9-19-29; or, Nick Carter and the Policy Sharps

Roy Glashan's Library
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BY THE AUTHOR OF
"NICK CARTER"

9-19-29

or, NICK CARTER AND THE POLICY SHARPS

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Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software

NO. 90 IN THE "NICK CARTER LIBRARY" SERIES

First published in The Nick Carter Library,
Street & Smith, New York, 22 April 1893

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2024
Version Date: 2024-12-01

Produced by John Haubrich and Roy Glashan

All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright.

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Chapter I. The Dead Gig.
Chapter II. A Clever Hand.
Chapter III. Old Whitton Loans His Voice.
Chapter IV. A Versatile Villain.
Chapter V. The Prisoner.
Chapter VI. Nick Hears A Strange Story.
Chapter VII. Nick Finds A Guide And Loses Him.
Chapter VIII. Nick Follows A Faint Trail.
Chapter IX. The East River Pier.
Chapter X. Whitton Gives His Last Tip.

Chapter I.
THE DEAD GIG.

As the famous detective spoke he laid upon the table before him the card which his visitor had presented. It bore the name, Henry Nelson Rhodes.

It would have been hard to find a name which commanded more respect than that of the eminent lawyer who now wished to avail himself of the great detective's skill.

"The matter concerning which I wish to consult you," said Mr. Rhodes, "is of the utmost importance."

"Yes: but I am surprised that you should recall the fact. It is sixteen years since I took him into my care."

"Since you knew that fact you are perhaps aware of the deep loss which led me to—"

"I know it well," replied Nick. "I would not recall it now except that it may have a bearing upon the present case. Your daughter was stolen when she was two years old. You were a widower, and childless. You took this little boy to fill, so far as might be possible, the vacant place. I have heard my father relate the story."

"It is true; but I cannot help wondering at your perfect recollection of so old a story."

"It is necessary for me to know this city's past in order that I may understand its present. Crimes are born of crime, as serpents are born of serpents. To understand them you must know where they breed."

"And yet I cannot believe that this disappearance of my son has anything to do with the theft of my daughter. That was too long ago."

"Richard is now twenty years old. He has been for two years a student in Columbia College. I had intended him for the law. His habits as a boy were always good, so far as I could observe, but of late his conduct has caused me much uneasiness."

"Almost a year, but of course I did not immediately discover it. For some months I had noticed the change in him without being able to guess what caused it. He was restless and nervous. His health seemed to be impaired. He grew careless of his personal appearance, and forsook his former associates. I supposed that he must have others of whom I knew nothing."

"At last I did. He owned up squarely. He said that he had been gambling for months; that he had lost all the money I had given him, and was considerably in debt. He told me that he had been fascinated by policy—a most abominable swindle."

"Not in the least. I do not believe in that method of dealing with boys. I talked kindly with him, and gave him money to pay his debts, and did it willingly."

"Then there was a peculiar change. I think he must have won. You can always tell when a young man is running into debt, and feels poor. I am sure that he ceased at that time to squander his allowance. Some new passion seemed to have taken possession of him. At least I thought so, but on employing a clerk of mine to watch him I learned that he was still a constant visitor at policy shops, and seemed as much devoted to the game as ever. I then thought that it was only a change in his luck which had affected him."

"I had set an hour to do so. It was one week ago to-day. I resolved to talk with him in the evening. He did not return to my house, and I have not seen him since."

"I informed the police, and a secret search was made by them. But they learned absolutely nothing except that he had been seen in a place on the Bowery supposed to be the headquarters of the down town policy shops, about three o'clock on the day of his disappearance."

"Did the police make any effort to secure information from the men in charge of the place you mention?"

"They could secure no evidence to justify an arrest. The place is apparently a money broker's office."

Mr. Rhodes laid the card before the detective. It bore only the date and these words:

"Your son has shipped aboard a vessel bound for Australia. He will never come back."

"It is a stupid trick designed to throw me off the track. The writing, you will observe, is evidently that of a woman. I believe that she has obtained some sort of a hold upon my son, and is detaining him. Perhaps she has led him away from the city."

"Oh, yes; I think so. But I am terribly anxious about him. There is no knowing into what infamy he may be led. Mr. Carter, if you can rescue my boy and bring him back to me you shall name your own reward. I am rich, as you are aware, and my gratitude shall not fail when you have accomplished your task."

"Mr. Rhodes, I do not wish to alarm you, but I regard this case as very serious. I say this in order that you may be cautious."

"What have you discovered? Is there something on the card which I did not see? Show it to me."

"Wait. I can tell you only this to-day: your son is held by some of these policy sharks, but he has a friend on the inside."

"Mr. Rhodes, I shall ask you not to question me further to-day. To-morrow night I will call upon you. In the meantime do not give yourself up to useless alarm."

"It shall be as you say," said the lawyer, controlling himself with a great effort. "Till to-morrow night then."

Chapter II.
A CLEVER HAND.

NICK CARTER saw upon the card a mysterious warning which had escaped the shrewd lawyer's eye, and which might have escaped any eye but that which now read the secret. In the upper right hand corner of the card was the date, the nineteenth of September, 1892; expressed in figures thus: 9—19—92.

But there was something more. A light line began just to the left of the last nine. It passed under the figure, then up between that and the 2, across the top of the 2, and down upon the other side.

That made a sign which printers know. It meant "transpose." In other words, the 9 and the 2 were to change places, and the whole would read 9—19—29.

The reader must know that the combinations of three numbers in policy are called gigs, and that the superstitious players have given them fanciful names.

If a policy player dreams of a hat, for instance, he looks in the dream book or consults some veteran of the game, and eventually learns what numbers make the "hat gig." Or if he dreams of a race-horse he plays the "race gig."

But when he dreams of death, or hears of it in any way to make it notable, he plays the numbers 9—19—29.

"In the first place, the message was written by a woman. Mr. Rhodes was right about that. But the words are not a woman's words. The message is too brief to be a woman's. Here then is the first point: a man dictated the message to a woman.

"The message is evidently a lie. That is the second point. I don't believe that anybody intended Mr. Rhodes to believe it. Probably it was merely a hint to him that perhaps his boy had left the city. It was intended to turn his mind to that idea. Therefore the boy is still in New York.

"The 'transpose' sign which gives me my clue was made by the woman. First, because it is not reasonable to suppose that more than two persons would have had anything to do with the card, and the man certainly wouldn't have given the tip. Second, because it is faintly underlined, and underlining is a woman's trick.

"The woman is Richard's friend. The 'transpose' sign and the underline were not dictated by the man. They are put in very lightly, evidently so as to escape the man's attention.

"Then the woman must be in the man's power, and not a confederate. She is practically his prisoner, because if she were not she could find the opportunity to send a plain message instead of the tip on the dead gig.

"Richard is safe for the present. If they had decided to kill him at once the woman would have known that her message was of no use.

"But he won't be safe long, for if the time was weeks or months the woman wouldn't have resorted to this desperate scheme. It certainly was a desperate risk she took, for if the man had detected her he would have proven bad enough to kill her, otherwise he wouldn't be villain enough to plot Richard's murder.

"The man is one of the policy gang, for the woman—who is at least his associate—takes her tips from policy.

"And now for the motive. It isn't blackmail, or Mr. Rhodes would have had the rascal's terms before this.

"It may be something connected with policy, but I doubt it. Those fellows are too sharp about their own business to give their professional secrets away to a boy like Richard.

"Yet he has stumbled upon some secret, of that I feel sure. He threatens them, or they wouldn't threaten him. Can it have anything to do with that old crime, the abduction of Henry Rhodes' daughter? Is it personal revenge renewed after so many years?

"I think not, and yet I should not be surprised to turn up the solution of that old mystery in the present business."

These thoughts, by which the case shaped itself in Nick's mind, occupied but a few minutes. Almost instinctively he arranged his facts, and when he had done so his decision was made.

Yet he gave a moment's thought to that unknown woman whose light stroke upon that card had caught his eye.

"It was a clever hand," said he, "that revealed so much with so little. I should like to shake that hand in a friendly way, just to show that I appreciate good work. And perhaps I may before long."

Twenty minutes later a compositor named Willis Russell, employed in a newspaper office on Park Row, received a message in a single word: "Disappear."

And Mr. Russell, knowing who sent that message, promptly disappeared. Yet any of Mr. Russell's numerous acquaintances—most of whom played policy, and were always poor in consequence—who had passed along the west side of the Bowery about four o'clock that after-noon would have said that Mr. Russell was plainly visible.

For his familiar figure, clothed in his ordinary dilapidated garments, might have been seen loitering in front; of the door of an office on the Bowery, in plain view from a window which bore the sign "Elbert Norton, Broker."

Several persons, and among them the policeman on the beat, nodded to the figure as it stood there, and some of them stopped and exchanged a few words.

But they got few words in return. Willis Russell appeared to be in a somewhat unsocial mood, a condition which was attributed by most of his acquaintances to the large quantity and very bad quality of the liquor obtainable in that locality.

"How goes it, Willis, me boy?" responded the man addressed. He was about forty-five years old, and looked as if he had been in hard luck for at least forty of them.

"Oh, nothing of any earthly use to anybody. I asked him where he'd been lately."

Nick Carter, in the bodily semblance of Willis Russell, asked this question calmly, but the answer meant much to him.

That just fitted into Nick's idea of the whole infamous business. Familiar as he was with every criminal in the city, it had not taken him long to decide who were likely to be chosen for such work as the kidnaping and murder of Richard Rhodes.

He had made a mental list of those men, and at the head of it had been the name of Simon Whitton. His connection with the policy gang was well known to Nick.

Though Whitton passed as a mere hanger-on of the policy shops, a ruined man making his miserable living—by dirty jobs of small account, Nick knew him for an unscrupulous villain of a high order, a man with a bank balance which was always growing larger.

If this man had been given the task of putting Richard out of the way it had certainly occupied most of his time. Therefore it had been Nick's desire to learn whether the old rascal had been missed from his accustomed haunts, and he had already established that fact.

"I should say that that was necessary. There isn't much use in knowing that a gig is coming out some time between this and the Day of Judgment."

"He gives you a tip, and you play it, and it doesn't come out. Next day you don't play it, and up it comes. Then you meet Whit, and he calls you a fool."

"Whit came to me one day, and said, 'I dreamed of a horse-race last night, and the horse that came in ahead had a hat on that was three feet wide.' 'A big hat on,' said I to myself, and kept saying it all the way to the races. Then I bet all my money on an old plug because he was ridden by a jock named Hatton—hat on, you see. It looked like a sure thing. Well, sir, my plug hasn't got done running yet, and what horse do you think won?"

"Why, Sombrero, of course. There's a big hat for you, but I couldn't see it. You ought to have heard Whit laugh at me afterward."

"Well, I think he had a right to, because you were fool enough to play the races at all."

"No; he keeps him guessing. 'Play so-and so,' says he to me last night. 'When?' says I. 'Not to-morrow,' says he. 'Day after?' says I. 'Perhaps, perhaps,' says he, and that was all I could get out of him. Anyway, it's more definite than usual."

Old Whit's tip was definite enough for Nick Carter. It meant that the old man expected a death to occur that very night. And the dead gig might be expected the next day.

Chapter III.
OLD WHITTON LOANS HIS VOICE.

WHAT Nick had heard was at once a confirmation of his theory and a spur to action. Old Whitton was certainly in the plot, and that plot was near its tragic conclusion.

True, he had said "perhaps," but that was probably to cover the failure of his prophecy in regard to the gig. It did not mean that Whitton was in any doubt about the day of Richard's death.

A person less familiar than Nick Carter with the ways of the class of criminals to which Whitton belonged might have rejected this theory on the ground that it was inconceivably reckless in the old scoundrel to give such a hint of the black business in which he was engaged.

But Nick knew better. The act fitted Whitton's character exactly. Superstition, a fixed belief in signs and omens was Whitton's only religion.

He posed as a seer. He delighted to give the impression that there was something supernatural about him. He had deceived others until he himself was deceived. He actually believed that the devil whispered in his ear.

Nick Carter's course was now perfectly clear to him. At all hazards he must secure old Whitton. To arrest him would be sheer folly. His fate must remain a secret. The policy gang must know nothing of it.

But where was the old villain to be found? To this question Nick had a ready answer. He could be met at the entrance to the office of Elbert Norton, "broker."

Not at the Bowery entrance; of course not. There was another which Nick knew all about, though he had never passed through.

Near this secret entrance, upon a street running west-ward from the Bowery, Nick stood as the night began to fall upon the city. He waited with perfect confidence in the result, and his patience was not put to a severe test.

The stooping form of old Whitton, confidential agent of the Policy Prince, appeared at the hour when he was expected. He was leaning upon a stout cane, like a feeble old man, but in reality he had almost the vigor of youth.

Whitton prided himself upon his gentlemanly deportment. He always spoke slowly, and chose his words with care, but his voice had a peculiar, rasping sound as if his throat had been lined with rusty iron.

"I've pined with sorrow at your absence. Haven't seen you for a week. Where have you been?"

"I've been right here," said Whitton, rather hastily for him; "I've been in my old haunts right straight along."

That the old man should lie about the matter was added proof to Nick. "I hear you've been giving the boys a tip."

"I? Oh, no, Mr. Russell. I haven't had a dream of any consequence in ever so long."

"You have been misinformed. I never think upon death. It is a painful subject to so old a man as I am."

Nick had walked for a few steps by Whitton's side, but he now turned to leave the man. He was well aware that the shrewd old man would not so much as glance at the secret entrance if any person were with him.

But Nick had accomplished his purpose. His brief talk with Whitton had given him opportunity to observe that the old man had no attendant.

There was no "trailer" sent by the Policy Prince to guard against accident to Whitton, as Nick had feared there might be.

No sooner had Whitton turned his back than Nick vanished into the hall of one of the tenement-houses which lined the street. He passed rapidly through the house, and found himself in a small and dirty yard.

He scaled it, and two more like it. Then he turned sharply to the left, and entered a dark and narrow hall.

Only a ray of light pierced it from the street beyond, but this was enough, and a few minutes later Nick saw the form of Whitton advancing.

In a moment the old man was abreast of him. Then Nick stepped into the middle of the hall.

There was a momentary struggle, but the old man did not cry out. He could not. Then Nick spoke.

It was indeed the villain's voice. Nick had "borrowed" it. It was for the purpose of that imitation he had previously drawn the man into conversation.

The detective's hand left Whitton's throat and covered his nose and mouth. There was something in that hand that was soft, like a sponge. A peculiar, sweet odor came from it.

There was no more struggling now. Whitton's body lay like a bundle of rags in Nick's grasp.

Bearing it as if the weight had been nothing, Nick ran out through the yard, and opening a gate in the fence at the rear, passed through with his burden.

He was now in a sort of alley which led south, through an archway under the rear tenements, and then to the street beyond.

In the darkness of this alley Nick stooped over his unconscious burden, and his hand moved rapidly for a minute or two. Then he advanced to where a little light fell on the face.

That face no person who had known Whitton would then have recognized as his. The old man had been bald as a plate, but over his forehead long, matted hair was falling. His cheeks, which had been white as chalk, were now of a bronze hue. His nose looked twice its natural size, and had a crimson tint. He looked like a drunken sailor.

Nick carried him a few paces farther, and then laid him down. In another moment Nick was upon the street. A policeman stood by the curb.

"There's a man in the alley," said Nick. "I think he's got a fit. You'd better ring for an ambulance."

The policeman advanced into the alley, and touched Whitton's body with his night-stick.

Ten minutes later an ambulance surgeon stood by Nick's side. They were practically alone. The policeman was busy keeping the crowd back from the mouth of the alley.

He went back into the alley for that purpose, but he did not accomplish it. The man who found the body was not himself to be found.

When the policeman reached the street again the ambulance was gone, and the crowd was dispersing. He resumed his beat with the comforting thought that the case was probably only a "drunk" after all.

Meanwhile where was Nick? He had no sooner seen the insensible form of Whitton borne away than he had taken the back track through the alley.

Beyond the archway he paused and assured himself that no eye was watching him. Then he suddenly scaled a fence, and entered a tenement-house fronting upon the street on which he had met Whitton.

He ascended one flight of stairs, and opened a door. In a second he had struck a light which revealed a room bare of furniture. It contained nothing but the lamp, and a little heap of rubbish in a corner. Into this rubbish Nick thrust his hand, and drew out a bag, which he opened.

For a few minutes he worked busily. It was a wonderful scene, there, in the dim light of the smoky lamp. A man vanished and another took his place. For the second time that day Willis Russell disappeared.

In his place arose the figure of an old man who stooped, whose head was bald, whose beard was long and white. His cheeks were of the hue of chalk, and his voice, when he spoke softly to himself, was rough, as if his throat had been lined with rusty iron.

As, at last, he bent over the light to extinguish it one might have seen the face and form of old Whitton, confidential agent of the Policy Prince.

Chapter IV.
A VERSATILE VILLAIN.

THEY stood in the private room of the Policy Prince. It was an apartment to which few were ever admitted. Probably it had not held an honest man before in twenty years.

Nick's accurate disguise, and his ready wit had carried him thus far on his road toward the solution of this dark mystery of crime. Elbert Norton looked at him, and did not for an instant doubt that he was face to face with his black-hearted agent.

Two other men were in the room. One of them Nick recognized as the person who ordinarily received visitors in the outer office, which was open to the public.

He posed as a "partner" in the money broking business, and as a rule he was the only member of the firm who could be seen. He was a mere creature of the Policy Prince. Nick had good reason for believing that this man was never trusted with the really dangerous secrets, or the shrewder plots which Norton's brain evolved.

Nick wasted no time upon him, but cast his gaze upon the other companion of the Policy Prince. He was a tall, strong man of forty years, roughly dressed, and with a face like a mask of putty. Nick at once set him down as a thug in Norton's pay. It was this man whom Norton now addressed.

"Now you clear out, Rogers," said Norton, roughly, "and then we can talk business."

Rogers also departed, and his manner was that of a dog that has been kicked very often, and has always deserved it.

It was Nick's game to be entirely non-committal in this conversation. Subjects were certain to come up about which he knew nothing; as, for instance, this matter of Richard's condition. An incautious person might have risked the answer, "all right," or, "he's well enough," but Nick was too wary. For all that he knew Richard's capture might have been accomplished with violence, and the boy might be severely wounded.

At the first glance this looked nearly as bad as possible. If Norton had decided to take Richard's case out of Whitton's hands, the boy's predicament was indeed desperate.

Nick felt that it would not do to show too much anxiety to remain in charge of Richard's fate. It would be more natural for so prudent a man as Whitton to be glad to be rid of it. So he simply said:

Norton did not reply for several minutes. He seemed to be in some doubt about the proper statement of the case. When he spoke his manner showed extreme caution.

Nick knew by this that the new subject was one about which Whitton had never received any information. So he did not fear to ask questions.

"I want you to find two doctors," said Norton, "who will do anything for money."

"Yes, it will, for these doctors must have a fair standing in the profession. The higher they stand the better for me."

"Why not say a woman, and be done with it, Norton? If it was a man you'd say man."

"Come now, that's none of your business; but she is young, and she looks well enough, if that's of any interest to an old mummy like you."

"That's impossible. You'll have to work carefully, old man. No ordinary quacks will fill the bill. These men's name's must carry weight."

"It occurred to me, my respected friend, that your accomplished brother might help you out. He moves in the first circles, but I have always considered him as black an old sinner as you are."

"I've tried to work this business myself, and I don't mind confessing to you that I nearly made a break that would have ruined me eternally."

"So you said to yourself, 'Let Uncle Whitton take the risk and I'll take the profits.'"

"There's not much risk for you, and there's good money in it. I'll pay you well."

Two things were clear to Nick: first, that the woman referred to was the one whose hand had traced that line upon the postal card; and second, that Richard had discovered some part of the plot which was now being revealed, and had paid dearly for it.

He could not refuse the commission which Norton had given him; but in order to save Richard he must do the other job, or pretend to do it, so quickly as to allow him to return to his post as the boy's jailer and intended executioner.

"To return to that boy for a minute," said he, "what are you going to do with him?"

"You know what's got to be done with him. He's got hold of a secret that would simply be the end of me if it got out. There's no way to shut his mouth, except—"

"You want this woman declared insane. It's a question of money, I suppose? While she's crazy you spend her money?"

Nick waved his hands in a way to indicate that he would withdraw from the affair.

"No, no; Uncle Whit," said Norton, "I can't get along without you. I don't mind saying that you've hit it exactly."

"Well, then, instead of having her declared insane when she isn't, why don't you drive her crazy?"

"Listen. I know a physician who can do it for you. He has spent most of his life in India, and he has more Oriental poisons in his laboratory than you have fingers and toes. In an hour I can bring him to your house—"

"No, you don't, Whitton. I won't let you in as far as that. My private life has been and always shall be a secret from you, and the others who see me here. You haven't forgotten the time when you tried to track me?"

"Well, be good enough to remember that it nearly cost you your life, and that you failed."

"He has drugs that will destroy the human reason in a few hours, and leave no trace."

"By heavens, I'll make it $10,000 if necessary. But, of course, you needn't pay more than you have to."

"I'll do it, if he succeeds. Then I can have her condition certified to by the leading experts. I shall fear nothing."

"The drug exists; and luckily for you, I should say, for your other plan looks very risky to me. Lunatic asylums are not what they used to be. They wouldn't guard your fair young heiress, as we—as we shall guard that boy, for instance."

"No; and speaking of the boy, if you manage this other job as you promise, you can take charge of the other too."

"Then let it go till to-morrow night. He's safe? You left old Meg on the watch?"

"Yes. Whitton, I'm deadly impatient to get through with this business. It is desperately risky, and it wears on my nerves."

And Nick left the room by the secret door through which he had come, saying only:

"See that the doctor is admitted. He will come alone. I will return to the boy."

Chapter V.
THE PRISONER.

IN the same little room which had been the scene of the transformation of Willis Russell into old man Whitton another mystery was enacted within an hour.

This time the last flickering ray of the lamp shone upon a hideous, sallow face. About the forehead and the ears clung locks of blue-black hair that seemed to be sodden, like the hair of a drowned man.

The hands were saffron-hued, like the face, and they resembled claws. The eyes shone through great glasses, and were dark and piercing.

Such was the poisoner from the Orient who presently gained entrance into Elbert Norton's den.

There was something so mysterious and horrible about this man that even the hardened heart of Elbert Norton trembled in his bosom at the sight of him. It was fully two minutes before he could command his voice.

"Let us have no quibbling," said the visitor, with an accent suggesting foreign birth, yet giving no clue to the land which had produced this monster. "I know the work. I do not know you. I take my commission from Mr. Whitton, but I will do what you require."

They went out into the secret passage, Norton leading, but, in the darkness, the Policy Prince stepped aside, and let the other precede him. He could not bear to have that specter following him. He could feel the light of those strange eyes piercing the gloom, and striking to the very marrow of his bones.

In the lighted street Norton's courage somewhat revived. He walked boldly; and they passed through several thoroughfares toward Broadway. On one of these, where the light was least, a carriage was standing.

At a sign from Norton, the man beside him entered it; Norton followed, and the driver immediately whipped up his horses.

The stranger had taken the back seat, Norton facing him. The ride was long, but neither spoke.

At the last, Norton bent over toward the side of the carriage and seemed to be busy about something.

Suddenly the carriage stopped before a great house in which few lights were visible. The door was opened by a grave and stately butler who gave his master good evening in a solemn voice. Norton uttered no word, but hurried toward the rear of the house, the stranger following.

They reached a sort of study, furnished at great cost, but in severe and somber hues.

"Curse you," whispered Norton fiercely, "don't utter that name here. Are you mad?"

He faced about, and the stranger saw quite a different man from him whom he had confronted in the Policy Prince's private office. And yet the visitor showed no surprise. Perhaps his keen eyes had long ago read the secret of the other's disguise.

The doors were closed. They shut heavily. There was no encouragement for spies and eavesdroppers. The two were safe to speak their minds.

"Now, man, if you are a man, and not a demon," said Norton, "tell me what you propose to do."

"I have offered him an enormous bribe. You are only an instrument, and a strange one to me. But I know him."

For answer, the seeming Oriental drew from his pocket a tiny vial whose contents sparkled like the eye of a snake. Norton regarded it with concealed awe.

"You shall see her presently, but first let me caution you. If it is your purpose to question her, you will be disappointed. You shall see her only in my presence."

Norton opened the door of a little closet in the corner, and took a loose sack coat which he exchanged for that which he had been wearing. Then from a drawer of his desk he took a revolver, which he thrust into the side pocket of the coat.

"My hand," said he, "will be upon this pistol so long as you are in this house. If I see any sign of treachery, you will die on the instant."

"Never mind. It is enough that I trust nobody with my secrets. For years I have kept them by fair means and foul. I will not have them read by you. If you attempt to glean anything from this girl, you shall die."

"That will be your safest course. Now listen: some days she has been a close prisoner. She has become dangerous to me. She is now ill. I shall present you as a physician, but she may refuse your offices. If so, force must be used. Now follow me."

They passed from the study, and ascended to the third story of the house. At the end of a long hall they came to a closed door, upon which Norton knocked in a peculiar manner.

It was opened by a woman of advanced years, with a hard, cold, avaricious face. She looked at Norton with an expression in which fear and hatred struggled with a sort of greedy expectation of gain.

No other person was visible, but at the end of the room was a curtained alcove. The woman advanced toward it, and drew one of the curtains aside, disclosing a bed.

A beautiful girl lay there with her face turned toward Norton. She seemed not to be suffering from any illness, but rather to be worn and tortured by care and anxiety.

His manner showed that he had practically abandoned the idea of deceiving the girl in regard to his designs. She was in his power, and he cared nothing for her resistance, which, by the power of the fatal drug, would soon be at an end.

Her look showed that she realized her helplessness. She said nothing, as the seeming Oriental advanced to-ward her, though she could not conceal her terror at his sinister appearance.

Norton, meanwhile, stood at the man's elbow, and with his hand in the pocket which held the pistol.

The seeming Oriental lifted the hand of the girl in the manner of a doctor feeling the pulse of a patient.

Norton's eyes glared at him, but the other was perfectly unmoved. He knew that those eyes could not detect the slight movement of his finger upon her wrist.

But the girl felt it. A strange look came into her face. The finger tapped lightly: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. Then there was a pause. Again the tapping: one, two. Then the finger moved upon the wrist, describing the outline of the transposition sign as it had been made upon the card.

Norton did not see that the glasses had slipped down a little, and that the physician's eyes, which met those of the girl, were no longer threatening and terrible, but gentle and sympathetic in their expression.

The girl turned her gaze upon Norton. She could not fail to see with what watchful distrust he viewed the visitor.

Then these two were not in harmony. The secrecy with which the signal had been given proved that, without the evidence of Norton's attitude.

As to the seeming Oriental, he perceived at once that his signal had been recognized. The girl must now know him as a friend.

The physician withdrew from the girl's side, and sat down by a small table in the main apartment. He drew forth a scrap of paper, and appeared to write upon it.

Norton approached and looked over his shoulder. The paper bore many mysterious characters, and apparently meaningless figures.

"I calculate the amount required," replied the other in a scarcely audible tone.

He rose and took from his pocket the little vial, and from a case, a hypodermic syringe. As he measured out the proper quantity in the instrument, an observer less blinded by his emotion than Norton might have seen that the baleful color was not in the fluid but in the glass of the vial.

In another moment, the physician stood by the girl's bedside. He bared her arm, and, pricking the white skin, injected into the blood a minute quantity of the liquid.

Norton stood by with a face perfectly white, except where it was reddened by a single drop of blood from the lip between his clenched teeth. It is no ordinary sight to see a human mind destroyed, and Norton quailed at his own villainy.

It he had known that the dose consisted of drops of pure water, and that it was administered by Nick Carter, the detective, he would probably have been equally moved, but in a different way.

The girl lay still for a few minutes, to make sure that her jailer, the woman who had admitted Norton and the physician, did not propose to come to her.

Then she drew from a fold of the bed's covering a bit of paper. It was that upon which Nick had made his apparent calculations. The mystic characters were still upon one side of it, but upon the other were these words:

Chapter VI.
NICK HEARS A STRANGE STORY.

WHEN Nick returned to Elbert Norton's study he was overwhelmed with questions about the action of the drug which he had administered. He answered them in the way that seemed most likely to quiet Norton's nerves.

"The poison will act in about forty-eight hours," said he. "Till then, expect no change."

Though it was then past midnight, he at once went to the house of Henry Rhodes, and, according to his promise, made a report of his progress. He felt justified in giving that gentleman strong encouragement, and when the detective took his departure Mr. Rhodes' mind was easier than it had been since his son's disappearance.

There was still work before Nick that night. He must visit Norton's house once more, and study its secrets further.

There are more ways of getting into a house than by its doors. Elbert Norton guarded his approaches well, but he posted no sentry upon his roof.

If there had been one on that lofty post of duty, he might have been in Nick's way, but the owner of that palatial residence evidently feared no visitors from skyward.

However, to gain access to the roof was an easy enough matter to a person of Nick's resources. The fire escape of a neighboring building, and a rope ladder that could be carried in a pocket, were all that he required.

Meanwhile the girl whose reason Elbert Norton wished to dethrone, lay as the reader saw her last, with her eyes upon the window. In the room without, the woman with the hard, covetous face, dozed in a great chair.

It was three o'clock. Not a sound but the far-away rush of the city's never-sleeping life disturbed the night. The girl, with her eyes upon the curtained window, had almost ceased to hope.

Suddenly the curtains swayed slightly. She felt a breath of air from without. Surely the window had been noiselessly raised.

Then the curtains were drawn aside, and there appeared, in the dim light, not the swarthy countenance she had expected, but a calm, strong face, with a clear and healthy color. Nick was himself again.

He raised his hand with a warning gesture, and the girl made no sign. Nick advanced to the curtains which divided the alcove from the larger room, and looked out.

"I am employed by Mr. Henry Rhodes to find his son Richard, who has disappeared, as you know, for it was you who gave us the clue."

"I do not. I only know that he is held by the scoundrels in the pay of Carleton Lake—"

"Yes. I know that now, but for years I did not mis-trust that he was other than he seemed.

"I am his ward. My name is Edith Bland. I am the heiress of the Bland estate—that which was left by Norman Bland, who died when I was a baby. There was a great lawsuit about it. You may have heard the story."

"So I have been told, but it was proven beyond a doubt. Of course I remember nothing of that time."

"The story was that the real Edith Bland had been stolen by some of the claimants, and had died in their charge. But Carleton Lake, who was named as executor in the will, produced you, and told how you had been recovered.

"There was a peculiar birth-mark on the child's shoulder, which I think, really decided the case."

"That you are not Edith Bland; that the alleged birth-mark was produced artificially. Who you really are, I do not know; but we will leave that question. How did you come to know Richard Rhodes?"

"I must tell you to begin with, that I was brought up very carefully under Carleton Lake's eyes. I was fairly well educated, but was kept to a certain extent hidden from the world. I passed much of my girlhood in a convent in Montreal.

"For the last year, I have lived in this house. It was here I first heard whispers that Carleton Lake led a double life. In a fit of rage, I believe, the woman who now sleeps outside gave me the hint.

"I had no one upon whom to rely. It was useless to question Mr. Lake. I resolved to learn for myself.

"For weeks I vainly endeavored to trace him when he left this house. At last I succeeded. I followed his carriage in another; I saw him leave his in a side street near Broadway; and I tracked him to the door of that den of infamy on the Bowery.

"Of course I did not then know what it was, but I determined to find out. I stopped at nothing. Disguised as a poor girl, I went to the place, and saw a man called Rogers, the alleged proprietor.

"From him I learned nothing; but I was not discouraged. I made the acquaintance of the hangers-on about the place. I learned at last that it was the headquarters of the policy infamy—that lottery which robs the poor.

"I then gained all the information that I could about policy. I even visited other dens, and saw many poor men and women who had been ruined by this wretched game.

"I was resolved to know for how much misery my guardian was responsible, and I was not long in comprehending it. He was entirely unaware of my pursuit.

"But at last I met with insult, not from my guardian's victims, but from his servants in crime. A hideous wretch whom I have heard called 'Jim' accosted me at the door of the Bowery den, and spoke as no man should.

"It was then that I came to know Richard. Although this man Jim is a brawny villain, Richard struck him senseless with a single blow.

"I was trembling with fear, but Richard's manner was so calm that it quieted me. He courteously offered to escort me to my home, and then—I do not know why—but I told him my whole story.

"He found a carriage at once and brought me to this house. Afterward he came to see me quite frequently, and at last confessed to me that he had well nigh ruined himself by his passion for the miserable lottery, of which my guardian was one of the chief managers.

"He told me how he had wasted his time and his money; how he had frequented vile dens where the money of the poor is taken, and had bet heavily, and always unsuccessfully.

"Sometimes the police closed the places where he was accustomed to go, and at such times he bet with men who did business, as the phrase is, 'in their hats.' That is, they were walking policy shops.

"They took the money of their victims upon the street, and they had 'runners' who met them at various places agreed upon, and passed them slips with the results of the policy drawing.

"In those days I learned the game thoroughly; and it was that knowledge which enabled me to send the clue which so fortunately fell into your hands. It was from a printer whom the game had ruined that I happened to get the hint of the transposition sign which I used.

"After Richard had ceased to play policy, he still frequented the haunts of the villains, for he had accidentally came upon the track of a secret affecting my guardian and myself. What it was I do not know, but he told me that it was something which he considered to be worth a life-time of work."

"It was that," said Nick to himself, "which accounted for the change in Richard's demeanor, of which Mr. Rhodes spoke."

"I think that Richard must have been rash enough at last to accuse my guardian to his face," continued Edith. "Certainly his attempt to fathom the secret was discovered.

"Instantly my guardian's treatment of me changed. He made me a prisoner. Then in a ferocious rage he told me that I should see Richard no more. Incautiously, he let me know that Richard was a prisoner, and still alive.

"It was in pure malice, I think, that he made me write that card which, he said, would throw Richard's friends off the trail. Since that time, I have known nothing of the affair.

"That is impossible. It would arouse your guardian's suspicions, and make my work harder."

"I do not believe that you are in any danger here, but to guard against any desperate act of Lake's, I leave you this."

"And now, good-night. Be of good courage. You will be out of this trouble soon."

"Waste no time upon me," cried the girl, as Nick moved toward the window. "Save him!"

Chapter VII.
NICK FINDS A GUIDE AND LOSES HIM.

The voice was Whitton's; but the speaker was Nick Carter. He had resumed the form of the infamous old man, and now sat with Norton in the innermost retreat of that accomplished rascal's Bowery den.

"He was the most thorough-going servant of the devil that ever I saw," replied Norton.

"It remains to be seen, however, whether this drug will work. I have trusted to your knowledge of the man. I simply had to."

"Now for this other business. I am driving hard, old man; but when this is over, I'm going to quit these dangerous games. I don't go into this sort of thing for the love of it, but because circumstances drive me."

"No. It would be uncomfortable just now. But to business. I have decided what to do with the body."

"When the job is done, take the body out that way. In the alley you will find Jim disguised as one of those fellows who sell stale bread around the Bend. He will have his push-cart."

"Yes, Help him get it onto the cart, and well covered. Then the job's done, so far as you're concerned. Come to me, and we'll settle."

But in Nick's opinion it was far from well. He had not yet learned where Richard was. It was somewhere near Mulberry Bend, but that was very indefinite. He had suspected as much as that at the start.

He led Norton into further conversation, but gained not a hint. However, Nick had many devices in reserve for such an emergency.

"On the contrary, I think we ought to talk it over. We can't afford to miss connections in that alley."

"Very well; let him come in. He's on the watch in the private way, while Doc. Hall has gone to his supper. You must have passed him."

"Jim's there now. You can have a word with him as you go out. There's no need of bringing him in.

"And Whitton, don't let anything stand in your way. You'll make a fortune in these two jobs—enough to live on in luxury for the rest of your life. Don't fail."

Evidently Jim was not in good humor. His answers were in monosyllables, and his tone was gruff.

At this moment Doc. Hall appeared in the gloomy passage, and interrupted the unpromising conversation.

For if he could keep this man by his side for twenty minutes, the object of all his efforts could be attained. Jim knew where Richard was hidden; he would naturally suppose that his companion was going there; therefore Nick had only to allow himself to be led by this stupid fellow.

But that is not so easy as one might think. It was necessary to appear to lead while actually being led. Nick must show no hesitation, and yet, at every corner, he must wait an imperceptible fraction of a second for the other to turn.

However, this was simple enough to Nick. He kept the conversation running along easily, and managed to restore something of his companion's good nature.

So they passed through several streets and approached Mulberry. Jim was taking a somewhat circuitous way, perhaps from the habit of avoiding the scrutiny of the police, which had been necessary several times in his career.

"See here, Jim, I'm a good deal interested in your end of this affair. If you make any slips, it is likely to throw the whole thing back onto me.

"You ought to care. Now I'll tell you what I'd like to know. It's important. Perhaps I could give you a tip. I want to know what route you're going to take with that—that article."

Nevertheless Jim again fell to walking, and Nick gained at least two blocks. He also made some impression on the other's ill nature, which he discovered was due to jealousy.

"I'm as good a man on a job of this sort as you are," said Jim, "and I don't want any advice from you."

But Nick replied in a conciliatory vein, and succeeded in getting Jim to be considerably more civil. He was at last evidently on the point of divulging his plan, which would, of course, give Nick the location of the alley from which the body was to be taken.

"I'll tell you, old man," said Jim; "this is no fault of yours, and there's no reason why I should get my back up about it. This is my plan—"

He paused, and backed Nick into a dark nook. The promise of the disclosure was encouraging, but Nick would have preferred to continue the walk.

There were two of them. They came up somewhat hurriedly from the direction whence Nick and Jim had come.

There was a saloon with a little porch about ten steps from where the two were standing. A light door swung quite loosely on the side of the porch toward them.

The movement was made with an agility of which Nick had thought the man incapable. It was so quick that before either of the policemen had stirred, Jim had vanished.

In a second they were in pursuit. One of them ran to the other door of the saloon, which was around the corner. The other darted inside.

Nick remained where he was. There were signs of a rumpus in the saloon which lasted three or four minutes. Then the two policemen emerged.

He made a movement as if to run. Then he turned toward Nick, who had advanced somewhat toward the light.

"You can't do it, Connors," said he. "Whitton had nothing to do with this business. Come along. We've got a chance to catch that fellow yet."

"Oh, nothing much. He hit 'Pop' Heaney this after-noon, and knocked out the only tooth the old man had."

"Those fellows haven't done anything to assist the cause of justice," said Nick to himself. "But, so far as my business is concerned, they've done what they could to retard it."

Chapter VIII.
NICK FOLLOWS A FAINT TRAIL.

IF Nick had considered Blakeman's services indispensable, he would probably have joined in the pursuit of him, and would doubtless have been much more successful than the two policemen. But he did not doubt his own ability to find Richard's hiding-place without other guidance than his own wits.

There was only one question to be seriously considered, and that was the question of time. The method he proposed to adopt was a long one; and if the task was not done by midnight, the gravest results might follow.

If the offense for which the arrest of Blakeman had been attempted had been a serious one, it would have altered the conditions. Then Blakeman would probably have fled the city, or have remained for a long time in hiding. So small a matter as simple assault, however, Nick knew would not keep the man from the business he had on hand.

Blakeman would certainly be in the alley at twelve o'clock, ready to receive the body, and if it were not delivered to him, he might enter Richard's place of concealment by the secret passage, and accomplish the murder himself. This would give him a chance to tell Norton that Whitton had failed, and to gain additional reward.

Evidently Nick must hurry. However, his movements betrayed no haste, as he left the place where he had last seen Blakeman.

He strolled carelessly along the street till, at the door of a low dive, he saw the keeper of the place.

"Well, if it isn't in court, I don't mind saying that I saw you night before last about where you stand this minute. That's what you're coming at, I suppose."

"I remember perfectly. If it was necessary, to help you, Uncle Whit, I'd force my recollection a little; but this time it happens to be the truth."

"You came around the corner, from the direction of the Bowery, and went up town."

"Right, my boy. I don't think I shall have to call on you, and if I do, it won't hurt you any."

"Glad to oblige any time; but there's a prejudice ag'in me in courts. I keep out of 'em, from a feeling of dignity."

A knowledge of the people of that part of the city had helped him at the start. He knew that Carrigan was always to be found at his door at that time of night. He was as regular as clock-work.

Unhappily there were not many of whom that could be said. An hour's work at clever questioning carried him no more than a block; and the night was wearing away. It was already past ten o'clock.

Nick called a thousand devices to his aid. He mapped out a circuit, and steadily contracted it. By eleven o'clock he felt sure that he was within a hundred yards of the place of Richard's imprisonment.

At this point, he took up another clue. The reader will remember that Norton had spoken of "old Meg" as being on guard over Richard.

The name suggested little. Nick knew a dozen hags who were so called. As a clue by itself it would have been valueless, but, by narrowing the limit of the territory to be covered, Nick had made it useful. It would pay, at this point, to find out something about old Meg.

In this particular locality there were two of these characters. One of them he disposed of with a single question. The woman had died that day.

Of the other he was long in getting a trace. She had not been seen in her accustomed haunts for several days. Nobody appeared to know where she was. Evidently she was the woman he sought.

There are innumerable dark alleys in that part of the Bend. They dive under tall houses, they split into two or more separate passages. These places are the abomination of the police. If a criminal dives into one of them there is no telling where he will emerge.

Opening on one of these dim lanes is the side door of Charley Harlan's dive. There is a quiet little policy business done in one of Charley's rooms. Meg not rarely ventured a few cents on a "gig," or "dayed" a number, and she was known in Charley's place.

Sometimes she had come to the side door with her "growler" for a pint of beer. Nick had good hope of finding some trace of her there.

He advanced into the alley, and was within ten feet of Charley's side door, when somebody came out with a rush, as if a heavy boot had assisted him. The door swung wide open, and there was an unobstructed view of the interior.

Nick caught a glimpse through a passage of the dance hall at the rear. He saw the miscellaneous collection of white and black frequenters.

The "coons" especially seemed to be making an hilarious night of it. Perhaps their favorite gig, 4—11—44, had come out that day.

Some such thought passed through Nick's brain, and then, in a second, his attention was arrested and held by an object crouching against the wall of the alley.

The light, thrown backward through the crack of the open door, struck upon this object, and Nick recognized the figure of old Meg herself. In an instant he stood before her. She seemed to be stricken with horror at sight of him.

"Don't kill me, Whit," she whimpered, shrinking back as if she would press her withered body through the brick wall. "I'd a been back to him in a second; an' there's no harm done."

"He can't get away; he's too weak to move. The fever's on him bad to-day. What's the harm o' my creepin' out for a pint o' beer, an' him tied up tight, an' helpless with the fever."

She was on her knees by this time, in the dirt of the alley. Certainly her terror of Whitton was deadly.

As she knelt there a clock somewhere in the maze of buildings struck twelve. Its sharp strokes came to them through the confused sounds of the city, and the creaking music in Charley Harlan's dance hall.

The trembling hag staggered to her feet, and started on a run up the alley. Nick kept her in view.

She led him to a dim damp space between the front and rear buildings. It was paved with great stones, and was as rough as the bed of a mountain stream.

Before them the rear tenements stood. They were very old, and were supported on great stone arches in a style seen nowhere else perhaps in the great city.

Under these arches are veritable dungeons, as gloomy as any cell of the Château d'If, in which Monte Cristo languished. There are no windows, and the air has the foulness of fifty years' stagnation.

Rude doors in some of these archways were partly open, showing men and women drinking within. One of them, however, was blocked by a heavy oak door.

This Meg now approached. She drew a great key from her pocket, and presently it grated in the lock.

They entered, and saw a bare dungeon whose only furniture was a three-legged chair. A candle standing in a cracked cup on the floor gave a dim light.

Meg carefully closed the outer door, and then passed to the back of this dungeon.

She broke off with a hideous scream which was deadened horribly by the heavy arches.

The candle fell with her, and the cup crashed upon the stone. The candle flame sputtered in the slime, and went out, leaving total darkness.

Nick was never without the means of making a light. He had a contrivance of his own which he carried in his pocket.

He pressed the spring, and in an instant the vile dungeon was illuminated. Groveling on the floor was the wretched woman who believed that her last hour had come. She could not hope to escape Whitton's vengeance.

She held it, and he sprang toward a heap of straw which had evidently been Richard's bed. Ropes which had bound him were still there. Nick noticed that the ropes had not been cut. The loops which had encircled Richard's wrists were as they had been tied.

This gave Nick a ray of hope. If Blakeman had come in, and seized the opportunity to do the whole job himself, he would, in his haste. have cut the ropes. This was not certainty, but it established a ground for believing that Richard had escaped.

There was evidence of a struggle, but that proved nothing. If Richard had burst his bonds he must have struggled.

He pushed the trembling hag before him toward the rear wall, where a tall slab of stone had been displaced, revealing the entrance to a dark passage.

She sank upon the floor. A glance showed Nick that the hag's excitement had been too much for her. There was no help in her fainting body.

Snatching the light he plunged into the dark passage. It was circuitous, and in one place it divided, but Nick kept to the right, and soon reached the alley.

No door closed the passage, but a heap of stones obstructed the exit. Nick sprang over them, and stood in a narrow slit between two tall buildings.

The cart which should have been there at this hour was gone. Had it carried Richard to his grave?

Chapter IX.
THE EAST RIVER PIER.

In those words lay the only clue in Nick Carter's possession. Blakeman had spoken them.

Yes; Nick remembered Terwiliger. From all the maze of crime in the great city he was able to disentangle that thread.

Terwiliger had been murdered, and his body, weighted with stones, had been found near the end of a pier on the East River. The finding of it had been the merest accident. A grappling iron had slipped overboard, and had caught in the clothes upon the dead.

Then the mystery had been partially unraveled. Its details included nothing of interest to Nick at this time, except so far as they related to one man, the watchman on the pier.

This man had been strongly suspected of complicity in the crime. It was said that the body could not have been thrown from the pier without his connivance.

It had, however, been impossible to prove this, and the man had escaped arrest. More than that, he had held his place as watchman.

The meaning of Blakeman's words was thus plain to Nick. The watchman was to be an accessory in a new crime. Bribed by Blakeman, he was to permit the body of Richard to be cast from that pier.

But of what use were clues if Richard was dead? They could not call him back to life? On the stones partly blocking the entrance to the secret way Nick, searching for every scrap of evidence, had found some drops of blood. They were fresh. He was satisfied that not ten minutes had elapsed since they had been shed.

But if Blakeman had taken Richard's body from the dungeon he would have permitted no blood to flow. The skillful criminal dreads blood.

There was only one possible conclusion: Richard had escaped from the dungeon, and had fallen upon the stones.

No; for in that case Blakeman would still be waiting for his grim load. That Blakeman had failed to appear at all Nick knew to be an untenable theory. Upon the slime of the alley's pavement his lamp had shown him the mark of wheels freshly imprinted.

Then there was no doubt about what had happened. Richard, escaping weak with fever, had fallen upon the stones, and had lost consciousness. A minute later Blakeman had arrived. He had seen the body; had supposed that it had been left there by Whitton; and had taken it away in his cart.

It must not be supposed that these thoughts held Nick back from action. On the contrary, they occupied less than a minute. His quick mind grasped the details instantly. It was certainly not two minutes after he emerged into the alley that he was upon the street and running like a deer.

Selecting the darkest streets which led toward the pier, because Blakeman would naturally take them, Nick sped alone. Twice he was challenged by policemen, and once he dodged a bullet. But his fleetness of foot saved him.

In an incredibly short time he stood before the high, barred gate which closed the way to the pier by night.

He examined the dirt before the gate. The marks of the cart's wheels were there, readily distinguishable from the tracks of other vehicles.

Nick seized two of them, and threw all his gigantic strength upon them. They snapped like twigs. He crushed his body through the opening, and in another second was racing down the pier.

Half-way down he passed the cart. There were piles of barrels and boxes in the way. The body had thence been carried in men's arms.

Nick paused not an instant. He rushed on, but his tread was noiseless. Suddenly he sank to the planks of the pier. There was a pile of great bags in front of him, and from the other side came the sound of voices.

"What does it matter?" the words were in Blakeman's gruff tones; "he'll be dead enough when he's been on the bottom of the river a minute or two."

No description can convey an idea of the villain's voice when he uttered this word. It was the cry of desperation, and the echo of defeat.

"Tie his hands with that rope, Jack Atherton, and see that you do it well," said Nick, sternly.

Then Nick lifted the unconscious form of Richard with one arm, leaving a hand still free to hold the pistol which he had drawn on stepping from his place of concealment.

"Now, put your arm through his," said Nick to Atherton, "and if you make a break to escape you're a dead man. March!"

They advanced up the pier. At the gate stood a policeman, attracted by the appearance of the broken bars.

With an exclamation of surprise the policeman fell to his work. He slipped the handcuffs upon Atherton, and then examined Blakeman's bonds. Finding them secure, he laid a hand upon the arm of each, and led them away.

Nick, still carrying Richard, hastened up the street toward the red light of a druggist's store. There he found a man of intelligence in charge, and such restoratives as were of value were administered to Richard.

"So I escaped," he said, feebly. "There was a long, dark tunnel, and a pile of stones. I fell."

"Never mind that," said Nick, kindly. "You're all right now. There's a carriage at the door. I will take you to your father."

"I raved," muttered Richard, "for days. I don't know how long. I was crazed with fever. Then my mind came to me. I wrote—I cannot remember—it is in the straw."

Half an hour later Richard was lying upon a bed, and Henry Rhodes was bending over him.

Two physicians were also by the bed. They had made their examination, and one of them turned to Mr. Rhodes with a grave face.

"Perhaps; but in addition to the fever he has received a severe blow upon the head. His reason—"

Henry Rhodes covered his face with his hands. When he removed them he seemed to have, in a measure, re-gained his self-control.

"Mr. Carter," said he, "in my grief I must not be unjust. You have done what no other man could have done. You have brought him back to me alive."

"When you undertook this work," continued Mr. Rhodes, "I said that in the event of your success you should name your own reward. You have succeeded so far as human power could avail. Name your reward."

"Wait," said Nick. "There is more work to do. Remember we have another mystery to clear up. Who is Edith Bland?"

"I certainly should not forget her now, for it was she who gave us our first assistance. If she is in danger, Mr. Carter, save her, and you will add to the debt of gratitude I owe you."

Chapter X.
WHITTON GIVES HIS LAST TIP.

WHEN Nick Carter left the house of Mr. Rhodes he made all possible speed to Mulberry Bend. He had not forgotten what Richard had said about searching the straw in the dismal cell under the heavy archways.

In view of Richard's serious condition the importance of any writing he had left became great. Nick had determined to solve the mystery of Edith Bland, and it was possible that Richard's discoveries might be his only clue.

He felt certain that Norton would go to the gallows, if it came to that, without speaking. He might, when exposure became certain, commit suicide and cheat the law. If this happened and Richard died or went mad, the secret might remain forever undiscovered.

It was of these things that Nick thought as the train bore him down town. He had meanwhile sent word to have Whitton—in whose likeness he was still disguised—removed to police headquarters.

He had some hope that between Whitton and Jim Blakeman the secrets of the Policy Prince might get a good deal of light thrown upon them. Neither of them knew the story of Edith Bland, as he was aware, but they might give him something that would help him work up to it.

Nick approached the place of Richard's late imprisonment by the secret way. Apparently no person had passed through since he had left it.

The body of the old hag still lay over the rotting log which formed a sort of threshold to the secret door. This Nick saw as he advanced, but his attention was quickly taken by matter much more important.

"Villain!" shrieked a voice which Nick knew as that of Norton, "you have betrayed and ruined me."

"Nearly so, but sane enough so far as you are concerned. Tell me, what madness led you to betray Blakeman to the police."

"Yes, you; don't try any silly lies with me. Listen; I have secret means of information. The arrest of Blakeman was communicated to me at once. He attributed his arrest to you. He said that you passed yourself off as the famous detective, Nick Carter, and for a moment deceived him. But afterward he knew you."

"Why do you fear to tell the truth to me who knows every criminal secret of your black heart."

"Yes, that's it. If I'm lying, why am I? That question ought to be enough to convince you that I am telling the truth."

"Whitton, do you suppose I do not know your ugly face. Well, never mind. Yet tell me one thing: when you sent that doctor to me—"

"You are trying to madden me. You are playing with me. I will endure no more. Every minute I stay here is a deadly risk."

"When Blakeman bent over the body of that boy upon the wharf he heard him say that he had written Edith's secret on a paper and hidden it in the straw of this cell."

Looking through the half open doorway Nick saw both men stoop over the straw. Suddenly Whitton drew back. Then Norton sprang up.

"I have, Elbert Norton, and I shall keep it. This gives me the hold I have long wanted. Now I have you in my power."

The tone in which Norton spoke the words was harsh with deadly purpose. In another instant he had buried a great knife in Whitton's body.

The old man fell, and his hand which held the paper lay for an instant on the threshold of the secret door.

Norton, leaving his knife in the breast of his adversary, attempted to seize the paper. It vanished.

Then shriek after shriek rang out in the low, vault-like chamber. His eyes seemed to start from his head; the shrieks became wild laughter; his hands opened and shut - with that strange, purposeless motion which is the surest sign of shattered reason.

Elbert Norton had met the fate which he had prepared for Edith Bland. He had gone mad.

His cries had penetrated even those solid walls. Footsteps were heard, and then the outer door was pushed open. A helmet, a blue coat, and a shining shield appeared, for the officer stooped so much in the low doorway that his face was invisible. But the athletic figure straightened itself quickly, and a second later, at a sign from Nick, the handcuffs were snapped upon the wrists of Elbert Norton, the Policy Prince.

Nick bent over Whitton. The old man's lips were moving, but it was at first impossible to understand what he wished to say. Evidently he imagined himself to be still struggling with Norton, and his face was contorted with rage and pain.

But that expression vanished, and in its place came the old smile of petty cunning, the satisfied look of the reputed seer.

"They'll all do it, I don't doubt," said Nick, as he rose from the dead man's side, "and so this old ruffian will rob the poor of thousands of dollars even after he's dead."

But how had Whitton come there to meet his death. He should have been safely behind the bars at police headquarters.

Nick guessed the explanation, and rightly, as he learned a few hours later. The shrewd old man, while being taken from Nick's house to headquarters, had escaped from the policeman sent to guard him, and had hurried to Richard's place of confinement in order if possible to remove evidence against himself. He and Norton had arrived there almost at the same moment.

While the officer who had come to the den in response to Norton's frenzied screams was busy with his prisoner Nick had an opportunity to read what Richard had written on the paper which had cost Whitton his life and Norton his reason. It ran as follows:

"I have been crazed with fever, but my mind is now clear. I have heard that such an interval of sanity comes before death.

"As there is little hope that I shall ever escape from this place alive I must record my discovery on the slender chance that this writing will be found.

"I have twisted one hand free from the rope, but can do no more. The old woman who has guarded me has gone, but will soon return. Therefore I must hurry.

"Edith Bland, ward of Carleton Lake, of Madison avenue, is in reality the daughter of my adoptive father, Henry Nelson Rhodes.

"She was stolen when a baby to personate the heiress of the Bland estate. The real heiress died. The child was simply stolen for her resemblance.

"They counterfeited the birth-mark, and Carleton Lake has since enjoyed the profits of the estate. He has squandered much of it.

"Fearing discovery when she comes of age, he has planned to have her committed to a mad-house. The property will then remain in his hands, and he will escape an accounting. In his study, as he calls it, I heard him broach this plan to a physician who rejected it, but accepted pay for his silence.

At this point the writing ceased. Hither the hag had returned, or, as Nick thought more probable, a spasm of violent resentment had enabled Richard to free himself. This view was subsequently verified, as were Nick's conclusions in regard to the finding of Richard's unconscious form in the alley by Jim Blakeman.

When Nick emerged from the gloomy den under the arches day was breaking. He hurried at once to the house of Carleton Lake, and secured Edith's release.

She was taken to the house of her father, where Nick was again overwhelmed by expressions of Henry Rhodes' gratitude.

Other affairs engrossed the detective for a few days, and then he again called at the eminent lawyer's house. It was a scene of rejoicing and thanksgiving.

"My son is on the sure road to recovery," said Mr. Rhodes. "His own strong constitution, and, I think, the care Alice has bestowed upon him, have won the day. He will be my son by another bond than adoption, for he will marry my daughter. And what shall I say to you, Nick Carter? What can I say but what I have already said: name your reward."

However, that privilege was not his only recompense, for the lawyer's gratitude did not prove less than it seemed.

The exposure of Elbert Norton carried consternation to the gang of policy thieves who had served under his infamous leadership, and Nick had the satisfaction of knowing that his work had decreased the wretched outpour of pennies from the pockets of the poor.

THE END

BY THE AUTHOR OF "NICK CARTER"

9-19-29

or, NICK CARTER AND THE POLICY SHARPS

NO. 90 IN THE "NICK CARTER LIBRARY" SERIES

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter I. THE DEAD GIG.

Chapter II. A CLEVER HAND.

Chapter III. OLD WHITTON LOANS HIS VOICE.

Chapter IV. A VERSATILE VILLAIN.

Chapter V. THE PRISONER.

Chapter VI. NICK HEARS A STRANGE STORY.

Chapter VII. NICK FINDS A GUIDE AND LOSES HIM.

Chapter VIII. NICK FOLLOWS A FAINT TRAIL.

Chapter IX. THE EAST RIVER PIER.

Chapter X. WHITTON GIVES HIS LAST TIP.