The Babbington Case
OR
Nick Carter’s Strange Quest

By NICHOLAS CARTER
Author of “A Double Identity,� “The Poisons of Exili,�
“Out for Vengeance,� etc.

STREET & SMITH PUBLICATIONS
INCORPORATED
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y.

Copyright, 1911
By STREET & SMITH
———
The Babbington Case
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.
Printed in the U. S. A.

THE BABBINGTON CASE.

CHAPTER I.
A MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR.

“A man and a woman together; then a man alone.�

Nick Carter thought this remark rather than uttered it in words, as he came to an abrupt pause in his walk and looked down upon the tracks in the snow.

There were no other tracks than those anywhere visible, save only his own, which he had made in his approach to the spot, and he was careful not to approach too near while he made the examination which only his curiosity suggested—for there could have been no other reason at the moment than curiosity to attract him.

But before him was a huge iron gate between two enormous posts; a gate which had the outward appearance of not having been opened in a long time, and, indeed, upon it now, as the detective looked at it, there was a formidable padlock, with its heavy chain, to hold the great barrier against all comers.

Nick Carter could see from where he stood that the lock was securely locked, that the chain had been drawn tightly around the spindles of the iron gate, and, therefore, that the man who had come out of the place alone, after having passed inside with the woman not very long before, had locked it.

There were the tracks he had made when he had turned about to fasten the gate when he came out alone, and there were his tracks when he walked away from the place.

But where was the woman? and why had she not come again with the man?

These were perfectly natural questions which the detective asked himself; natural, because he knew something about the grounds upon which those gates opened, and also something about the house within those grounds.

Still more, he knew something about the people to whom the magnificent residence and grounds belonged.

He remembered also that the light flurry of “sugarâ€� snow which now covered the ground like a white sheet of tissue paper—and it was scarcely thicker than that—had fallen within the last hour.

So it followed that those tracks must have been made within that hour.

Within an hour a man and a woman had entered the grounds of Pleasantglades—for that is the name by which the magnificent estate was known, or, at least, it is the one that we will use here to represent it—within an hour the two had entered together, and the man had come out alone, locking the gate after him, and, therefore, leaving her there.

And Nick Carter knew that the great house was unoccupied; that there was not even a caretaker there, so——

Why had two gone in and only one come out?

Curiosity gave place to interest; and as he studied the footprints with still more care, interest became absorbtion.

Both persons had been well shod. The woman daintily so, for, as the detective looked even more closely, he came almost to the opinion that she had been wearing slippers.

And the tracks of the man suggested dress shoes, even pumps, if one was to call upon one’s imagination just a trifle.

The hour, be it said, when the detective discovered the tracks in the snow, was between two and three o’clock in the morning, and a hundred feet away from the gate an arc light glowed brightly. Otherwise, the place would have been intensely dark, for, although that flurry of snow had lasted but a few minutes, it was still cloudy and threatening.

If Nick had approached the gate from the opposite direction, he might not have noticed the tracks at all; but, as it happened, he had approached toward the light, and had looked directly down upon them, plainly revealed.

The place was quite near to New York; near enough so that the detective had gone there in his car since dark that night.

The business that had taken him there had nothing to do with this thing that now interested him, and, if it seems strange to the reader that he should have been strolling along such a thoroughfare alone at that hour of the morning, we need only to say that that is quite another and different story.

What would be your impulse, reader, if you made just such a discovery as this one?

Would it not be to follow the footprints of the man without delay, to find out where he had gone, and with the probability of learning his identity? Probably. And yet Nick Carter knew at once how fruitless such a pursuit would be, since at the next corner toward the direction the man had taken, which was approximately three hundred feet distant, two trolley tracks passed, and it was upon a thoroughfare where there was considerable travel; the tracks left by this strange man, therefore, would be quickly lost at that point, even if he had not succeeded in stepping upon a trolley car, and being borne away in one direction or the other.

Nevertheless, after a moment of thought, Nick ran along the street to that corner, for it had occurred to him that possibly the two, the man and the woman, had come to that point in a motor car, and if that were so there would still be evidence of the fact that such a car had stopped there.

He found that much evidence, too, but no more.

There, beside the curb in this same street upon which the gate was located, were the plain tracks in the snow, showing where the car had pulled out after the man had returned to it, although there were no tracks to show its approach.

And this demonstrated the undoubted fact that the motor had arrived there just about at the beginning of the fall of snow.

Nick remembered that it had continued to snow not more than ten or fifteen minutes at the most, and so it was at once apparent to the detective that the car had arrived at the corner just before the snow began to fall; that the two had remained in the car for several moments thereafter, probably discussing the trip from the car to the house, and had finally left it while the snow was still falling rapidly.

Well, all that was not important save to demonstrate that one of the persons, probably the woman, had not left the car to go to the house willingly, but that persuasion of some sort had been resorted to.

If the car arrived at the corner before the snow began to fall—and Nick knew that it had done so—and if the snow had ceased to fall while they were midway of the distance of three hundred feet, it followed that they must have remained talking together in the car for at least eight minutes, and, at the most, thirteen minutes.

And yet there was no evidence anywhere to be seen that the woman had not accompanied the man willingly enough.

It was apparent that she had walked along by his side even without clinging to his arm, for the tracks were not close enough together to suggest that; there was no place where it appeared that she had made any effort to turn back; there was no suggestion anywhere, that the detective could see, save the one of the hesitation, while still in the car, that the woman had not gone willingly enough.

The car itself, upon leaving the corner, had been driven upon the trolley tracks where it had been turned southward toward the city.

It must not be supposed that the detective wasted any time in making these discoveries. A glance at the tracks in the snow as he ran to the corner, then at the tracks left by the car, was all that was needed to inform him of the points already made, and he turned and went toward the great gate again, thinking.

Plainly, as a humane man, if not as a detective, it was his duty to enter the grounds of Pleasantglades and to find out what had become of that woman who had entered there with a man, at or soon after two o’clock in the morning, and who had not come out again.

He decided, as he again approached the gate, to go inside.

To decide to go inside, and to get inside were quite two different things.

Nick decided that the top of the wall was quite fourteen feet above the pavement where he stood. He could see that it was guarded by that most effective of all means for such a guard—by broken glass set in cement.

The gate between the two high posts was a double one, which opened at the middle, and the tops of the highest spears were nearly as high as the posts themselves, while the shortest ones were only a trifle lower than the walls.

Plainly the only method of entering the grounds was by opening the gate, and that meant that he must either pick the lock, or file through the chain that held the two gates together, for, although he had his nippers with him, they were by far too small and delicate to bite through a chain of that size.

And his picklock, which he was never without, had not been intended for locks of that sort, for he found when he examined it that it was of the most complicated pattern of padlock, and that it had probably been made to order for the owners of the place.

Indeed, as he examined it more closely, he found it to be one of those rare locks which require the use of two, and sometimes three, keys, to open them.

His picklock was therefore out of business for once.

But he had his pocket case of delicate tools with him, and among those tools was a file which would eat through that chain, or any other one, in short order; and so, at last, he took it from the case and adjusted it.

It was the last extremity to which he resorted, for he disliked the idea of filing his way into the place, necessary as it seemed to be, that he should enter. He would greatly have preferred to scale the wall, or to pick the lock if either had been possible.

He did not like the idea of leaving the place unguarded even temporarily, when he came out again, for, after all, there was no certainty that he would find anything wrong, and it was quite possible that there might be a plausible and logical reason and explanation for all the things he had discovered that had interested him so greatly.

But he had decided that he would go inside, and, therefore, he went inside with no more delay than was absolutely necessary.

That little file of his, no larger than the blade of a penknife, and not much longer, ate through the chain cleanly and rapidly, and, although we have taken so much time and space to describe his discovery of the tracks in the snow and to explain his reasonings upon that discovery, it is doubtful if more than fifteen minutes had actually elapsed after he first saw the footprints, until he opened one of the gates, passed through, and closed the gate after him.

Then, having rearranged the chain again with great care so that it would not be noticed that it had been tampered with, he turned to follow the tracks in the snow, that led toward the great mansion.

CHAPTER II.
WHERE THE FOOTPRINTS LED.

Pleasantglades, although located directly within a large community which has lately taken upon itself the dignity of a city, and situated almost at the center of it, is as isolated, in more senses than one, as if it were in the midst of a forest. There are many who will read what is written here who know the place perfectly well, and have often admired it—and who would recognize it at once if the right name of it were given.

But there are reasons, which will develop later in the story, why the exact name and locality cannot be given here. Suffice it to say that it is within an hour of New York City by motor car.

The high wall that has already been described incloses six acres of beautiful grounds, which the owner always referred to as “The Park.�

From the great gate, which strangely enough is the only entrance to the grounds, or park, the roadway winds in two directions, to the right and to the left, among splendid trees, and in the summertime there is no more beautiful and spacious home to be found anywhere near the metropolis.

The owner, J. Cephas Lynne, was justly proud of it—almost as proud of this possession, as of one greater one that was his, his daughter.

We have to mention her here and now, because it was Edythe Lynne, or, rather, all that remained of her—her dead body—that Nick Carter speedily found when at last he forced his way into the house just as a burglar would have done it, only more expertly even than that, and penetrated to the beautiful room which he judged to have been one of her own private suite.

She was in the parlor or boudoir of her suite; she was lying peacefully upon a large couch among a myriad of pillows, which had been tastefully and comfortably arranged to support her body in a comfortable and graceful position.

She was reclining entirely at ease, as if she had arranged herself there to rest, having first fixed the pillows so that she could do so in comfort, fully dressed as for a party or a wedding, as she was.

One hand, the left one, rested upon a pillow that was partly behind her, the arm being stretched out to its full length; the other one hung partly over the edge of the divan couch, as if it had fallen there in that position of its own weight.

And just beneath that right hand, upon the rug, was a tiny glass vial capable of holding thirty to forty drops of liquid—and the room was pungent with the odor of almonds.

It was not difficult to guess, because of that odor, what the vial had contained: Prussic acid. Nor was it difficult to understand that the man who had taken her there and murdered her had carefully arranged everything so that it should appear to be an undoubted suicide.

To understand and appreciate everything just as Nick Carter found them, and as he discovered them, it must be remembered that it was still pitchy dark outside, and that there were no light connections in the great mansion at that time. As a consequence, the detective’s only means of searching the place was by the aid of his electric flash light, which he always carried with him when engaged upon business—and he had been on business of quite another nature, when he discovered those tracks in the snow.

When he forced his way into the house by picking the lock of the same door to which the tracks had led him, traces of the snow that those other two had brought into the house with them led him speedily enough to the scene we have already partly described.

And when he opened the door to that room, and threw his light from point to point about it, the shaft of illumination at last rested directly upon the beautiful face of the dead girl on the couch.

Such was the picture he saw before he made further investigation.

Then came the other details that we have told about, and some others that are yet to be told.

A long coat of sable, that might have reached to the young woman’s ankles, had been carefully laid across the back of a chair, and upon that were the scarf and veil that she had worn as a head covering, and they had been put there with exactly the same degree of careless attention that she might have used in doing so.

A fan, her gloves, and a gold vanity box set with jewels were upon the table in the middle of the room, and, beside them, was a sealed envelope addressed to J. Cephas Lynne.

The writing on the envelope was in the bold, rather large feminine hand that was in vogue at that time, and was presumably her own—or an imitation of her own handwriting; underneath the address was written the one further word, “Personal.â€�

There was not a thing about the room to indicate that another person than herself had visited it, and, although the detective searched diligently for such evidence, he could find no trace of the man who had accompanied her to the house which had been her home.

Never in the experience of Nick Carter had he known of a clear case of murder like this one, where the murderer had left absolutely nothing undone to demonstrate a suicide; but Nick Carter, because of those tracks in the snow, because he had arrived upon the scene at precisely the psychological moment to understand them, and because he had read the other signs that we have described, knew it to be a deliberately planned and executed crime.

There was not the slightest doubt of that in his mind, and, therefore, he did not hesitate to break the seal of that letter which otherwise would have been sacred.

But there was no time to be lost in getting a trace of that man who had accompanied the young woman to the house.

One who could plan and execute a crime in such a masterly manner would have planned much farther ahead of him than that, also, and would have arranged to cover his tracks so that if the accident of Nick Carter’s passing that way at the moment he did so had not happened, it is doubtful if the crime and criminal would ever have been discovered, and the young woman who died that night in all the glory of her young womanhood would have been remembered only as a suicide.

Therefore, the detective broke the seal and read the letter—after which he returned it to the envelope and put it carefully away in one of his pockets, already determined that no eyes but his own and his assistants should see it until he had run down the man who had committed the awful outrage.

The contents of that letter are not important save to demonstrate the cleverness of the murderer; but we will give them as the detective found them:

“Darling Papa: I will not ask you to forgive me for this act, for I know you will do that. I also know that I will have made you suffer deeply by it. Yet I do it with deliberation—because I feel that I must do it. The reasons why I have decided that there is no other way, you will discover soon enough, and you will feel deep regret because I did not go to you and tell you all about it, instead of doing this thing. Yet there are some things which one cannot face, and the one thing that I cannot face is your sorrow when you come to know what I have done. I would never have believed it possible that I could be brought to this pass, but here I am, and soon I shall be only a memory. I hope you will cherish only the tenderest parts of that memory, and that you will always believe that even in taking my own life, I love you.

Edythe.�

Such was the letter that the detective read and then hid away in his pocket; but there was one sentence of the letter that burned itself upon his memory, one sentence that must be the explanation of the crime itself. It was:

“The reasons why I have decided that there is no other way, you will discover soon enough, and you will feel deep regret because I did not go to you and tell you all about it, instead of doing this thing.�

In that sentence was concealed, doubtless, the secret of why the crime had been committed, and Nick Carter felt as certain as he had ever felt assured of anything in his life, that the dead girl on the couch, if she could have come to life at that moment, would have been utterly ignorant of what those reasons were.

In other words Nick Carter read the scene in this manner:

This crime was committed to conceal another crime, and the murderer, knowing that his lesser crime would presently be discovered, determined to fix it upon this innocent girl, the daughter of the house.

Therein existed the nucleus of the whole affair as the detective saw it.

It was plain, of course, that the man who could have induced Edythe Lynne to go with him to her out-of-town home in the dead of night must have been a near relative, or a person who was entirely in the confidence of the family—otherwise she would not have consented to accompany him.

And even then there must have been a powerful motive beyond any that could appear on the surface.

Was the man who had done this thing young or old, or middle aged? There was no present means of ascertaining that, but that he must be one who stood upon terms of at least cordial familiarity with J. Cephas Lynne and his daughter was beyond doubt.

The detective made one further hasty survey of the room, throwing the beam of his flash light again upon every detail that he had discovered; and then he left the room, leaving every detail as he had found it, save only the letter which he carried away with him in his pocket.

It was snowing hard when he got outside, and he nodded, as if to say:

“The murderer foresaw this additional fall of snow, and hence took no trouble to cover his tracks.�

Then he went on through the gate, fixing the chain again after him as he had done upon entering the place, and he hurried in the direction from whence he had first approached the gate, less than an hour before.

He walked rapidly onward a quarter of a mile or more, and presently came upon his own car, to discover that Danny, his chauffeur, and his two assistants, Chick and Patsy, were already there, awaiting him.

He looked at his watch before he spoke to them, and they had a fashion, born of long experience, of never addressing him on such an occasion until he had spoken. It was not always well to break in upon Nick Carter’s preoccupation.

“It is now a quarter to four,� he said; “a good two hours and a half before daylight. Danny, I want you to remain here with the car until we return, which will be within three-quarters of an hour. And, lads, I want you both to come with me. I have made a discovery that I want you both to see.�

Then, without further words, he led them both back to the house where he had discovered the crime, led them inside with the same care that he had used in the first place, making them dust the snow from their feet and clothing before they entered the house, and then he piloted them straight to the room where all that remained of beautiful Edythe Lynne awaited them.

Not until they were all inside that room and Chick and Patsy had looked upon the sad scene that was there, did he offer the slightest explanation; but then, in detail, just as it has been told here, he told them everything that had occurred, and everything that he had found since he first saw the tracks in the snow. But he expressed no opinions upon any of the incidents, for it was their separate opinions that he wanted, unbiased by his own. But he gave each of them the letter to read; and after that they left the house again, together.

CHAPTER III.
A MORNING CALL.

“We won’t discuss this affair just yet,â€� said the detective, as they hurried along together toward the place where the car was awaiting them. “There are other things to be considered first. But I want you both to think it over—all that you have seen and all that I have told you about it—so that later we can talk it over understandingly. Just now I have an idea in mind which is about the most absurd thing, on the surface, that I ever did in my life.â€�

Chick glanced around at him with sudden understanding, but it was Patsy who replied.

“I think I can guess what that is,� he said.

“Well, what is it?�

“It isn’t snowing so very hard just now,â€� said Patsy. “Those tracks that we have made in going to the house and coming away from it, while they will be covered, will not be entirely obliterated—not if six inches of snow should fall over them. There would still be the indications of footprints in the snow; of the ones we left there, eh?â€�

“Sure,� said the detective. “You’re on, Patsy.�

“You had more reasons than one in taking us back to the house with you, chief,� the second assistant continued. “You wanted to leave those tracks, didn’t you?�

“I’ll confess that I did, Patsy.�

“Just to mystify—who?â€�

“Who should you say, Patsy?�

“Well, the first thought would be that you preferred to mystify the police, than to tell these local chaps all you know; but there is more, isn’t there?�

“Yes; there is much more; but in order to accomplish it I am compelled to mystify the local authorities—until they have made their first report on the matter; after that I will be glad to take them into our confidence.â€�

“In other words,� said Chick, “you want to puzzle the murderer himself, but you want the local police out here to do it for you.�

“That is precisely the idea. Now, in the first place no one at the local headquarters, where I think they have about four policemen on duty, would think of questioning a report that you or I, Chick, would leave with them. So we will drive directly to the local headquarters, where I want you, Chick, to go inside while Patsy and I remain in the car. Do you know the rest?�

“You had better tell me so that I will get it exactly as you want it.�

“They know that we were out here to-night, and they know what for, don’t they? I told you to go there.�

“Yes.�

“Say to the officer in charge at the desk merely that in passing the gate at Pleasantglades you noticed that there were tracks in the snow, showing that several men had passed in and out of there during the night; that you thought it best to mention the fact—and that is all. Come back out and get into the car, and we will drive away.â€�

“You mean for them to find the body, and to report that three men had been in the house and had come out again.�

“Just that.�

“But I don’t quite see the point,� said Patsy, as he climbed into the car, and Danny, having received his directions, started forward.

“It is this: The local police of course know that Pleasantglades is at the present time unoccupied, and, doubtless, it is up to them to keep it free from molestation. Your report will hurry them around there to see what the tracks in the snow mean. They will find that the chain on the gate has been filed; they will follow the tracks to the door where we entered; they will find the body of the young mistress of the house, as we saw it; they will find no indications of violence anywhere, and yet the undisputed proof that men have been there.�

“Well?� said Patsy, when he paused.

“The afternoon papers to-morrow—to-day, rather—will teem with this greatest of all recent mysteries, and whatever conclusions the local police draw from what they find, there will be the statement that at least three men entered the house. I want the murderer to see that, and read it.â€�

“And also to fail to find any mention of the letter, eh?�

“Precisely. I want to puzzle him, and worry him. So much for that. Here we are at the station. Go on in, Chick, and get through with it as quickly as possible.�

Chick was gone only two or three minutes, and he returned with a half smile on his face.

“Well?� asked the detective, as they started to drive on.

“The information that there were tracks in the snow, showing that men had passed in and out of the grounds over there to-night, was like an electric shock to that copper,� said Chick. “He asked me if I had examined the tracks, and I truthfully told him that I had not. Then he thanked me and I came out.�

Nick leaned forward in his seat and spoke to Danny.

“I want you to make as good time as you can to the city,� he said. “The snow is a little heavy, I know, but you ought to get there by seven, Danny.�

“Easy, sir,� was the reply.

“When you do, drive directly to the residence of Mr. J. Cephas Lynne. It is on Riverside Drive. Do you know just where it is?�

“Yes, sir.�

“Well, you can’t get there any too quickly to please me.�

When the detective leaned back in his seat again, Chick said to him:

“Won’t the police up there already have telephoned to him, don’t you think?�

“Sure thing,� replied the detective. “I am going there in order to see Mr. Lynne as soon as possible after he gets the information. It may be that they will be slow up there about sending it.�

“Do you mean to tell him the entire story, just as it is?�

“That is my present intention; but I haven’t finally decided upon it. I shall be governed by circumstances in that matter. Have you ever seen this J. Cephas Lynne, Chick?�

“N-no; I don’t think I have.�

“Have you, Patsy?�

“No; not that I know of. I might have seen him without knowing who he was.�

“Exactly; that is an unaccountably brilliant remark for you to make. The point is this: I have never seen the man, either. I have seen his so-called pictures, in the papers, and so have both of you, I suppose, and I have always heard the very nicest things about him that one could hear of a very rich man who is rather in society, but who keeps out of it as much as possible. I want to see him, and talk with him, and size him up, and see how he withstands this blow, before I decide just what to say to him.�

“But,â€� said Patsy, “you will have to give an excuse for going there at all, won’t you? We are not supposed yet to know anything about the murder—or suicide, whichever it will be called in the newspaper reports.â€�

“I shall go there,� replied Nick quietly, “merely as a matter of duty, to report to him what Chick has already reported at the police station up there; merely that there were tracks in the snow, showing that some persons had entered his country home.�

“It may be,� said Chick, “that he will not yet have been notified of the tragedy.�

“I think it very likely that we will find it so.�

“I don’t see——â€� began Patsy.

“It is this way,� said the detective, interrupting: “In this snow it will take us, from the time we left that police station, about an hour and a half to get to his house. Now, up there it will be at least half an hour before those local police find the body; they will use up certainly an hour in looking about them before it will occur to them to telephone to Mr. Lynne, and probably more; so it is likely that we will get to his house before he hears anything about it. That’s all. Think that over; and now let’s ride on in silence for a while.�

Nick told Danny to stop the car directly in front of the residence on Riverside Drive, and, leaving the others to wait for him—it had long since stopped snowing—he ran up the front steps and pressed the button of the electric bell.

But he had to ring again and again before a sleepy butler at last appeared at the door and demanded, in a tone that was both haughty and surly, to know what was wanted.

“I must see Mr. Lynne at once,� said Nick, who knew by the very attitude of the butler that no intelligence of the crime had yet reached that house.

“Well, you cawn’t see him—at seven in the morning—the idea. Mr. Lynne never leaves his room in the morning till nine, and——â€�

“Look here, my man,â€� Nick interrupted, for he had already stepped inside the doorway, and so was well inside the house, “this is a matter of the utmost importance to Mr. Lynne, and you are to take this card to him at once, and tell him that it is extremely important that he should see me with as little delay as possible. If you don’t do it, I will find my way to his rooms myself—and you will probably lose your job.â€�

There seemed to be no help for it, and, besides, Nick spoke with a quiet assurance that visibly impressed the butler.

Rather ungraciously he took the card, which was one of Nick Carter’s own, and departed.

He returned, too, very quickly; much sooner than Nick had anticipated.

“Please come with me, sir,� he said, with more graciousness than he had shown before.

He offered no explanation of his change of manner, but, nevertheless, the detective was not surprised to find that Mr. Lynne was dressed and was engaged in sipping his morning coffee, when he was shown into the private morning room of the master of the house.

Mr. Lynne left his chair and greeted Nick pleasantly, then indicated a chair and asked him to be seated.

“I know your name, Mr. Carter, of course,� he said, “and I cannot imagine your coming to see me at this time of day unless something of the utmost importance sent you. It is fortunate that I am about rather earlier than usual this morning, otherwise you would have had to wait. I was trying to get an early start to visit my country place. May I offer you a cup of coffee?�

“No, thank you,� replied Nick, seating himself in another chair than the one that had been indicated. He always liked to sit, if he could, so that the light shone upon the features of the man he was talking with.

“What is the important business that brought you to me, Mr. Carter?â€� Mr. Lynne asked, affably enough, but with much of the air of one who was bored by the entire proceeding—and as if nothing could convince him that it was really of vital importance.

Somehow Nick did not like the man, although there was no reason why he should not do so.

But there was something about him which did not seem to the detective to be quite genuine.

“In referring to your country place, you mean Pleasantglades, I suppose?� Nick asked, in reply to the question.

“Most certainly,� raising his brows.

“In that case, and if you were going there at once, it was perhaps unnecessary that I should have called at all, for you would presently have discovered for yourself what I have come to tell you,â€� said the detective. “I have just come from there, and I came to tell you that——â€�

The cup of coffee which Mr. Lynne was holding in one hand unaccountably slipped from it and crashed to the floor, and, as that gentleman bent forward to pick it up, he said:

“How stupid of me. Please go on, Mr. Carter.�

CHAPTER IV.
A MAN, OR A MONSTER?

Nick Carter looked at the man closely.

“Mr. Lynne, were you out with your car last night?� he asked abruptly.

“Really, Mr. Carter,� was the slow reply, given with another raising of the eyebrows, “you amaze me. You send up word to me that you have information of the utmost importance; I receive you because I recognize the name on your card as representing one of the greatest detectives of modern times, and I assume that your important news must really be important, or you would not have come here at all; then you say that the important information you have has something to do with Pleasantglades, and in the next breath you ask me if I was out with my car last night. Will you be good enough to tell me why you are here?�

The cordiality and affability had all gone from his voice now, and it was cold, distant, and genuinely the one of a man who is not accustomed to being intruded upon for nothing.

“Would you mind answering the question?� Nick replied, with equal coldness. “My important information will follow at once.�

“Before I reply to any questions at all, Mr. Carter, I must ask for the information; or, at least, for the character of it,� was the reply.

“Very well. Pleasantglades was entered last night, I believe. One of my assistants has already given the information to the local police.�

“Is that all?� exclaimed the millionaire, with an air of great relief. “I really thought it might be something else; that the place was burned down, or something of that sort. It was good of you to come here yourself to tell me, however. I appreciate it.�

“Thank you. Now, will you reply to my question?�

“About the car? What has that to do with it?�

“Merely that it might have been yourself who visited Pleasantglades last night—or very early this morning.â€�

“Oh! I see. No, I was not there, nor near there, in fact.�

“Nor your car, either?�

“My dear, sir, I have three cars. Which one do you refer to?�

“To any one of them. Do you know where all three of the cars were last night?�

“No; but I could easily ascertain, if it is important.�

“It may prove to be quite important, sir. One of your cars was there last night.� This was merely a guess on Nick’s part, but he thought best to make it at that point.

“At Pleasantglades?� asked the millionaire, elevating his brows again. It seemed to be a favorite gesture of his.

“Yes; or near there.�

“Then it was entirely without my knowledge. I will inquire about it at once;� and he started to leave his chair.

But the detective interrupted him.

“Please keep your seat a moment longer, Mr. Lynne,� he said. “Of course it is not likely that you will know just what happened at your country place last night, until the local police have investigated, but there are a few questions which you might answer me, if you care to do so, which might be important.�

“Pardon me, but I don’t quite see what you have to do with it, Mr. Carter. You have not been asked for an opinion.�

Nick shrugged his shoulders, determined not to pay any attention to this man of so many attitudes.

“You have a daughter, Mr. Lynne. Do you happen to know where she is at this moment?� he asked.

The man sat up straight in his chair, grasping both arms of it tightly so that his knuckles stood out white and distinct. His brows drew together in a straight frown, and in a voice that was entirely unlike any that he had used before, so harsh was it, he exclaimed:

“Really, sir, you go too far. You exceed——â€�

“Do you know if your daughter went to Pleasantglades last night?� Nick interrupted him.

“I know that she did not go there. But what——â€�

“She did go there.�

It was an interruption, but it was a very quiet one; yet the four words were said with such a precise enunciation that the man stared at the detective for several seconds before he at last exclaimed:

“What do you mean?�

“Just what I said. Your daughter went to Pleasantglades last night. I wished to know if you were aware of the fact, and if you could tell me who accompanied her.�

The reply was cool, cutting, and precise.

“I will answer no to both your impertinent questions, and will ask what the devil business it is of yours, anyhow. You have intruded here upon my quiet morning, and now I will ask you to——â€�

“Just one moment, Mr. Lynne, if you please. If you could forget your dignity, and the position you occupy, and the millions you possess for just a moment, and come down to earth, it would not be amiss. I have heard many things about you, sir, and never an unkind one. I have had the highest estimate of your personal character until this moment, when you fly into a rage over nothing at all. You received me pleasantly enough when I came, but the moment I mention Pleasantglades, your entire attitude changes. Is it because you were going there, to-day?�

The millionaire had leaned back in his chair again while the detective was talking, and was smiling now, with a certain superciliousness that would have been an insult under any other circumstances.

“I am greatly indebted to you for your good opinion of me,â€� he said, with cool insolence. “Have you been—er—drinking?â€�

“No,� replied the detective calmly.

“Then will you be good enough to tell me exactly why you have made this call upon me?�

“I came, Mr. Lynne, to tell you that your daughter did go to Pleasantglades last night; that she arrived there about two o’clock this morning; that she entered the grounds and the house; that she is there now.�

“That she is there now? What do you mean? Has something happened to her? Has she been injured? And why should she go there at all?�

“Something has happened to her, Mr. Lynne,â€� said Nick slowly—for the life of him he could not feel sympathy for this man whom he had gone there prepared to like immensely, and to sympathize with greatly, and to offer every talent that he possessed—“something very serious indeed has happened to her.â€�

The man got upon his feet, white now to the lips, and the hands with which he grasped the back of the chair upon which he had been seated, trembled visibly; and all the while the detective never took his eyes from Lynne’s face. He wanted to sympathize with the man and could not, and for once in his life he was entirely at fault as to what judgment to pass, or to understand why he hesitated to form one.

There was not an expression of feature, not a line of the face, not a motion of any part of the body of the man before him that was lost upon the detective at that moment, for he could not believe that any man could be guilty of connivance at the death of his own daughter—and yet had he been a stepfather instead of a father, or had he borne any other relation than he did to that beautiful dead girl, Nick Carter would unhesitatingly have pronounced him the murderer then and there.

“What—what has happened to her—to Edythe?â€� faltered Lynne.

“She—is—dead,â€� was the slow reply.

“God!� cried the man, and dropped again upon the chair, and then his arms upon the tray filled with dishes, scattering them right and left, and burying his face in his arms; and Nick Carter could not help thinking that John Drew or Bob Hilliard could scarcely have done it better.

The reader must not misunderstand.

Nick Carter did not really suppose that this man was the murderer of his own daughter—but the only reason why he did not was because he could not bring his mind to believe such a monstrous thing.

But, all the same, the detective could not get it out of his mind that this millionaire had been acting a part from the moment the detective entered the room; and that the dramatic climax that had just occurred, with the scattering of the dishes, and all, was not in keeping with the attitude of thoroughbreds, when they receive a blow.

They take it standing, full in the face, and there is never even a touch of the dramatic about it.

The detective made no move forward. He waited; and presently, after a moment of silence, Lynne raised his head, then got upon his feet again, and with an apparent effort at calmness he said, half brokenly:

“Tell me about it.�

“I have told you about it, Mr. Lynne.�

“But—what does it mean? What killed her? What happened?â€�

“Who can know what happened, who was not there to witness what happened?�

“But—you keep me in doubt. I do not know what you mean.â€�

“The body of Miss Lynne is in the parlor of her own private suite of rooms; it is upon the divan couch, among the pillows, as if she had thrown herself there to rest. Her left arm extends along the top of the pillows; her right one hangs over the edge of the couch, and on the rug beneath the right hand there is an empty vial that has contained prussic acid. That is as much as I can tell you.�

“Suicide? Do you mean that she killed herself?�

“Appearances would point to such an answer, Mr. Lynne. Do you know of any reason why your daughter should have killed herself? or why she should have thought of doing so?�

“No, no, no! Why should she do such a thing?�

“That is what I came here to ask you?�

“But, if she did not do it herself, who could have done it?�

“That is another question that I wished to ask of you.�

“But there is no one, no one.�

“Are you quite sure of that?�

“Oh, you have shocked me so that I do not know what to answer. It is all so amazing; so unbelievable. Was there nothing—did you find nothing to indicate that another, or others, had been there with her?â€�

“The local police, up there, will report to you on that point, Mr. Lynne. They were going to the house to investigate when I started for the city to tell you about it. It seems to me that you should have heard from them before this; but, perhaps, they would consider it a wiser course to send a messenger to break the news.�

And then, as if in reply to the thought of Nick Carter, there was a tap at the door, and the butler again made his appearance.

“An officer of the police to see you, sir,� he said to his master.

“Show him up; show him up at once,� was the reply, and the owner of so many millions began to pace the floor, wringing his hands, and showing every appearance of great excitement.

“If I were you, sir, I would calm myself, and hear quietly what this man has to report,� said the detective, at the same time drawing back toward a far corner of the room.

CHAPTER V.
TRAGIC NEWS.

The officer who came from the local police near Pleasantglades was of that stolid order which, while they can perform a duty perfectly, and carry out orders to the letter, have little originality, and no initiative.

If this man had possessed either he would have noticed the great excitement under which Mr. J. Cephas Lynne seemed to be laboring, and which he was apparently trying hard to suppress; but, seemingly, he did not see either, but, the moment he entered the room, began:

“I have come, sir, to report to you that Miss Lynne was found dead in the parlor of her own rooms at Pleasantglades shortly after four o’clock this morning.�

It was evident that he was awed to be in the presence of the “great man,� the millionaire of the neighborhood, where he had been born and had lived all his life, which had not been so many years at that.

This time Mr. Lynne did not go to pieces as he had done before; there were no more dramatics; no more theatricals—for Nick could not but regard them so, although he tried to tell himself that he must be mistaken.

But there was no doubt of the fact that Lynne’s hands were shaking, and that he found it difficult to steady himself properly. He motioned toward a chair—which, as it happened, stood with its back toward the detective, and so it was that the messenger had no idea of the presence of Nick Carter in the room.

“Sit down,� said the millionaire. “Now, tell me all you know.�

“Yes, sir. It was this way. At four o’clock this morning word was brought to the station house that tracks had been discovered in the snow, showing that some person, or persons, had passed through the gate at Pleasantglades. Our captain was immediately called from——â€�

“Oh, never mind that. What did you find?� interrupted the stricken father.

“We found, sir, the tracks where four men had gone into the place and come out again.�

“Four?�

“Yes, sir. It had been snowing, so we could tell that one of them had gone in and come out again, before the visit of the other three.� (That meant Nick’s first entrance.)

“Well, go on.�

“It wasn’t very long after the first one came out, to judge by the tracks, before the other three came along, and maybe they only found the gate open—we can’t say as to that. But they went inside, and into the house, too.â€�

“How did they get into the house? Quick. Tell me what you found inside the house.�

“They picked the lock, sir. They had all been to the room where we discovered the dead body of Miss Lynne.�

This time Lynne bowed his head upon his hand, where his arm rested upon the table, and the detective felt a qualm of pity for him then, for the first time, for he could see that the man was trembling violently, and he wondered if it had been acting after all, and if the grief of the man had not been real.

“Tell me about that,� said Lynne. “You can give me the other particulars later.�

“Yes, sir. Our chief thinks it likely that she killed herself, sir; he told me to say to you that he would suppose there was no doubt of it at all, if it were not for the tracks in the snow.�

“What have they to do with his opinion?� demanded Lynne.

“Well, sir, the chief doesn’t think that they would likely have anything at all to do with it, if it were not for those other tracks—of the man who went there first, and who came away before the other three got there.â€�

Nick saw Lynne clutch the table, then rise to his feet and cross the room, where he opened a cabinet, and helped himself to a glass of brandy; and the policeman from the outlying district went stolidly on:

“Our chief thinks, sir, that the other three were probably tramps who happened along, and, finding the gate open, went inside; that they followed the tracks to the door, and found, perhaps, that the door was left open, too, and so they went on in. At least, that is his opinion, sir.�

“I understand. Well, what more?�

“The chief wanted me to tell you, sir, that, while everything there gives the appearance of suicide, there is still a large chance that it may be a case of murder.�

“Murder? Murder? No, no, not that. Not murder.�

“Yes, sir, that is what our chief told me to tell you; but he wanted me also to ask you what you thought about it. If you think it was suicide, why, then, it is suicide. That is what he said, and I was to take back your say so as to that.�

“My say so? What do you mean?�

“Well, sir, the chief thought that perhaps you might know something to lead you to express an opinion one way or the other, and that he would be glad to follow your opinion, no matter what it is.�

“You—you haven’t—told me yet what was found in the room. Was there evidence of a struggle?â€�

“No, sir; nothing at all of that sort. Everything was as orderly as possible, and we could not find that a single thing had been stolen or disturbed. There was only the young lady upon the couch with the little bottle under her right hand on the floor, and she was as peaceful and still as if she was asleep.�

“Was nothing else found there?�

“No, sir; and that is what puzzles the chief. He thinks that if the young lady went there to kill herself, she would have left a letter or something of the sort. But there was nothing of that kind, at all. She was just there; that’s all.�

“But who could have murdered my daughter?� It was almost a cry, and yet Nick Carter could not rid himself of the idea that the emotion of it was not entirely real.

“The chief thinks, sir, that if it was a murder—and he is inclined to think it was—the man did it who went there with her.â€�

Nick could have smiled under less tragic circumstances, so pleased was he by the turn that the talk had taken.

“By the man who went there with her? What——â€� began Lynne.

“Yes, sir. There weren’t any tracks of hers to be found, of course, but we figured it out that her feet are so small and she is so light in weight, that the snow would have hidden her tracks so that we were unable to find them, while the tracks of the man, when he went to the house, can still be seen.�

The reader will understand that this man was referring to the tracks that Nick Carter had made when he first entered the house, and to the tracks that he made again when he came away from it and went after his two assistants to take them back there with him. The tracks that Nick had found, that took him into the house, could no longer be discovered, of course.

“Does the chief think that some person, a man, went to that house with—— What are you talking about, man?â€�

“That is what the chief thinks. That somebody went there with her—or took her there by force.â€�

“By force?�

“Yes, sir.�

“But that is preposterous.�

“Drugged her, sir, maybe, and carried her there; or carried her there without drugging.�

“It is outrageous!�

“Yes, sir. You see, sir, she wouldn’t go there alone, at that time of the night, unless she did it with the intention of killing herself—and to tell you the honest truth, sir, the chief doesn’t think she did kill herself—unless you prefer that he should think so, Mr. Lynne.â€�