on the instant that he was caught like a rat in a
corner, the interior room having no window, nor any way of egress save
through the door, then barred by the tall figure and threatening weapon
of Morris Garland, to say nothing of the burly cabman behind him.

Chick was not blind, however, to one offsetting advantage the room
afforded, or might possibly be made to afford. If he could escape only
through the door, he also could be attacked only from that direction.

Chick took that in on the instant, also, and he was in no mood to yield
submissively to the two threatening miscreants in the hall.

He threw up his hands, nevertheless, while a shriek of terror came from
Lady Waldmere--both sufficient to throw Garland off his guard for the
fraction of a second.

Instantly Chick took advantage of it.

Without dropping his hands, lest the knave might shoot, Chick raised his
right foot under one of the rounds of the chair on which he had been
seated, then kicked it with all his strength straight at the open door.

It went direct and went like a flash.

It struck Garland squarely on the arm and breast, diverting his aim, and
then fell to the floor.

Garland fired on the instant, nevertheless, and the bullet went into the
ceiling.

Lady Waldmere uttered another shriek and fainted dead away on the bed.

The deafening report of the weapon was instantly followed by the bang of
Chick’s revolver, whipped like a flash from his hip pocket.

In his haste, however, he had fired almost at random. The bullet clipped
a lock of hair from Garland’s head, then passed within an inch of the
cabman’s ear.

Both uttered a yell. Both leaped instinctively, as it were, to one side
of the open door, bringing the wall between them and the detective.

That was all that Chick wanted at that moment, and he had accomplished
it by taking his life in his hand.

He now laughed aloud, however, and cried:

“Two can play at that game, you see. If either of you rats shows his
head at the door, I’ll not miss it with my next bullet.”

This brought no response for a moment.

Chick heard the two men whispering in the hall, and also the rustle of
skirts.

“By Jove, there may have been another woman in the house when I stole
in,” he said to himself, constantly alert. “She may have heard me, or
saw me, and afterward sent word to Garland. That may be how they caught
me in this fashion.”

Chick’s theory was quite nearly correct. As a matter of fact, a sister
of Vera Vantoon, who had figured in the episode in the taxicab, had been
left in the hurriedly rented furnished house, rented expressly after the
abduction had been accomplished, in order that the identity of none of
the culprits should afterward be discovered.

This sister, Leah Vantoon, had seen Chick stealing into the house. She
later had stolen out and got word to Garland, happening to meet Vera and
the chauffeur, then on their way to the house. All of them had stolen in
and up the stairs, unheard by the detective, while Chick was talking
with Lady Waldmere.

Morris Garland had, of course, then realized how craftily he had been
duped by Nick Carter himself.

He did not realize it all, however, for Stuart Floyd and Moses Hart were
at that moment under arrest by the famous detective.

Chick’s taunting remark was answered in a few seconds by Garland.

At the same moment, too, Chick saw that Lady Waldmere had revived and
was sitting on the edge of the bed. He held up his finger, warning her
to be silent, then signed for her to seek a remote corner of the room,
where a bullet from the hall could not possibly hit her.

He, in the meantime, remained crouching some six feet from the open
door, revolver in hand.

“I say!” called Garland, from the hall.

“Say ahead,” called Chick coolly. “Come on with it.”

“You’d better quit and throw up your hands again,” Garland advised.

“May they wither, Garland, if I do,” replied Chick. “If you cannot think
of anything better to say, you’d better keep quiet.”

“Oh, we’ll get you finally.”

“Is that so?”

“You bet it’s so. There is no way for you to get out.”

“Nor for you to get in,” Chick retorted.

“We can starve you out.”

“Not much.”

“Think not, eh?”

“I know it,” Chick declared confidently. “Before you could do that,
Garland, the entire police force will be in search of me. They’ll find
me, too.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Because your running mate in the game you have been playing will throw
up his hands and squeal,” Chick asserted. “He probably is under arrest
by this time.”

“By whom?” Garland demanded incredulously.

“By Nick Carter.”

“I guess not. What do you mean by the game we’ve been playing?”

“Nick knows. He suspected it from the first.”

“Knows what?”

Chick laughed and clicked the revolver suggestively.

“Don’t come any nearer that door, Garland, or there’ll be something
doing,” he advised. “I wouldn’t shrink an instant from sending a bullet
into your block of solid ivory. We’ve got your game down pat, now, and
we’re going to get you.”

“What game?” Garland again demanded. “What do you mean?”

“Your looting game,” said Chick. “That’s a good name for it, too. You
two rascals, evidently with others to help you, have taken advantage of
the fact that the head of the business you only manage, Mr. Isaac Meyer,
is a helpless paralytic and confined to his home.”

“How taken advantage?”

“You have been looting his business of all that it would stand without
immediate detection,” said Chick. “You have been loaning small amounts
on gems and jewels and the like, and then pawning the collateral
elsewhere for a much larger sum, and whacking up the difference. When a
customer shows up to redeem a pledge, if it happens to be one that you
have put elsewhere, you stave him off until you can raise the dust to
redeem it yourselves, in case you don’t have it on hand, that you may
turn it over to the proper owner and thus avert exposure. But it’s bound
to come, Garland; it’s bound to come. In fact, it already is here.”

“That’s what Nick Carter suspects, is it?”

Garland spoke with a sneer, but his voice had a quaking uncertainty that
told of utter dismay, of a realization that he had played a losing game
and must pay the price.

“Sure that’s what he suspects,” Chick replied complacently. “You’re a
bunch of star looters, that’s what you are. When the books and vaults of
the Imperial Loan Company are examined, you’ll be found to be a hundred
thousand short, at least.”

“Confound you Carters, anyway!” Garland cried, with a snarl. “You know
too much.”

“Too much for most crooks whom we get after,” Chick dryly admitted.

“It may cost you something one of these days.”

“It already has cost you something,” Chick retorted. “Nick tumbled to it
almost off the reel. You were in pressing peril when the woman
unexpectedly showed up to redeem her ten-thousand-dollar pledge. You
have shoved up the jewels somewhere else, and probably for fifteen or
twenty thousand. You did not have the jewels when she called yesterday,
nor the money with which to redeem them this morning. Nick suspected it,
Garland, and we got right at you to drive you to the wall. We have done
it, all right.”

Chick heard a growl from the cabman, one Buck Morgan, who had driven the
taxicab the previous afternoon, and Chick also heard the remark that
followed it.

“The cursed dick is right, Morris. We’d better make a quick get-away.”

“Not on your life,” snarled Garland. “I’ll get him first, or--hark! What
was that?”

There was little need to ask, nor had Morgan any time in which to answer
the question.

The hurried tread of several men sounded in the lower hall and then on
the near stairway. They came rushing up at top speed, Patsy Garvan in
the lead.

“It’s all off, Mr. Garland; all off!” he shouted, while he came, at the
same time brandishing a ready revolver. “Don’t attempt any funny
business, or there’ll be a dead pawnbroker here. Shut up, you two women,
or we’ll put you in irons with these two gazabos.”

The raid, quietly made, indeed, as Nick had directed, was already a
success. Both Garland and Morgan collapsed the moment they saw Patsy and
the other detectives. They were capable of thieving and abduction, but
not of murder and bloodshed.

Within five minutes Patsy had all four of the culprits in irons, and in
five more they were on their way to the Tombs, to which Stuart Floyd and
Hart already had preceded them.

Half an hour later Lady Waldmere was restored to the arms of her anxious
husband, who, it seems needless to say, was jolly well pleased.

It later appeared that all of Nick Carter’s suspicions, as set forth in
brief by Chick, were entirely correct. Nick had felt reasonably sure of
it from the first, but knew that he must secure absolute proof of it,
which he set about doing in the manner described.

He knew that Garland and Hart would have to work lively to raise the
money to recover the Waldmere jewels, that they might be turned over to
her that morning, and that that was Garland’s mission when he left his
office with Vera Vantoon, afterward meeting Floyd.

That the latter then had undertaken the mission, and that he was in
league with the others, became obvious to Nick when Floyd visited the
jewelry firm. He rightly reasoned that Garland had provided him with a
parcel of diamonds, or other costly gems, from those in pawn with the
loan company, upon which Floyd could obtain a loan from the jeweler. It
afterward was shown to be eighteen thousand dollars.

That Floyd then went and redeemed the jewels from the Crosstown
Collateral Trust Company. Nick had not had a doubt, and he shaped his
course accordingly, meeting with complete success and later showing that
Mr. Isaac Meyer had, indeed, been almost utterly ruined by his
treacherous managers.

“They now will get theirs,” Nick observed, speaking of the case that
evening. “I have no doubt that Floyd was the genius back of the whole
job, but we may not be able to prove even that. However, be that as it
may, it was very quick work, cleaned up within twenty-four hours.”

“Yes, chief,” supplemented Patsy. “And as his blooming English nobs
would say, and has said--deucedly keen and clevah work, bah Jove,
deucedly keen and clevah!”


THE END.


Some men are never beaten, regardless how great may be the odds against
them. Such was the case of Stuart Floyd, notwithstanding the fact that
Nicholas Carter had succeeded in bringing him to justice, the clever
rogue was to give the famous detective another battle of wits, which you
will read about in “The Melting Pot; or, Nick Carter and the Waldmere
Plate,” which will appear in the next issue, No. 140, of the NICK CARTER
STORIES, out May 15th.



Dared for Los Angeles.

By ROLAND ASHFORD PHILLIPS.

     (This interesting story was commenced in No. 134 of NICK CARTER
     STORIES. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer
     or the publishers.)



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE CONFESSION.


It was a long time before either Miss Trask or Nash spoke again. The
girl was sitting, wet-eyed and silent, in the chair, the book open upon
her lap. Nash had walked to the window, and stood gazing out upon the
road, which, under the magic of the moonlight, wound along the slope
like a wide, silver ribbon.

The notes of a song came faintly through the still night air; in a
neighboring cabin some of the men were making merry. The words were
silly and meaningless, the tune of a dance-hall variety. Yet both the
girl and Nash waited until the song was finished.

Then resolutely Nash turned.

“How long have you been here, Miss Trask?”

“In California? Only a few months. I--I came from New York immediately
after my brother was buried. I had given him this book only at
Christmas. Out of all his effects--I kept it. I was living at a little
hotel near Central Park, and used to go over and pass away the hours
reading. I suppose I dropped it--and that man who spoke to you must have
picked it up.”

“What led you to take up--this work?” Nash asked.

“I--don’t know. Maybe it was because--because I had hopes of finding my
brother’s murderer.”

“You knew him?”

She shook her head. “No. Oh, I hadn’t any set plan. I just imagined,
somehow, that on this great engineering project I might come face to
face with the man who----”

“And if you had?” Nash interrupted.

A quick, hard light flamed to her eyes, only to die away as suddenly as
it had come. “I don’t know,” she faltered. “I am only a woman, and----”

“Did it ever occur to you, Miss Trask,” Nash ventured to ask, “that your
brother might have been as much to blame as--the other man?”

“But--but he was my brother,” she replied.

“Of course.” Nash smiled faintly. “A year ago, Miss Trask, I worked on
the New York Aqueduct.”

“You?” She raised her eyes quickly. “Then maybe you knew----”

“Your brother?” Nash nodded. “Yes, I knew him.”

“And you knew about--about his death? You have heard how a man shot him,
and----”

“I did not know of his death,” Nash answered gravely. “That is, I was
not positive.”

She was facing him now. “How strangely you talk, Mr. Nash!”

“Possibly it is because I am placed in a strange position,” Nash
replied.

She started to speak, then stopped. The chugging of a motor interrupted,
and instinctively both man and woman understood. Nash stepped swiftly to
the window. The flashing lights of a big car were dancing down the road.

“It--it’s the officers!” the girl exclaimed. She had followed the
engineer, and was peering over his shoulder.

“I’m afraid so,” Nash responded.

“They’ve come to-night--instead of in the morning. They must have
suspected you would try to escape.”

Nash dropped the curtain and went back to the table.

“It’s too--too late for you to get away now,” she stammered, breathing
hard. “What--what are you going to do?”

“That isn’t the question which troubles me,” Nash said quietly. “How are
you to explain your presence here?”

“I won’t need to,” she retorted.

“Oh, but you will have to. You are employed by these people. Do you want
them to suspect you of double-dealing? Remember, Miss Trask, it is the
law you are fighting now.”

“I shall tell them the truth.”

“You must tell them that you came here--to arrest me. I am your
prisoner. You must tell them that.”

“I won’t!” she exclaimed.

“You must do this, Miss Trask. You must protect yourself.”

“I will tell them it is all a mistake--that you are innocent,” she said.
“I will tell them that you are not the man they want.”

“What good will it do?” Nash asked. “What good, Miss Trask? You have no
proofs.”

“Oh, but I cannot tell them what you wish me to!” she protested, over
and over again. “I cannot!”

“Listen to me, Miss Trask,” Nash answered, speaking swiftly now, for the
pounding of the motor on the up grade was becoming more and more
distinct. “It is the right way--the only way. It will protect your
reputation. Think of what it all means. You have informed them of my
supposedly crooked dealings, and now they discover you in my
cabin--apparently aiding me to escape. Can’t you understand what a
serious matter it will be?”

“But I refuse to tell them that I----”

The machine had stopped outside of the door. In another moment the
detectives would be inside the cabin. There was but one method open to
Nash; it was a brutal one, but to clear the girl’s name, he resolved to
take it.

“Miss Trask,” he said, “you must not help me. You must do as I have
said. A moment ago you told me that there was but one object which led
you to accept this work. Well, you have succeeded. I am the man you
wanted to find.”

She stared at him dully, unable to grasp his meaning. Footsteps came
heavily across the board porch.

“I--I don’t understand!” she gasped. “I don’t----”

Nash clenched his hands. “Miss Trask--I am the man who shot your
brother. Now you must do as I say.”

The color drained from her face and she sank back against the wall, as
if Nash’s declaration had been a stinging lash. Her lips moved, but no
sound issued from them. Then, reverberating in the silence, came a loud
knock upon the door. It was not answered. A second one came, louder and
more determined.

“Come in!” Nash said.

The door was thrown open, and two men stepped inside. They were both
strangers to Nash.

While one of the men stood near the door, as if to prevent any escape,
the other moved warily toward Nash.

“Are you Elliot Nash?” he demanded.

“I am,” the engineer responded.

“Then I’m sorry to say I’ve a warrant here for your arrest.” As he spoke
he drew back his coat, and Nash found himself looking upon a detective’s
badge.

Nash only smiled, and looked across at the girl, who all this time had
been standing weakly against the wall.

“I’m afraid you’re too late, gentlemen,” he announced. “I have already
surrendered to Miss Breen.”

Both men looked toward the girl. Then the spokesman laughed, and nodded,
apparently acquainted with her.

“Well, congratulations, Miss Breen,” he said. “You have got your nerve,
haven’t you? Wanted all the honors in this deal, eh? Leave it to a woman
every time,” he added, in an undertone.

Nash flashed a curious glance at the girl. He wondered how she would
accept the situation, and he had not long to wait. She drew herself
erect, and a trace of color stole into her cheeks.

“You may take Mr. Nash to the city with you,” she said, her voice never
more calm. “I--I will appear against him in the morning. Good night,
gentlemen.”

She walked across the floor, drawing on her heavy riding gloves. Then
she stepped out into the night.

Presently the sharp thudding of her pony’s hoofs sounded clearly upon
the hard road. Minute by minute they died away, and when they had been
swallowed by the night’s silence, Nash, for the first time in months,
felt a great, crushing sense of loneliness.

The girl had gone--out of his life--forever. And, somehow, he had begun
to have a deeper feeling than that of mere friendship toward her. He had
even begun to dream those glorious, rose-colored dreams which come to
all men, soon or late.

And what an end they had come to! His air castles were toppling about
his shoulders.

To-morrow she would appear against him before the engineering board in
Los Angeles. He would face her--not as a man wrongly accused of
betraying his city, but as a self-confessed murderer of her brother--a
creature to be despised and shunned.

She, whom once he thought would champion his cause, and fight for the
opportunity to undo what she at first fancied was her duty, would now be
only too glad to see him condemned.

And so this was to be the end of everything, he soliloquized bitterly.
All his efforts and endeavors were to go for naught. He would be made an
example of before the whole State of California.

“What a penalty!” he murmured to himself.

“We want to get that midnight train from San Fernando,” the detective
said sharply.

“I am ready,” Nash responded quietly.



CHAPTER XXIV.

BEFORE THE BOARD.


At ten o’clock the following morning Nash was ushered into the big
directors’ room, where the governing board of aqueduct engineers was to
pass judgment.

The two detectives had brought him into San Fernando by automobile, and
they had been just in time to catch the last train to Los Angeles.
Despite the cloud which hung over his head, Nash had been treated with
the utmost consideration.

Very little sleep came to him in the few remaining hours of the night.
He was well aware of the serious situation, and tried to fix upon some
definite method of procedure. The examining board would expect him to
defend himself. He resolved to tell the whole truth, from the very day
he discovered the letter in the book of verse to the present. As for
proofs, one way or another, he could offer nothing better than his word.

It was a beautiful, balmy morning when he walked down Spring Street in
the custody of the two detectives, a morning such as only Los Angeles
can boast of--tempered by ocean breezes, and with the air heavy with the
perfume of orange blossoms. Nash drank deep of the sunshine; how
marvelous it seemed; doubly so now, when his liberty might be but a
question of----

Before they reached the new city hall on South Broadway a half dozen
newspaper men were trailing them; a camera or two appeared. Somehow, the
news of Nash’s arrest and the expected upheaval in Camp Forty-seven had
reached the ears of the vigilant press.

The chimes on the city-hall tower were striking eleven when Nash finally
took the seat set aside for him in the big directors’ room. The majority
of the engineers were gathered about the long table, waiting.

Nash was surprised to see at the far end the familiar face of Jim
Sigsbee. The politician had evidently decided to forego his proposed
trip to San Francisco and remain on the scene.

The preliminaries were brief and to the point.

“Our private detective in this affair, Miss Breen, has not shown up,”
the spokesman of the board announced gravely, “but we can proceed. The
prisoner is probably aware of the nature of the crime for which he has
been arrested.”

Nash admitted that he understood.

The president of the board continued: “What have you to say in your
defense, Mr. Nash?”

Nash got to his feet and calmly faced the assembly.

“Upon my arrival in this city, gentlemen, I happened upon a letter
directed to a Mr. Hooker, at that time the foreman of Camp Forty-seven.
The man to whom the note was issued did not care for the position. As
no names were mentioned, I took the letter, gave it to Mr. Hooker, and
was engaged.”

“This letter,” interrupted the president, “was written by whom?”

“By Mr. Sigsbee.”

Finding himself the center of all eyes, Sigsbee nodded.

“I remember giving a letter to a man who claimed to be an Eastern
engineer,” he explained. “He pleaded so hard for a position that I
offered him a chance on Camp Forty-seven.”

Nash was asked to continue.

“I began in the camp as a sort of clerk,” he said. “After a week,
because I proved my value, I was made a subforeman, and given charge of
the conduit construction. One day, when Mr. Hooker was--ill, I helped
the city inspector check over the pay roll. Having kept a memorandum of
my own, I found it differed from the foreman’s statement to the extent
of being just about half of the amount that----”

Sigsbee was instantly upon his feet.

“That’s a lie, gentlemen!” he cried. “You all know me better than that.
Why, it was at my instigation that this engineer was charged with----”

Nash ignored the politician’s interruption and continued his remarks
directly to the president. “When I threatened to inform the authorities
of the truth, Mr. Hooker asked me to call upon Mr. Sigsbee. I did so.
Mr. Sigsbee, instead of discharging me, as I had expected, admitted
things were not as they should be, placed the blame on his foreman’s
shoulders, and offered me the position, with the understanding that I
should be directly responsible, and that Camp Forty-seven was to be
forever above suspicion.”

The engineers were paying close attention, and appeared to be convinced
of Nash’s statements. Sigsbee was still on his feet, and when Nash had
finished he spoke again.

“Gentlemen,” he began smilingly, “you have all known me, most of you,
for the past ten years. You all know how faithfully I have worked that
this great waterway might be made an actuality. The insinuations just
now cast upon myself and upon the affairs of Camp Forty-seven are
absurd. I was attracted to Mr. Nash by his apparent knowledge of
engineering matters, his earnestness, and the fact that he was a native
of this city. Mr. Hooker was ill, and had long before asked for a
vacation. I considered it my opportunity, and made the change. There
were no hard feelings at all, I can assure you. I would like to ask Mr.
Nash, if I may, what proofs he is prepared to offer to substantiate his
claims.”

Nash realized his helplessness. Sigsbee must have known, too, otherwise
he would never have asked the question.

“I have no proofs, gentlemen,” he declared, “other than my word.”

Sigsbee smiled, and sat down. The president nodded for the engineer to
resume.

“I accepted the position as foreman of Camp Forty-seven, and since then
have worked faithfully in the discharge of my duties. The specifications
given me by Mr. Sigsbee have been followed to the letter. I had no
suspicions as to the trick being played upon me until Miss Breen
arrested me last night.”

“What trick was played upon you?” asked the president.

“Changing the specifications,” Nash answered. “False ones were given me.
I followed them. When I attempted to prove my innocence to Miss Breen I
found they had been taken and the rightful ones substituted.”

“Did those specifications come from the board, Mr. Sigsbee?” the
president inquired.

“Certainly, sir,” Sigsbee nodded. “If I am not mistaken, they are now in
Mr. Nash’s cabin, on file. Are they not, Mr. Nash?”

“They were placed there some time yesterday afternoon, by Mr. Hooker,”
Nash responded.

Sigsbee looked around at the circle of anxious faces and shook his head.
“Did you ever hear of a more absurd statement, gentlemen?” he asked
solicitously. “Why, the thing is farcical!”

By their expressions, the men about the table seemed to agree with
Sigsbee. The president spoke again, after the interval:

“I suppose, Mr. Nash, you have proofs to substantiate these claims
against Mr. Sigsbee?”

“As the false specifications are gone, I am unable to give you any,”
Nash responded. “Mr. Sigsbee and his confederate, Mr. Hooker, have
planned a shrewd game, and have left few loopholes. As the matter stands
at the present I am helpless.”

Sigsbee was upon his feet instantly, his cheeks flaming. “I won’t stand
for such insinuations!” he roared. “I won’t stand for a man of Mr.
Nash’s reputation to----”

The president of the board put up his hand. “Just a moment, Mr.
Sigsbee,” he cautioned. “I think we can straighten out this matter with
the aid of these new witnesses.”

The door had opened. Every eye in the room instantly turned. Miss Breen
and Hooker advanced into the room and were seated.

Miss Breen and Hooker! Nash felt the hot blood mount to his temples. So
she had gone over to the other side! He knew she must do so, yet, deep
in his heart, he hoped----

Miss Trask, or Miss Breen, as she was known to all the men in the room,
save one, did not look in Nash’s direction. She appeared unusually pale
and concerned.

“We have been waiting for you, Miss Breen,” the president announced.
“Our evidence appears to be somewhat confused. Will you kindly state
your knowledge of the affair to the board?”

Miss Trask arose, facing the president. Her voice was low and evenly
pitched, and never once did she falter.

“I became acquainted with Mr. Nash through an accident, and in his
company, later, I was taken around the camp. One day he allowed me to
inspect the steel sections on the Soledad Siphon. Unknown to him, I
measured the steel, and later on compared the measurements with the
specifications. It was then I learned the truth; that the steel he had
been using was a quarter of an inch too thin. I then reported the
facts.”

Nash listened eagerly. Miss Trask’s declaration explained her actions
and questions that day when he had willingly guided her about the camp.

“Have you any answer to make, Mr. Nash?” the president asked.

“None whatever,” Nash answered quietly. “Miss Breen has told you the
whole truth. I have not denied that my steel was a quarter of an inch
too thin.”

For the smallest part of a minute Miss Trask allowed her eyes to rest
upon him. Nash’s heart responded. Was it possible that he could read
within those depths a message of----

Hooker was called upon. The president handed him a copy of the true
specifications.

“These are similar to the ones you delivered to Mr. Nash?”

Hooker nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Nash claims you changed the copies yesterday afternoon,” the
president declared. “That you took the false ones and substituted
these.”

“Such an idea never entered my head,” replied Hooker.

“Where were you yesterday afternoon?”

“I was in Camp Forty-seven for about an hour.”

“To see whom?”

“Mr. Nash. He was out. I waited around a short time and finally left in
Mr. Sigsbee’s machine.”

Sigsbee was plainly nervous. His fingers were drumming upon his chair
arm, and he shifted about uncomfortably.

“Where did you go from Camp Forty-seven?” the president asked.

“Up the usual road.”

“But you only arrived in Los Angeles this morning, I understand.”

“Yes, sir. About two miles below the camp my gasoline tank sprang a
leak, and I was forced to spend the night at the Elkhorn Ranch.”

“That is where Miss Breen is staying, is it not?”

“Yes, sir. She came in with me this morning.”

Sigsbee was ready to interrupt once more. He seemed particularly anxious
to have Hooker silent.

“Gentlemen of the board,” he began impressively, “it seems to me that
all the necessary arguments have been heard. Miss Breen has testified,
and also Mr. Hooker. Both parties are known to you, and you must be
forced to admit that the claims suggested by Mr. Nash are not alone
preposterous, but impossible as well.”

The president nodded, and many of the others did the same.

“Then I move that we hold Mr. Nash guilty of the charges brought against
him, and turn him over for trial before the proper authorities,” Sigsbee
resumed.

The president of the board hesitated a moment. “There are a number of
points which do not seem quite clear to me as they stand, but which will
probably come to light during the trial. However, to me, at least, Mr.
Nash appears to be prompt with his answers, and, to all appearances,
telling a straightforward story. Of course, his word, against----”

Sigsbee interrupted. “One moment, if I may. It seems that Mr. Nash is
unable to give us any proofs as to the existence of these so-called
frauds, and perhaps, if we are to weigh his words with any consideration
at all, we might ask him why he left a responsible position in New York
and came here to Los Angeles, willing to accept a minor one.”

Nash’s fingers clenched themselves. He had been fearing that question,
not so much because of himself as because of Miss Trask.

“When we are to consider a man’s word, and weigh it conscientiously,”
Sigsbee went on to say, “we ought to convince ourselves that his past is
one to warrant it.”

He turned directly to Nash.

“Perhaps you will tell us why you left the New York Aqueduct so
abruptly, Mr. Nash?”

“That has nothing to do with the charge you are bringing against me,”
Nash answered hotly.

“Oh, hasn’t it?” Sigsbee sneered. “Well, perhaps the gentlemen of this
board will think differently. Perhaps you do not relish the idea of
telling them that you are a murderer! That you left New York to escape
paying the penalty.”



CHAPTER XXV.

THE UNEXPECTED.


The effect of Sigsbee’s declaration upon the rest of the listeners was
dynamic. Every eye swung around and rested upon Nash’s white face.

“What have you to say, Mr. Nash?” the president questioned, first to
find his voice.

“I have nothing to say,” replied Nash.

“But I have!” a clear, commanding voice arose.

Nash lifted his eyes. Miss Trask, who had so abruptly interrupted, was
upon her feet. She looked at the president, who appeared to be as much
surprised as the others.

“May I explain?” she asked.

The president nodded. Sigsbee brought himself erect in his chair, a
frown chiseled between his brows.

“Why, surely, Miss Breen,” he said anxiously, “this affair cannot
interest you.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Sigsbee, it is of vital interest to me,” she
answered swiftly. “The man whom you have accused Mr. Nash of murdering
was my brother!”

Sigsbee could only sit and gasp; the others about the long table leaned
forward in their chairs. So abrupt and startling was the announcement
that in the hush which followed one might have heard the dropping of a
pin.

“Your brother?” It was the president who first regained his voice.

“Yes,” said Miss Trask.

“And this man”--indicating Nash--“this man killed him?”

“That is what Mr. Sigsbee would have us believe,” the girl answered
quietly.

“But we have it from his own lips,” broke in Hooker, who, up to the
present, had remained dumb. “Nash told me himself that----”

“I know,” Miss Trask nodded. “I, too, have heard it from his own lips.
He told me last night--just before the detectives arrived from Los
Angeles.”

“And he knew, at the time, that you intended arresting him?” asked the
president.

“Yes.”

“Then why----”

“Why am I defending him??” Miss Trask interrupted. “Because there has
been a mistake--a horrible mistake. Mr. Nash is as innocent of the crime
as any one in the room.”

Nash caught at his breath, staring dumbly, wonderingly, into her face.
What motive, he asked himself, had prompted Miss Trask to change so
abruptly?

“Until this morning--an hour ago,” Miss Trask continued, “I believed his
confession. Then I received a wire from New York saying that one of the
aqueduct engineers, dying, has confessed to the murder. I did not
understand at first, but after a time it became clear to me. Mr. Nash
had a quarrel with my brother; a gun was fired somehow. The shot cut
across my brother’s cheek. I distinctly remember, because he was brought
home, and remained there for a week. Two weeks later he was engaged in
another fight--and this one proved fatal. Mr. Nash believed all the
time--as I did at first--that he was responsible; that it was in his
quarrel my brother had met his death. My brother was quick-tempered, and
he provoked the fight. I want Mr. Nash to be freed of all blame.”

Nash listened as a man in a dream, and finally, when Miss Trask had
finished, and had smiled upon him, he spoke:

“The fight took place in a café,” he said, bringing back the vivid
picture. “It was a harmless one at first. We began sparring; he dropped
to the floor. Then he jerked out a gun--I was unarmed. But suddenly a
shot rang out behind me, your brother cried out, and when I looked down
his face was bathed in crimson. Somebody grabbed me, forced me out of
the room. They told me my opponent was dying, and that I must run for
it. Explanations were useless.” Nash stopped, and looked around at the
circle of interested faces.

“That--that is all,” he said, “except that I packed my things that night
and took the first train for California.”

With the exception of Sigsbee and Hooker, the others in the room were
visibly impressed. Sigsbee, instantly aware that the issue at hand was
being forgotten, got to his feet.

“A very remarkable little romance,” he sneered. “Very remarkable,
indeed! But I’m afraid we are wandering from the subject. While Miss
Breen has apparently proven that Mr. Nash did not murder her brother,
the fact remains that he was a trouble-maker, and----”

“Just a moment, Mr. Sigsbee,” interrupted Miss Trask. “Whatever Mr. Nash
did in the past is of no concern at the present time. May I have
permission to speak at length?” She looked over at the president, who,
understanding, nodded.

“Since I became engaged upon this case, gentlemen,” she continued, “I
have had the opportunity of learning a few unexpected truths. Convinced,
as I was at first, of Mr. Nash’s disloyalty, I was amazed at his manner
toward me and the men under him, and his enthusiasm for his work. It was
only after a severe struggle with myself, and after I had found what I
concluded was the final proof of his unfaithfulness, that I took up the
matter with the board of engineers.”

“Do we understand that you retract the evidence you have only just
offered?” demanded the president.

“Certainly not, Mr. President,” she answered. “Every word I have said in
the matter of the siphons is true. Even Mr. Nash agrees with me.”

Nash nodded. “I have denied nothing,” he said. “Miss Breen’s statements
are perfectly correct.”

In a puzzled way he waited for her to continue.

“Several days ago Mr. Nash saved my life,” the girl resumed. “It was
then, half crazed by what I had gone through, that I confessed
everything to him. I told him who I was, and what I had done.”

“That was before his arrest?” leaped to Sigsbee’s lips.

“Yes, before his arrest.”

Sigsbee shrugged. “It’s a wonder, carried away by your feelings for this
man, that you didn’t urge him to escape,” he said.

“That is exactly what I did do, Mr. Sigsbee.”

The politician stared. “You--you tried to----”

“I told him the truth, and urged him to get away before he was arrested.
Not only then did I plead with him, but I went into camp an hour before
his arrest and begged him to leave.”

“What prevented him from doing so?” asked the president.

Miss Breen smiled. “His innocence, gentlemen. Why, do you think, being
guilty of this crime, he would have remained in camp? It was because he
was innocent that he remained.”

“Do you mean to say, Miss Breen,” the president asked, “that you believe
Mr. Nash was ignorant of the offense for which----”

“I do!”

“But you have already testified----“ began Sigsbee.

“I testified to the facts exactly as they were, exactly as I found them;
exactly, gentlemen, as Mr. Nash admits they were. He does not deny that
his steel was different from the specifications. What he does deny is
that he was given those specifications there on the table.”

“If he was given other specifications, which he claims to have
followed,” Sigsbee declared, “why does he not show them? What we want at
this inquiry is proofs, not words.”

Miss Breen allowed her eyes to rest upon the insolent, flushed face of
the speaker. “‘Why doesn’t he show the proofs?’ you ask,” she replied
calmly. “Because you took particular pains to put them out of his reach,
Mr. Sigsbee.”

“Look here!” Sigsbee exclaimed, forgetting, or indifferent to the fact,
that he was addressing a woman. “I won’t stand for any such
insinuations!”

“You’ll stand for some things you don’t expect,” the girl answered
swiftly, not in the least ruffled by the man’s declaration. “You laid
your plans very carefully, Mr. Sigsbee; you imagined them to be perfect.
Most criminals do. It is the unexpected that steps in and clogs the
smoothest running gear.”

“I--I demand----“ spluttered the politician.

“Very well,” announced the girl, apparently enjoying the situation,
which to all others in the room, Nash included, was more than
mystifying. “I’ll satisfy you.”

She looked around at the circle of interested engineers. Nash found her
eyes, and held them. Something mirrored in their depths sent his pulses
racing.

“Last night, after leaving Mr. Nash in charge of the detectives,” she
resumed, “I rode back to the ranch. Arrived there, I found Mr. Hooker,
who, as he has previously explained, was preparing to stop overnight.
When I discovered him he was flat on his back under the machine, coat
off, sleeves rolled up, his hands covered with grease and dirt. At his
suggestion, I volunteered to hold the lantern, and later he asked me to
carry his coat into the house. I did so. As I picked up the garment from
the ground, some papers dropped out. I was on the point of returning
them when----”

Hooker, with a loud cry, suddenly leaped to his feet, flung aside the
chair in which he had been sitting, and which blocked his way, and
bolted for the door.

“Don’t let him get away!” Miss Breen cried.

Instantly several of the men sprang into action, and two of them caught
Hooker as he was about to disappear. They brought him back to the table,
and forced him into a chair, where he sat huddled, white-lipped and
trembling.

“I’m sorry Mr. Hooker spoiled my climax,” Miss Breen said, smiling.
“Evidently he has just searched his pockets, and discovered the false
specifications which he took from Mr. Nash’s cabin yesterday afternoon
are missing. However,” she added, opening a little hand bag which she
carried, “they are not lost. Here, gentlemen, are Mr. Nash’s proofs.”

A bomb, thrown through the window, would not have caused greater
confusion. The false specifications were hurriedly examined by all the
men. Nash’s writing and figures on the margins were instantly
identified.

Sigsbee, stunned by the unexpected twist in his carefully laid plot, sat
as one stricken dumb.

“What have you to say, Mr. Hooker?” asked the president, after the
excitement had subsided.

Hooker seemed to realize his hopeless position. His actions had proven
his guilt. “Camp Forty-seven was rotten with graft,” he said
reluctantly, dully. “Sigsbee and I had to throw the blame on some one’s
shoulders--so we picked Nash. That’s all.”

The president of the board walked over to Nash. “I guess there’s a great
big apology coming to you, Mr. Nash.” He gripped the engineer’s hand. “I
feel we can depend upon you, and I hope you will continue to represent
us in Camp Forty-seven.”

“I shall do my best,” Nash answered. “My motto has been, and always will
be, ‘All for Los Angeles.’”

“That must be our motto as well,” responded the president. “And with
this in view, we must be careful not to allow the faintest whisper of
this meeting to reach the ears of the public. Los Angeles has always
been free from graft and political deals. It must be kept so. The public
must have the utmost confidence in the men who are constructing its
wonderful aqueduct. I believe all the members present understand the
delicate situation. And as for these two gentlemen”--he looked across to
Sigsbee and Hooker--“we must see that they are sent away. We will
withdraw all charges against them. To air this matter in court would be
a detriment to our clean record of the past. And while these men deserve
punishment, severe punishment, we must consider, above all else, the
welfare of our city. Therefore, I move that these men be placed in the
custody of a detective and taken East.”

The suggestion of the president was unanimously upheld by the board of
engineers.

Following the verdict, Nash slipped away and found Miss Trask.

“If it hadn’t been for you,” he murmured, pressing her hand, “I
might----”

“If it hadn’t been for you,” she interrupted, “that night at the coyote
I might have----”

The remembrance of that night, and the one particular incident, rushed
to Nash’s mind.

“And why--why did you lie to me about the time?” he asked. “Why did you
wish to remain with me when you knew that the explosion was to----”

She looked away, and the color trembled in her cheeks.

“C-can’t you guess?” she faltered.

Nash had arrived at a solution a long time previous to this moment, but
it seemed too good to be true. Now he knew it was true.

“Let’s go over to the Alexandria for lunch,” he suggested. “I can talk
better there.”

And, once in that big, cosmopolitan hotel, and in a secluded corner of
the grillroom, Elliot Nash amazed the stolid-faced waiter by his order.
And what he said later to the girl who shared the feast was meant only
for her ears.


THE END.



AN IMPORTANT EXCEPTION.


An old man who entered the meteorological office, the other day, said:

“This ’ere’s where you give out weather predictions, ain’t it?”

The clerk nodded.

“Well,” continued the old man, “I thought as how I could come up and
give you some tips.”

“Yes,” said the clerk politely.

“Yes; I’ve thought it out a little, an’ I find that ye ain’t al’ays
right.”

“No; we sometimes make mistakes.”

“Course ye do. We all does, some time. Now, I was thinkin’ as how a line
that used to be on the auction handbills down in our county might do
first-rate on your weather predictions an’ save ye a lot of explainin’.”

“What was the line?”

“Wind an’ weather permittin’.”

He went off without waiting to say good-by.



Saving the Building and Loan Money.

By E. E. YOUMANS.


“Paul, I want you to go down to the Building and Loan with this money
to-night,” said Mrs. Brown, as she came into the room where her son was
seated, reading a book. “I’d go myself, but I expect Mrs. Carson here to
see me, and must be on hand when she comes. I guess you can attend to it
all right enough, don’t you think so?”

“Sure,” said the youth, laying aside his book; “I’ll start at once.”

He secured his hat, and prepared to leave.

“Look out you don’t lose the money,” cautioned his mother. “There are
some fifty dollars in the roll.”

“No fear,” answered Paul; and a moment later he was on his way down the
road.

The place where the Building and Loan Association met was at a small
village, some two miles from Mrs. Brown’s farm, and it was necessary for
Paul to pass through a lonely woods on the way.

This he did not mind, however, for he was used to the road, and had
often gone through the woods at night. It was just turning dusk when he
left the house, but before he reached the forest, darkness had fallen in
full.

The moon did not rise till late, and he could not see far ahead when he
passed in under the trees. But he pressed on, the money tucked safely
away in the inside of his vest, and had just reached the end of the
woods, when the sudden glimmer of a light in the edge of the trees
attracted his attention.

“Why, that’s near the old cave,” muttered the boy, stopping and looking
toward the gleam. “Wonder what it means?”

He was about passing on, when the impulse to go forward and investigate
seized upon him, and he turned toward the cave.

“It won’t take but a minute,” he told himself. “I’ll just sneak up near
enough to see who’s prowling around. It may be some of the boys, though
it’s been a long time since any of us have been down this way.”

He climbed over the fence, and stole toward the light. It was still
shining, but before he got halfway to it, it suddenly went out.

He kept on, however, and soon reached the vicinity of the cave. This was
situated in a small and rocky ravine, and had been formed by several
large bowlders rolling down from the sides of the gorge, and lodging in
such a manner as to leave a considerable cavity underneath.

Paul and his friends had for a long time used this place as a sort of
rendezvous in some of their sports. But they had lost interest in it,
and had not been there for some time.

In a few minutes he was near enough to the cave to hear the sound of
strange voices.

“That’s none of the fellows,” he muttered, beginning to feel a little
uneasy. “But who can it be?”

He paused for a moment in uncertainty. Then his curiosity urged him on
again, and he soon gained a position behind one of the bowlders that
formed a side of the cave.

Here he crouched down, and listened. In a little while the party within
began talking again.

“There’s no doubt about it. He’ll have all the money with him, and, if
we’re smart, we’ll make a clean haul of three or four thousand dollars.”

“All the same, it’s blamed risky,” said another voice.

“Well, what of it? I reckon we’re smart enough to make our escape. We’ll
just stay here till twelve or one o’clock, then we’ll make tracks for
Bolton’s house. Take my word for it, bub, he’ll never put that money in
the bank to-morrow.”

Paul almost betrayed his proximity by the start he gave as these words
reached his ears. Mr. Bolton was the treasurer of the Building and Loan
Association into which he was going to pay the fifty dollars that night,
and these two men were concocting a scheme to rob him at his home.

The youth soon decided what to do. He must hurry away at once, and tell
the treasurer what he had discovered.

“It’s the greatest piece of rascality I ever heard of,” thought Paul, as
he cautiously rose to his feet and turned away.

But he was not destined to escape. He stepped upon a small stone which
slid out from under his foot with a sharp noise, and nearly threw him
down.

“What’s that?” cried one of the men, and the next second both were heard
starting from the cave.

Paul did not wait. Knowing he was sure to be caught, he broke into a
run.

The next moment the men saw him, and started in pursuit with a shout of
rage.

“Stop, you young eavesdropper,” cried the foremost ruffian; “stop, I
say, or I’ll shoot you.”

Paul paid no attention. He dashed back toward the road, expecting to
have a bullet sent after him each moment, but for some reason it did not
come.

Straining every muscle, he soon came near the fence, and at the same
moment he heard the pursuers close behind him. He had no time to climb
the fence, and gathered himself for a spring.

When he reached it, he placed his hand on the top rail, and made a
tremendous leap. He would have cleared it all right, but the rail gave
way under him, and he fell headlong into the grass on the roadside.

He sprang up, but it was too late. A heavy hand was laid on his collar,
and he was jerked violently around.

“Now I’ve got you,” said a rough voice. “I’ve a good mind to break your
head.”

“Let me go!” panted Paul.

“I’ll let you go, confound you,” roared his captor, shaking him
savagely. “Who are you?”

“None of your business,” said Paul fearlessly. “If you don’t let me go,
it’ll be worse for you.”

“Careful with that tongue of yours. Just come along back here.”

With a quick move the youth struck the man a stinging blow in the face.
The ruffian uttered a howl, and put up his hand. Paul broke loose, and
dashed away.

“Stop him, Dick,” cried the fellow he had hit. “Shoot him down; don’t
let him escape.”

Paul was running for all he was worth. Dick promptly gave chase. He was
a good runner, and, despite the boy’s desperate exertion, rapidly
overhauled him.

When he got near enough he struck at the boy with his fist, and once
more Paul sprawled into the road. He was partially stunned, and, before
he could recover, both men were upon him.

“Let me smash him,” cried the one savagely. “He nearly broke my nose.
Just let me get at him.”

“Oh, what’s the use!” said the other. “We’ve no time to fool with him.
Give me your handkerchief.”

The man did so, and in a few minutes Paul’s hands were secured behind
him, he was lifted between them, and carried back to the cave.

Here he was laid down, and Dick began searching him.

“We may as well take whatever you’ve got of value,” he said. “We deserve
something for that blasted run you gave us.”

Paul’s heart sank. His mother’s hard-earned fifty dollars would be
stolen.

The man soon found the book and the bills, and chuckled as he saw the
money. Then, by the light of the lantern which he had relighted, he
examined the book, and uttered a low whistle.

“Well, I’ll be hanged, Joe,” he cried, “if here isn’t one o’ the
Buildin’ and Loan books; fifty dollars along with it, too, by the great
thunder! Well, youngster, we’d only get this money anyhow, so we’ll take
it now. Wish we could get all that’ll be paid in to-night as easy as we
get this.”

He put the bills into his pocket, after which Paul was thrown into the
cave. A large stone lying near was rolled against the entrance, and
Paul’s capture was complete.

Hour after hour passed till the boy knew it must be after midnight. Then
the men prepared to leave.

“I reckon you’ll be comfortable there for some time, bub,” said one, as
they moved away. “You can thank your lucky stars that we didn’t kill
you.”

The next moment they were gone. Paul tugged at the bandage confining his
wrists.

“I must get away and warn Mr. Bolton,” he reflected excitedly. “They may
kill him.”

But the handkerchief was well tied, and he could not weaken it.

“What shall I do?” he cried desperately. “I must get away.”

Then an idea flashed into his mind. He rolled over, with his back
against the rock, and, despite the pain, began rubbing the handkerchief
against it.

His hands were soon bruised and bleeding, but he kept on, until finally
the linen was worn through, and dropped off.

He groped his way to the entrance, and tried to move the rock. He could
not budge it. He sank back again with a groan of dismay.

“Too bad,” was his despairing cry. “I can’t get out, after all. The men
must be almost there now. If----”

He thrust his hand into his pocket, and uttered a low cry. They had not
robbed him of his jackknife, and he soon had it out, digging away the
dirt for life.

How the boy worked! In half an hour he had dug a large cavity under one
side of the stone, and a hard push sent it over so that he managed to
squeeze through on the other side, and crawl from the cave.

Then off he started across fields for the house of Gilbert, the town
marshal. He had to cross a brook, but he did not lose time. He waded
through, and, with the water dripping from his garments, reached the
marshal’s house ten minutes later.

As soon as possible that individual was aroused, and Paul told his
story.

“Hurry,” he concluded. “You may be too late.”

In less than five minutes they were hurrying toward the treasurer’s
home. The marshal had two revolvers, one of which he handed to Paul.

“Don’t be afraid to use it,” he said, and a few minutes after they came
in sight of Mr. Bolton’s house.

They looked cautiously around as they approached, but all was silent.
Evidently the thieves had not arrived yet.

When they reached the house, the marshal rang the bell long and hard. A
moment later an upper window was raised, and Mr. Bolton called out:

“Who’s there?”

“It’s I, Gus,” said the marshal, stepping back and looking up. “Come
down, quick as you can, and open the door.”

Mr. Bolton knew the officer, and lost no time in admitting him.

“What is up?” he asked, when they were all inside.

The officer explained:

“They’ll be here soon,” he concluded. “We must be ready for ’em.”

Hasty preparations were made. Believing that the thieves were acquainted
with Mr. Bolton’s house, the officer concluded they would force an
entrance into the room where the treasurer kept his safe, and to this
apartment they all repaired.

A large, high-backed sofa was drawn up under the gas jet, the gas was
lighted and turned down low, and the three watchers crouched down behind
the safe.

“We’ll wait till they get in the room,” said the officer; “then I’ll
give you a nudge, Paul, and you must turn on the gas in full. Bolton and
I will cover ’em with our revolvers, and if they don’t surrender, we’ll
let ’em have it.”

Paul was much excited. But he tried to remember what the marshal had
told him, and held himself in readiness to turn on the gas when the
signal was given.

Suddenly a slight noise was heard near the window.

“Hist!” said the officer. “There they are!”

Two or three peculiar scratches were heard, then the sash was carefully
raised. In a moment the men climbed through the window and stood out on
the floor.

The marshal nudged Paul. A broad glare of light flooded the room, and at
the same moment Marshal Gilbert cried sternly:

“Surrender, or we’ll shoot you down!”

Startled into confusion by the sudden illumination of the room and the
ominous command, the two robbers became panic-stricken, and made a dash
for the window.

But the officer and Bolton were too quick for them. Their revolvers
cracked simultaneously, and both men went down, badly wounded. After
this their capture was easy, and they were soon disarmed and secured.

They were taken to jail, where their wounds were dressed, and when they
finally recovered were sent to prison.

Paul, of course, recovered his money, but the members of the Building
and Loan Association were so grateful for the valuable service he had
rendered them that they clubbed together and paid up his mother’s book
for several months to come.



THE PLUMAGE HUNTER.


Not very long ago the writer accompanied a gold-mining expedition into
the tropical forests of Guiana, and stumbled across an English traveler
who was collecting birds for a London and Parisian firm of merchants. He
was settled in a village of Acawois Indians, far from any of the haunts
of the white man. Every male Indian of the village was in his service,
and at the conclusion of each week they received pay, according to
results, in cheap knives, powder, hatchets, cooking utensils, et cetera;
pay day being usually celebrated by a feast, in which all the men got
fearfully intoxicated on a filthy compound called paiwarri.

We started out every morning immediately after breakfast. The Indians
were armed with bows and arrows and blowpipes. The collector divided
them into sections, and sent them off into the bush, himself
accompanying one group, but without doing any shooting. I fastened on to
a man and a boy, and kept close in their wake all day. With the skill of
a denizen of the woods, my man did not walk a step without rousing a
feathered creature of some sort. Sometimes a large bird--a toucan or a
macaw--would flap clumsily out of a bush, and the twang of the bowstring
would announce its death. Small birds fluttered across our path
constantly, and these were promptly brought down with the pipe. Now and
then a flight of a score or two would suddenly settle all over in the
branches about our heads, and on these occasions the Indian managed to
kill a dozen or so before they appeared to realize their danger. It was
kill, kill, kill, without a moment’s pause. As the birds fell, the boy
secured the bodies and dropped them into a long wicker basket, which was
strapped across his forehead and hung down his back.

On our return to the village the men were coming in and emptying their
baskets onto a long table in the middle of the Englishman’s hut. Many of
the birds were of the most brilliant plumage; but there were hundreds of
birds, not boasting any brightness of color, that were of no use. The
slaughter, in fact, is much greater in regard to the birds that are not
wanted than those which reach the English market. The collector,
stripped to the shirt, and with his sleeves rolled up, set to work at
once, going through the game. He handled every bird, dropping those
pretty enough for a bonnet or valuable enough for a collection into one
heap, and the useless ones into another. Not more than one bird in ten
was retained; the rest had been slaughtered uselessly. When I reproached
my friend with this wanton waste of feathered life, he replied that he
could not attempt to kill the birds himself, and it was impossible to
get Indians to discriminate between valuable and worthless specimens.



JOKES FROM JERROLD.


Douglas Jerrold, once the keenest of wits, a remarkable combination of
Thackeray and Hood, is now almost forgotten. It is a pity. His jests
were singularly ripe and racy. He had no mercy on the sentimentalists.

“I love nature,” said one of these dawdles to him one day. “I often take
a book, retire into some unfrequented field, lie down, gaze on the
heavens, then study. If there are any animals in the field, so much the
better. The cow approaches, and looks down upon me; and I--I look up to
her.”

“Exactly,” said Jerrold, “you look up to her with a filial smile!”

A delightful way of telling him he was a calf.

Another sentimentalist got a beautiful settler in this way: Walking in
the country, Jerrold and a small party of friends stopped to notice the
antics of a small donkey in a field. A gushing poet in the party said:

“Dear little thing; how I should like to buy it and give it to my
mother!”

“Do,” said Jerrold--“do, and tie this sweet motto round its neck: ‘When
this you see, remember me.’”

He had little mercy for pretentious prigs, who always abound in
“literary circles.” A young author had written on the same subject as
Lamartine, and bragged of it.

“Ah,” said he, “Lamartine and I row in the same boat.”

“Yes,” said Jerrold, “but not with the same skulls.”

Another of these gentry, praising one of his own plays, said to Jerrold:

“Do you remember the baroness in that play?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jerrold. “I never read anything of yours without being
struck with its barrenness!”

At the same time he always had a friendly hand for a man who was too
hard hit. A newspaper called the _Chronicle_, once attacked a young
friend of his, savagely assailing his work. Jerrold took up the cudgels
and wrote in his defense. He began by telling how, in some countries,
the too luxuriant growth of the vine is prevented by sending asses in to
crop the rising shoots. Then he gravely added:

“Even so young authors require pruning; and how thankful we all ought to
be that the _Chronicle_ keeps an ass!”

Walking one day in the Haymarket, then a rather disreputable promenade,
some one met him, and thus accosted him:

“What, Jerrold, you here? Looking about for characters, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Jerrold quietly; “I am told a good many are lost about
here.”

                   *       *       *       *       *


                       THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.

Michigan on Gridiron.

Six of the eight games which will make up the University of Michigan’s
1915 football schedule were announced recently by the board in control
of the athletics. The midweek games have not yet been decided upon.

The schedule follows:

October 9, Mount Union; October 16, Case; October 23, Michigan
Agricultural College; October 30, Syracuse; November 6, Cornell;
November 13, Pennsylvania at Philadelphia.

With the exception of the Pennsylvania game on Franklin Field, Michigan
will fight all her battles on the home gridiron next fall.



Hen and High-bred Chickens.

A hen of high-flying propensities advertised her character when a barred
Plymouth Rock, the property of Mr. Gushee, of Hastings, N. Y., announced
from a cedar tree on the Longue Vue estate, that she had a remarkable
secret to impart.

Those who answered the frenzied squawks for aid found with her a brood
of thirteen chicks. M. C. Cronin, who superintends the poultry stock at
Longue Vue, removed the flock from the tree crotch, which was twenty
feet from the ground, and installed the family in a comfortable house.
The hen had been missing for days, but no one thought to look for her at
such a height. Now they are trying to decide whether the birds are cedar
birds or plain chickens.



Destroying Odor of Smoke.

A new invention is a lamp which consumes smoke. It resembles an ordinary
alcohol lamp in appearance. At the tip of its burner is a piece of
platinum. When the platinum is made to glow by the alcohol flame arising
from the burner it gives off formaldehyde in great quantities. This
overcomes the smoke or any other impurity in the atmosphere. When the
lamp is lighted in a room where smoking is in progress it prevents the
accumulation of stale smoke. It can also be used as a disinfector.



Ex-slave Ill at 102.

Mrs. Minerva Gillies, whose father, Richard Washington, was George
Washington’s slave, was taken to the Harlem Hospital, in New York
recently, suffering from ailments that come with old age. She is 102
years old, and lived with her daughter at 58 West 133d Street.

Richard Washington was a stableboy at Mount Vernon. After the death of
George Washington, he was sold and went to Petersburg, Va. There Minerva
was born. She remained in slavery until the end of the Civil War, when
she came North.



From Gate to President.

At a meeting of the directors of Yale & Towne, of Stamford, Conn., the
largest hardware manufacturing concern in the country, if not in the
world, Walter C. Allen, who twenty-three years ago applied for a job at
the gate of the works, was elected president in the place of Henry R.
Towne, who retires after forty-six years in that position.

Mr. Towne was made chairman of the board of directors.



Death Takes Four of Family.

For the first time in the history of Loganville, Ga., according to the
older inhabitants, four deaths occurred in one family within four days.
Edgar Rickets, who lives about four miles west of the place, experienced
this affliction recently.

On a Monday he attended the funeral of his mother. That night his baby
died, and the next day his wife and little boy, about two years old,
also died, all being victims of pneumonia fever. The three bodies were
buried Wednesday in a local cemetery. This is the first time that a
triple funeral has ever occurred from one family in this section.



Dog Rescues an Old Soldier.

Wanderer, a smart collie, is being showered with attention as a hero in
Woodside, Md., for saving from death Charles McCallion, an aged veteran
of the Civil War. “Wan,” as the dog is commonly known, is owned by Edson
B. Olds, treasurer of the Union Trust Company.

Mr. Olds’ attention was attracted to the continuous barking and peculiar
antics of the dog on Sunday morning. Wan would dash up to the house and
bark for a few minutes, then run to a field near by and bark again.

When Mr. Olds followed Wan on one of the trips, he found McCallion lying
in the middle of the field, unconscious from the cold. A physician was
summoned, and the aged veteran was taken to the Soldiers’ Hospital. He
will recover.



Ding Dong! Go Bells for Wong Chungs.

Mr. Wong Chung, late of China, whose head is said to be worth $10,000 to
certain bloodthirsty officials of his native land, and Mrs. Chung Fong,
more recently of the Celestial republic, who has traveled 10,000 miles
to wed the political refugee with the precious cranium, were married in
New York recently at the First Chinese Presbyterian Church by the
Reverend Huie Kin.

The flavor of romance which one might expect from the above was absent
at the ceremony. Mr. Chung is tall and thin, with the face of a student.
He was attired in the official gala dress of the new republic, which
consists of gray trousers, Prince Albert, high collar, and ascot tie.
His bride, who is a slim, elderly lady, with gold-rimmed spectacles,
wore a native Chinese costume of white silk, with a loose tunic effect
and a short white veil. She bought this just before she set out in
search of the prospective husband, whom she had not seen in ten years.

Many of the elite of the Chinese colony, which is not to be confused
with Chinatown, witnessed the ceremony. Miss Fun Hin Liu, a Wellesley
graduate, was the bridesmaid, and Mr. Lo Lam, a student from Columbia,
was best man. After the ceremony, which was the simple Presbyterian
ritual, delivered in English by the pastor of the church, Professor Ou,
of the Canton Chinese College, made singing noises while the newly
married pair had their pictures taken.

Mrs. Fong met her husband ten years ago while he was serving as dean of
the Canton Christian College. Since then the two have kept up a
correspondence, which grew so ardent on his side that it finally lured
Mrs. Fong across the Pacific and to Chicago, where her husband-to-be met
her and brought her to New York.


Starved, Fight for Food.

Owing to the extended shutdown of the mines in Venetia, a small mining
town in Washington County, Pa., 480 persons, including many women and
children, are slowly starving to death. This message was received in a
letter sent to a local newspaper. Barks and herbs are the only food that
the starving people can obtain, and the pangs of hunger have so affected
many that they fight one another for the bark and herbs that can be
found in the fields and woods.



New Flag for Marshall.

Vice President Marshall is the first vice president of the United States
to have a naval flag all his own. The necessity for the creation of such
an ensign was brought about by the intended visit of Mr. Marshall, as
the president’s representative to the Panama-Pacific Exposition at San
Francisco.

When the vice president determined to go, and arrangements for his
reception were in progress, the navy department found that, while the
president and the secretary and assistant secretary of the navy each had
a flag, the vice president had none. The duty of providing a vice
president’s flag proved simple. The new banner will be the reverse of
the president’s flag in the color distribution. It will be of white,
with the arms of the United States--a spread eagle bearing on its breast
a shield of stars and stripes. The eagle will be of blue and the shield
in red, white, and blue.



J. B. Brady Aids Woman.

James B. Brady, noted as “Diamond Jim,” while sitting as a member of the
New York grand jury, was so touched by the story of one of the witnesses
that he suggested taking up a collection for her. Just to start things
off, he tossed a brand-new one-hundred-dollar bill on the stenographer’s
table, and when the other jurors had added their contributions, there
was $130 in the purse.

Mrs. Marka Buila, of 1324 First Avenue, was the woman whose plight
touched Mr. Brady’s heart. She told the jury that she had been robbed of
all her money, jewelry, and clothing, and when she was summoned to
testify last Monday, had to walk to the Criminal Courts Building from
her home in Harlem.

The man against whom the woman was testifying was indicted.



Army of Institutions.

Charitable, civic, and religious organizations exceeding 3,800 are
working for the betterment of people and things in New York City,
according to the directory issued by the Charity Organization Society.

There are 1,800 churches. Social centers and settlements, 150 in
Manhattan and forty-one in the other boroughs, lead the remainder of
the list, which includes hospitals, kindergartens, homes, nurseries, and
missionary societies. Included in the directory are the names of twelve
war-relief bodies. About 6,000 persons are associated with charitable
agencies.



Anarchist Plot Revealed.

One of the exhibits at the next county fair in Metuchen, N. J., will be
a prize Jersey anarchist, guaranteed to give results any place at any
time.

A farm where anarchists will be reared in proper anarchistic atmosphere
was purchased recently by a man who said he was Harry Kelly, chairman of
the Ferrer Settlement, of New York City. He bought the sixty-nine-acre
farm of Walter Rush, in Raritan Township, where, he declared, the
headquarters of the Ferrer School will be established about May 1st.

“Our main object,” he said, “in establishing the colony is to produce
genuine anarchists, and we must rear our children in a thoroughly
anarchistic atmosphere.”

The plot will be cut up into building lots. To each anarchist will be
given one plot, upon which he is expected to sow the seeds of anarchy,
tomatoes, and turnips. Kelly says the settlement will be the anarchist
headquarters in the East.

This town is all excited. It remembers with painful distinctness what
happened four years ago, when the socialists established a colony near
the site of the contemplated anarchist farm. Professor George D. Herron
and Eugene V. Debs took the leading part in the formation of the
socialist pasture ground.

Nobody took more than the usual curious interest in the project until
the announcement seeped into this town that Herron was going to bring
Miss Carrie Rand to live with him “according to the new and simple form
of marriage ceremony.”

Metuchen isn’t exactly puritan, but when that news reached it, every
Metuchenite dug his Bible out of the attic and joined his neighbor in
excited protest. Metuchen was willing to tolerate some things, but when
it came to winking at free love, never!

So highly excited did the townsfolk become that Herron and his wife left
for Florence, Italy, where they lived until her death a year ago. And
even though the socialist farm was established, nothing that resembled
free love ever made its appearance.

That’s why Metuchen sizzles with palpitating expectation and teems with
a throbbing skepticism. It knows what the I. W. W. folk have done in
Paterson, another Jersey town, and it has read what the anarchists in
New York are reputed to have done.

Metuchen was able to repel the socialists when they would have set up a
free-love colony in the neighborhood. But it is not so sure that it can
stand off genuine anarchists.



Rowing Dates for Year.

In addition to the announcement on Saturday night that the championship
meet of the National Association of Amateur Oarsmen would be held at
Springfield, Mass., on August 13th and 14th, the following rowing dates
were made public by the Amateur American Rowing Association:

May 22--American Rowing Association, at Philadelphia; May 31--New York
Rowing Association, on the Harlem River, New York; June 19--Schuylkill
Navy Regatta, at Philadelphia; July 3--Hudson River Rowing Association
meet; July 5--People’s regatta, at Philadelphia; New England regatta, at
Charles Basin, Boston; Western Massachusetts Rowing Association, at
Springfield, Mass.; Rosedale Boat Club open regatta, on Hackensack
River, New Jersey; September 6--Middle States Rowing Association, meet
date not yet fixed; New England Rowing Association regatta, at Boston;
Detroit River Rowing Association, at Detroit; September 9 to 15--Pacific
Coast Association meet at Pan-American Fair, San Francisco; September
15--Detroit River Rowing Association, at Detroit.



Reduce World Armies Plan.

A movement to bring about a world-wide restriction of armies and navies
by international agreement after the European War is ended is announced
by the American League to Limit Armaments. The crusade is being
organized through conferences and correspondence with leaders of public
opinion in several foreign countries, it was stated.

“We are undertaking to solidify the movement and co-ordinate the efforts
along this line while the war is still in progress, in order to make the
strongest possible presentation of the issue at the earliest opportune
moment,” says the league’s announcement. “We are not proposing methods
to bring peace to Europe until Europe is ready to stop fighting of its
own accord. We stand by what we hold to be the main proposition--that
the reduction of all armaments to the least proportions consistent with
the demands of normal tranquillity and the use of the money now going
into destructive engines of war for the constructive agencies of peace
is the true solution of the peace problem.”



To Sell a Pilgrim’s House.

The only remaining house in America which has sheltered persons who came
to Plymouth on the _Mayflower_ in 1620 is to be sold at auction by order
of the court.

The house was built in 1666 by a son of John Howland, the last
_Mayflower_ survivor. In course of time the building fell into decay,
but upon the organization in 1911 of the Society of the Descendants of
Pilgrim John Howland of the ship _Mayflower_, the property was acquired
and restored by that body.



Lieutenant Shares Meal with Private.

Some excitement was created in a Piccadilly grill at luncheon time when
a private English “Tommy” walked in and sat down at a table with a young
lieutenant. The private is the young officer’s father, and before the
war held a high position in a London bank. His lunching with the officer
caused some discussion, and some said it was too much democracy even for
the English army.

After the meal the young officer said: “Should you refuse to let the
governor buy you a lunch merely because he is a Tommy?”



Skipper of Six-master at Twenty-one.

Shortly after the _E. R. Sterling_, the only six-masted barkentine in
the world, arrived in San Francisco, Cal., from Nanaimo, B. C., laden
with coal, she was boarded by Federal operatives, who made a thorough
search of the hold for a high-power wireless apparatus which officials
have been informed is destined to be transferred at sea to a foreign
warship from some American vessel in the near future. No apparatus was
found.

Captain Edward Sterling, junior, son of the owner of the _E. R.
Sterling_, is only twenty-one years old, and is said to be the youngest
skipper of a deep-water ship to possess a master’s license. The vessel
requires a crew of only twelve men, as her sails are raised by donkey
engines.



Canary Sings in Trenches.

A private of the English Second Rifle Brigade, writing to a friend at
Sheffield, England, tells this story of a canary which he says sings and
cheers his comrades through the smoke of battle:

“Our only companion--in the trenches--is a little canary we rescued from
a deserted house, which had been almost shelled to atoms. On the cage
was a ticket: ‘Please look after this little bird.’ It has made itself
quite at home with us. When we leave the trenches, we hand it over to
the next regiment. So you may guess it’s made quite a fuss of. Last time
we went into the trenches our canary was almost black through the smoke
from shell fire, but it seems as cheerful as ever. Really, it gets so
black with smoke that it’s a job to distinguish it from a sparrow.”



Dickens is German Soldiers’ Favorite.

Dickens is the German soldiers’ favorite novelist. He stands first in a
list of fifty authors prepared by the great publishing house of Reclam,
of Leipzig, famous for its cheap reprints.

Of the total number of orders from the German troops at the front
forty-eight per cent calls for fiction, nineteen per cent for serious
reading, comprising philosophy, religion, and arts; seventeen per cent
for poetry and drama, and sixteen per cent for light miscellaneous
stuff, including humorous works.

The German soldier is catholic in his taste when it comes to fiction,
for not only does he top his list with Dickens, but includes twenty-one
other foreign novelists, among whom appear Bulwer, Defoe, Scott, Dumas,
Daudet, Merimée, Prevost, and Victor Hugo.



Forests Fired by Sparks.

Of the 503 fires reported by the United States Forest Service as having
occurred in 1914 in the national forest purchase areas in the White
Mountains of New England and the Southern Appalachians, 319, or sixty
per cent, were caused by sparks from locomotives. More than half of
these fires, or 272, occurred in Virginia alone, and of these 227 were
from locomotive sparks.

Three hundred and seventy-nine of the fires were confined to areas of
less than ten acres each, and 296 were put out before a quarter of an
acre had been burned. The total loss amounted to $2,192, and the cost of
fire fighting to $1,300, an infinitesimal sum compared with the value of
the timber and reproduction protected. As the areas swept by fire were
mostly cut over, the greater part of the damage was suffered by young
growth.



Expert Stump Blower Has Narrow Escape.

Jake Bodine, prominent tailor and stump blower of Kenton, Ohio, sat at
his ease and smoked his pipe.

When it went out, he lighted it again. When it went out a second time,
he decided he had had enough, and laid the pipe aside.

He had been blowing stumps with dynamite during the day, and had brought
four large caps home in his pocket.

Reaching into his pocket in which he had put the caps, and in which he
carried his smoking tobacco as well, he found three caps instead of
four.

When he emptied the ashes from his pipe in search of the fourth cap,
that fourth cap rattled out, badly scorched.

“It’s a good thing my pipe went out when it did,” he says. “If that cap
had gone off, like as not it would have ruined one of the best stump
blowers in Kenton.”



Killed Nineteen California Lions.

Nineteen California lions fell before the guns of the bounty hunters in
February. Four were killed in Humboldt County; three in Siskiyou; three
in Lake; two in Mendocino; two in Ventura, and one each in San Benito,
Del Norte, Monterey, Tehama, and Tuolumne. The State paid twenty dollars
to each successful hunter, and in addition to this the pelts brought as
much more. Some counties also give a special bounty for lions’ scalps.



Officers Applaud New Box Wireless.

Under the direction of the secretary of war a new wireless apparatus,
the invention of Doctor Otto F. Reinhold, of 77 Nye Avenue, Newark, N.
J., was tested at Bedloe’s Island by First Lieutenant J. G. Taylor, of
the Signal Corps, and M. B. Dilley, master signal electrician. The
government men declared afterward that the apparatus gave promise of
revolutionizing the entire system of wireless telegraphy.

The apparatus, inclosed in a box about fifteen inches long, six inches
wide, and eight inches high, may be styled a secret radio plant, and is
intended primarily for use in the army field. The astounding feature of
it, according to Lieutenant Taylor, is that it was fully demonstrated
that the little contrivance sends out its sound waves without antennæ.

The experiment enabled the government officials to communicate with Fort
Totten, about fifteen miles away in one direction, and Fort Hancock,
about twenty miles distant in another. The navy-yard wireless station
called a halt on the tests as the inventor was about to try to reach
Fort H. G. Wright, one hundred and twenty miles away, at New London,
Conn.

Doctor Reinhold said his apparatus could be connected wherever direct or
alternating current is available. He said it could be used on an
automobile and operated while the machine was at top speed by using
current supplied from the automobile dynamo.

The inventor claimed for his apparatus that in a recent test he sent a
message three hundred miles.



Echoes of War in London Want Ads.

Want advertisements are always interesting because of the varied and
intimate side lights which they give on what people are doing and
thinking about. As war topics fill the news and editorial columns of the
English newspapers, so is the war the all-absorbing subject in the
classified department. Following are a few of the advertisements
appearing in the London _Times_, sent to the _Blade_ by Mr. Boyce as
showing how England is taking the war:

Dogs and cats of the empire!--The kaiser said: “Germany will fight to
last dog and cat.” Will British dogs and cats give 6d. each to provide
Y. M. C. A. soldiers’ hut at front? Any dog or cat sending five pounds
can have his or her picture hung in “our” hut.--“Tom,” care of Miss Maud
Field, Mortimer West, Berks.

Request from sailors and soldiers at the front to send large
consignments of flint and tinder lighters; matches, when procurable,
being unreliable in wet weather. Money to help purchase direct from
makers solicited.--Address Haden Crawford, esquire, Marlow, Bucks.

Ninth Seaforth Highlanders.--Field glasses are required for the use of
N. C. O.’s and scouts, and will be gratefully received and acknowledged
by Captain Petty, Salamanca Barracks, Aldershot.

Playing Cards (used) urgently required for wounded soldiers.--Gratefully
received by Miss Peck, Maidencombe, St. Mary Church, Devon.

Urgently needed, socks for the Eighth Irish Service Battalion, King’s
Liverpool regiment, shortly leaving for the front.--Gratefully
acknowledged by Miss Cox, The Priory, Royston, Herts.

Elizabeth Motor Ambulance.--Will every one named “Elizabeth” in Great
Britain and Ireland send me contribution toward above--in connection
with Lady Bushman’s Ambulance Fleet--and save our soldiers much
unnecessary suffering?--Mrs. F. Ford, Rushmere, Wimbledon Common, S. W.

Wounded Soldiers “Margaret” Fund.--“Lady Margarets” subscribe a guinea.
“Margarets” over sixteen, half guinea; “Little Margarets,” 2s. 6d. Lady
Margaret Hospital, Bromley, Kent. Lady Margaret Campbell, Hon.
Treasurer.



Loses Leg After Fifty Years.

Fifty years after a Confederate shell had struck and injured his right
leg, Ellet Ramsey, of Huntingdon, Pa., had the leg removed at the Blair
Hospital. The amputation was made necessary by suffering from the old
wound received half a century ago. He stood the operation well and will
recover.



Angry Lamb Injures Woman.

Mrs. Garret Smith, of Liberty, Pa., is suffering from severe injuries
received by being butted by an angry lamb. Dan Carroll, a neighbor of
the Smith family, is the owner of the lamb, which escaped from its
premises and went into the Smith yard. Before Mrs. Smith realized what
had happened, she was knocked to the ground and seriously injured, one
of her arms being broken.



Lost Boys Found in Abandoned Mine.

After searching a week for two small boys who were missing from their
homes during that time, the searchers found the body of William Hale,
five years old, and his companion, Albert Tomlinson, aged ten, still
alive, in an abandoned mine near Banksville, Pa. The boys had been lost
in the mine all that time. Young Tomlinson was almost exhausted from
exposure and hunger.

The boys were in a small five-foot drop in a mine pit which had several
inches of water in it. The body of the Hale boy was partly submerged in
the water, but his head was resting in the lap of his companion, who
could barely sit erect. The younger boy had starved to death.

After searching for several days for the missing lads, the party entered
the mine pit. They had progressed only a short distance when they heard
a faint voice crying: “Oh, Thomas; oh, Thomas!” It was young Tomlinson
calling for his older brother.

When rescued, young Tomlinson said: “Thank God you found us.”

Tomlinson told an incoherent story. He said he had no idea of time, but
as nearly as he could tell Hale had been dead about two days. He said
they walked hand in hand many miles, endeavoring to find a way out.
After his comrade died, Tomlinson said, he carried the body around with
him. Overcome with exhaustion, he gave up all efforts and had not
sufficient strength to get out of the pool of poisonous water in which
he and Hale’s body was found.

It is not known how the Tomlinson boy survived the ordeal, but it is
supposed that he subsisted on bark from old timber in the mine. He is in
a hospital now.


Catches Baby Boy on Roof of Moving Train.

An escape from death without precedent occurred in Pittsburgh, recently,
on the Pennsylvania Railroad. Walter Betle, four years old, was playing
on the bridge at Thirty-third Street, near where the flooring was being
repaired. He stumbled at a hole and started to fall to the tracks,
twenty-five feet below.

A freight train was within a few feet of the bridge, running at high
speed. On the roof of the first box car was Richard Roundtree, a
brakeman, saw the boy stumble through the bridge. He braced himself and
managed to catch him as he fell. Roundtree staggered dangerously near
the edge of the roof, but managed to keep his footing until the train
was stopped.



Has Wonderful “Peace” Egg.

Sam Marks’ Plymouth Rock hen, of Orville, Cal., which recently laid an
egg bearing the Hebrew word for “peace” neatly inscribed thereon, is
bringing her owner much fame and large daily mail. The president of the
Panama-Pacific Exposition has written to Marks, inclosing a free pass to
the exposition and asking Marks to bring the wonderful egg and “Martha,”
the remarkable hen, with him.



Lands 975 War Horses Across Ocean Safely.

Doctor E. R. Forbes, of Fort Worth, Texas, who, early in January,
resigned as State veterinarian to return to British service, recently
took the record on animal transportation, having landed in Europe 975
head of animals without losing one.

Doctor Forbes was in good health when the letter containing the news of
his safe arrival at his destination in England was written, and
signified his intention of remaining in the animal-transport service of
Great Britain as long as his services were required during the war.

Doctor Forbes was employed by the British government during the Boer War
in the same position he now occupies. At that time he took two cargoes
of horses from New Orleans to South Africa, and, after demonstrating how
to care for the animals on shipboard during such a long voyage, returned
to New Orleans, where he continued to pass upon the soundness and
stamina of horses and mules for the British army while the Boer War
lasted.

Taking 975 head of animals across the Atlantic in mid-winter was a feat
in maritime equine transportation never before equaled, and especially
when it is taken into consideration that not an animal was lost during
the voyage.

This is quite in contradistinction to the fate of a shipload of horses
consigned to the Italian government by the steamer _Evelyn_. When the
steamer neared the Bermuda Islands, the condenser on the vessel broke,
and, no water being available, the cargo, 366 head, was driven into the
sea.

Another shipment to Italy arrived at its destination with only
seventy-eight alive out of 345 when the vessel left an American port.



Michigan Has Climbing Cow.

Marshall Rust, a farmer, of Lapeer, Mich., possesses several cows that
are as graceful examples of bovine femininity as ever chewed a cud, but,
in addition, one of them has some athletic ability.

Mr. Rust recently turned his cows into a field in which was also a wagon
partly loaded with bean pods. One night he went out to milk his cows
just after darkness had set in and found one missing. He searched over
the near-by fields for several hours, but to no avail.

When morning came, the lost cow was found sleeping peacefully on the
load of bean pods. The cow had climbed on the wagon, six feet from the
ground.



Timber Inspector Slays Three Bears.

Mat Jordan, expert timber inspector, living in Turner, Mich., is the
hero of the hour just now in that town and vicinity. Old residents,
especially those who came from the East many years ago, declare that if
Mat had lived in the good old pioneer days of which J. Fenimore Cooper
so charmingly wrote, Mat would have made as interesting a story hero as
did Natty Bumpo, the famous deer slayer, only Mat’s long suit is bears,
no matter how many.

Mat was strolling through the woods near here with a double-bladed ax on
his shoulder. He was there to look over some timber land, with a
prospective dicker looming up in his speculative mind. While pausing to
inspect a likely looking log that lay half concealed with dead brush, he
heard a noise. Stepping toward the sound to investigate, he beheld a
large black bear emerging from its den.

“Great siege guns!” exclaimed Mat, “this looks like war.”

It was war, and it started right away, for Mat swung his double-edged ax
and soon had the enemy at his feet, registering its final kicks and last
gasps. While he was surveying his conquered foe with a gleam of triumph
in his weather eye, he suddenly had occasion to exclaim:

“Well, for the love of Mike, look who’s here!”

Two more bears, but young, half-grown ones, which were quickly
dispatched and laid alongside their mother. The large bear weighed 175
pounds.

Mat went after help, and the carcasses were brought to town, where they
were viewed by hundreds of persons all of whom were of the opinion that
Mat Jordan is the champion bear slayer of Michigan.



Strangest Fresh-water Fish.

George Welscher, who lives in Illinois, opposite Commerce, Mo., caught a
strange-looking fish in the Mississippi River the other day. He had been
told that if one would break the ice near the shore and drop a baited
hook in the water, he could sure catch fish. He decided to try it, and
had only been fishing a few minutes when he landed a queer specimen, to
describe it mildly. It had a head like a dog’s, but the body was like a
fish. Where the fins should be it had something like wings, which it
could open and close. It had a tail similar to a cat’s, with fur on it
like a cat’s, and on which the water seemed to have no effect.

Near the end of the tail there were three prongs, each having a
different color of fur on them--one blue, one white, and the other a
shade of yellow. It had a tusk about two inches long in its mouth. Its
eyes were in the tip of its tail, and instead of having two eyes, it had
three. Welscher said he had no trouble landing the fish, and as soon as
landed it began to bark like a dog.



Saved Russian from Big Bear.

Andy Williams, an employee of the Gagen Lumber and Cedar Company, of
Gagen, Wis., in one of their camps, two miles from this village, killed
what is thought to be the largest bear ever seen in this vicinity, it
weighing nearly 500 pounds.

A Russian who was swamping out logs suddenly aroused a monster bear,
and, in his excitement, accidentally hit bruin on the head. The bear,
furious at being struck, made for the Russian, who was now fleeing down
the road at his utmost speed. The Russ no doubt imagined that his end
was near and that there was at least one Russian who would never get
back across the big pond to face a German gun. He probably never would
have if Andy Williams hadn’t come to his rescue and dispatched the bear
with an ax.

They went back and found three cubs in a hollow log, and they are now
getting the best of care at the camp.



Tiny Locomotive is Wonder in Details.

A perfect model of an oil-burning railway locomotive, forty-two inches
long, is to be put on exhibition at the Panama-Pacific Exposition.
Arthur H. Johnson, of Seattle, Wash., who built the model, has been
requested by the San Francisco authorities to enter the locomotive as an
exhibit, and he has consented.

Johnson, who is a young electrician, spent three years in making the
model to try out an invention of his on the fire box. The engine is
equipped with air brakes, an electric-light system, and everything else
that a modern locomotive has. The boiler has been tested out at 150
pounds working pressure.

A Massachusetts man has built a miniature battleship, thirteen feet in
length, which has all the features of a real dreadnaught, including guns
that fire, range finders, wireless instruments, gunners, and even a band
that plays martial music. The vessel is propelled by electricity, and
can make ten miles an hour in smooth water....



Santa’s Aids Honored.

A large statue of Santa Claus, made of paper pulp molded from five
thousand letters written by poor children of the city to Kris Kringle,
was presented at the Hotel Astor, in New York City, to William C. and F.
A. Muschenheim, two of Santa’s aids. It is the gift of the Santa Claus
Association and the Waterman’s Ideal Ten-year Club.

John D. Gluck, founder of the Santa Claus Association, presented the
figure to the Muschenheims. The statue is three-quarters life size and
rests on a base of Italian marble. Kratina, the sculptor, spent two
months in molding it.

The inscription says the gift is in recognition of “assistance rendered
to the children of the poor, who wrote to Santa Claus. A fortune was
sent to poor kiddies, for fuel, food, and toys, and five thousand of
them no longer say there is no Santa Claus.”


Find Missing Man in Shark.

The mystery surrounding the disappearance three years ago at St.
Augustine, Fla., of John B. Mooney, of Mooney Brothers’ Company, was
cleared up when his son, Edgar J. Mooney, of Cleveland, Ohio, received
word from Miami, Fla., that the upper portion of a human skeleton, which
is thought to be that of J. B. Mooney, had been found in the stomach of
a shark caught near there this week.

In 1912 the elder Mooney was in bathing at St. Augustine when he
suddenly disappeared in the surf. It was thought that a strong undertow
had carried him out to sea, but it is now believed a shark seized him.


Interesting New Inventions.

The “bicycle built for two” about which there used to be a song was
followed by the motor cycle carrying two passengers. This has now been
improved upon. The newest kind has two chair seats, one behind the
other, instead of saddles.

To save neckties from the wear and tear of pinholes, a scarfpin has been
patented that clips on the edge of a tie.

In the interest of cleanliness, an Iowa inventor has patented a wire
frame to hold a milk pail up from the ground.

A Frenchman has invented a machine for dealing cards that is said to
make misdeals impossible.

A microthermometer has been invented that is so delicate that it is
capable of registering sea-water temperature changes to one-thousandth
of a degree. The instrument is intended to enable ship’s officers to
detect their approach to icebergs.

A novel wrench that will hold a nut of almost any size is made of a
single piece of steel, the handle being split so that the jaws are
sprung together as a strain is applied.


Snake Poison Fails to Cure.

Rattlesnake venom as a cure for epilepsy proved a failure in official
tests conducted by the State of Kansas. A report filed in Chicago by
Doctor M. L. Perry, superintendent of the State Hospital for Epileptics,
at Parsons, notes the effect of the venom on six patients at the
institution who received the treatment for two months.

“In two cases there were more attacks than before; another was
unchanged, and one patient’s condition grew so alarming that the
treatment was discontinued in two weeks,” the report says.

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The Nick Carter Stories

ISSUED EVERY SATURDAY      BEAUTIFUL COLORED COVERS


When it comes to detective stories worth while, the =Nick Carter Stories=
contain the only ones that should be considered. They are not overdrawn
tales of bloodshed. They rather show the working of one of the finest
minds ever conceived by a writer. The name of Nick Carter is familiar
all over the world, for the stories of his adventures may be read in
twenty languages. No other stories have withstood the severe test of
time so well as those contained in the =Nick Carter Stories=. It proves
conclusively that they are the best. We give herewith a list of some of
the back numbers in print. You can have your news dealer order them, or
they will be sent direct by the publishers to any address upon receipt
of the price in money or postage stamps.

704--Written in Red.
707--Rogues of the Air.
709--The Bolt from the Blue.
710--The Stockbridge Affair.
711--A Secret from the Past.
712--Playing the Last Hand.
713--A Slick Article.
714--The Taxicab Riddle.
717--The Master Rogue’s Alibi.
719--The Dead Letter.
720--The Allerton Millions.
728--The Mummy’s Head.
729--The Statue Clue.
730--The Torn Card.
731--Under Desperation’s Spur.
732--The Connecting Link.
733--The Abduction Syndicate.
736--The Toils of a Siren.
738--A Plot Within a Plot.
739--The Dead Accomplice.
741--The Green Scarab.
746--The Secret Entrance.
747--The Cavern Mystery.
748--The Disappearing Fortune.
749--A Voice from the Past.
752--The Spider’s Web.
753--The Man With a Crutch.
754--The Rajah’s Regalia.
755--Saved from Death.
756--The Man Inside.
757--Out for Vengeance.
758--The Poisons of Exili.
759--The Antique Vial.
760--The House of Slumber.
761--A Double Identity.
762--“The Mocker’s” Stratagem.
763--The Man that Came Back.
764--The Tracks in the Snow.
765--The Babbington Case.
766--The Masters of Millions.
767--The Blue Stain.
768--The Lost Clew.
770--The Turn of a Card.
771--A Message in the Dust.
772--A Royal Flush.
774--The Great Buddha Beryl.
775--The Vanishing Heiress.
776--The Unfinished Letter.
777--A Difficult Trail.
782--A Woman’s Stratagem.
783--The Cliff Castle Affair.
784--A Prisoner of the Tomb.
785--A Resourceful Foe.
789--The Great Hotel Tragedies.
795--Zanoni, the Transfigured.
796--The Lure of Gold.
797--The Man With a Chest.
798--A Shadowed Life.
799--The Secret Agent.
800--A Plot for a Crown.
801--The Red Button.
802--Up Against It.
803--The Gold Certificate.
804--Jack Wise’s Hurry Call.
805--Nick Carter’s Ocean Chase.
806--Nick Carter and the Broken Dagger.
807--Nick Carter’s Advertisement.
808--The Kregoff Necklace.
810--The Copper Cylinder.
811--Nick Carter and the Nihilists.
812--Nick Carter and the Convict Gang.
813--Nick Carter and the Guilty Governor.
814--The Triangled Coin.
815--Ninety-nine--and One.
816--Coin Number 77.


NEW SERIES

NICK CARTER STORIES


1--The Man from Nowhere.
2--The Face at the Window.
3--A Fight for a Million.
4--Nick Carter’s Land Office.
5--Nick Carter and the Professor.
6--Nick Carter as a Mill Hand.
7--A Single Clew.
8--The Emerald Snake.
9--The Currie Outfit.
10--Nick Carter and the Kidnapped Heiress.
11--Nick Carter Strikes Oil.
12--Nick Carter’s Hunt for a Treasure.
13--A Mystery of the Highway.
14--The Silent Passenger.
15--Jack Dreen’s Secret.
16--Nick Carter’s Pipe Line Case.
17--Nick Carter and the Gold Thieves.
18--Nick Carter’s Auto Chase.
19--The Corrigan Inheritance.
20--The Keen Eye of Denton.
21--The Spider’s Parlor.
22--Nick Carter’s Quick Guess.
23--Nick Carter and the Murderess.
24--Nick Carter and the Pay Car.
25--The Stolen Antique.
26--The Crook League.
27--An English Cracksman.
28--Nick Carter’s Still Hunt.
29--Nick Carter’s Electric Shock.
30--Nick Carter and the Stolen Duchess.
31--The Purple Spot.
32--The Stolen Groom.
33--The Inverted Cross.
34--Nick Carter and Keno McCall.
35--Nick Carter’s Death Trap.
36--Nick Carter’s Siamese Puzzle.
37--The Man Outside.
38--The Death Chamber.
39--The Wind and the Wire.
40--Nick Carter’s Three Cornered Chase.
41--Dazaar, the Arch-Fiend.
42--The Queen of the Seven.
43--Crossed Wires.
44--A Crimson Clew.
45--The Third Man.
46--The Sign of the Dagger.
47--The Devil Worshipers.
48--The Cross of Daggers.
49--At Risk of Life.
50--The Deeper Game.
51--The Code Message.
52--The Last of the Seven.
53--Ten-Ichi, the Wonderful.
54--The Secret Order of Associated Crooks.
55--The Golden Hair Clew.
56--Back From the Dead.
57--Through Dark Ways.
58--When Aces Were Trumps.
59--The Gambler’s Last Hand.
60--The Murder at Linden Fells.
61--A Game for Millions.
62--Under Cover.
63--The Last Call.
64--Mercedes Danton’s Double.
65--The Millionaire’s Nemesis.
66--A Princess of the Underworld.
67--The Crook’s Blind.
68--The Fatal Hour.
69--Blood Money.
70--A Queen of Her Kind.
71--Isabel Benton’s Trump Card.
72--A Princess of Hades.
73--A Prince of Plotters.
74--The Crook’s Double.
75--For Life and Honor.
76--A Compact With Dazaar.
77--In the Shadow of Dazaar.
78--The Crime of a Money King.
79--Birds of Prey.
80--The Unknown Dead.
81--The Severed Hand.
82--The Terrible Game of Millions.
83--A Dead Man’s Power.
84--The Secrets of an Old House.
85--The Wolf Within.
86--The Yellow Coupon.
87--In the Toils.
88--The Stolen Radium.
89--A Crime in Paradise.
90--Behind Prison Bars.
91--The Blind Man’s Daughter.
92--On the Brink of Ruin.
93--Letter of Fire.
94--The $100,000 Kiss.
95--Outlaws of the Militia.
96--The Opium-Runners.
97--In Record Time.
98--The Wag-Nuk Clew.
99--The Middle Link.
100--The Crystal Maze.
101--A New Serpent in Eden.
102--The Auburn Sensation.
103--A Dying Chance.
104--The Gargoni Girdle.
105--Twice in Jeopardy.
106--The Ghost Launch.
107--Up in the Air.
108--The Girl Prisoner.
109--The Red Plague.
110--The Arson Trust.
111--The King of the Firebugs.
112--“Lifter’s” of the Lofts.
113--French Jimmie and His Forty Thieves.
114--The Death Plot.
115--The Evil Formula.
116--The Blue Button.
117--The Deadly Parallel.
118--The Vivisectionists.
119--The Stolen Brain.
120--An Uncanny Revenge.
121--The Call of Death.
122--The Suicide.
123--Half a Million Ransom.
124--The Girl Kidnapper.
125--The Pirate Yacht.
126--The Crime of the White Hand.
127--Found in the Jungle.
128--Six Men in a Loop.
129--The Jewels of Wat Chang.
130--The Crime in the Tower.
131--The Fatal Message.
132--Broken Bars.

Dated March 27th, 1915.

133--Won by Magic.

Dated April 3d, 1915.

134--The Secret of Shangore.

Dated April 10th, 1915.

135--Straight to the Goal.

Dated April 17th, 1915.

136--The Man They Held Back.

PRICE, FIVE CENTS PER COPY. If you want any back numbers of our weeklies
and cannot procure them from your news dealer, they can be obtained
direct from this office. Postage stamps taken the same as money.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Ave., NEW YORK CITY



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Nick Carter Stories No 120 - 160 / Dec 26, 1914 - Oct 2, 1915 - The Pressing Peril; Dared for Los Angeles" ***

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