Transcriber’s Notes:

The original spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation have been retained, with the exception of apparent typographical errors which have been corrected.

For convenience, a table of contents, which is not present in the original, has been included.

CONTENTS

NICK CARTER STORIES

New Magnet Library

Not a Dull Book in This List

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

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

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

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

A BROKEN BOND

OR,

THE MAN WITHOUT MORALS

BY

NICHOLAS CARTER

Author of the celebrated stories of Nick Carter’s adventures, which are published exclusively in the New Magnet Library, conceded to be among the best detective tales ever written.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1917
By STREET & SMITH Corporation

A Broken Bond

(Printed in the United States of America)

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

A BROKEN BOND.

CHAPTER I.
A SHOT FROM AMBUSH.

Behind a big rock which looked down over the wide, straggling road that ran upward through the mountains crouched a long, lean figure. Snuggled against his right shoulder was a rifle, and the bearded face beneath the broad-brimmed panama was turned toward the roadway below. The hot sun beat down remorselessly, and its blinding rays were reflected from the rocks. Perspiration poured down the man’s face, and now and then he moved impatiently to brush away some buzzing insect. His head was raised slightly above the level of the rock, and from his point of vantage a splendid panorama spread out beneath him.

To his left lay the mountains, blue, remote, and full of rugged dignity all their own. To his right, a fertile South American valley revealed itself in the shimmering distance. Occasionally, as a light puff of wind came up from the lowlands, it brought with it the dull, heavy noise of an engine at work.

Half an hour passed, and then the first sign of life was revealed in the roadway below. There appeared round a bend a long line of mules, each of them burdened with two big packs. In front of the train of mules walked a white man clad in dingy overalls.

The figure crouching behind the rock moved slightly and seemed to grow tense and expectant, while the eyes in the bearded face glinted as they peered down at the road.

Nothing happened, however. The mules plodded on, with their leader striding away ahead of them, and the lonely sentinel watched them until they had passed down the road and had vanished below the level of the rise which led them on to the plains.

“He ought to be coming soon now.”

The man spoke aloud, and there was a curious, metallic sound in his rasping voice.

Ten minutes passed, and then the clear, drumming sound of a horse’s hoofs came to him, and presently around the same jagged spur there appeared the figure of a man on horseback. He was riding along at a good pace, but the reins were lying loosely across the horse’s neck, and the animal was picking its way unguided down the rough surface of the road. Evidently it was on a familiar trail.

At the sight, the lurking figure grew tenser still, and the sound of a low growl, almost animal-like in character, might have been heard. Slowly the rifle was nestled closer to the shoulder. The panama hat, being too conspicuous, was pulled off and dropped behind him, after which the bare, rather bald head was lowered until the right cheek touched the stock of the gun. The left eye was closed, and the right sighted along the barrel, which at the same time was shifted, following the man on horseback.

A few moments passed, during which the down-pointed muzzle shifted like a spy-glass, following the moving object. Then——

Crack! Into the still air a blue puff of smoke rose and hung for a moment above the rock. The drone of the bullet sounded clearly down the edge of the slope as the deadly missile hurled itself toward its mark. A quick cry came up from the roadway, and the weapon was stealthily withdrawn.

Quickly, however, the man behind the rock peered down, but when he did so he saw that blind chance had stepped in and thwarted him. The horse had apparently stumbled on a loose rock just as the shot was fired, and had reared back slightly to recover its footing; therefore, it was into the animal’s soft, rounded neck that the heavy bullet had bored its way, and not into the more precious target at which it had been aimed.

The creature was now lying in the roadway, and the convulsive movements of its limbs could be seen dimly through the little cloud of dust which had been raised by its fall.

The man on the horse’s back had been hurled in a heap by the side of the road, but as his would-be murderer watched, he saw him rise to his feet and stare up in the general direction of the rock from which the shot had been fired. Warned by that movement, the skulker swiftly jerked his head back and crouched still lower in his place.

“Curse him!” the hard voice grated. “He always has the fiend’s own luck!”

Grasping his rifle and hat, but still keeping on hands and knees, he began instinctively to crawl away under cover of the rock. He had gone no more than a yard, though, before he paused irresolutely and his fingers sought his belt.

There were other bullets in that belt, but the man’s failure had unnerved him, and a certain fatalistic instinct told him that he was not likely to succeed in a second attempt, now that the first had come to naught. The figure in the road would be on its guard now, and if another shot missed its mark, the point from which it had been fired would almost certainly be located. From that would only be a step to the discovery of the shooter’s identity, and the latter did not care to contemplate such a possibility. Consequently, with a snakelike movement, the lean figure resumed its progress away from the rocks, and presently, having reached the protection of large bowlders, straightened up a little more and increased its pace.

The fugitive knew that the man he had tried to kill was more than usually fond of the dying horse, and would probably delay at its side for a precious minute or two before attempting to solve the mystery of the shot. That delay promised to enable him to make good his escape, and he was resolved to take every possible advantage of it. For perhaps fifteen minutes he doubled and twisted, now ascending and now descending the foothills. At the end of that time he had reached the road again, and, watching his chance, dodged across it. This latest move brought him into thick woods, through which he hurriedly threaded his way in the direction of the valley.

He hid his rifle in a hollow tree, and when he reached the little mining camp he had cunningly concealed all evidence of agitation or guilt.

The knowledge of the act was not destined to remain locked in his own breast, however, as he was soon to learn. At his destination, the Condor Mine, he found Charlie Floyd, the mine’s physician, waiting for him, and wearing a very stern expression.

“I have something important to say to you, Mr. Stone,” the young doctor said grimly, and led the way to a spot where they were out of earshot.

“What’s up?” demanded Stone, who was one of the two original owners of the mine. He and his partner, Winthrop Crawford, had only recently sold out for a cool million.

“Much,” was the grave answer. “I happened to be roaming about in the foothills back there a little while ago, and I saw you take that pot shot at Mr. Crawford.”

“What are you raving about?” growled Stone, with the greatest apparent surprise.

“I’m not raving at all, Mr. Stone. I always carry field glasses on my walks, as you know, and, being startled by the shot, I looked in that direction, saw the puff of smoke from behind the rock, and leveled my glasses on the spot. I saw you when you looked down to see if the bullet had done its work; saw you as plainly as if you had been not more than ten feet away. There’s no possibility of a mistake. I was in a position to watch your movements afterward, and saw you sneaking away. I recognized your hat, too.”

Stone had wilted at first when the field glasses were mentioned, but now he seemed to have plucked up fresh courage, and even assumed a defiant attitude.

“Well, what are you going to do about it?” he demanded. “One or the other of us will have to kick the bucket sooner or later. Crawford has it in for me, and I only acted in self-defense. If I don’t get him first, he’ll get me as sure as fate.”

The young physician looked at him searchingly, but there was much more of pity than condemnation in his glance.

“You needn’t be afraid that I’m going to give you up to justice, Mr. Stone,” he said, after a pause. “You’ll resent it, of course, but I’m pretty sure that you’re not responsible for your actions. I hold your liberty, if not your life, in my hands, though, and I’m going to name a condition in return for my silence.”

CHAPTER II.
THE WITNESS MAKES CONDITIONS.

James Stone assumed a belligerent attitude.

“What do you mean by saying I’m not accountable?” he blustered. “You think I’m crazy?”

“I wouldn’t use quite such a harsh word,” was the reply. “But I’ve been watching you for some time, and I’m certain that your mind is slightly affected. This grouch of yours against Mr. Crawford is entirely uncalled-for, and everybody knows it but you. He’s the best friend you have in the world, and would do anything and everything for you. Until lately you’ve been the same toward him, and there’s nothing that could have caused such a breach. Mr. Crawford wouldn’t harm a hair of your head, and you wouldn’t think of harming him if you were yourself.”

“Rot!” exclaimed Stone. “You don’t know anything about it, Floyd, and it’s none of your business; it’s nobody’s business but ours. Something has come between us, and you’ll have to take my word for it that Crawford has got it in for me. He’s a deep one. You’d think butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but all the time he’s scheming to finish his old partner. I know, and I’m not going to have any young whipper-snapper tell me to my face that I’m crazy.”

Charlie Floyd’s lips tightened.

“Would you prefer to be branded as a would-be assassin, Mr. Stone?” he asked cuttingly. “I’m putting the most innocent interpretation I can to your act, and if you know what’s good for yourself you’ll accept it as the lesser of two evils. You have a great deal more influence here than I have in most ways, but you know that Mr. Crawford is more popular than you. You’ve lost your popularity in these last few months by your dogged, brooding manner and your harsh words. If I should reveal this attempt of yours on your partner’s life, you know perfectly well that it would go hard with you. No one would have any sympathy for you, and you’d get the limit. Just think of that before you call me names, and remember that I have it in my power to break you. Now will you listen to what I have to say?”

The miner moistened his lips and glanced about with shifty eyes.

“I’ll listen, Charlie,” he said, with a suggestion of a whine in his tone. “It ain’t pleasant to be called crazy, you know, but if you’ll stand by me I’ll make it worth your while.”

The young physician knew at once what he meant.

“None of that, Mr. Stone!” he said quickly. “I don’t want a cent of your money. I would not keep silent for the whole five hundred thousand they say you received for your half interest in the Condor. I’m making this offer simply for your own good. I really believe you’re not responsible for your recent actions, but I feel sure there isn’t much the matter with you. For that reason I want to shield you from the consequences if I can, and try to set you on the road to recovery. You and Crawford are going to New York soon, aren’t you?”

“That’s the plan—by the next boat,” was the sullen reply. “We figured it out before this came up, and of course I was anxious to get back home when I’d made my pile. I haven’t been back in twenty-five years. When this break came, though, I wasn’t keen on going back with Win. But he wouldn’t hear of anything else. I reckon he thinks the trip will give him a good chance to polish me off.”

“The plan still holds good, then?”

“Yes. I ain’t a coward, and if one of us doesn’t get the other before, then you won’t find me backing out.”

Young Floyd’s brows were knit, and he gazed absent-mindedly at the ground for some moments.

“Well,” he said at length, “it’s a big responsibility to take, and I don’t know that I ought to assume it, but there doesn’t seem to be anything else to do—short of giving you up.”

His eyes sought Stone’s and held them.

“Mr. Stone,” he continued, speaking slowly, “I need not repeat that I’m in a position to cause your arrest at any moment, and to give the most damaging testimony against you. I don’t want to do it, because of what I believe in regard to your condition, but you may be sure that I’ll do it at the drop of the hat if anything happens to Mr. Crawford or if you make any other attempt on his life. Now, remembering that, will you give me your solemn promise—will you swear, in fact—that you’ll have no other crime against you, and that when you reach New York you’ll do as I say?”

The bronzed miner hesitated for some time, then held out his hand, which Floyd took.

“I swear to you, Charlie,” he said, “that I won’t start anything myself, if that’s what you want. Of course, if Crawford tries anything on me I’ll have to defend myself. You couldn’t expect me to take it without lifting a finger.”

“Certainly not,” the young doctor agreed. “Mind you, though, you’ve got to refrain from anything hostile, unless you actually catch him in an attempt on you—which is out of the question, as he would be incapable of doing such a thing.”

“Incapable your grandmother!” was the scornful response. “You don’t know Win Crawford as well as I do. I’ve given you my word, though. Now what else do you want?”

“I want you to remember what will happen to you if you fail to keep this oath. Will you?”

“I ain’t likely to forget. Is that all? What was it you wanted me to do in New York?”

“To go to see some one who can help you, if any one can.”

“You mean a doctor?”

“Yes, a great one—the head of one of the biggest hospitals in the city.”

“Look here!” Stone burst out angrily. “Are you trying to have me sent to an asylum?”

“Not at all,” Floyd hastened to say in a soothing tone. “Doctor Follansbee isn’t very keen on asylums, except as a last resort. He’s a famous specialist in nervous and mental diseases, but his chief aim is always to keep people out of asylums, if possible; in other words, to cure them without interfering with their liberty or branding them as insane. I desire you to go to him—in fact, I must insist upon your doing so, if I’m to shield you from the consequences of this morning’s act. If, as I suspect, your mind is slightly affected in this one respect, he may be able to help you very easily, and if he does, you’ll never cease to be grateful to him. If, on the other hand, he finds you perfectly sane, there will be nothing more to be said, and I’ll continue to keep silence unless you make some further attempt on Mr. Crawford. You need not fear to consult Doctor Follansbee. As I say, he’ll never think of sending a man like you to an asylum, and, as people go to him for all sorts of nervous troubles as well as for operations, no one outside will draw any conclusions if your visit to him is known. Will you promise to call on him as soon as you reach New York?”

“I suppose so,” Stone agreed reluctantly. “It’s mighty hard lines to be ordered about like this, and sent to one of those confounded alienist fellows, but you’ve got the whip hand just now, Charlie, and it’s up to me to take my medicine. Where will I find the wonderful Follansbee?”

Doctor Floyd took a letter from his pocket, removed the envelope, and scribbled the name and address on the back. When he handed it to Stone the latter read:

“Doctor Stephen Follansbee, St. Swithin’s Hospital, Amsterdam Avenue, New York City.”

“There you are,” Floyd said. “I know you don’t want to do this, Mr. Stone, and that it’s all you can stand to have me make this condition, but I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with it. It’s that—or the other, and I imagine you would find a trial and conviction for attempted murder a little more irksome than either of the things I have asked you to do.”

“I guess that’s right,” admitted the miner. “You’re a good fellow, Charlie, and I know you mean well. You’ve rubbed it in pretty thoroughly, and there’s a lot you don’t understand; but I reckon I’m lucky at that. I’ll keep my hands off Win Crawford until I’ve the chance to see this Follansbee person. After that—well, we’ll see what we shall see.”

“That’s all I can ask at present,” Floyd returned, “and you can rely on Doctor Follansbee’s word. He’s a queer-looking individual, and very eccentric. You needn’t be surprised if he seems to agree with everything you say about Mr. Crawford. His methods are all his own, and they seem very peculiar at times, but he gets results in the most wonderful way. I know, because I studied under him in medical school. He’s far from a beauty, and has a manner which antagonizes a good many, but he’s too big to care about that. Here comes Mr. Crawford, though. Remember your promise, and don’t try any tricks!”

CHAPTER III.
AN UNFORTUNATE LETTER.

The young physician halted at a little distance and watched the meeting between the two partners.

Crawford had been trudging along with head bent, as if brooding over the loss of his faithful animal and the mystery of that unexpected shot, but when he looked up at length and saw Stone, he hastened his steps and called after him.

His genial greeting was borne to Floyd’s ears.

“Hello, Jimmy!” Crawford shouted. “How’s the boy this morning?”

There was nothing for Stone to do but to halt and turn. He nodded curtly, however, and when they walked on together, it was evident that Crawford was doing all the talking.

“That’s a queer deal,” thought Floyd, with a puzzled, apprehensive look on his face. “If Stone isn’t touched in the head, I’ll miss my guess, but I can’t imagine what the cause of it is. They’ve been pals for years, and have gone through thick and thin together. Their friendship has been the talk of this mining country for I don’t know how long, and Crawford seems to be as fond of his partner as ever, in spite of all the rebuffs he has given him lately. I’m afraid I’ve made a big mistake and been altogether too easy on Stone. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to Crawford, but it didn’t seem right to make the other suffer for that insane act.”

He went about his duties in an absent-minded way, however, and had done a great deal of thinking before he encountered Crawford that afternoon, as he was making his rounds. The two men greeted each other cordially, and after Floyd had looked about to see that they were unobserved he said quickly:

“I’ll walk along for a short distance with you, if I may, Mr. Crawford. I find myself in a very difficult position, and what I’ve decided to say seems like a very serious breach of confidence. I feel that I must say it, though, because otherwise the responsibility would be too heavy for me to bear.”

Crawford looked at him keenly.

“Is it about Jimmy Stone?” he asked.

“How did you guess?” was the surprised query.

“Oh, I’m not blind, Charlie, and I can put two and two together. Jimmy hasn’t been himself for months, and I know others have noticed it. I saw him talking with you this morning. Have you any idea what is the matter with him?”

The young physician tapped his forehead significantly.

“I’m afraid it’s—a little of that,” he answered reluctantly.

“You do? I feared something of the sort, but I hoped I was mistaken. What a pity! Jimmy has always been one of the finest and whitest men that ever stepped the earth, and a friend worth having. I’ve worried and worried over him lately, and tried to recall anything I had said or done that might have turned him against me. I haven’t been able to think of a thing that any man in his sound sense would resent to such an extent, and I’ve been obliged to come to the conclusion that he was not altogether responsible. Do you think anything can be done for him? We’ve both got plenty of money now, and I’m ready and willing——”

“I’m sure you are, Mr. Crawford,” Floyd assured him, “and I hope Mr. Stone can be helped. In fact, I’m almost sure he can be. He’s absolutely normal in every other way, and this change is so recent that the trouble can’t be very deep-seated. He has promised me that he will consult a famous alienist in New York.”

“He has?”

Crawford gave a start as he put the question.

“Then you’ve actually talked with him about it?” he went on wonderingly. “Has he sought your advice?”

“Hardly,” was the reply. “I butted in, and, of course, he was up in arms in a moment. Nobody likes to be called crazy—least of all a crazy man. It had to be done, though. If I tell you something, will you give me your word not to use it in any way against Mr. Stone?”

“Of course. I’d protect Jimmy’s life at the risk of my own any day.”

“I haven’t a doubt of it, but this is asking a great deal of you. Mr. Crawford, it was—it was your partner who fired that shot at you this morning.”

Crawford gave the young doctor a long, searching look, and then said quietly:

“That isn’t exactly news to me, Charlie. I guessed as much.”

“You did? And yet you could greet him as you did?”

“Why not? It was not the Jimmy Stone I’ve known for twenty years or more who did it. It was this surly, glowering chap who has stepped into his shoes. I don’t bear any ill will—I can’t. I’ve been looking for something of the sort, and of course I’ve tried to protect myself and shall continue to do so. I have no intention of having him confined, though, and you must promise me that you won’t take any such steps. There’s no danger to any one else, and if I choose to run the risk it’s my own business.”

“I knew that would be your attitude,” Floyd told him, “and I allowed myself to promise Mr. Stone that on certain conditions I would not play the part of informer.”

“You accused him of it, then?”

“Yes. I witnessed the whole thing, and told him I had done so. I used my knowledge to extract a couple of promises from him, but since then I’ve been wondering if I did right. I’ve worried a lot about the possible consequences to you, and finally I made up my mind that I’d simply have to warn you. Strictly speaking, I didn’t give my word to say nothing to you. I simply agreed not to inform the authorities; but of course Stone did not dream that I would tell you, and I feel like a sneak in doing so. I couldn’t bear to let you remain in ignorance, however, for if I had, I would have felt that I was indirectly responsible if anything happened to you.”

Crawford nodded slowly and gripped the young physician’s shoulder.

“I understand, Charlie,” he said. “It was a knotty problem, but you’ve solved it the best you knew how, and I thank you for your warning, although it wasn’t necessary. What were the promises Jimmy gave you?”

“I made him swear that he would make no further attempt on you unless in self-defense. Nothing can persuade him, you know, that you aren’t gunning for him, but I knew if he kept that promise nothing would happen. It was a long chance to take with a man in his mental condition, I suppose, but I couldn’t bear the thought of giving him up to justice.”

Crawford nodded understandingly.

“Nor can I,” he said. “I hope he’ll keep the promise, knowing the light in which your testimony would place him if he didn’t, but I don’t intend to change my plans in the least. I’ll keep an eye on him as best I can, but we’ll travel together unless he refuses. If he finishes me—well, so be it. The responsibility will be mine, not yours. But what about the other promise? Was it that he should seek the advice of a specialist in New York?”

“Yes. I gave him the name of Doctor Stephen Follansbee, the famous head of St. Swithin’s Hospital. Doctor Follansbee is at the top of his profession in New York, and has a great reputation for handling such cases in an unusual way without resorting to the customary confinement of the patient.”

“Good! Nothing could be better! If Jimmy goes to him, we’ll hope that all will come out right, and that I’ll soon have my old partner back. I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Charlie, but we’d better separate now. If Jimmy should happen to see us together, or hear that we had been, he might smell a rat and make things decidedly unpleasant for you.”

They shook hands again and separated, but Doctor Floyd felt that he had one more duty to perform that day. When he returned to the rough little shack which he occupied, his first act after supper was to sit down and write a rather lengthy letter. It was addressed to his former professor, Doctor Follansbee, and in it he gave the celebrated alienist a history of James Stone’s case, so far as he knew it. He wished Follansbee to receive the letter before Stone’s arrival, and to have something else to go on besides the man’s own statements.

Incidentally, knowing that Follansbee’s charges were very high, he thought best to mention the facts concerning the recent sale of the mine. He informed the specialist that Stone and Crawford had been equal partners in the Condor, and that the share of each was reputed to be five hundred thousand dollars. For no particular reason, he added that so far as was known Stone and Crawford were alone in the world, and that the general understanding was that each had drawn a will in favor of the other before the estrangement had come about.

Young Floyd was nothing if not thorough, but had he known the consequences which would follow the writing of that letter he would have cut off his right hand rather than send it.

CHAPTER IV.
CRAWFORD IS TROUBLED.

The boat deck of the Cortez was of wide expanse, shaded by gleaming canvas.

The South American liner had just passed Sandy Hook, bound inward, and was making its stately way toward New York harbor. It was late in the evening, and in a couple of deck chairs two figures were seated. The men were chatting together quietly. The taller of the two, clean-shaven and keen-faced, was puffing contentedly on a fragrant Havana.

They were Nick Carter, the distinguished New York detective, and his leading assistant, Chick Carter, who were returning from a couple of weeks’ holiday spent in Jamaica. The Cortez had touched at Kingston on its way north from South American ports, and it was there that the detective and his assistant had come on board.

“Evidently we won’t be home until to-morrow morning,” Chick Carter said quietly. “It will be too late for disembarking to-night. Of course we could get a special dispensation, if necessary, but I don’t believe in pulling wires unless there’s need for it. All the same, I’ll be glad to get back into harness again.”

Chick grinned in the darkness. He had enjoyed their short stay in beautiful Jamaica, but he had noted that his chief had chafed at the idleness, especially during the last few days.

“Let’s hope there’s something waiting for us that will let us sit up and take notice,” he said. “I feel fit to tackle anything.”

They were both in evening dress and awaiting the sound of the dinner gong, which soon called them to the saloon.

There were over fifty first-class passengers on board, and at the detective’s table were two men who had interested him. They sat side by side opposite to him, and their broad shoulders and tanned features told plainly that they were men who had spent the greater part of their years out of doors in some hot country.

Their manners and dress were curiously alike, but their faces differed greatly. The man who sat on the right, and who Nick had found out was Winthrop Crawford, had an open, kindly countenance. The trim gray beard did not quite hide the friendly lines about the mouth; and the eyes, although set in a network of wrinkles—such as one always notices on the faces of those who have peered long over sun-drenched stretches of plain or mountain—were wide and blue and looked out on the world in a genial fashion.

His companion, however, was almost the opposite, so far as looks were concerned. There was nothing repellent about his features, to be sure, but his expression was far from agreeable. His eyes were hard and suspicious, his lips usually wore either a snarl or a sneer, and his brows were drawn together with a surly frown most of the time.

It was the head steward who had told Nick the names of the two men, and had also added the information that they had been until recently joint owners of a big silver mine in South America.

The second man, James Stone, was the older of the two, and it was his peculiar manner that had interested the detective first of all. During the four or five days since Carter and his assistant had boarded the Cortez, they had never heard Stone say more than half a dozen words at a time to any one, even to his companion, Crawford. At the table Nick noted that Crawford often tried to engage his partner in conversation, but his efforts were always doomed to failure. Moreover, the detective had observed the perplexed, anxious look which had come into Crawford’s eyes many times after these rebuffs.

The two mining men were in their places when Carter and Chick dropped into their seats. Once or twice in the course of the meal the detective caught Crawford glancing across at him with a look of interest, and wondered what it meant. He was not surprised, therefore, when, after the meal was over and he had entered the smoking room, he heard a voice at his elbow, and, turning round, saw the bearded face of Winthrop Crawford at his side.

“I hope you’ll excuse me, Mr. Carter,” the man said in a deep, melodious voice, “but I’ve just heard from the steward who you are, and I’d like to make your acquaintance.”

As a judge of character Nick Carter had no superior, and he saw that the man in front of him was of the sterling, honest type; therefore, he had no hesitation in holding out his hand.

“It’s only another case of diamond cut diamond, Mr. Crawford,” he answered, with a smile, “for I must also plead guilty to having made inquiries about you.”

Crawford pulled out a cigar case, and Nick accepted the “weed,” after which they strolled across the big room and seated themselves on a comfortable settee.

“I’m returning to New York after an absence of a quarter of a century,” Crawford explained, “and I don’t believe I know a single soul there.”

“You are taking a well-earned vacation, I suppose?” the detective remarked.

“Something of the sort,” was the answer. “As a matter of fact, I have no occupation now, since my partner and I have sold out our mining interests in South America. I have nothing definite in view, but I’m sure I shan’t be content to remain idle for long.”

He leaned back and puffed at his cigar.

“I’ve had a pretty tough time of it,” he went on. “The usual experience of those who knock about the world seeking their fortunes; but I think I can safely say that I’m secure now for the rest of my life—unless I make a fool of myself.”

“I’m very glad to hear of it,” Nick declared heartily. “I understood that you and Mr. Stone had been fortunate.”

Crawford nodded his head, but a shadow passed over his face.

“It isn’t necessary to go into details, Mr. Carter,” he replied, “but your informant was quite correct. Stone and I discovered and developed the Condor Mine in Brazil. We worked it ourselves for over a year, and then decided to sell out and come back home. It netted us about half a million apiece. That’s very little, of course, as you count wealth up here, but it’s enough for us to live on in comfort for the rest of our lives. We have no one dependent on us—unfortunately.”

“I’m sure you deserve it all,” the detective told him warmly.

Crawford’s eyes grew misty with a host of memories of hard days and lean ones—days when the nearest approach to a meal had been another notch in the belt and the hope of something more substantial on the morrow.

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve earned it; and that brings me to something I wanted to say. I’m a little afraid of your New York, Mr. Carter. I know much more about prospecting than I do about finance. As I’ve told you, there’s nothing to occupy my mind, and I suppose I’ll soon be looking about for investments. If I’m not very careful, I’m likely to fall among thieves.”

He leaned across and placed his hand on Nick’s arm.

“Even in South America we hear of Nick Carter,” he said, with a quiet nod of his grizzled head, “and I count it a very fortunate chance that I should have run across you here on this vessel. I have engaged rooms at the Hotel Windermere, and I’ll be very glad if you’ll give me your address. I should like to have some one to go to for advice if I find that the sharks begin to gather.”

Then, as the detective remained silent, Crawford went on:

“It must be a strictly business undertaking, you understand. If I’m doubtful about any concern or individual, I would like to call on you and have you give me a report. I should expect you to make the usual charge for such work—in fact, I would be willing to pay more than that, because, as a friendless man who doesn’t understand the game, I would profit more than usual by such invaluable assistance.”

There was something curiously winning about Crawford’s voice, and the man appealed strongly to Nick. The sort of assistance he asked for was hardly in the detective’s line, but the simple, direct appeal gained the day.

“Very well,” he said, taking out his case and handing a card to Crawford. “Let’s hope for your sake that you won’t have any very urgent need of me, but here’s my address, and you can ring me up at any time. I shall be very glad to do anything I can.”

Crawford had just placed the card in his pocket when the door of the smoking room opened and James Stone appeared. There was a little bar at one end of the room, and it was toward this that Crawford’s partner was headed. Stone’s eyes traveled across to Crawford, and the latter made a move as though to rise to his feet, but his partner turned his head away quickly and went on his way. There was more than a suggestion of surliness, if not of enmity, in the way he ignored Crawford, and the latter leaned back again with an involuntary sigh.

Nick caught his eye.

“I can’t make it out,” Crawford said at last, the troubled expression deepening on his face. “I suppose you’ve noted that Stone and I hardly exchange a word.”

CHAPTER V.
ANOTHER MURDEROUS ATTACK.

“I must admit that I have noticed it,” Nick returned, “and it struck me as being rather curious, under the circumstances.”

“It beats me,” Crawford declared, glancing down at the bar, where the broad-shouldered figure of his old comrade was standing. “Jimmy and I have been chums for years. We’ve worked together and starved together, and five years ago he saved my life at the risk of his own. He dived into a flooded river, and it was touch and go whether he brought me out or not.”

The deep voice shook for a moment. “It’s beyond me,” he continued. “For the last few months he’s been a changed man. I can hardly get a word out of him, and many times I’ve caught him looking at me as though I were his bitterest enemy.”

There was no doubting the sincerity of Crawford’s emotions. His tanned face twitched, and his hard, work-worn hands were clasped in a tight grip as they rested on his knees.

“Something has gone wrong,” he concluded, “but what it is Heaven only knows. Would you believe me if I told you that he——”

The detective waited curiously, but Crawford did not complete the sentence, and a little silence fell between the two.

As Stone had tossed off his drink, he passed them once more. When he reached the door, however, he halted for a moment, then, swinging around on his heel, beckoned to Crawford. It was almost a gasp of relief that broke from the latter’s lips as he rose.

“Hello!” he murmured. “He wants to speak to me, does he? Excuse me, Mr. Carter.”

The eager way in which he hurried toward his partner revealed to the detective how anxious he was to make friends again.

The two figures passed out through the doorway, and Nick mechanically picked up a magazine from a neighboring table. Half an hour passed; then, leaving the smoking room, the detective went off in search of Chick. His young assistant was not to be seen, and presently Carter returned to the boat deck, found a quiet gap between two suspended boats, and, leaning on the rail, watched the distant lights along the coast.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later the detective heard a quick, muffled cry, followed by the creak of a boat as some heavy object swung against it. He straightened up and listened. A moment later a half-choked voice came to him:

“Jim! Jim! Good heavens! Are you trying to murder me?”

Nick recognized the voice as that of Crawford’s, and, with a swift bound, he leaped out of the dark gap between the boats in which he had stood concealed.

Sprinting forward along the deserted deck, he followed the direction of the sound, and in another gap he saw standing out against the background of the sea two struggling figures. They were locked in each other’s arms, and one of them was swaying out over the rail at a perilous angle. The detective saw that the figure of the man bending over the rail was that of Crawford, and above him, with his fingers clutched tightly around his throat, was James Stone. The former was clutching at the murderous wrists of his companion, trying to release the fierce grip, but even as Nick sighted them Stone made another vicious lunge, and Crawford’s body was all but thrust out over the rail into the sea.

A swift, horrified spring carried Nick into the gap between the boats, and realizing that there was not a moment to spare, he flung himself at Stone. It was a straight-arm blow that the detective gave, with the swift, trained precision of an experienced athlete. The great detective’s bunched fist landed full on the hard, dogged face of James Stone with resistless force. A strangled oath broke from the miner’s lips, and he staggered back against the bow of the swinging boat, releasing Crawford as he did so.

Nick saw the unfortunate man’s body sway over the rail, and with a headlong leap the detective hurled himself forward, gripping at the toppling man. He was only just in the nick of time. His fingers caught the ends of Crawford’s evening coat, and for a long tense moment he hung over the rail, clutching in that way the otherwise unsupported body of the miner. It was well for Crawford that the muscles of those two arms were of a man much beyond the average strength. Carter felt as though his arms were being pulled out of their sockets, but presently he gathered himself for an extra effort, and slowly and carefully pulled the swaying man upward until Crawford was able to grasp the rail in his hands. A moment later, Nick had shifted his grasp until his palms were under the man’s shoulders, and then with a tug Crawford was lifted over the rail and deposited safely on the deck.

The perspiration was pouring from the detective’s face, and his breath was coming and going in great, choking pants, for Crawford was a heavy man and the bodily effort had been a tremendous one. The miner clung to the rail for a few moments, steadying himself there. Through the gloom Nick could see the bearded face and the blue eyes fixed on his own. At that instant, a quick, shuffling footfall came to the detective’s ears, and he turned quickly around in time to see the figure of Stone gliding like a black shadow along the pale, canvas-covered side of the suspended boat.

“Oh, no, you don’t, you confounded rascal!” Nick broke out, as he started to follow the man.

But before he could do so, Crawford reeled, stepped toward him, and clutched him by the arm.

“It’s—it’s you, Carter?” the miner breathed.

“Yes. Let me go, though. I don’t want that scoundrel to get away.”

Crawford’s fingers tightened their hold on his sleeve.

“Don’t follow him! Let him go—for my sake!” he pleaded.

Nick paused and peered with surprise into the man’s face.

“I suppose you know what you’re saying?” the detective asked, in a strange voice.

“Perfectly.”

“But that fellow tried to murder you.”

“I know that only too well.”

“And you mean to say you’re not going to lodge a complaint against him or do anything in the matter?”

The bearded face shone in the dusk.

“That man will never be accused by me,” Crawford said positively. “Don’t you recognize him?”

The detective shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes, I recognize him, all right,” he said. “It was Stone, your partner, and also—if I had not come on the scene just when I did—your murderer.”

Crawford came closer to Carter and thrust his arm through that of the detective.

“That may be,” he said, “but I can’t forget that he’s also the man who once saved my life, who has shared his last crust with me again and again.”

Then, as an exclamation of impatience broke from Nick’s lips, the miner went on:

“Oh, yes, I know that you think me a fool. You will think me even a greater when I tell you that this is not the first time. He has tried to do the same thing on this very voyage—to say nothing of an attempt before we left South America.”

CHAPTER VI.
THE LOVE OF COMRADES.

“Good heavens!” Nick Carter broke out. “Do you actually mean to tell me that he has attacked you before?”

“I do,” the deep voice replied. “He tried to shoot me from ambush a week or so before we left Brazil, and just prior to our arrival at Kingston he made another attempt. He was not nearly so successful that time, though. I managed to overpower him.”

They were pacing along the dark deck now, and Nick heard the man by his side draw a deep breath.

“Something has gone wrong with Jimmy Stone,” he said quietly. “You don’t know him as I do, Carter. Up to a short six months ago he was like a brother to me. Man, I tell you that Jim Stone is the only person in the world that I—I care two straws about. You know what it means to men who have lived and starved together.”

The rich voice stopped, and Nick caught something that was suspiciously like a suppressed sob. Involuntarily he paused, and Crawford halted for a moment, his shoulders shaking.

A strong man’s grief is a terrible thing to witness, and the detective felt himself tongue-tied.

“My friend—my old comrade!” Crawford went on huskily. “Trying to murder me! By Heaven, Carter, it almost breaks my heart!”

He swung around suddenly and caught Nick by the arm again.

“I want you to keep this thing a secret,” he said earnestly. “Jim isn’t accountable for this mood that has been on him for the last few months—he isn’t accountable for his actions. I had feared for some time that there was a little trouble with his brain, and my suspicions were confirmed before we left South America.”

He then went on to tell in detail of Stone’s attempt to shoot him, as revealed by the young physician; of the latter’s opinion of Stone’s sanity—or, rather, insanity—and finally of the promise Floyd had wrung from the misguided man.

He told the detective that Stone had reluctantly agreed to consult a famous specialist, but only because he had felt compelled to do so in order to stop Floyd’s mouth. Unfortunately, however, he had forgotten the specialist’s name and that of the hospital of which he was the head.

Had Nick learned those important facts, there might have been a different story to tell.

“You will help me shield him, won’t you, Carter?” Crawford begged. “I suppose I haven’t any right to ask it, but, after all, it’s my funeral and not yours. That’s what I told Floyd. He couldn’t rest until he had warned me, but it did not seem right for me to change my plans in any way. Jim is my oldest and best friend—my only close friend, in fact—and I couldn’t bear to cut adrift from him. Besides, I’ve been hoping all the time that he’d come out from under this cloud; that I’d find some way of reaching his heart and making it all right again. I have tried time after time, but always failed. He thinks I’m his enemy, and attributes to me all the evil suspicions that are bred in his poor diseased brain. It seems hopeless, unless he can get some help, but whatever happens I’m going to stick to him. There’s so little the matter with him, you see, and I know that the man himself is one of the finest. He would never dream of hurting any one if he were in his right mind, least of all me.”

“I have no doubt you are right about that,” the detective agreed, “and that you’re the only one who is in any danger from him; nevertheless, I can’t help thinking that your affection, highly commendable as it is, has caused you to take a very foolish risk. You say yourself that you haven’t been able to do him any good, and certainly he doesn’t take any pleasure in your society, to say the least. It was very unwise of you to have traveled all this distance with him, and to have occupied an adjoining stateroom. It has simply put temptation in his way. You don’t want to make him a murderer, do you, aside from the question of your own safety?”

“No, no! Heaven knows I don’t!”

“Then you ought by all means to keep out of his way,” Nick advised gravely. “You say that this Doctor Floyd extracted a promise from him that he would do nothing more against you until he had seen this specialist, but you admit that he has broken that promise not less than twice during the voyage. Plainly there’s no reliance to be placed in him, as there never is in the case of any one who is mentally affected even in the slightest degree.”

“I know,” admitted Crawford. “Jimmy doesn’t think he has broken his promise, though. He made a condition that he should do nothing unless I provoked it or he was obliged to act in self-defense. I’m sure he thinks he has adhered to that condition. Both times when he has pounced on me he snarled, ‘You would, would you?’ or something like that, as if I had made some move to attack him.”

“That’s just it,” commented the detective. “He’s obviously unbalanced, and imagines all sorts of things. Under the circumstances, therefore, you can do him no possible good, and may lose your life at any moment.”

The miner shook his head.

“I realize that what you say is all true,” he admitted, “but I’m afraid I’m a fatalist, Mr. Carter. I simply can’t turn my back on Jimmy. I feel that I must stick by him for the sake of old times, and, besides, it seems like cowardice to do anything else. I’ve never been a coward, and I don’t want to begin now. Anyway, I have engaged rooms for both of us at the Windermere, connecting rooms. I’d feel like a selfish sneak if I made any change. I don’t want Jimmy to have my blood on his head, or the blood of any one, and I hope and pray it won’t come to that; but the bonds between us are too strong to be broken by me. You see how it is, Mr. Carter, and that it’s hopeless to argue with me. Are you willing to let me go my way in this, and to promise me that you’ll not take any action whatever?”

The anxiety in his voice indicated how keenly Crawford felt the situation. On the one hand, the man’s amazing obstinacy made Nick very impatient, but on the other, he felt a strange admiration for Crawford’s unfaltering loyalty. He thrust out his hand in the darkness, and the palms of the two men met.

“All right, Crawford,” he said, and his voice was deep and vibrating. “I think you’re making a mistake, but it’s the kind of mistake one can’t help honoring you for. I look upon you as one of the bravest men I have ever met, and you may be sure that I will keep your secret.”

Crawford wrung the outstretched hand.

“I thank you with all my heart,” he said, “and I—I won’t forget that you saved my life. Some day I hope to be able to repay you. In any event, we’ll meet again in New York.”

But neither he nor Nick dreamed of the curious circumstances that were to draw them together again in the great city.

CHAPTER VII.
FOLLANSBEE HITS THE NAIL.

It was little after eleven o’clock in the morning when a broad-shouldered man turned into Amsterdam Avenue and began to move slowly along the pavement, glancing now and then at the houses as he passed. His tanned face suggested that he was a man from a warmer land, and the stubborn chin and hard, sour look about the eyes were mute tokens of the surly temper that ruled the stranger. He was wearing a soft hat with a wide brim, and he had tilted it forward to shade his eyes from the sun. Once he took a slip of paper from his pocket and studied it for a moment. Evidently he was looking for an address.

Presently he caught sight of what he sought—the big bulk of St. Swithin’s Hospital, which occupied an entire block. He quickened his pace and approached the great building. In the reception room, however, a disappointment awaited him. When he asked for Doctor Stephen Follansbee, he was told that that distinguished individual had not yet arrived at the hospital that day. But after some argument he obtained Follansbee’s private address, which proved to be also on Amsterdam Avenue and not more than half a dozen blocks away.

The stranger retraced his steps, therefore, and sought the new number. He soon found it over the door of a house that was one of a row of solid but by no means impressive residences.

A maid admitted him and asked if he had an appointment with the doctor. When informed that he had not, she invited him into the empty reception room and told him Doctor Follansbee was busy, but that he would be free in a few minutes. The visitor seated himself, picked up a magazine, and began mechanically glancing it over. After ten or fifteen minutes, the folding doors at the rear of the reception room were opened and a patient emerged. Over the latter’s shoulder the waiting man caught a glimpse of a stern, repellent figure in the doorway.

The caller rose expectantly, but before he had a chance to step forward or utter a word he was greeted in an unexpected, almost uncanny, fashion.

“Come in, Mr. Stone!” were the words which came from the man in the doorway.

With a start, James Stone grasped his hat and stepped forward. He could not imagine by what black art the master of the house knew his name, and he eyed his host apprehensively as he passed him and entered the room beyond.

He was doubtless face to face with the famous Doctor Stephen Follansbee, but it was hard, indeed, to believe it. The man before him could not have been more than five feet high. His head was as bare as a billiard ball and curiously elongated in shape. The vulturelike face, the almost fringeless eyelids, and the long, thin, hawklike nose held him mute.

Into the black, beady eyes there flickered a sudden mirth, and the thin lips twisted into what was the ghost of a smile.

“It’s all right, Stone!” the extraordinary individual declared. “You have come to the right place. You may not think it, but I’m Doctor Follansbee.”

Was it possible? The man looked like some sinister bird of prey, and yet he was at the head of a celebrated hospital and enjoyed the most enviable reputation as an authority whose fame was countrywide.

In response to a gesture from Follansbee the visitor dropped into a chair close beside a small desk that stood by a window. The specialist crossed the room with quick, birdlike steps and took his seat behind the desk. In the momentary pause that followed, the two men eyed each other, but what their thoughts were remained their respective secrets. At least, Stone could not read the physician’s.

“You expected to see some one very different, I suppose?” Follansbee remarked, with a mocking smile. “A big, well-groomed figurehead with an impressive manner and a carefully trimmed Vandyke beard? Confess, now.”

Stone relaxed and laughed. It was a short, grating laugh, and the physician’s eyes dilated slightly as he heard it.

It was hardly the laugh of a sane person, and as Follansbee leaned forward he noted that the pupils of Stone’s eyes were fixed and round, a sign which the initiated always searches for in mental cases.

“That’s about it,” the visitor admitted, in his harsh voice. “The—the young man who spoke to me about you told me that you were the head of a big hospital, and I’ve just been there.”

Follansbee nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “I can assure you that your friend was quite correct, as you’ve doubtless found out for yourself, if you’ve been at St. Swithin’s. I’ve never been called handsome, but I haven’t found that a drawback, and I suspect that you didn’t come to see me for my looks. Did you have a pleasant voyage on the Cortez?”

Stone looked at him in open-mouthed amazement.

“What do you know about me?” he demanded. “You nearly floored me by calling me by my name, and now you——”

“Oh, that isn’t all I know about you,” Follansbee assured him maliciously. “I can tell you all about the Condor Mine and of your partner, Winthrop Crawford—or shall we call him your ex-partner? I know that you and he recently sold the Condor for a million, and that you have both come back to your old stamping ground after an absence of a quarter of a century or so. I know several other things, too, but we won’t speak of them just yet.”

Stone bit his lip and paled a little under his tan.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” he muttered. “I suppose Floyd must have written to you about me. How in thunder you knew me, though, when I came in, is more than I can understand.”

“Who may ‘Floyd’ be?” queried Follansbee, as if he had never heard the name before.

His visitor looked at him in bewilderment, but again failed to read that baffling countenance.

“Why, he’s the young American doctor down in Brazil who advised me to come to you,” he explained wonderingly. “He said he had studied under you in medical school.”

“Indeed! That’s very interesting,” murmured the specialist. “Hundreds of young men have studied under me, however. I suppose I might say thousands. It is gratifying to be remembered by one of them, of course, but I cannot be expected——”

“Then how in the world——”

“Let’s not waste time over things out of our immediate concern,” Follansbee interrupted. “Please remember that my time is valuable, very valuable. You seem to be slow in getting to the point. I’ll help you out. I happen to know the nature of your errand, but am also perfectly well aware that your heart isn’t in it. Your real desires are of a very different sort. Isn’t that so?”

James Stone looked alarmed, as well he might. His conscience was by no means clear, and the conversation seemed to be getting on decidedly dangerous ground.

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he faltered, moistening his lips. “Doctor Floyd had a fool notion that I was going crazy, or something like that. I naturally didn’t take very kindly to the idea, but I was more or less under obligations to him, and he was so insistent that I promised to look you up. He said you would help me. Of course, I don’t think I need any help—of that sort—but I’m a man of my word, and that’s why I’m here.”

“Very commendable!” murmured the head of St. Swithin’s. “Doctor Boyd, or whatever his name is, was quite right. I can help you, in more ways than one, and I perceive that what you really want is to be rid of your former partner, Winthrop Crawford. Have I hit the nail on the head?”

A meaning smile crossed the sinister face, and Follansbee leaned back in his chair, the glance from his hard little eyes playing over his caller’s face.