Transcriber’s Notes:

The Table of Contents was created by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.

[Additional Transcriber’s Notes] are at the end.

CONTENTS

[Chapter I. A Mysterious Fatality.]

[Chapter II. Nick Carter’s Opinion.]

[Chapter III. A Friend Worth Having.]

[Chapter IV. The Man of Last Resort.]

[Chapter V. Another Strange Case.]

[Chapter VI. Doctor Devoll.]

[Chapter VII. Grounds for Suspicion.]

[Chapter VIII. The Yellow Coupon.]

[Chapter IX. Suspicions Verified.]

[Chapter X. The Deeper Mystery.]

[Chapter XI. The Angle of Reflection.]

[Chapter XII. Nick Carter’s Deductions.]

[Chapter XIII. The Man With a Mask.]

[Chapter XIV. A Marathon Pursuit.]

[Chapter XV. Professor Karl Graff.]

[Chapter XVI. Vain Inquiries.]

[Chapter XVII. Craft and Foresight.]

[Chapter XVIII. Nick Declares Himself.]

[Chapter XIX. Patsy on the Trail.]

[Chapter XX. Birds of Prey.]

[Chapter XXI. Stolen Pearls.]

[Chapter XXII. Where the Tide Turned.]

[Chapter XXIII. The Wheel Within.]

[Chapter XXIV. The Last Resort.]

NICK CARTER STORIES

New Magnet Library

Price, Fifteen Cents 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.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

HIDDEN FOES

OR,
A FATAL MISCALCULATION

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

Hidden Foes

(Printed in the United States of America)

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

HIDDEN FOES.

CHAPTER I.
A MYSTERIOUS FATALITY.

Nobody had heard the report of a pistol.

There had been no disturbance; in fact, no audible altercation, no startling cry for help, or even a groan of sudden, terrible distress.

The man lay there as motionless, nevertheless, as if felled by a thunderbolt. His life had been snuffed out like the flame of a candle by the fury of a whirlwind. Death had come upon him like a bolt from the blue. By slow degrees his face underwent a change—but it was not the change that ordinarily follows sudden death, that peaceful calm that marks the end of earthly toil and trouble.

Instead, the smoothly shaven skin seemed to shrink and wither slightly over the dead nerves and lifeless muscles, and a singular slaty hue that was hardly perceptible settled around his lips and nostrils, partly dispelling the first deathly pallor. It was as if the blast from a furnace, or the searing touch of a fiery hand, had withered and parched it.

He was a comparatively young man, not over thirty, and he was fashionably clad in a plaid business suit. He was lying flat on his back on the floor of the second-story corridor of a building known as the Waldmere Chambers, in the city of Madison.

Presently the door of one of the several adjoining rooms was opened and a stylish young woman emerged. She was clad for the street, and lingered to lock the door and put the key in her leather hand bag. Then she turned, and her gaze fell upon the prostrate man, several yards away and nearer the broad stairway leading down to the lower floor and the street door.

“Good heavens! Is he drunk?” she gasped, shrinking involuntarily.

She feared to approach him, though her hesitation was only momentary. For she heard the tread of some one on the stairs, obviously that of a man, and she ventured nearer just as the other appeared at the top of the stairs, a well-built, florid man of middle age.

“Oh, Doctor Perry, look here!” she cried excitedly. “What’s the matter with this man? Is he drunk or ill, or what is the——”

“Well, well, I don’t wonder you ask.” Doctor Perry approached and gazed down at him. “I don’t know, Miss Vernon. He appears to be——”

He stopped short; then crouched and raised the man’s arm, dropping it quickly. It fell back upon the floor as if made of clay.

“Heavens!” he exclaimed, rising hurriedly. “The man is dead.”

“Dead!” Miss Vernon echoed, turning pale.

“Stone dead. Do you know him?”

“No. I just came from my rooms to go to lunch and saw him lying here.”

“Did you hear him fall, or any disturbance, or——”

“I heard nothing, Doctor Perry, not a sound.”

“We must call a policeman. I will wait here while you do so. Go down to the street and find an officer.”

“Won’t it be better to telephone? I can do so in a moment.”

“Yes, yes, in that case,” Doctor Perry nodded. “Hasten.”

Miss Vernon ran back and entered her rooms, on the door of which a modest brass plate stated that her business was that of a manicure and ladies’ hairdresser. She ran to a telephone in one of the attractively furnished rooms, crying quickly to the exchange operator:

“Give me the police headquarters. Hurry, please! It’s an emergency case.”

Seated with Chief Gleason in the latter’s private office when the telephone call was received in the outer office was the celebrated American detective, Nicholas Carter, who had arrived in Madison early that morning with two of his assistants, and who then was discussing with the chief the business which had occasioned his visit, the nature of which will presently appear. They were interrupted by a police sergeant, who knocked and entered, saying quickly:

“A man has dropped dead, chief, in a corridor of the Waldmere Chambers. Shall I send the ambulance?”

“What man? Is he known?” Gleason questioned, swinging around in his swivel chair.

“No, sir.”

“Who informed you?”

“A woman telephoned that the body had just been found. Doctor Perry, the dentist, was watching it while she telephoned. His office is in the Waldmere Chambers. Neither of them knew the dead man.”

“Yes, send the ambulance,” Chief Gleason directed. “You had better go, also, and look into the case. If——”

“One moment,” Nick Carter interrupted. “I think I’ll go with him, chief, if you don’t mind.”

“What need of that? It is merely a case of——”

“We don’t know what kind of a case it is, Gleason, at present,” Carter cut in again. “A sudden death always warrants more or less suspicion. It is barely possible that this has some connection with the series of mysterious crimes that we have been discussing, and which has finally led you to call on me for assistance. Be that as it may——”

“Hang it, Carter, I’ll go with you myself, then,” Gleason interrupted, rising and taking his cap. “You may be right, of course, and the chance is worth taking. You remain here, sergeant, but send along the ambulance. We’ll take a taxi.”

Chief Gleason started for the street while speaking, closely followed by the famous detective, and they were so fortunate as to find a taxicab just passing the headquarters building.

Thus it happened that Nicholas Carter arrived upon the scene of the sudden fatality scarcely ten minutes after it was discovered. He was not without an intuitive feeling, moreover, that he was to be confronted with a mystery of more than ordinary depth and obscurity, a case that would tax not only his rare detective genius, but also his skill, craft, and cunning in every department of his professional work.

“I think, Gleason, that you had better not mention my name while we are looking into this matter,” he remarked, as they were alighting from the taxicab.

“Very well,” Gleason readily assented. “But what do you expect to gain by suppressing it?”

“Just what is hard to say at this stage of the game,” Carter replied. “If all you have told me is true, however, and Madison is afflicted with a crook whose crafty work has completely baffled your entire police department, it may be of some advantage to me, at least, if he does not immediately learn that I have been employed to run him down. That would serve only to put him on his guard.”

“I see the point,” Gleason nodded. “I agree with you, too.”

“The fact has not been disclosed, I understand.”

“Only to a few members of the force, Carter; all of whom were ordered to say nothing about it. They may be trusted.”

“Very good! If there should be occasion to introduce me to others, then, present me as Mr. Blaisdell,” Carter directed. “That is the name under which I am registered at the Wilton House.”

“Blaisdell—I’ll bear it in mind.”

“Come on, then,” the detective added. “We are none too soon. A crowd is beginning to gather.”

Their remarks had been made while they were entering the building. A group of men had collected at the top of the stairs. They were restrained by a policeman who had been called in from the street, and a passageway was hurriedly made for Chief Gleason and his companion. That the latter was the famous New York detective, not even the policeman then suspected.

The scene in the second-floor corridor was about what Nick Carter anticipated. Half a score of men and women had come from the adjoining rooms and offices and were gazing with mingled awe and consternation at the lifeless man on the floor. He was lying where he had fallen. A physician had been hurriedly summoned and was bending over him, engaged in making a superficial examination.

Chief Gleason started slightly when he beheld the upturned face of the dead man.

“Good heavens!” he muttered. “It’s Gaston Todd.”

Carter heard his muttered exclamation. Restraining him, at the same time furtively watching the physician, he said quietly:

“One moment, chief. Who is Gaston Todd? What about him?”

“He was born and brought up here,” Gleason replied. “He had been in the stock brokerage business for ten years, cashier for Daly & Page. He was a clubman and a figure in society.”

“Married?”

“No. He had a suite in the Wilton House. By Jove, it’s barely possible that——”

“What is barely possible?”

“That you are right.”

“Right in what respect? Tell me.”

Carter had noticed the chief’s hesitation, his dark frown, as if he had started to say something which discretion quickly led him to withhold. He demurred only for a moment, however, then explained with lowered voice:

“Right, perhaps in thinking there is knavery back of this. There had been a feeling of bitter rivalry between Todd and a young local lawyer, Frank Paulding, who is an exceedingly impetuous and hot-headed chap. They had an ugly altercation in the Country Club last night, I have heard, and it is said that they nearly came to blows. That may have ended it, of course, though this sudden death of Todd, following it so quickly——”

“Is somewhat significant,” Nick Carter put in quietly. “I agree with you. In what have the two men been rivals?”

“For the hand of Edna Thurlow, by far the most beautiful and accomplished girl in Madison. She inherited half a million when her father died. Her mother, Mrs. Mortimer Thurlow, is also very wealthy and fashionable. She’s the acknowledged leader of the local smart set. The two men may have met here this morning. Possibly the fight of last night was resumed, resulting in——”

“Let it go at that,” the detective interrupted. “The physician has ended his examination.”

CHAPTER II.
NICK CARTER’S OPINION.

Chief Gleason immediately turned and approached the rising physician, asking a bit brusquely:

“Well, Doctor Doyle, what do you make of it? The man is dead?”

“Yes, indeed, there is no question about that, Mr. Gleason.”

“What was the cause?”

“It appears to be a case of heart disease.”

“Are you sure of it?”

“One cannot be absolutely sure, Mr. Gleason, without performing an autopsy,” Doctor Doyle said blandly, while he wiped his fingers with his handkerchief. “I feel reasonably sure. There is no wound that I can discover, nor does there appear to be any indication of foul play. Yes, I feel reasonably sure of it,” he repeated.

“You don’t think, then, that there is any occasion to notify the coroner?” Gleason said inquiringly.

“There seems to be none. I have no doubt that the man died from natural causes. There is no superficial evidence to the contrary, or any——”

Doctor Doyle broke off abruptly, his gaze having fallen upon the detective, who had passed back of the couple and approached the body.

Carter then was bending over it, and with his finger had raised one of Todd’s eyelids. He studied the ball and pupil for several seconds, then took a powerful lens from his pocket and inspected the dead man’s face and lips. He looked up after a moment and said:

“I don’t agree with you, doctor. This man appears to have been a very strong and rugged fellow.”

“That is true, sir, as far as it goes,” Doctor Doyle admitted, frowning slightly when his professional opinion was thus questioned by a stranger.

“It seems hardly probable that such a man died of heart disease,” the detective said pointedly. “Nor do his eyes denote that apoplexy was the cause.”

“You will have to go deeper, sir, nevertheless, to find positive evidence of the cause,” Doctor Doyle said, rather coldly. “Superficial evidence is not absolutely convincing.”

“Have you noticed this slight discoloration of the skin near the mouth and nostrils?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How do you account for that?”

“Such slight changes immediately after death are not uncommon,” said the physician. “There may be a slight settlement of blood in the tissues in that locality.”

“You would not attribute it to a blow?”

“Surely not. There could be no mistaking the evidence of a violent blow.”

“But the skin appears to be slightly withered,” said Carter. “Minute wrinkles are discernible with my lens, particularly in the thin skin of the lips.”

“That may be easily explained.”

“How so?”

“Death may have been preceded by a sudden terrible pain, causing a contraction of the lips, and what may be termed a pinched condition of the nerves and muscles in that locality. They may not have relaxed yet, which causes the drawn appearance of the skin which, you say, is discernible with your lens. No, I do not wish to examine it more closely. I don’t think it signifies anything.”

“I do,” said the detective, rising abruptly. “I think——”

“One moment, gentlemen.” The interruption came from Doctor Perry, the dentist, who still was among the people then gathered in the corridor. “Here is Professor Graff, the chemist. His opinion ought to be valuable in a case of this kind.”

Nicholas Carter turned to gaze at the man who then was approaching.

Professor Graff had come from a room at the rear end of the corridor, and he appeared surprised that something unusual had occurred, evidently having heard none of the disturbance. He was a man of medium build, somewhat bowed, and appeared to be about sixty years old. His hair and beard were gray, his complexion sallow, his expression serious and reserved. He wore gold-bowed spectacles and looked as if he might be of German or Swedish extraction. He was clad for the street, wearing a soft felt hat and a coat with a cape, a style augmenting his foreign appearance.

“Dear me, what has happened?” he said gravely, while others made way for him to approach. “A gentleman injured—not dead, is he?”

“Yes.” Doctor Perry drew him nearer. “He was found lying here a few minutes ago.”

“I heard nothing. I have just come up from my laboratory. Why, why, this is Mr. Gaston Todd,” Professor Graff added amazedly, manifestly shocked by the discovery. “I cannot be mistaken. I have seen him frequently in the Wilton House.”

“There is no question as to his identity,” replied the dentist, who appeared to be the only person acquainted with the chemist. “There is a difference of opinion between Doctor Doyle and this gentleman, however, as to the possible cause of his death. They——”

“Let me explain,” the detective interposed, addressing the chemist. “It will take me only a few minutes.”

“Why, yes, certainly,” Professor Graff bowed, regarding the detective a bit curiously.

Carter turned again to the body, briefly pointing out the conditions he already had mentioned, and then added earnestly:

“Use my lens. You can see more distinctly.”

Professor Graff smiled faintly and shook his head.

“Really, sir, there is no occasion,” he replied. “My opinion in such a matter is worthless. I know nothing about such things. I am a chemist, not a physician. I can subject the physical organs to analysis and detect poisons, or other foreign substances, perhaps; but I would not wish to pass upon the conditions you have mentioned. It seems only reasonable to me, however, that Doctor Doyle’s opinion ought to be entirely reliable.”

“I think he will find it so,” said the latter, as Professor Graff moved away and descended the stairs.

Nick Carter did not longer argue the point. Instead, turning to Chief Gleason, he whispered quietly:

“You had better be governed by my opinion, nevertheless, and take the necessary steps to insure an autopsy.”

“You really think, then, that——”

“Never mind what I really think. I’ll see you later and inform you. You will make no mistake, however, in doing what I direct. Take it from me, Gleason, this man was—murdered.”

“Murdered? Why do you——”

“Hush!” Nick quietly cautioned. “There will be nothing in immediately disclosing my suspicion. It will be better to conceal it temporarily. Has this man a family?”

“No; no family.”

“Or relatives who will be likely to interfere?”

“I think not. I am quite sure of it, in fact.”

“Very good. Notify the coroner, then, and have him take the necessary steps to perform an autopsy later,” the detective directed. “Understand?”

“Perfectly,” Chief Gleason nodded. “I will see to it.”

“And I will see you later, also the coroner, and explain my position,” Carter added. “Just now I have something else in view and must get a move on. Mum’s the word, mind you, until after the autopsy.”

He did not wait for an answer. He turned away and quickly departed, leaving his observers wondering who he was and what he had said, his instructions having been imparted in subdued and hurried whispers.

Returning to the street, Carter consulted a directory in a drug store, and five minutes later he entered the Gratton Building and approached the office of the lawyer whom the chief had mentioned. He listened at the door for a moment, hearing nothing, and then opened it and entered.

A tall, clean-cut man of thirty swung around in his swivel chair from a rolltop desk. He was of light complexion, with a smoothly shaved, attractive face, and frank blue eyes. He was alone and looked a bit curiously at his visitor, who, glancing sharply around the well-equipped office, appeared somewhat surprised, and said:

“Pardon me. Are you Mr. Paulding?”

“Yes, I am, sir.”

“I thought I saw Mr. Gaston Todd come in here a moment ago. Was I mistaken?”

“Humph!” Paulding straightened up with an expressive grunt. “Yes, sir, very much mistaken. Todd never comes here, nor would it be wise for him to do so. I would fire him out, head, neck, and heels, before he could open his mouth. You may repeat that to him, if you like and are a friend of his. I would say the same to Todd himself.”

Nick laughed, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and surveyed with quizzical eye the somewhat impulsive speaker.

“Oh, I’m no friend of Todd,” he replied. “I know him only by sight. There is a little matter, however, about which I would like to question him.”

“All right, in that case, and I’ll do all I can to help you,” Paulding said more agreeably. “I saw him in the Waldmere Chambers about fifteen minutes ago. He still is there, perhaps, if you care to seek him.”

“In the rooms of one of the tenants, or——”

“No. He was in the second-floor corridor,” Paulding interrupted. “He appeared to be waiting for some one. I passed him when I came out.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“Not by a long chalk. I speak to Todd only under protest and when it cannot be avoided. That’s all I can tell you. You may find him there, perhaps.”

Nick Carter had accomplished his object. He was a keen physiognomist and could read faces and characters much less frank and outspoken than those of this lawyer. He now was absolutely sure, in fact, that Paulding knew nothing about Todd’s death, nor had even heard of it. He smiled and replied:

“Much obliged. Sorry to have troubled you.”

“No trouble at all, sir.”

“May I ask, Mr. Paulding, what took you to the Waldmere Chambers?”

“I went there to confer with a client who——” Paulding broke off abruptly, gazing more sharply at the detective, then frowningly added: “But why do you ask why I went there? What is it to you? It strikes me that you are deucedly inquisitive.”

“I agree with you,” said Nick, coolly placing a chair near that of the lawyer and sitting down. “There is serious occasion for it, Mr. Paulding, as I now will explain: I happen to know that Mr. Gaston Todd has not left that second-floor corridor in the Waldmere Chambers. He was found dead there immediately after you left the building.”

“Dead—found dead!” Paulding stared amazedly. “What are you saying? Do you really mean it—that Gaston Todd is—dead!”

If Nick had had even a lingering shadow of suspicion, it would have been instantly dispelled by the expression of the lawyer’s face. It was one that no man could have feigned, however accomplished an actor. He bowed and replied:

“Yes, Mr. Paulding, that is precisely what I mean. Gaston Todd is dead.”

“Dear me, I can hardly believe it. It seems utterly incredible. Found dead, you say——”

“Exactly. Where you last saw him. He was——”

“Stop a moment! What do you imply by that?”

Paulding’s face had changed like a flash. His brows fell and his eyes took on a threatening gleam and glitter. He lurched forward in his chair, adding quickly:

“Why did you say he was found immediately after I left the building, and where I last saw him? What are you insinuating? What are you trying to put over on me? Why, if you knew he was dead, did you come here to pretend you were seeking him? Who the devil are you, that you impose upon me in this way, implying that I——”

“Here is my card,” the detective blandly interposed, tendering it. “You may, perhaps, know me by name.”

CHAPTER III.
A FRIEND WORTH HAVING.

Nick Carter smiled amusedly when Frank Paulding, having fairly snatched the card and read it, straightened up in his chair and stared at him with almost ludicrous astonishment.

“Nicholas Carter!” he exclaimed; “the New York detective! Good gracious!”

“Is it so very amazing?” the detective asked dryly.

“Yes, by Jove, it is,” said Paulding, pulling himself together. “I do, indeed, know you by name, and who does not? Let the circumstances be what they may, too, I am very glad to become acquainted with you. I am not blind, nevertheless, to the fact that your visit is rather significant; decidedly so, in reality, in view of your duplicity and covert insinuations that——”

“That you know something about Todd’s sudden death,” Nick put in, checking him. “Don’t let that annoy you. I did so, Mr. Paulding, only to assure myself to the contrary. I have succeeded, too, completely.”

“But what was the occasion?” Paulding questioned. “I don’t see, Mr. Carter, why you thought I knew anything about it.”

“I did not really think so,” Nick said dryly. “I foresaw, however, what others possibly will think, sooner or later, and I wanted to look at you and take your measure before circumstances might make it difficult for me to do so with absolute certainty. He is a wise man and keen, you know, who anticipates coming events.”

“By Jove, I fail to get you, Mr. Carter,” Paulding said more seriously. “Take my measure, eh? What others will possibly think? Say, you don’t—you don’t mean that—that Gaston Todd was killed, do you? Not that he was—murdered?”

Nick glanced at the door, to be sure that he had closed it. He then replied more impressively:

“I am a stranger to you, Mr. Paulding, but you will make no mistake in meeting me halfway and taking my advice. I frequently am a good friend to have in time of trouble.”

“I know of none I would rather have,” Paulding said quickly.

“That goes, does it?”

“You bet it goes.”

“What now passes between us, then, must be strictly confidential,” said the detective. “You must, moreover, be governed by my instructions. You will presently see, I think, that that will be the only wise course for you to shape. If you are not inclined to meet me in this way——”

“But I am,” Paulding cut in earnestly. “I’m not blind. I now see there is something wrong, Mr. Carter, and that you are here in my behalf. I would be more than a fool, sir, if I did not take advantage of your offer. I promise in advance to do what you direct.”

“Very good,” Nick said approvingly. “You will not regret it.”

“But how am I in wrong?” Paulding asked anxiously. “Has a crime been committed? Was Todd murdered?”

“I think so,” said the detective.

“Good heavens! Is it possible that I am suspected of——”

“One moment, Paulding, and I will tell you about it.”

He then stated the circumstances briefly, in so far as he had figured in the case, and then added pointedly:

“You now can see why I wanted to talk with you, Paulding, and get your measure.”

“Yes, yes, I see,” Paulding nodded. “But how did you know that I passed Todd in the corridor just before he died, or was killed? I saw no one else. I am sure, too, that no one saw me. How did you know I had just left there?”

“For two reasons,” Nick replied. “One, because you told me so.”

“I told you so?” Paulding stared perplexedly.

“In effect,” smiled the detective. “You said you had passed Todd about fifteen minutes ago, and I knew that was just about when his body was discovered.”

“Ah, I see. You are a keen reasoner, Mr. Carter. You said there were two reasons, however.”

“The other can be briefly stated: Todd did not look to me like a man who had dropped dead of any organic trouble. He looked like a strong and healthful fellow. I very soon suspected murder; and, after having been told of your fight with Todd in the Country Club last night, I reasoned that you had just met him, perhaps, and been seen by some person who, for some reason and knowing all of the circumstances, had taken advantage of them to craftily kill Todd and fix the crime upon you, assuming that you had not done it. That’s why I lost no time in sizing you up from personal observation. I wanted to do so before you heard of Todd’s death, in case you were innocent, of which I was quickly convinced. Have I made it plain to you?”

“Perfectly plain, Mr. Carter,” Paulding said earnestly. “I am more than grateful. I don’t know how I can repay you for your interest in me, a stranger——”

“Don’t speak of that,” the detective interrupted. “I am interested in serving justice, mind you, and am taking what seems to be the best way. I am not absolutely sure that Todd was murdered. An autopsy will determine that. If he was, at such a time and in such a public place, without any disturbance or any superficial wound, it was accomplished by most extraordinary means and by a knave of exceeding boldness and ability, who may be equally as skillful in hiding his identity and covering his tracks. That’s why I have tackled the case in the bud, so to speak, in anticipation of what may follow.”

“I understand,” said Paulding. “It now is perfectly plain.”

“We’ll get right down to business, then, for I wish you to answer a few questions,” Carter replied.

“As many as you wish, Mr. Carter, and to the best of my ability.”

“Very good. Todd appeared to be waiting for some one, you have said.”

“Yes. That was my impression.”

“Do you know for whom, or how long he had been there?”

“No, neither.”

“Do you know of any person whom he visits, who has rooms or an office in that building?”

“I do not. He was not the type of man I fancied, Mr. Carter, and we never have been good friends.”

“I was told that he was a popular clubman.”

“He was, I admit, and there are many who liked him.”

“What was the trouble between you last evening?” the detective inquired. “I was told——”

“I can tell you in a nutshell,” Paulding interrupted. “He spoke of a young lady in terms that no gentleman should have used. I called him down, Mr. Carter. One word led to another, and we nearly came to blows. That’s all there was to it, however, for others interposed and Todd immediately left the clubhouse. I did not see him again until we met this morning in the Waldmere Chambers.”

“Do you know anything against him, so far as his character and habits are concerned?”

“Well, no,” said Paulding, after a moment. “He was somewhat dissipated at times and in with the fast set. He gambled more or less on the quiet, and I know he was friendly with other women while paying attention to——”

“To Miss Thurlow,” put in Carter, when the lawyer hesitated. “Her name was mentioned to me, also, and the fact that a bitter rivalry existed between you and Todd.”

“Well, there is some truth in that,” Paulding admitted, flushing. “Regardless of my affection and whether she really cares for me, Mr. Carter, I never considered Todd a fit man for Edna Thurlow. I would not have permitted him to visit a sister of mine, if I had one. Edna is young, however; only nineteen, and it’s not difficult for a man of Todd’s type to deceive an inexperienced girl. I do not mean by that, Mr. Carter, that he would not have cared to marry her. He was out to get her, if possible, and——”

“So are you, Paulding, aren’t you?” Nick interrupted. “Tell me frankly.”

“Yes, indeed, I am, Mr. Carter, if she’ll have me.”

“Do you think she will?”

“I hope so, think so, in fact, though I have not yet ventured to ask her. Bear in mind, Mr. Carter, that she is wealthy, prominent socially, and a very beautiful and accomplished girl, while I am only a struggling lawyer, bucking up against a hard game, and with only patronage and income enough to keep me going. But I’ll make good, all right, and then——”

“I think you will, Paulding,” the detective again interposed. “Let it go at that, now, for my time is limited. I wish to give you a few instructions, which you must follow to the letter.”

“I will do so,” Paulding assured him. “You may rely upon that.”

“Much may depend upon it,” Carter said impressively. “As I have said, nevertheless, I am not absolutely sure that Todd was murdered. Nor, if he was, am I sure that you will be seriously involved, or even suspected. I think you may be, however, for the reason stated, and you must in that case do precisely what I direct.”

“I certainly will, Mr. Carter,” Mr. Paulding again said earnestly.

“To begin with, then, say nothing about this interview, or the fact that we have met and that I am interested in the case,” Nick directed. “Do not confide in any one, not excepting Miss Thurlow, even, in case you are arrested and charged with the crime.”

“Good heavens! Do you anticipate that?” Paulding asked anxiously.

“It is possible, if not probable,” the detective replied. “You must, in that case, do precisely as if we had not met. Say not a word about me until I countermand these instructions. My presence in Madison is not generally known, and, while looking into this matter, as well as other business that brought me here, I may derive an advantage from concealing the fact.”

“I understand, and will act accordingly.”

“You may assert your innocence, employ another lawyer, get bail if you can, and all that—but not a word about me.”

“That goes,” Paulding nodded. “I’ll be as dumb as an oyster.”

“Very good,” said Carter, extending his hand and rising to go. “I will make it a point to see you as soon as possible, in case you are arrested, but do not under any circumstances send for me. On the other hand, do not fear that I will desert you. I shall know all that is going on and will be hard at work for you.”

“That’s good enough for me,” declared Paulding, warmly pressing the detective’s hand. “You can bank on me, Mr. Carter, let come what may—as I’m going to bank on you.”

“Good enough, then,” the detective added. “We’ll wait and see how the cat jumps.”

CHAPTER IV.
THE MAN OF LAST RESORT.

Nicholas Carter did not return to the Waldmere Chambers after his interview with Frank Paulding. It was not entirely due to his intuitive perception, or to any evidence definitely involving another, that had caused him to feel that Paulding had played no part in the killing of Gaston Todd, and that he might be possibly the victim of a carefully planned conspiracy.

It was due in part to what Chief Gleason had told him earlier that morning, when they were discussing the business that had brought him secretly to Madison with his two most reliable assistants.

Nick saw nothing to be gained by returning to the Waldmere Chambers, and he hastened to the Wilton House, instead, going at once to the suite assigned him, where Chick and Patsy then were waiting for him.

“Well, there must be something doing, indeed,” Chick exclaimed, gazing at him when he entered. “Has it taken Gleason the entire morning to tell you why we are needed in Madison?”

“No, not quite,” Carter replied, taking a chair. “There is more doing than what Gleason confided to me, Chick, and I think there may be some connection between them. Unless I am very much mistaken, there was a deucedly singular murder committed about an hour ago.”

“The devil you say!” Chick returned. “Have you been looking into it?”

“Superficially.”

“Tell us, chief,” said Patsy, with immediate interest. “Why singular?”

“I will do so presently,” Nick replied. “I first will tell you why Chief Gleason sent for me. It’s a rather remarkable story.”

“A mysterious crime, chief?”

“Quite a number of them, Patsy.”

“Gee whiz! We are booked for some hard work, then, if the local police cannot handle them.”

“Crimes of what kind, chief?” Chick inquired.

“The first was committed several months ago,” said Carter, disposing of the match with which he had been lighting a cigar. “It was the robbery of a prominent local banker, named Wagner, whose statements are entirely reliable.”

“What were the circumstances?”

“Briefly stated, he was going home from his club about nine o’clock one evening, after having dined there with a friend. He is a well-built, powerful man of forty, about the last whom a holdup man would venture to tackle. He wore some valuable jewelry, however, and he had nearly a thousand dollars in his pocket, which he wanted to use before banking hours the following morning.”

“The crook may have known about it.”

“Possibly, though Wagner doesn’t think so.”

“Where was the crime committed?”

“In the grounds of his own house, a fine residence in Garside Avenue. He was sauntering up a gravel walk leading to his front door, when a man came down from the veranda and approached to meet him. Wagner did not recognize him, but he naturally inferred that the stranger had called to see him, and, not finding him at home, that he was about departing.”

“Certainly,” Chick nodded. “That was perfectly natural.”

“What followed was quite the contrary,” Carter remarked dryly. “The stranger stopped directly in front of him and asked whether he was Mr. Wagner. He had an unlighted cigar in his mouth, or so Wagner has stated. The latter replied in the affirmative, of course, and asked what was wanted.”

“And then, chief?” queried Patsy.

“Then came the one singular feature of the case,” said the detective. “Wagner felt a sensation as if a breath of air had hit his face. He doesn’t know where it came from, nor can he explain it, for the stranger still had the cigar between his lips and his mouth was closed. Be that as it may, Wagner instantly felt very numb and confused, and in another moment he lost consciousness.”

“Fainted away?”

“Not quite that, Patsy.”

“Great guns! What was he up against, chief?”

“That’s the question,” said Nick. “He was seen on the gravel walk a little later by a passing policeman, who hastened to aid him. Wagner still was unconscious, dead to the world, as he afterward expressed it when revived by a physician. He had been robbed of his money and all of his jewelry, and the thief had disappeared, leaving absolutely no clew to his identity.”

“He has not been traced, nor any of the jewelry?”

“Neither.”

“Is any one suspected?”

“No.” Nick shook his head. “There have been numerous other robberies of a like character, and under similar circumstances, but in no case has any of the stolen property been recovered, nor a clew to the criminal been found. The police have been at work for months on more than a score of such cases.”

“By Jove! that’s very peculiar,” Chick said thoughtfully. “Is the description of the crook the same in all cases?”

“Far from it,” Carter replied. “They vary materially.”

“There must be a gang at work, then.”

“It appears so.”

“Did the victim in each case experience the same sensations as those described by Wagner?”

“Very similar, though the circumstances were not always the same. All agree, however, that they suddenly became unconscious from an unknown cause, while talking with a person who had accosted them on one pretense or another. One stock broker was robbed in that way while alone in his business office. The police are all at sea, and the community is on nettles as to who will be the next victim of the mysterious and elusive plunderers. That’s why Gleason sent secretly for me to aid him.”

“How do you size it up, chief?” Patsy inquired. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, take the case of Wagner,” Carter replied. “He is very much mystified by the breath of air he felt on his face. His assailant’s lips were closed around a cigar, and Wagner is sure he could not have exhaled the breath he suddenly felt.”

“Surely not, chief, in that case,” said Patsy.

“Don’t be so sure of it,” Carter returned. “When a man confronts another and has a full-length cigar between his teeth, the outer end of it may be very near the other’s face.”

“That’s true, chief, but what of it?”

“Suppose it was not a cigar, but made to closely resemble one?”

“Gee whiz! I get you,” cried Patsy. “You mean a tube through which one’s breath might be blown.”

“I mean a tube, Patsy, which contained something that may have been forced outward by the man’s breath, and so directed that Wagner must have inhaled it,” Carter explained.

“I see.”

“Just what it was, being powerful enough to immediately overcome him, and how the tube was constructed so that the user would not be affected by its contents when ejecting it, are open questions.”

“Do you really think that is how it was done?” Chick inquired, a bit incredulous.

“I certainly do,” nodded the detective.

“Had Gleason thought of that device, or any of the police?”

“No, nor did I inform him,” said Carter, smiling significantly. “Since we are about to investigate these mysterious cases, which I have decided to do, we may derive an advantage by not disclosing our suspicions.”

“Certainly,” Chick agreed. “That’s good judgment. It may be, chief, that the crook has discovered an odorless and very powerful narcotic gas; also various methods by which he can craftily and quickly administer it.”

“Something of that nature, Chick, which also indicates that he is a man of education, with a knowledge of drugs and mechanics,” Carter pointed out. “All this is what leads me to think there may be some connection between these numerous strange robberies and the mysterious killing of Gaston Todd this noon, if an autopsy shows positively that he was murdered.”

“That’s the case you mentioned?”

“Yes. I now will tell you about it.”

The detective proceeded to do so, covering all of the essential points, both during his observations in the Waldmere Chambers and his call upon Frank Paulding.

“By Jove! this case does have a striking likeness to the others,” Chick declared, after listening attentively. “It may be a murder case, as you suspect.”

“The similarity first led me to suspect it.”

“Naturally.”

“There are three other cases, too, about which Gleason told me, that are fully as peculiar,” Carter added, knocking the ashes from his cigar.

“What are they, chief?” questioned Patsy.

“They involve three girls, or, more properly, young women, for all are about twenty,” said the detective. “All were found unconscious in the grounds of the local hospital.”

“At the same time?”

“No. There was an interval of several days between them.”

“Found when?”

“About midnight.”

“Had they been robbed?”

“No. There was no robbery in either case, nor has it been learned that an outrage of any kind was attempted,” Nick explained. “Each of the girls was first taken to the police headquarters, I understand, and afterward sent to the hospital, where one of the physicians soon succeeded in reviving her. She then was allowed to depart, after stating that she could not account for her strange condition, nor remember anything that had befallen her.”

“By gracious, that is peculiar, chief, for fair,” declared Patsy, gazing perplexedly.

“More strange, perhaps, and somewhat significant, is the fact that not one of these girls could afterward be found by the police, when they tumbled to a possibility that the three cases might have some relation to the many mysterious robberies.”

“Their names are not known?”

“So Gleason states. It appears that they were not learned by the hospital authorities.”

“The whole business does seem strange, indeed,” Chick said more gravely. “It looks as if we were up against a very curious and complicated mess.”

“And crooks of extraordinary craft and cunning,” put in Patsy earnestly.

“I agree with both of you,” said Nick, glancing at his watch. “Come, we are due for a late lunch. I will make further inquiries this afternoon, and then—well, I will have decided by evening how we can begin our work. The autopsy to-morrow may show us the way.”

CHAPTER V.
ANOTHER STRANGE CASE.

The steeple bell of a church within a stone’s throw of Hamilton Square struck twelve. The successive strokes fell with monotonous reverberations on the midnight air, breaking with solemn resonance the quietude of that reputable residential section of Madison.

For Hamilton Square, though not far from the business district, was in an attractive part of the city, to which the extensive tract of land had been donated years before, in part for a public square and the remainder for the site, park, and gardens of the now locally famous Osgood Hospital, established by the donor, and still largely supported by the income from his bequests.

The last stroke of the bell scarce had died away to a customary stillness, when a burly policeman, one James Donovan, appeared on one side of the square flanking the hospital grounds, moving along near the iron fence and pausing now and then to gaze across the broad avenue at the opposite dwellings, the most of which were shrouded in darkness.

Presently, approaching a gate in the fence, he muttered to himself:

“I may as well have another look. It’s a hundred to one there has been nothing doing, though, or I would have heard it. This evidently isn’t one of the nights for their devilish doings. Hang it, I’m not sure of it!”

He had stopped short, taking out his electric lamp and flashing the beam of light on the ornamental gate. A padlock had been removed and was lying on the gravel walk within. Nearly at his feet, discovered after a brief search, was a piece of black thread.

“By thunder, I was wrong,” Donovan muttered, gazing around and scowling perplexedly. “Have my ears gone back on me? Has this scurvy trick been turned again? Some one has been through this gate since I tied the thread on it. I’ll darned soon find out.”

Quietly lifting the latch, Donovan opened the gate and entered with quickened steps. He did not follow the gravel walk, which led toward an end door in a wing of the hospital some fifty yards away. Instead, he strode straight across the broad lawn, through the deeper gloom under the trees, until he came to one, the drooping branches of which formed a sort of arbor in a secluded part of the extensive estate.

There was an iron seat under it, and the policeman flashed his light in that direction. It fell upon a motionless figure in a huddled position on one end of the seat—the figure of a young woman.

“Another, by thunder, as sure as I’m a foot high,” Donovan gasped audibly. “In spite of my vigilance, too, and in the same place and condition as the others. Sure, this beats me.”

Donovan drew nearer and bent over the motionless girl. She was about nineteen, with a slender, neatly clad figure, a dark skirt and Eton jacket. Her head was bowed forward, and her hat was somewhat awry. She was of dark complexion, but the ghastly pallor of her cheeks caused the policeman to catch his breath. He bowed over her, listening, and presently could hear the faint breathing of the unconscious girl.

“By Jove, I feared for a moment she was gone,” he said to himself, straightening up. “I’ll try to raise the sergeant. He said he’d show up about midnight.”

Donovan walked away toward the gate again and blew his whistle, a shrill, sinister sound on the night air. Thrice he had to sound it, and then he heard a distant reply. Several moments later hurried footsteps fell on the pavement, and an officer in plain clothes appeared at the gate.

“That you, Jim?” he called quietly.

“Yes, sir.” Donovan’s hand went to his helmet. “I thought I might get you, Sergeant Brady, as you said you’d drop around about this time.”

“Something doing?”

“Yes, sir, the same old job.”

“The devil you say! Have you seen no one, nor heard anything?”

“Not a soul, sir, nor a sound,” Donovan declared, approaching the gate. “Faith, I think my eyes and ears have gone to the bad. I was round here twenty minutes ago. The padlock then was on the gate, and this thread, tied so that the gate could not be opened without breaking it, was just as I had fixed it. It’s a cinch, now, that this is the gate the rascals have been using. The chief thought, you know, that the padlock might have been taken off only for a blind. The breaking of the thread settles it.”

“That’s a clever scheme, Jim,” Brady said approvingly. “Yes, yes, undoubtedly that’s the gate. Another woman, you say?”

“Yes, sir, and on the same iron seat.”

“I’ll have a look at her.”

“This way, sergeant.”

“The fourth in a fortnight.” Brady spoke with a growl while he and his companion strode across the lawn. “I don’t understand it. I’ll be hanged, Jim, if I can make head or tail to a mystery of this kind. I don’t see why it’s done, or who could quit a winner.”

“Faith, it’s as black as dock mud,” Donovan vouchsafed grimly. “Here she is, sergeant, dead to the world.”

Brady stopped and gazed down at the inanimate girl—the fourth who had been found on this same seat, at the same time, and in the same condition, within two weeks.

“Humph!” Brady grunted, rubbing his furrowed brow perplexedly. “Mystery is no name for it.”

“Shall I send in an ambulance call?”

“No. It’s another case for the hospital. There’s nothing in taking her to headquarters and then bringing her back here, as was done in the other three cases.”

“Sure, sergeant, that’s right.”

“Go to that wing door and raise one of the attendants. Tell him what’s up, Jim, and have him bring out a litter. I’ll wait here until you return.”

Donovan hurried away and vanished around a corner of the wing. He returned in about five minutes, accompanied by one of the hospital attendants, bearing a folded litter, which he hastened to open and on which he and the policeman placed the girl.

While they were doing so, Brady discovered a small leather hand bag on the ground near the seat. He picked it up and tossed it on the litter.

“Go ahead,” he commanded, a bit gruffly. “Get a move on. I’ll go with you.”

His companions picked up their burden and obeyed. They trooped across the grounds and around the end of the wing, bringing up at a door over which a red lantern was burning. It was opened by an orderly within, and Donovan said familiarly:

“Here’s another for you, Bill, of the same sort. Faith, they seem to drop out of the sky.”

“They more likely are sent up from the infernal regions, judging from the character of the job,” returned the orderly. “What’s the matter with you guns, anyway, that tricks of this kind can be repeated under your very eyes? Bring her this way.”

He conducted them through a dimly lighted corridor and into an adjoining room, in which there were several unoccupied cots, on one of which Donovan and the attendant placed the girl.

The orderly turned to a wall telephone and summoned a night nurse, who entered before he had fairly hung up the receiver.

“What physician is here, Agnes?” he asked curtly.

“Doctor Green has been here since eight o’clock,” said the nurse. “I just saw a light in Doctor Devoll’s private room. I think he came in about ten minutes ago.”

“Notify him,” said the orderly. “He can restore her, most likely, since he was so successful in the other three cases. Notify him at once.”

The woman turned to the telephone to speak to Doctor Devoll, while the orderly set about making a few necessary preparations to receive him, apparently disregarding the presence of the two policemen.

Sergeant Brady, who had been gazing with a suspicious frown at the girl on the cot, turned to the attendant who had assisted in bringing her in.

“Doctor Devoll is the head physician, isn’t he?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, sir,” said the attendant. “He runs the place.”

“The big finger, eh?”

“That’s what.”

“I have heard he’s very skillful.”

“None better, sir.”

“I wonder——” Brady dropped his voice to a whisper: “I wonder whether there’s a telephone I can use on the quiet. I want to talk with Chief Gleason, at headquarters.”

“Sure,” the attendant nodded. “There’s one in the operating room. No one is there now. I’ll show you.”

“Half a minute,” Brady muttered. Then, turning to Donovan, he whispered: “Have an eye on the girl, Jim, and keep your ears open when she revives. Get me?”

“Sure!”

“I’ll return in time to leave with you.”

Donovan nodded, and Brady immediately departed with the attendant. Only five minutes had passed when Doctor Devoll entered the room, bringing a leather medicine case and quickly approaching the cot on which lay the inanimate girl, whose jacket and the front of her silk shirt waist had been opened by the nurse.

Doctor Devoll presented quite a striking picture, when he paused and gazed down at her in the bright light of an electric bulb. He was close upon sixty and of medium height, but very slender. His thinness was accentuated by a tight-fitting black frock coat, the skirts of which hung to his knees. His head was almost entirely bald. All that remained to show that he was a son of Esau was a fringe of close-cut, gray hair around the base of his skull, and a single silver-white tuft above his high forehead.

He was smoothly shaven, his features wasted and wan, his thin lips of a dull, grayish tint, instead of a wholesome red, as if the blood in his veins had lost its crimson hue. His nose was long, his eyes a cold blue and wonderfully penetrating. As he stood there with his slender hands behind him, his fingers interlocked, there was something really quite sinister in his aspect. He looked not unlike a bird of prey brooding over his victim.

This was immediately dispelled, however, when he looked up at the nurse and said, with a remarkably soft and ingratiating voice:

“She appears to be in the same condition, Agnes, as the others. She was found on the same seat, did I understand you to say?”

“Yes, doctor.” The nurse bowed to him across the narrow cot. “This policeman discovered her. He had her brought in, sir, instead of taking her to the station house, as before.”

Doctor Devoll turned and eyed Donovan narrowly for a moment; then suavely inquired:

“Is your beat in this locality?”

“It is, sir,” said Donovan respectfully. “I’m the night patrolman, sir.”

“Are you the officer who previously found the other girls who were brought here under similar circumstances?”

“I am, sir.”

“Did you see any one to-night, or hear anything, that might shed a ray of light on this mystery?”

“I did not, sir,” said Donovan. “I’m all in the dark. I’m blessed if I can fathom how and when the girl went there. I had my eyes open all the evening because of the other cases, but how——”

“Yes, yes, no doubt.” Doctor Devoll checked him with a deprecatory gesture. “I must apply for more night men in this district, if these extraordinary episodes are to continue. The cause must be found and the culprits discovered. That is, of course, if it’s a case for the police.”

“She may be a drug fiend, sir, or perhaps——”

“It is useless to speculate,” Doctor Devoll interrupted. “I could learn nothing from the others. I will try this one.”

He opened his medicine case while speaking, taking from it a small sponge and a slender vial filled with an amber-colored fluid, a few drops of which he poured on the sponge. Then he held it with his long, lean fingers near the nostrils of the unconscious girl.

The effect appeared almost magical. A tinge of color instantly dispelled her ghastly paleness. She caught her breath with a gasp and a convulsive heave, as if some potent stimulant had suddenly filled her lungs, and Doctor Devoll quickly drew away the sponge and replaced it in his case, hastily closing it.

He scarcely had done so when, with a low moan, the girl opened her eyes and stared around, then at her observers, with the mute wonderment of one awakening amid strange surroundings and in view of unfamiliar faces. They seemed to alarm and further stimulate her, for she started up, gasping amazedly:

“Where—where am I? Who are you? What has happened?”

“Don’t be alarmed, my girl.” Doctor Devoll’s thin face took on an assuring smile. “You are in no danger. You are in the casualty ward of the Osgood Hospital.”

CHAPTER VI.
DOCTOR DEVOLL.

Patrolman Donovan drew a little nearer to the cot, that nothing said or done should escape him. The orderly had departed, and the announcement by the physician seemed to surprise and further mystify the reviving girl.

“A hospital—in a hospital?” she repeated perplexedly.

“Yes, you were brought here by this policeman, who found you on a seat in the hospital grounds,” Doctor Devoll informed her. “You appeared to have fainted or to have been drugged.”

“I cannot believe that I fainted,” said the girl. “I don’t understand it. It seems to me as if I had just awakened from a deep sleep.” She gazed around, still dazed and deeply puzzled; then asked abruptly: “What time is it?”

“It is after midnight, nearly one o’clock.”

“One o’clock! Oh, I must go home! I must go home!”

She started up from the cot, and stood beside it. She appeared to have regained her strength. Her color had returned, her eyes were normal, though expressive of mingled uncertainty and dread.

“Do you feel quite well again?” Doctor Devoll asked, with sharper scrutiny. “Are you able to go home?”

“Yes, yes, perfectly able. I must go home; I must go at once.”

“Before leaving you must give me a few particulars about yourself,” interposed the physician. “Where were you when you were overcome? Tell me what you last remember.”

“I am not sure,” she replied, with a manifest effort to comply. “I went to the Alhambra, a moving-picture theater. I had come out and was walking along Main Street when I——”

She stopped short, glancing apprehensively at the policeman. A deep flush suddenly mantled her cheeks. She hesitated, obviously embarrassed and somewhat frightened, and Doctor Devoll asked somewhat sharply:

“Why did you stop? What were you about to say?”

“I don’t know—nothing more, sir, I think,” she faltered. “I have told you all I know—all I can remember.”

Donovan suspected that she was lying, but he did not venture to interfere, and Doctor Devoll said quite sternly:

“Don’t try to conceal anything, my girl. What happened to you in Main Street? Can’t you remember?”

“Only that I was there, sir; nothing more,” she insisted. “I was alone and on my way home when suddenly everything became a blank. I don’t know what followed, what I did, or where I went. I remember nothing more until I awoke in this place and saw you bending over me. I am telling the truth, sir, and——”

“Oh, I don’t question your honesty, my girl,” Doctor Devoll interposed less austerely. “What is your name?”

“Mabel Smith, sir,” she admitted, after a moment.

“Where do you live?”

“I board at No. 81 Flint Street with Mrs. Morton, a widow. I must go home. She will be very anxious about me and may—did I have anything when I was brought in here? I mean my purse.” She digressed abruptly; then stopped again, with a somewhat guilty expression in her troubled eyes.

There was a small table near the foot of the cot, on which the nurse had placed the girl’s hat and a small, knit purse. The physician glanced at them, replying:

“Here is your purse, Miss Smith. Was there anything else?”

“I—I think I had a small leather bag,” she replied.

“That appears to be missing.”

“I’m not sure,” she quickly added. “I don’t know positively that I had it with me. If I did, sir, I suppose I must have dropped it.”

Of the three men who had brought her in from the seat on which Donovan had found her, Sergeant Brady was the only one who had seen the small leather bag, which he had picked up from the ground and placed on the litter. But Sergeant Brady then was absent with the attendant, and no further search was made for the missing bag, for the girl said indifferently:

“It don’t matter, sir. I may not have had it. May I go home? I really must. You have no right to detain me here.”

Donovan did not hear what then passed between Doctor Devoll and his mysteriously afflicted patient. The ward door had been opened, and Sergeant Brady beckoned to the policeman and drew him into the corridor, closing the door.

“Well, what has she said for herself, Jim?” he inquired, gazing grimly at the policeman.

“Faith, it’s the same old story, sergeant,” Donovan replied significantly. “She can’t tell what happened to her. She don’t know enough to last her overnight.”

“Humph!” Brady grunted. “I suspected as much.”

“She seems to be on the level, though.”

“Level be hanged!” Brady spoke with a derisive snarl. “None of them was on the level, Jim, or we would have been able to trace them and find some solution of the mystery. Not one of them could be found after she left the hospital.”

“That’s true, sergeant. Sure, it does seem a bit strange.”

“I got Chief Gleason on the phone by calling up his house. He had gone home from headquarters. I reported the case to him, as he directed, and—say nothing about this, mind you.”

“Not a word, sergeant.”

“It’s not known by many that the big dick is in town, and he don’t want it known at present,” Brady impressively explained. “Nicholas Carter is at the Wilton House under the name of Blaisdell.”

“Faith, is that so?” Donovan’s face lighted. “Sure, he can dig out the truth, sergeant, if any man can.”

“Gleason said he would telephone to him at once and send him here to size up the case,” Brady added. “He ought to show up within twenty minutes. You return to your beat. I’ll stay here and detain the girl until Carter comes.”

“All right, sergeant.”

“You can leave by that door through which we came in. Go ahead. We’ll not want more of you to-night.”

Donovan touched his helmet and hurried away.

Sergeant Brady gazed after him for a moment; then turned and entered the wardroom, when an ominous frown instantly settled on his face.

Miss Mabel Smith had departed.

There remained only the nurse, Agnes, then engaged in putting the narrow cot in order. Brady strode toward her, asking roughly:

“Where’s that girl? Not gone, has she?”

“Yes, sir. She went with Doctor Devoll, sir, through the corridor leading to the front office,” said the nurse, pointing to a door at the opposite end of the wardroom.

“When? How long ago?” Brady demanded.

“Not more than two or three minutes. You might overtake them, sir, if you hurry. I’ll show you the way.”

“Do so. I want the girl detained here.”

The nurse hurriedly led the way, Brady striding after her. They passed through a long corridor leading to the main part of the building and entered a brightly lighted office fronting on Hamilton Square.

Doctor Devoll was alone there, closing a roll-top desk.

“Has that girl gone, doctor?” Brady demanded the moment he entered.

The physician’s brows fell slightly, and his cold blue eyes took on a sharper glint. He appeared to resent the officer’s brusqueness. He no further betrayed it, however, and said, with characteristic blandness:

“She has, sergeant. Why do you ask?”

“Because I wanted to detain her.”

“Detain her? For what?” The physician gazed more intently.

“For what!” Brady echoed him derisively. “It strikes me, Doctor Devoll, that this business has gone far enough. This is the fourth girl brought here in the same condition, under the same mysterious circumstances, and allowed to depart before a thorough investigation was made. Not hide nor hair of them could afterward be found. She should have been kept here until we could——”

“Pardon me, sergeant,” Doctor Devoll checked him with a gesture, “you overlook one fact.”

“One fact?”

“This is a hospital, not a police station. I am a physician, not a detective. My duty is to care for a patient, if necessary, but not to hold one in custody after one has recovered. I have no right to do that. The young lady insisted upon going home, and I had no proper course but to let her go.”

“All right, doctor, if you look at it in that way,” said Brady, still frowning darkly.

“There is no other way for me to look at it,” Doctor Devoll said suavely. “As a matter of fact, however, you can easily find and question the girl. I learned her name and address, which I neglected doing in the previous cases.”

“Ah, that’s better!” Brady declared. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Mabel Smith. She boards at No. 81 Flint Street.”

“Good enough! The matter now can rest until to-morrow,” said Brady. “May I use your telephone? I wish to say a word to Mr. Blaisdell, at the Wilton House.”

CHAPTER VII.
GROUNDS FOR SUSPICION.

Sergeant Brady got in communication with Nicholas Carter that night just in time to prevent him from visiting the hospital, following the telephone talk he had with Chief Gleason, after the latter had been notified of this fourth mysterious case.

Carter had not quite finished his breakfast the following morning, however, at which he was seated with Chick and Patsy in a private dining room of the Wilton House, when their waiter brought in a sealed missive, which the detective opened and read. It consisted of only two lines:

“I want to see you. I am waiting in the hotel parlor.

“Brady.”

The detective thrust the note into his pocket and waved the waiter from the room.

“It’s from Sergeant Brady,” he then said to his companions. “He is up in the parlor. There must be something doing, or he would not have called so early. I’ll drink my coffee and take him up to our suite. You can join us there.”

“It probably relates to that girl,” said Chick.

“Very likely. He may want my advice or assistance.”

“You haven’t forgotten the autopsy this morning, chief, in that Todd case, have you?” Patsy reminded him inquiringly. “You said you wanted to be there.”

“No, I’ve not forgotten it, Patsy,” said his chief, rising. “I’ll be there all right, after learning what Brady has on his mind.”

“We’ll be with you again in five minutes,” Chick remarked, as the detective was leaving.

Carter found Brady at the parlor door, and he at once conducted him to his suite on the floor above, where he produced a box of cigars and invited him to be seated.

“I slipped in through the side door and sent my note by your waiter, after learning that you were at breakfast,” Brady informed him while lighting his cigar. “If it were known that a police sergeant was calling upon you, your identity might be suspected.”

“Possibly,” Carter admitted. “You did the right thing, Brady, at all events. What’s on your mind?”

“Gleason sent me. It’s about that girl. I could not telephone any of the particulars to you last night, for Doctor Devoll was in the office and heard all I was saying. He might have suspected that I was talking with a detective.

“So I merely told you that the girl had gone and that it would be useless for you to follow the suggestion made you. I referred, of course, to Chief Gleason’s communication.”

“I understood you.”

“This morning, however, I have made other discoveries,” Brady added. “They shed still a worse light on the case.”

“Did the circumstances last night differ materially from those of the three other cases about which Gleason informed me?” the detective inquired.

“No, they were almost identical.”

“You need not state them, then. What more have you discovered?”

Brady told him what Donovan had seen and heard, nevertheless, and he then added, replying:

“Doctor Devoll asked the girl for her name and address in this case. She said it was Mabel Smith and that she boarded at No. 81 Flint Street. I have been there this morning. The house is occupied by a man with whom I am well acquainted, and who is entirely reliable. He knows no girl named Mabel Smith. She gave Doctor Devoll a fictitious name.”

“I see,” Carter nodded. “That is somewhat significant.”

“I also learned from Donovan, who was present when the girl revived, that she claimed to have had a small leather bag. I happen to know that she had, for I picked it up from the ground near the seat on which she was found. I placed it on the litter on which she was taken into the hospital, and I know it was there when she was taken into the ward.”

“Couldn’t it be found?”

“No. Since learning that she gave a false name, and, thinking the bag might contain something that would reveal her identity, I have been to the hospital in search of it.”

“Whom did you see or question?”

“The night nurse and the orderly. Both appear to be trustworthy. They deny having seen the bag. The attendant could not have taken it, for he went with me to the operating room and did not return. It’s absurd, of course, to suppose Doctor Devoll took it, and there remains only the girl herself.”

“Did she have any opportunity to get possession of it without being seen?” Carter inquired.

“I asked about that, and was told that she was not seen to find it,” said Brady. “It is barely possible that she did, nevertheless, and that it contained something which she did not wish Doctor Devoll to see.”

“Very possibly,” the detective allowed.

“Otherwise, she would have admitted having found it.”

“That’s reasonable, sergeant.”

“That’s how I size it up,” Brady added. “It seems to me the only plausible explanation. What I can’t fathom, however, is why these girls are repeatedly found unconscious in the hospital grounds, and why this last one lied in order to hide her identity. Why were they all so anxious to get away and avoid publicity?”

Nicholas Carter did not express his views. He did not care to indulge in vain speculations. As a matter of fact, moreover, he was nearly as puzzled as the police sergeant by the quite extraordinary circumstances. He looked up from a figure in the Wilton carpet, at which he had been thoughtfully gazing, and asked:

“Have any charges been made at headquarters or a complaint of any kind that might even indirectly relate to any of these cases?”

“No, nothing of the kind,” said Brady confidently. “I’m dead sure of that.”

“Have the police tried in each case to trace and identify the girl?”

“Yes, indeed, for all they were worth.”

“But with no success at all?”

“None whatever. If we could hit upon any motive for such a job, or see anything to have been gained by it, we might get on the track of the crooks. For the fact that all the girls told the same story, and plainly enough had been drugged or rendered insensible by some mysterious means, shows that there must have been trickery of some kind.”

“I agree with you, Brady, in that respect.”

“Strange to say, nevertheless, the victims appeared anxious only to leave the hospital as quickly as possible and to bury themselves in obscurity.”

“Have the newspapers reported the previous cases?”

“Yes, indeed, in display type.”

“They must have been read by these girls, then, and there must be some serious reason for their reticence,” said Nick. “Very evidently, Brady, there is something under the surface, something quite out of the ordinary. Gleason wants me to look into this last case?”

“That’s just what he wants, Carter.”

“Who is the chief director or head physician of the Osgood Hospital?”

“Doctor Devoll.”

“He who looked after the girl last night, eh?”

“Yes. He ranks high among the local physicians. He’s all right, too, I guess.”

“No doubt,” the detective agreed. “Well, Brady. I’ll look into the case. I am to see Chief Gleason during this morning, and I then will have a talk with him about it. I infer that you have nothing more to tell me.”

“No, nothing,” said Brady, rising to go. “You have got all that I can hand you.”

Carter sat smoking and frowning at the carpet for several moments after the sergeant had departed. The several cases were so unusual, so exceedingly inexplicable, that they interested him. Had there been only one such case, only one girl found in the hospital grounds, he would have considered it hardly worthy of his serious attention; but four in such close proximity to each other, and so much alike, plainly proved that they were victims of some person or persons.

His reflections were ended by the entrance of Chick and Patsy only two or three minutes after Brady departed, and he briefly told them what the sergeant stated, both already being informed of the other circumstances.

“Gee whiz!” said Patsy, after hearing him attentively. “It sure is a curious puzzle, chief. What do you make of it, and how are you going to tackle it?”

“I don’t make much of it, Patsy, at present,” his chief frankly admitted. “There must be a very potent cause for the reticence of all four girls and for their obvious wish to remain in the background.”

“Sure thing. That goes without saying.”

“It’s barely possible that they are in league with crooks who were responsible for what befell them, and that they do not dare to come forward and tell the truth.”

“Mebbe so, chief,” Patsy nodded.

“On the other hand, the whole business may be the work of some exceedingly keen and clever rascal who, alone and with some ulterior object in view, has been experimenting with these girls and paving the way to a much more knavish project,” the detective added. “If that is correct, it’s a hundred to one that he is the unknown crook who committed the mysterious robberies mentioned by Gleason, and whom he is so anxious to round up.”

“By Jove, there may be something in that!” Chick said quickly. “It appears to be the most probable explanation.”

“I think so, too.”

“But what are your plans, chief?” asked Patsy earnestly. “How are we to pick up a trail worth following?”

“By finding that girl who said her name was Mabel Smith,” the chief replied pointedly. “That must be done, to begin with, and then we’ll go a step further.”

“But how can we trace her?”

“That’s up to you, Chick.”

“Up to me, eh?”

“It’s the task you must tackle this morning,” said Carter. “We have a great deal to accomplish to-day, and each must do his part. I wish to follow up the Todd case, with Patsy to aid me. You had better go to the hospital, Chick, and get after that girl. I have no great faith in Brady’s discernment and acumen. You could discover more in a minute, Chick, than he would learn in a month of Sundays.”

“Oh, I’ll take it on, chief,” Chick said agreeably. “I may perhaps pick up a thread. I’ll report when we meet for lunch.”

“In the meantime, Patsy, in anticipation of what I expect an autopsy to reveal, I want you to visit the office of Daly & Page, stock brokers, and see what you quietly can learn about Gaston Todd,” the detective directed. “You are not known in Madison, and your motive will not be suspected. You may cover that, if you like, by pretending to be a newspaper reporter.”

“Enough said,” replied Patsy. “I’ve got you, chief.”

“Not entirely,” Nick rejoined. “Find out at just what time Todd left the office yesterday, and whether it was his customary time of going out in the middle of the day. If not, make it a point to learn, if possible, why he went out at an unusual time. He may have received a letter, or a telephone call, or a communication by messenger.”

“I understand,” said Patsy. “Leave it to me.”

“In other words,” said Carter, “I want to learn why Todd went to the Waldmere Chambers about noon, and why he was waiting in the corridor, where Frank Paulding saw him.”

“I’ll find out, chief, if possible.”

“It may be necessary to take other steps later in order to hit the right trail,” Carter said in conclusion. “I will decide about that after learning what the autopsy reveals. I’ll see the coroner and medical examiner this morning.”

“We may as well be off, then, and get in our work,” said Chick.

“The sooner the better,” the detective declared, glancing at his watch. “It is now nine o’clock. We’ll meet here again at one.”

CHAPTER VIII.
THE YELLOW COUPON.

It was half past nine when Chick sauntered across Hamilton Square and sized up the buildings and grounds of the Osgood Hospital. He had learned from his chief the general lay of the land, so to speak, and continued around the extensive park and grounds, seeking the rear gate through which Mabel Smith, so called, had either entered or been carried into the place.

He was not long in finding the gate, and he then discovered a gardener at work near by with a lawn mower. Entering with an air of cursory interest only, he approached him and inquired:

“Is there any objection to my looking around a bit?”

“No, sir, I reckon not,” said the laborer.

“I’ll not disturb anything.”

“Go ahead, sir. Go as far as you like.”

Chick sauntered up the gravel walk, and presently discovered the iron seat on which the girl had been found. He walked over to it across the lawn and sat down, in seeming enjoyment of the shade tree overhanging it, but in reality to make a careful inspection of the surrounding ground.

He could discover in the greensward at first only the marks left by the feet of the two policemen, whose heavy and lingering tread had obliterated any other imprints that might have been there when they arrived upon the spot. As he was about to go, however, he caught sight of a small piece of a yellow card half hidden in the grass back of the seat. He leaned over and picked it up.

It was part of a theater ticket, the coupon for a seat, and it was dated for the previous evening.

“The Alhambra,” Chick read. “By Jove, that’s the theater from which the girl said she had come. She evidently did not lie from start to finish. H’m! This may help.”

He had detected a faint aroma from the coupon, and he held it nearer to his nostrils.

“Violet perfumery, but of an inferior quality,” he said to himself. “That indicates that she’s a girl of only moderate means, who cannot afford an expensive extract. She carried the ticket in a bag with her handkerchief, which was scented. This may start me on the right scent, too, and I’ll proceed to follow it up.”

Placing the coupon in his notebook, he sauntered back across the lawn and passed out through the gate. He then saw that there was a narrow court beyond a row of dwellings on the opposite side of the street, which evidently was an outlet into the streets beyond.

Crossing over, he walked in that direction, and as he was passing the third house from the court he saw a polished brass plate on the vestibule door:

“Gordon Barclay. Artist.”

Chick stopped short and gazed up at the door.

“By Jove, this must be Don Barclay,” he muttered. “It’s not likely that there are two artists by that name. I’ve not seen him for years. I’ll take a chance that I’m right and will meet an old friend.”

He mounted the steps and rang the bell. A butler admitted him and vanished with his card on a silver tray. Presently, with hurried steps that evinced a very genuine eagerness, a well-built, handsome man in a velvet jacket rushed into the room, with eyes and cheeks aglow and his hands extended in cordial greeting.

“Holy smoke, Chick Carter! The one and only Chick himself!” he shouted. “Gracious, but I’m glad to see you! How the dickens came you here? You’re not after me, are you?”

Chick laughed, and returned the speaker’s cordial greeting.

“No, indeed, Don, nothing like that,” he replied. “I’m in Madison on other business. I was passing this house only by chance, and I saw your door plate.”

“Thank Heaven, you didn’t overlook it!”

“And it occurred to me that we have not met for three years——”

“Four, you rascal!” Barclay cut in boisterously. “It was on a boxing night at the Hudson Athletic Club. I remember it perfectly.”

“That’s right, Don.”

“Sure, Chick, it’s right. By Jove, you’re a sight for sore eyes! Come to the dining room and we’ll fire a ball. Then I’ll take you up to my studio and show you where I’m winning fame and fortune by slinging paint. That’s on the top floor. We’ll have a smoke and a good old-fashioned chat. By gracious, I’m glad to see you!”

There was no doubting it. It stuck out all over the genial, vivacious artist, and for nearly an hour Chick complied with his wishes and responded to his running fire of questions. Then, during a lull in their conversation, he turned it upon the matter more seriously engaging him.

“Now, Don, a word about my mission in Madison,” said he, dropping the end of his cigar on a tray. “I know you may be trusted to say nothing about it.”

“Not a word, Chick,” Barclay assured him. “Come on with it.”

“You read the newspapers, I suppose.”

“Only the headlines,” laughed the artist. “The details give me a confounded headache.”

“You may not know about it, then,” said Chick. “I’m here to help clear up quite a sensational mystery in this immediate locality.”

“Thunder! You don’t say so. Why, I thought the old fogies who dwell in this locality were too slow and sedate to get into anything more sensational than the death column.”

“I will confide the case to you.”

He did so briefly, merely stating the main features of the previous night, and a look of mingled surprise and amusement then appeared in the artist’s eyes.

“Well, by gracious, that’s jolly funny!” he declared, drawing up in his chair.

“Funny! What do you mean?” Chick inquired.

“Why, it’s like this,” Barclay proceeded to explain. “I use this top floor for my studio, where I get the best light. I was at work here quite late last night. It must have been nearly midnight. Here, come this way. Come to the window.”

Chick arose and accompanied him to a broad window overlooking most of the square, including the hospital building and grounds. Only a small part of the grounds was hidden from view by the building itself.

“Last night, just after I finished my work, I looked out here for a breath of fresh air,” Barclay resumed. “It was quite dark down below, but I caught sight of a motor cab, one of the noiseless type that is run by electricity, for it moved without a sound. I followed it with my eyes, having nothing better to do, and I saw it stop at a gate leading into the hospital grounds.”

“That rear gate beyond the west wing?”

“Yes, the same.” Barclay turned and nodded. “Do you suppose it figured in the case you mentioned?”

“I would not be surprised,” Chick said a bit grimly. “Continue. What more did you see?”

“Nothing very definite,” Barclay said. “I was not watching the cab suspiciously or with a very lively interest, though it struck me as being rather singular that it stopped at that gate, instead of in front of the hospital, or at a house on this side of the street, if the occupants were going there.”

“Did you see any one enter the cab or leave it?”

“I did not. Notice that the trees obstruct the view somewhat, and the lamps are all on this side. I am sure, however, that no one crossed the street,” Barclay quickly added. “I would have seen him in that case. Obviously, therefore, if any one left the cab, he must have gone into the hospital grounds.”

“That is what I suspect,” said Chick. “Which way did the cab go when departing?”

“Straight on and around the square. I know it did not return for ten minutes at least, if at all, for I stood here smoking as long as that.”

“You saw no one, then, nor heard anything?”

“No, neither.”

“From which direction did the cab come?”

“Through the court at the end of this block,” said Barclay, pointing. “It leads out into Belmont Street.”

“You think it was an electric cab?”

“I’m almost sure of that.”

“How long did it remain at the gate?”

“Not more than a couple of minutes,” said Barclay. “Do you really think it figures in your affair?”

“As a matter of fact, Don, I think there is hardly any doubt of it,” Chick said seriously. “In a way, however, it serves only to increase the mystery.”

“I don’t quite see your point.”

“My point is this,” Chick explained. “Why did the person, or persons, responsible for this curious affair go to the trouble to bring the victim, if she was a victim, and place her on a seat in the hospital grounds? She could have been left in many places with much less danger of detection. In the court itself or a dark doorway. It surely is a singular mystery.”

Barclay puckered his brows thoughtfully, but he could suggest no theory for the circumstances. Moreover, he could not give the detective any additional information.

Declining an invitation to remain to dinner, Chick remained only to warn the artist to say nothing about the affair, and he then bade him farewell and departed. He did not retrace his steps. Instead, he sauntered through the court mentioned, which was only wide enough for a single vehicle, and he presently found himself in Belmont Street, a quiet residential avenue, with a traffic-filled thoroughfare to be seen in the distance.

“By Jove, it looks very much as if I am hitting the right trail,” Chick said to himself, now shaping a course toward the business section. “If the girl left the Alhambra when the show ended, it then must have been about eleven o’clock, and if she lost consciousness while walking homeward through Main Street, it’s a safe gamble that she did not go far in her abnormal condition. She may have been picked up by the cab, therefore, and brought this way and through the court just as Barclay was gazing from his window. It would have taken only a couple of minutes to place the girl on the seat and move on, as he stated, which would show plainly that one or more men had a hand in the job. But what was the object? That’s the question. By Jove, I’ll head for the Alhambra and see what I can learn.”

He arrived at the moving-picture house ten minutes later. He found the manager, Mr. Hewitt, in the ticket office with one of his sellers. Addressing him through the lattice window, at the same time tendering the yellow coupon, he inquired:

“Do you know, or have you any way of learning, who occupied this seat in your theater last evening?”

Hewitt gazed at him a bit sharply through his glasses; then shook his head and tossed the coupon aside, saying indifferently:

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Are you the manager?”

“Yes.”

Chick did not fancy being treated in that way. He pressed a little nearer to the window, and said, with sinister intonation:

“You take a tip from me, Mr. Manager, and have another think. Make it a more serious one this time.”

“What do you mean by that?” frowned Hewitt.

“Just what I say,” Chick replied, turning the lap of his vest and displaying his detective’s badge.

Hewitt started perceptibly, and flushed deeply.

“Oh, that’s different; very different,” he said in tones of hasty apology. “I did not suppose it was a matter of any importance.”

“I don’t waste my time or encroach upon that of others with unimportant matters,” Chick replied coldly. “Have a look at the coupon now, and give me the information I want, if possible. Can you tell who occupied the seat?”

“Well, really, sir, I hardly think so,” Hewitt now said regretfully. “In a theater of this size——”

“Stop a moment, sir,” interrupted his assistant, who was also inspecting the coupon. “This was torn from a ticket sold by telephone and held until called for. Here is a mark of my indelible pencil on the back of it.”

“Do you write the patron’s name on the back of a ticket when it is to be held till called for?” asked Chick.

“Yes, certainly. But only the tail of the last letter happened to fall on the coupon,” said the assistant. “It contains no part of the name. See for yourself.”

“Very true,” Chick admitted. “But what has become of that part of the ticket taken at the door?”

“The stubs?”

“If that’s what you call them. Have they been destroyed? No two coupons are torn off exactly alike. We might find the ticket that this coupon perfectly matches, as well as these pencil lines, that would give us the name of the purchaser.”

“By Jove, sir, that’s as true as gospel!” Hewitt declared. “No, the stubs have not been destroyed. I threw them into my wastebasket last evening after making up the house. They still are there.”

“Let’s have a look at them.”

“Certainly, sir, and I’ll assist you,” Hewitt readily assented. “Open the door, Jim, for the gentleman to enter. Walk into my private office, Mr.——”

“Chickering,” said Chick dryly.

“We’ll very soon examine them, Mr. Chickering,” Hewitt added, pulling a wastebasket from under his desk. “Take a seat. We need to examine only the yellow stubs and those having a name on them, and that may be quickly done.”

It was not in Chick’s nature to nurse resentment, and he now met the much more gracious manager halfway. Less than fifty of the stubs had been inspected and compared with the coupon when the desired one was found. There could be no mistaking it, and on the back of it was written the name: “Nellie Fielding.”

Hewitt called in his assistant and questioned him, showing him the ticket.

“That’s your writing, Jim,” said he. “Do you remember selling the woman the ticket, or——”

“Remember—sure thing,” interrupted the other. “She comes here every week. I know her well by sight and where she works.”

“Very good,” said Chick, suppressing his elation. “Where is she employed?”

“She’s a waitress in Boyden’s restaurant, in Middle Street. You’ll find her there at any hour of the day.”

“Thank you,” Chick bowed, with a glance from one to the other. “I’m obliged to both of you.”

He lingered only to warn them not to communicate with the girl; then he shook hands with both and hurried from the theater.

“Now, by Jove, there’ll be something doing,” he said to himself, much as if he had thus far been idle. “I’ll mighty soon find out why the milk is in the coconut.”

CHAPTER IX.
SUSPICIONS VERIFIED.

Nicholas Carter and his assistants were never slow in beginning to weave a net in which to catch a culprit when the evidence and circumstances in a case convinced them that a crime had been committed.

Patsy Garvan, while Chick was engaged as described, was nearly as successful as the latter in picking up the first strands with which the net might be formed. Hastening to the brokerage office of Daly & Page, he introduced himself to the latter, the former then having gone to the local stock exchange, and requested a few facts concerning the history and character of Mr. Gaston Todd, whose very sudden death had greatly shocked his many friends in Madison.

“He was a fine fellow,” Page glibly informed him. “Genial, honest, and capable, devoted to our interests, and always at his desk in business hours. That’s pretty good, isn’t it? That’s all we require of a man.”

“That would seem to fill the bill, sir,” Patsy observed a bit dryly.

“It does,” said the broker. “And what such a man does out of business hours, of what his habits and deportment consist, are of little importance to us. Todd served us faithfully for ten years. We shall miss him. We shall, indeed!”

“He died very suddenly,” said Patsy. “Had you any idea that he was afflicted with any ailment?”

“No, not the slightest. His death came like a bolt from the blue.”

“Was he regular in his habits?”

“Very.”

“I understand that he left here about twelve o’clock. Did he usually go out at that time?”

“Well, no, he did not.” Page gazed more sharply at his questioner. “He usually lunched at one o’clock.”

“He may have had some mission to attend to for the firm, or——”

“No, nothing of that kind. He was our cashier, and his duty kept him here. You raise a point, young man, that has not occurred to me. By the way, Archie,” Page called to a clerk who had served in Todd’s place when the latter was absent, “come here a moment. Do you know why Todd went out an hour earlier than usual yesterday?”

“Well, I’m not sure, sir,” replied the clerk. “I think it was because of a telephone message.”

“Do you know from whom?”

“No, sir. I know only that he was called to the telephone just before noon. When he returned he asked me to take his place in the cage, saying that he was going out for a few minutes. That’s all I know about it.”

That was all of any importance that Patsy was able to learn, but it was sufficient to send him posthaste to the office of the telephone exchange. There he stated his mission to the manager, who conducted him into a room where three girl operators were seated at a large switchboard.

“Look at your record sheets for yesterday,” said the manager, addressing them. “Which of you made a connection for Daly & Page, 442 West, just before twelve o’clock?”

One of the girls replied in a few minutes, after inspecting a large sheet of paper taken from a drawer:

“I did, sir, and I now remember it distinctly,” she said. “It was the last I made before going to lunch.”

“Is there any way of learning who made the call?” Patsy inquired.

“Only by ringing up Daly & Page and asking them,” said the manager.

“They do not know,” said Patsy. “The call was not for the firm.”

“It was for a man named Todd,” put in the operator.

“How did you learn that?”

“I heard a few words that were said before I removed my receiver,” explained the girl. “The man who rang up the number said he wanted to talk with Mr. Todd, and half a minute later I heard him ask: ‘Is that you, Todd?’”

“Are you sure it was a man’s voice?”

“Yes, positively.”

“Did you hear him say anything more?”

“I heard Todd reply in the affirmative. The other then said, as near as I can remember, that he was Todd’s running mate who was talking, and that Todd must go at once to the Waldmere Chambers and wait in the second-floor corridor until the speaker could join him.”

“That was all?”

“Yes, sir. I heard the last while I was removing the receiver. It is only by chance that I remember it. His calling himself Todd’s running mate, however, sounded so singular to me that I listened for a moment longer. That is all I can tell you.”

Patsy thanked her, also the manager, and departed.

It then was about the time when Nick Carter entered the Madison mortuary, to which all that remained of Gaston Todd had been taken, and where the autopsy was to be performed. It was finished, in fact, or all that then could be done, when Nick entered, and he found only Coroner Kane and Doctor Marvin, the district medical examiner, in the superintendent’s office. He scarce had arrived there, however, when Chief Gleason followed him in from the street.

Nick already had introduced himself to the others, with whom an appointment for him had been made by the chief, and, after a few conventional preliminaries, he brought up the business engaging them.

“Well, what’s the verdict, Doctor Marvin?” he inquired. “You say you have made a thorough examination of the body.”

“Not quite,” corrected the physician, glancing at a leather bag on the floor. “There are parts of the body of which I wish to make a microscopic examination and subject to chemical analysis. I do say, however, that you should have been a physician, Mr. Carter, despite the fact that you would be badly missed in your present vocation.”

“You mean, I infer, that you wonder why I so quickly suspected that Todd did not die from natural causes,” said the detective.

“Exactly. On what do you base your suspicion?”

“On several facts, doctor, which are hardly worthy of mention,” Nick said indifferently. “The surrounding circumstances, Todd’s outward indications of good health, a lingering expression denoting mingled fright and horror, evinced also by an unusual dilation of his pupils—these, together with a singular abnormal appearance of the skin near the lips and nostrils. But the result of your own examination is much more material,” he abruptly digressed. “What is your opinion?”

“The same as your own,” said Doctor Marvin more gravely.

“You found——”

“That there was absolutely no organic disease. His vital organs were apparently in a perfectly healthy condition. I can discover no natural cause for Todd’s sudden death.”

“Did you notice the singular condition I have mentioned?” Nick inquired.

“I did,” said the physician. “I detect it, or a somewhat similar condition, in the tissues of the lungs. They have a curious, withered or cauterized appearance.”

“Have you any opinion as to the cause?”

“I would say it was caused by inhaling some very powerful corrosive gas, possibly of a deadly nature, though from what it was derived or how administered I cannot imagine, even if I am right. I am going to submit them to tests, however, also the blood, that may enable me to form a more definite opinion and solve the problem.”

“Do you think there is any problem, doctor, or any doubt, to put it more properly, that Gaston Todd died an unnatural death?”

“No, not the slightest, Mr. Carter.”

“Do you think it the result of a crime?”

“Well, I think the circumstances warrant very serious suspicions,” Doctor Marvin said gravely.

“So do I,” Nick declared. “As a matter of fact, gentlemen, I feel reasonably sure that Gaston Todd was, with some strange and atrocious means, most foully murdered.”

“We agree with you,” Coroner Kane now asserted. “There are other circumstances which warrant that suspicion.”

“You mean?”

“They involve a young man known to have had feelings of bitter enmity for Todd, with whom he had an angry altercation night before last and who was seen leaving the Waldmere Chambers only a minute or two before Todd was found dead on the corridor floor.”

“Do you refer to Frank Paulding?” the detective inquired.

“Yes. How did you learn about him, Mr. Carter?” inquired the coroner, with a look of surprise.

“Chief Gleason spoke of him to me and mentioned their unfriendly relations,” Nick explained, but he said nothing about his interview with Paulding. “He was seen leaving the Waldmere Chambers, you say?”

“Yes. We have found two witnesses and the time is definitely fixed. Though they were not seen to meet, we are reasonably sure that they did, and that Paulding hurried out of the building and up the street immediately afterward.”

“All that does appear suspicious,” Nick agreed, not without an object. “Have you questioned Paulding?” he added, turning to Chief Gleason.

“No, not yet,” replied the latter. “I have followed your advice and waited until after the autopsy. I have had Paulding under espionage since last evening.”

“A wise precaution, chief.”

“What do you now advise?” Gleason added. “It strikes me——”

“If the circumstances are incriminating, as you say,” Nick interrupted, “I think it will be wise to arrest Paulding and hold him until after Doctor Marvin’s further investigations. If we can prove positively that Todd was murdered, we may build up a strong case against the lawyer and possibly force a confession from him.”

“I already have decided on that step, Mr. Carter,” said the coroner. “See to it, Gleason. Have Paulding arrested as soon as possible, chief, and held on suspicion.”

CHAPTER X.
THE DEEPER MYSTERY.

Nick Carter returned to the Wilton House at one o’clock. He found Chick and Patsy waiting for him, both of whom quickly told him what they had learned that morning, and then heard his own brief report of the inquest.

“By Jove, you were right!” Chick then said seriously. “It now is a cinch that Todd was murdered.”

“I felt reasonably sure of it from the first,” the detective replied.

“But who killed him?” put in Patsy. “That’s the question. You say you are sure, chief, that Paulding did not do it.”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“What’s your game, then? Why did you frame up a deal with him, telling him he might not be suspected and afterward advise having him arrested?”

“Superficially, Patsy, that does appear quite inconsistent,” said Nick, smiling. “In reality, however, I called on Paulding only to get his measure and convince myself of his innocence. I want him arrested, nevertheless, in order that Todd’s assassin, as to whose identity and motive we are entirely in the dark, may think the police are sure they have the right man. That will relieve him of fears that otherwise would put him on his guard. We then can get in our work with much less difficulty.”

“There is something in that, chief, all right,” Patsy quickly allowed.

“It’s up to us to find the right man, however, and now a word about your report,” Nick added. “From what little the telephone girl heard, it is very evident that Todd was called to the Waldmere Chambers and directed to wait in the corridor either by the man who killed him or by a man in league with or acting under the instructions of the assassin. In other words, Todd was lured there only to be murdered.”

“Plainly enough,” Chick agreed. “We can safely bank on that.”

“We know, too, that Paulding then was in the building to confer with a client,” Carter continued. “Being convinced of his innocence, I know it was not he who telephoned to Todd.”

“Surely not.”

“The fact that he was there, however, is very significant.”

“Of what, chief?” questioned Patsy.

“He may have been seen by some person anxious to kill Todd and who, knowing their unfriendly relations, and that Paulding would presently leave, took advantage of the situation to lure Todd there, taking a chance that he could kill him unobserved by others immediately after Paulding departed, believing that the latter then would be suspected.”

“That’s plausible,” Chick nodded.

“And that’s why Todd was directed to wait in the corridor,” Carter pointed out. “The assassin wanted him to be there when Paulding left the building. The fact that he was not seen by Paulding, however, and that he could confidently plan such a crime, as well as commit it, without being seen or heard, shows that he must have had several advantages. He may be a tenant in the building. It would not be easy or discreet for an outsider to have undertaken it.”

“That’s true, by Jove, and quite suggestive.”

“Furthermore, he evidently knew that Todd would obey his instructions or his commands, which indicates that he may have had a hold on him of some kind. Otherwise, Todd might not have left his desk in business hours to keep the appointment.”

“True again, chief.”

“He referred to himself as Todd’s running mate, moreover, if the telephone girl heard correctly,” said Nick. “Plainly, then, they have been intimately related in some way, either in business or as friends, and Todd naturally would not have apprehended anything like assassination.”

“Surely not, chief,” said Patsy.

“We next must learn, therefore, with whom Todd was specially friendly, and whom he has been visiting in the Waldmere Chambers.”

“That’s the stuff, chief, for fair.”

“You set about it this afternoon, Patsy,” Carter directed. “Now, Chick, concerning Nellie Fielding. You have not seen her?”

“Not yet,” said Chick. “It was nearly one o’clock when I left the Alhambra, and I decided to report to you and have a bite to eat before seeking the girl. I warned Hewitt and his ticket seller not to communicate with her.”

“See her after lunch, then, and be governed by what she says and how she appears,” Carter directed. “It may be wise to shadow her, in case she is playing a deeper game than appears on the surface. If alarmed by your inquiries, she may attempt to warn others.”

“Possibly. I’ll keep an eye on her, chief, at all events.”

“There may be a connection between the several cases, Todd’s murder and the mystery involving these four girls,” Carter added. “I shall see Doctor Devoll this afternoon. I want to know just what he thinks about them, and the strange condition in which they were found.”

It was three o’clock when Chick approached Boyden’s restaurant in Middle Street. A man of middle age was standing in the doorway, whose interest in the appearance of one of the adjoining windows denoted that he was the proprietor. He walked out, and was to leave in a moment, when Chick, without having approached near enough to be seen from within, paused and asked:

“Are you Mr. Boyden?”

“I am,” said the latter. “Were you looking for me?”

“I want to inquire about a girl in your employ. It is in connection with some legal investigations, but in which the girl figures only indirectly,” Chick blandly explained. “Her name is Nellie Fielding.”

“What do you wish to learn about her?” Boyden questioned.

“How long has she been working for you?”

“About a year.”

“Is she married?”

“No, indeed. She is only nineteen, and is the only support of a crippled sister.”

“That speaks well for her,” Chick remarked tentatively.

“Not more so than she deserves,” Boyden quickly assured him. “Nellie is a very good girl, none better, sir, as far as that goes. She has no means beyond what she earns, but she is strictly honest and reliable.”

“Her character and habits are good?”

“Yes, indeed, or she would not be in my employ.”

“I want to talk with her for a few moments.”

“Go ahead. You’ll find her at the office counter. She acts as my cashier when I am out. I have an appointment, or I would go in and introduce you.”

“Thank you, but that is not necessary,” said Chick. “I want only a few words with her.”

Boyden bowed and departed without replying, and Chick turned toward the restaurant door. The information he had received was all to the girl’s credit. It denoted that evil and deception were entirely foreign to her nature. Chick knew that she had lied to Doctor Devoll, nevertheless, and he was determined to learn for what reason.

There were only a few scattered patrons in the restaurant at that hour, and he found Nellie Fielding at leisure, standing behind a small counter on which were a cash register and a cigar case. He approached and bought some cigars from her, at once favorably impressed with her neat appearance and modest bearing.

“You are Miss Fielding, I believe,” he remarked while paying her.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, smiling at him over the cash register. “That is my name.”

“There is a little matter about which I wish to question you,” said Chick. “I refer to what occurred last evening when you—there, don’t be alarmed!” he quickly digressed. “There is nothing for you to fear, Miss Fielding, if you have done nothing wrong, and I feel quite sure that you have not.”

She had turned very pale, with a frightened expression leaping up in her eyes. She shrank from him, trembling perceptibly, until his hasty assurance somewhat relieved her.

“No, no, I have done nothing wrong, sir,” she protested, with quite pathetic fervor. “How did you know—how did you learn about it? I did only what I—oh, sir, I could see nothing else to do! I—I wanted to avoid publicity.”

“Compose yourself,” Chick said quietly. “I can see quite plainly that you were more sinned against than sinner. You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Fielding, if you tell me the truth, and I think there will be no need for any publicity.”

“Are you a policeman?” she asked tremulously.

“I am a detective,” Chick admitted. “You must not mention it to others, however, or the fact that I have questioned you. There have been other cases very like your own, Miss Fielding, and I am quietly investigating them. You must tell me the truth, therefore, and I think I can safely assure you that it will be only to your advantage. Will you do so?”

“Yes, yes,” she replied, much relieved by Chick’s kindly voice and manner. “As a matter of fact, sir, I really have nothing to conceal. I am anxious only to avoid publicity.”

“That is why you gave Doctor Devoll a fictitious name?” Chick asked, smiling.

“Yes, yes,” Nellie admitted, coloring deeply. “But I had one other reason also.”

“What was that?”

“I will tell you just what occurred. You then will understand and perhaps will appreciate my feelings.”

“I think so.” Chick bowed. “Tell me frankly. I would be glad to befriend you in any way.”

“It was like this, sir.” The girl leaned nearer to him over the show case and spoke with lowered voice. “I had been alone to the Alhambra, and the show was an unusually long one. It was after eleven o’clock when it ended. I came out with the crowd and turned up Main Street to go home. I had walked only a short distance, not more than a block, and the sidewalk still was quite crowded, when I felt something touch my hand. I turned quickly and glanced at the nearest person, but none seemed to have any interest in me or to be the one who had left it.”

“Left what?” Chick inquired curiously.

“The leather bag.” Miss Fielding gazed at him more intently, as if really glad to have found some one in whom she could confide and depend upon for advice. “The leather bag—it had been placed in my hand by some person. That is to say, sir, I now think that it was, though I then was not quite sure of it.”

“Why so? Explain,” said Chick attentively.

“Well, sir, there were many people passing in each direction at the time, and it all occurred so quickly and was so very singular that I was quite confused. But there was the leather bag in my right hand, and I thought at first that I might accidentally have torn it from the belt or the long neck chain of some passing woman. I could see no woman near me, however, and I now feel sure that the bag was quickly and stealthily placed in my hand.”

“That was, indeed, a strange experience,” said Chick. “What did you do about it? What followed?”

“I looked for some one from whom I could have accidentally taken it or who might have given it to me,” Nellie continued. “As I already have said, however, no one appeared to have any interest in me, and there was no woman near me.”

“Was it a woman’s hand bag or a purse?”

“It was more like a small purse, one that could be easily held in one hand,” Nellie explained. “I felt the shape and heard the clink of coins in it, moreover, which made me think it was a purse. And then I—oh, sir, I’m only a poor girl, dependent upon what I earn to support myself and a crippled sister—I thought I had come into possession of some money. I did wrong. I was impelled to keep it. I yielded to temptation. I——”

“All that was perfectly natural, Miss Fielding, under the circumstances,” Chick kindly interposed when tears suddenly appeared in her blue eyes. “You cannot be consistently blamed. Tell me what you did and what followed?”

“When I saw that I was not observed, or so it then appeared, I concealed the bag under my coat and hurried on for a short distance, until I could safely look into it and learn what it contained. I did so under a lamp on a corner, when well away from the crowd that had left the theater.”

“What did you find in the bag?” Chick inquired.

“It contained a small handkerchief, some gold coins, and a diamond ring. Oh, how it glittered!” she exclaimed, with quiet enthusiasm. “I gasped with amazement when I saw it. I bent my head nearer to peer into the bag, and then—oh, what a strange feeling came over me!”

“Explain,” said Chick. “Describe it.”

“I don’t know that I can,” Miss Fielding replied. “I never felt so before. I seemed to be losing myself, so to speak, and everything suddenly grew dim.”

“Did you feel ill or——”

“No, sir, not at all. The sensation was only momentary, as when one suddenly faints. Then all became dark. I don’t know what I did or what followed. I knew nothing more, sir, until I revived on a cot in the hospital and saw the physician and the nurse bending over me. That is all I know about it, sir, all I can tell you.”

Chick had been watching her intently, and he was sure that she had told the truth. It was a strange story, nevertheless, a remarkable experience, and he began to rack his brain for an explanation.

“I believe all you have said, Miss Fielding,” he assured her. “Have you any idea what overcame you?”

“No, sir,” said she earnestly. “Not the slightest idea. It is terribly mysterious.”

“Did it occur immediately after you opened the bag?”

“Yes, sir, almost immediately; surely within two or three seconds.”

“When you bent nearer to look into the bag?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Had you removed the handkerchief?”

“No, sir. The gold coins and ring were on top of it.”

“Had you detected any odor from it, that of perfumery or——”

“No, sir, nothing,” Nellie interposed. “I would have done so, perhaps, if there had been any, for I held it quite near my face.”

“That is the very point,” said Chick, smiling. “I now suspect that the handkerchief was impregnated with some odorless, but very powerful drug, which instantly affected you. Naturally, in your surprise, you would have inhaled it freely, and I think that is how you were so quickly overcome.”

“That may explain it,” Miss Fielding admitted. “But it all was very, very strange.”

“Can you recall anything that immediately followed?”

“No, sir, absolutely nothing.”

“But you can tell me just where it occurred?”

“Oh, yes,” Nellie nodded quickly. “It was on the corner of Main and Maple Streets. There is an all-night lunch cart nearly opposite. I remember seeing it, and that is why I am sure of the precise location.”

“Very good,” said Chick, smiling again. “Now tell me, Miss Fielding, why you asked for the leather bag before leaving the hospital. You claimed to have missed it.”

“I did, sir,” she readily admitted. “I suddenly remembered it and thought I would take it and try to find the owner. I did not think of its having been the cause of my trouble.”

“But why did you not explain the circumstances to Doctor Devoll and insist upon searching for the bag? You afterward said you were not sure you had it.”

“Well, sir, it suddenly occurred to me that I might be suspected of stealing it,” Nellie explained, blushing again. “That thought alarmed me, and I was anxious only to leave the hospital and go home as quickly as possible. That is why, too, I gave the physician a false name and address. I wanted to wash my hands of the whole affair and avoid any publicity.”

“Very good. I don’t much blame you,” Chick laughed, with a nod of approval. “I guess you have told me a straight story, Miss Fielding.”

“I have told you the truth, sir,” she said earnestly. “I hope nothing more will——”

“Oh, there is nothing for you to fear,” Chick hastened to assure her. “Say nothing about it to others or about me, and you probably will hear no more of it. If you do learn anything more, however, write for me to call and see you. A line to John Blaisdell, Wilton House, will reach me.”

Miss Fielding promised to comply, and wrote the name on a sheet of paper.

Chick said a few more words to reassure her, and he then departed and hastened to the corner of Main and Maple Streets, where the girl had so mysteriously lost consciousness. He saw at a glance that the surroundings, aside from the lunch cart a few rods away, would have been favorable at midnight for the knavish trick that he now was sure had been turned.

Crossing over, he found the proprietor of the lunch cart alone, and he called him to the door, a shrewd, keen-eyed Irish chap in the twenties.

“I’m looking into a job that was pulled off about twelve o’clock night before last,” Chick informed him. “Did you happen to see a girl standing alone on the opposite corner about that time?”

“Faith, sir, I did,” nodded the other quickly. “I was here at my door, sir, hoping to hook onto some customers from the theater. The girl stopped under the lamp and was looking at something.”

“That’s the one,” said Chick. “Do you know how long she remained there?”

“Not more than a couple of minutes. Then a man joined her and a motor cab showed up. They got into it and rode away.”

“With the cabman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you describe either man?” asked Chick.

“Faith, I don’t think so,” was the reply. “I didn’t notice them closely, not thinking of anything wrong. Besides, the cabman didn’t leave his seat. The other was about medium size, I’d say, and wore a dark suit. I would not swear to it, but I think he had a dark beard, too.”

“Quite likely,” Chick said dryly. “Do you know from which direction he came?”

“Up the street, sir. I reckoned that he was following the girl, and that she was waiting for him. That’s how it struck me.”

“Did the cab come from the same direction?”

“It did. I supposed the man had called it.”

“Did the girl go with him willingly?”

“She sure did, sir, for all I could see. The man took her arm and helped her in, and then they rode away. That’s all there was to it.”

Chick saw that this man could tell him nothing more definite, and he left him, to believe, as he had said, that there was nothing more to it.

“All the same, by Jove, the mystery seems only the deeper,” he said to himself while walking away. “Why was Nellie Fielding, as well as three girls before her, temporarily abducted and left unconscious in the hospital grounds? Neither was subjected to any further harm, any personal outrage, and robbery surely was not the motive. What was it, then? What could be gained? Why were such chances repeatedly taken? There must have been something to gain, but I’ll be hanged if I can fathom what. Deeper mystery is right. There must be a big game or a most knavish one, somewhere under the surface.”

CHAPTER XI.
THE ANGLE OF REFLECTION.

Doctor David Devoll, whose will and word were law in the Osgood Hospital, gazed intently at the card brought in by his personal attendant. He was seated at a broad, flat desk in the middle of his private room, a sanctuary into which few would have dared to intrude after having once offended in that way.

For of all the rules and regulations of this institution, there was none more inflexible, none more rigorously enforced, than that forbidding intrusion upon the privacy of Doctor David Devoll.

And when, perchance, it was violated, which was very, very seldom, the unfortunate offender had cause to long remember that suavity and smoothness in a man may sometimes serve only to hide, like the sleek coat of a leopard, very sharp claws and merciless teeth.

Doctor Devoll rubbed the top of his bald head with his slender hands, gazing at the card and muttering the name inscribed on it.

“Blaisdell—John Blaisdell—I do not place him. Written with a pen, eh? Do you know the man, Shannon?”

“Not from a side of leather.”

“Not even by sight?”

“Never laid eyes on him. He’s a new one to my lamps.”

Shannon’s terse replies seemed to issue with husky quietude from the uppermost depths of his throat. They were neither refined nor respectful. They smacked of closer relations than those of master and servant, as also appeared in his confidential attitude and air of assurance. For he was bowed over the desk, with both hands spread upon it, a broad, compact, muscular man of fifty, with the bullet head of a pugilist and the strength of a bull. He was clad in livery, nevertheless—a bottle-green jacket and trousers, trimmed with black braid.

“He stated, you say, that he has private business with me.” Doctor Devoll gazed up from the card with a sinister gleam in his cold blue eyes.

“That’s what he said.”

“But not to what it relates?”

“Not he!” Shannon grinned. “He ducked my question, as if it were a right swing. When I have private business with a man, says he, I don’t confide it to his servant. That was how he countered.”

Doctor Devoll’s thin lips took on a smile that did not improve his facial expression, usually very agreeable and benign. He said deliberately:

“You may show him in, Shannon. Wait. Don’t let his business be too private, not too private, Shannon,” he added significantly, pointing to a curtained door. “Slip around there after admitting him and wait until he goes. You may be needed.”

“I’ll do better than that. If needed, Dave, I’ll be—here!”

“Very good. Show him in.”

Shannon straightened up, smoothed his bottle-green jacket with his palms, and stalked with stilty stiffness through the opposite door, closing it after him.

Doctor Devoll reverted to the card.

“Written with a pen,” he repeated, his eyes squinted and gleaming. “But not on one of our office blanks. Most men have a printed card or engraved. Written with a pen. One might rightly infer from that, perhaps, that his name is not—Blaisdell.”

Obviously, Doctor Devoll was more than ordinarily discerning.

Shannon had, in the meantime, returned to the man waiting in the hospital office. He then had all the earmarks of a well-trained butler, thoroughly conscious of his dignified functions.

“Pardon the delay, sir,” he said sedately. “Doctor Devoll was talking by telephone with a patient. He will see you. This way, sir.”

Nick followed him through the main corridor, then into a narrow diverging passageway, then down three steps and through a second narrow entry, at the end of which was the door of the physician’s private room. Shannon knocked and then opened it.

“Mr. Blaisdell, sir,” he announced.

The detective entered and Doctor Devoll arose to meet him, bowing and placing a chair.

“Take a seat, Mr. Blaisdell,” he said blandly. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I was busy with the telephone.”

“Don’t mention it,” Nick replied. “I shall not take much of your valuable time.”

He sat down while speaking, and his trained eyes quickly took in most of the details of the spacious, handsomely furnished room. Two windows overlooked the rear grounds. Each was entirely covered with an interior, painted wire screen, which precluded observation from outside, but through which one within could see plainly. There were roller shades and shutters, also, that would insure privacy after the lamps were lighted.

The detective saw at once that he was in a rear room in the main building. He could see the broad sweep of the rear lawn, the back street in the near distance, a gravel path leading out to it through the park, evidently from a near rear door. He no sooner was seated, moreover, than he saw something else—which would have been seen and appreciated by only one detective in a million.

The broad, flat desk was between him and one of the windows, the light from which struck the top of the desk at an angle, causing a slight glare on its smooth leather surface. Two spots that broke this glare, however, apart from some books and papers nearer the chair from which the physician had arisen, instantly caught the detective’s eye.

There was no mistaking the shape of them, nor what had caused them. They were the broad outlines of a man’s hands, outspread while he leaned over the desk, and the moisture from which still lingered on the smooth leather.

“By Jove, I’ve hit a pair of liars!” thought Nick instantly, though his strong, clean-cut face did not change by so much as a shadow. “That fellow in livery was leaning over the desk, with both hands spread on it, directly opposite the chair from which this doctor arose. The dampness from them has not yet dried from the leather, nor would it have been imparted to it unless the hands were there for several moments. That’s an unusual and remarkably confidential attitude for a servant. The telephone is in one corner and ten feet from the desk. I’ll wager, by Jove! that the doctor was not using it, and that something else occasioned the delay, possibly a conference concerning me and my mission. Both lied about the telephone, as sure as I’m a foot high, but for what reason?”

Obviously, of course, these shrewd deductions were mere impressions that flashed very swiftly through the detective’s mind, rather than a process of deliberate reasoning. Naturally, too, they instantly gave rise to new and somewhat startling suspicions, which, with characteristic self-control, Carter was careful to conceal.

Doctor Devoll had pattered around his desk, in the meantime, and was taking the chair from which he had arisen.

“I am not busy just now, Mr. Blaisdell,” he said. “I can give you what time you want. What’s the trouble? You don’t look like a man afflicted with any physical ailment.”

Nick laughed lightly and shook his head, sizing up with augmented interest this bald, thin-featured, smooth-spoken physician who, so singularly and unexpectedly, had now incurred his distrust.

“No, nothing of the kind,” he replied. “If all men were as strong and healthy as I am, Doctor Devoll, those of your profession would find it hard sledding.”

“That is fortunate for you, at least,” smiled the physician.

“My business with you relates to another matter,” the detective added.

“Private business—or so my man informed me.”

“Yes.”

“Concerning what?” Doctor Devoll’s narrow eyes took on a searching squint.

“I want to ask you about the girl who was found unconscious in the hospital grounds late last night,” Nick explained. “More precisely, I want your opinion of her condition and the cause of it, as well as of the three previous cases very closely resembling it. It strikes me——”

“One moment, sir,” Doctor Devoll interrupted. “Why are you specially interested in the case?”

“Is that material?” Nick inquired, smiling.

“Quite so. I am not in the habit of discussing my cases with strangers. I want to know to whom I express an opinion, and for what reason and by what right it is asked.”

“Otherwise, Doctor Devoll, you do not express it?” queried the detective, noting a subtle ring in the other’s voice. “Is that what I am to infer?”

“Exactly.” Doctor Devoll nodded. “Reticence would denote a covert motive on your part in seeking my opinion. I would not stand for that for a moment. I must be met halfway or I will not discuss a case with any visitor.”

“That seems to be a consistent position, I’m sure,” Carter admitted. “I will tell you, therefore, why I am interested in this case. It was brought to my notice by Chief Gleason, of the police department, at whose request I am investigating it.”

“You are a detective, then.”

“Well, merely to that extent,” Nick allowed evasively.

“I see.” Doctor Devoll stroked his black frock coat and drew up in his chair. “Let me ask you one more question, Mr. Blaisdell.”

“Certainly.”

“Why is an investigation thought to be necessary?”

“Don’t you consider it wise?”

“For the police to butt in?” Doctor Devoll said a bit sharply. “I can’t say that I do.”

“No?”

“Why should they interfere? What was there in either case that demands police investigation?” Doctor Devoll curtly questioned. “A girl was overcome, was addicted to a drug, or a dope of some kind, and wandered into the hospital grounds. She was found and brought in here. I revived her and she immediately insisted upon going home. That’s all there was to any one of the cases. Why, I repeat, do they require police investigation?”

“I cannot conceive, Doctor Devoll, that you have any personal objection to an investigation,” Nick remarked dryly, smiling again.

A tinge of red leaped up in the physician’s cheeks. A sharper gleam shot from his squinted eyes. He detected a covert insinuation in his visitor’s tone. He felt that he had said too much, perhaps, for he quickly retorted:

“Not the slightest objection, Mr. Blaisdell, not the slightest objection. I merely fail to see why an investigation is necessary. There are hundreds of dope fiends in every large city, but in none of them have the police a very great interest. Why their activity, then, in these cases? What do they suspect?”

“Don’t you think that four such cases warrant suspicion?” the detective blandly inquired.

“Not more than the hundreds I have mentioned.”

“But all were found in the hospital grounds,” Carter pointed out suggestively.

“What of that?” Doctor Devoll demanded. “A coincidence. Nothing else. One may have been influenced by having read of the others. There is no accounting for the doings of a drug fiend.”

“There is some truth in that,” Nick admitted.

“Let it go at that, then,” said Doctor Devoll, with a wave of his slender hands. “I wanted only to learn your opinion, your grounds for suspicion. You now are welcome to mine. I will answer any question you care to ask.”

“Thank you,” said the detective, who now was taking a somewhat different course than he would have shaped if he had detected nothing denoting duplicity in the physician. “You think these girls were drug fiends, do you?”

“I don’t know positively,” Doctor Devoll said quickly. “I am not sure that the coma in which I found them was the cause of a drug. There is a possibility, of course, that the cause was a temporary atrophy of the cerebral nerves.”

“But you intimated to Sergeant Brady that they were drugged,” Nick reminded him.

“That was and still is what I suspect, but I am not sure of it,” Doctor Devoll retorted. “I had not time to look deeply into either case. My duty was to restore my patient, which I succeeded in doing, and each of them then insisted upon departing and going home.”

“Why didn’t you detain them?”

“I had no right to do so. One may leave here as soon as able. This is not a police station.”

“But why didn’t you question them about their habits, Doctor Devoll, and insist upon knowing their names?” the detective asked more pointedly.

“I did so in the last case.”

“Why not in the others? It strikes me——”

“Stop a moment,” Doctor Devoll interrupted, lurching forward in his chair. “I run this institution, Mr. Blaisdell, and I’m not going to be bothered in this way nor have my conduct picked to pieces by the police. When another case turns up, I would advise your having her taken to headquarters. You then can call another physician. Get him to restore her. He may know more than I.

“You can hold the girl, charge her with something, frame her up in any way you like, which is quite in a line with police methods, and, perhaps, you can force her to impart all the information you want. I know no other way by which you can learn the truth.”

Doctor Devoll arose with the last, signifying that he would not prolong the interview. Carter had let him run on without interrupting, noting his impatience and a more threatening shrillness in his voice. He decided not to question him further. He arose and took his hat, saying with ominous quietude:

“There is another way, Doctor Devoll, and I shall find it. I’m going to dig out the whole truth, not only in these cases, but also in the sudden mysterious death of Gaston Todd. There is, I now feel sure, quite a close relation between all of these cases and the many mysterious robberies that have recently been committed in Madison. I want the whole truth, Doctor Devoll, and I’m out to get it. Take it from me—I’ll find the way.”

“I wish you much success.” Doctor Devoll’s thin lips took on a rather sardonic smile. “I wish you much and speedy success, Mr. Blaisdell. This way, sir, if you are going. Call again. I shall be interested to know how you succeed and to learn the true inwardness of these mysteries. Ah, here is my man. Show Mr. Blaisdell the way, Shannon, if you please. Call again, sir; call again.”

“Thank you. I think it highly probable,” said Carter, with singular dryness.

Doctor Devoll bowed, still smiling, and closed the door, to which he had accompanied the detective.

Nick Carter followed Shannon out by the way he had entered, departing without so much as a word to the burly attendant. There was a suspicious gleam in the latter’s eyes, however, while he watched the departing detective through one of the office windows. Turning abruptly, as if hit with a sudden idea, he closed the office door and then called up the police headquarters by telephone.

“Hello!” said he, with a voice very unlike his own. “One of Carter’s assistants is talking from the Wilton House. Do you know where I can find him?”

A sergeant answered, one who happened to know of Carter’s relations with the chief, but upon whom the above inquiry made no impression and was not afterward recalled.

“I do not,” he replied. “He has not been here since morning.”

Shannon hung up the receiver; then arose and hurried back to rejoin the physician.

“I’m wise, Dave,” he announced, with an exultant snarl. “I’ve nailed him.”

Doctor Devoll swung around from the fireplace, near which he was standing.

“Wise to what?” he demanded. “Do you mean that you know him?”

“You bet I know him. Brady, you remember, telephoned to a man named Blaisdell last night, who is at the Wilton House. It just struck me that Gleason has employed outside detectives. There is just one crack sleuth whom he most likely would want. I have phoned to headquarters, saying I was his assistant and asking if he was there. I was told that he was there this morning. That does settle it. You have just been talking, Dave, with the famous New York detective, the worst ever—Nick Carter.”

Doctor Devoll started slightly and for a moment appeared incredulous. Then his teeth met with a vicious snap. His face changed as if he had been suddenly turned to a devil incarnate.

“You are sure of it, Shannon, sure of it?” he questioned, with a sibilant hiss.

“Dead sure, Dave,” Shannon insisted. “There’s nothing to it.”

“Nick Carter, eh? The worst ever, eh?” Doctor Devoll gave way to a mirthless, derisive laugh. “We’ll see about that. We’ll see about that, Shannon. He shall find that he has met one worthy of his steel, one who will balk, thwart, and laugh at him. Or, if need be, Shannon, who will wipe him from the face of the earth!”

Shannon shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled grimly. It was not the first time that he had heard such sentiments as these, and seen that same gleam and glitter in the eyes of the man confronting him, eyes with a glare like that of madness.

“You will not quit, then?” he said inquiringly.

“Quit!” Doctor Devoll sneered scornfully. “Only curs and cowards quit, Shannon, and throw up the sponge. Sit down at my desk. Sit down and write what I dictate. Your hand will never be suspected.”

Shannon obeyed him without a protest. He was accustomed to yielding to this man, to obeying him without question. He sat down at the desk, taking the pen and paper which the physician provided. Half an hour had passed when Doctor Devoll ended his dictation and gave the other his instructions.

Shannon arose and went to change his livery for street attire.

Doctor Devoll, with face still reflecting his vicious sentiments, gazed intently at his desk for several moments. Then he started abruptly, having decided what course he would shape, and hurriedly opened a safe in one corner, taking from it a small rubber mask, which he quickly adjusted over his mouth and nostrils. Then he took from an inner compartment—a small leather bag.

Out of the latter he drew a crumpled handkerchief, lady’s size, and hurriedly cast it with the bag into the fireplace. A blue flame sprang up, hissing audibly, denoting that the handkerchief was saturated with a very volatile and inflammable substance of some kind. The physician watched them burn, smiling sardonically; then forced the charred remains deep among the glowing embers.

“Nick Carter, eh?” he muttered, relocking the mask in his safe. “He suspects me, does he? He’ll corner me, will he? We shall see—we shall see!”

When Shannon returned, he had a disguise in his hand, which he was placing temporarily in his pocket.

Doctor Devoll started up from his desk with two sealed letters, which he had hurriedly written. He gave them to his attendant, saying sharply, with eyes gleaming again:

“This to Toby Monk. This to Tim Hurst. Be wary when leaving the other, Shannon, both wary and watchful. Nick Carter, eh? We shall see, Shannon, we shall see!”

CHAPTER XII.
NICK CARTER’S DEDUCTIONS.

It was six o’clock when Nick Carter returned to the Wilton House. Daylight was deepening to dusk. The last editions of the local newspapers were out, and the shrill voices of juvenile venders could be heard from all directions. The detective glanced at the papers, which in headline luridness proclaimed:

“Leading Lawyer Suspected in Todd Murder! Frank Paulding Arrested! Chief Gleason Sure of His Man!”

Nick Carter smiled faintly, but with a more threatening gleam and glitter deep down in his eyes, when these varied cries of the newsboys reached his ears. He bought a paper from one, thrusting it into his pocket, and entered the hotel.

“Gleason has made good, all right,” he muttered while seeking the elevator. “That will make it easier for me, as well as all this, which is precisely what I expected. But it’s up to me, by Jove! and must be done quickly, or good night to my reputation.”

He referred to what he had overheard while threading his way through the unusual throng in the hotel office. There was much excitement and only one matter under discussion—the alleged murder, the mystery shrouding it, the strange death of the victim, and divers opinions regarding the suspected man.

The detective went up to his suite, where, as he expected, he found Chick and Patsy waiting for him, the former eager to report what he had learned from Nellie Fielding. It took him only a few moments, and apparently, as Chick had reasoned, it seemed only to deepen the mystery. It brought a look of grim satisfaction, however, to the face of the listening detective.

“I cannot see that it sheds any light on the case,” Chick added perplexedly.

“It does, Chick, nevertheless,” Carter said confidently.

“Does it dovetail with something you have discovered?”

“You may judge for yourself. I’ll tell you what I saw and learned during my call on Doctor Devoll.”

He proceeded to do so, but the look of perplexity still lingered on Chick’s face, and Patsy appeared dubiously puzzled.

“It is somewhat significant, if you are right, chief, that both Doctor Devoll and his man lied to you,” Chick said thoughtfully. “But I don’t see that what the physician said to you or the position he took cuts any ice.”

“You don’t, eh?” returned Carter, smiling grimly. “It cuts quite thick ice, Chick.”

“Why so? I don’t get you.”

“Gee whiz, chief, nor do I,” put in Patsy. “What do you mean? Come across with it.”

“First, a word about the girl, Nellie Fielding, and what befell her,” said Carter. “It probably is precisely what befell the others, and all were victims of the same crook and his assistant. Just what game he was playing and with what object remains to be learned.”

“But——”

“Wait a bit!” Carter cut in. “You’ll get me presently. Nellie Fielding evidently told you the truth. The mysterious bag was deftly slipped into her hand. She did what the others did, when she could discover no owner for it. She kept it until well away from the crowd, then opened it to see what it contained. As you have inferred, Chick, something in the bag, probably that with which the handkerchief was saturated, immediately overcame her. A very powerful and mysterious gas may have been liberated from the bag, and it naturally would have been inhaled by the girl when she peered into it.”

“That seemed to me the most plausible theory,” said Chick.

“It has become rather more than a theory,” Carter replied. “I now am almost sure of it.”

“For other reasons?”

“Yes. To continue, it is safe to assume that the girl was constantly watched. The moment she lost herself, for she certainly lost consciousness to some extent, at least, she was taken away by two men and placed on the seat in the hospital grounds, then wholly unconscious, where Policeman Donovan found her.”

“Barclay was right, then,” said Chick. “That was the cab seen by the artist.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“But why was the girl taken into the hospital grounds?”