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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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"NICK!"
"Yes, Ethel."
"I have got something here that will interest you."
"What is it?"
"A cipher letter."
"A cipher letter! Where did you find such a thing as that?"
"In Madison square; and I do not think 'find' is exactly the word to apply in this case. I discovered it. I was passing through the square, and seated myself for a moment near one of the big urns of pansies at the south-west corner. Presently a young lady came and sat down beside me. I would not have noticed her had it not been for her extraordinary beauty. I think she was the most beautiful creature I ever saw. I had a fashion-plate in my hand, which I was studying, and when I presently became convinced that the young lady was earnestly regarding me, I became more absorbed than ever in the latest styles. By and by she got up and went to the urn. She spent several moments in smelling the pansies, and in pacing a little among the roots in the dirt. She had something in her hand that looked like a lead-pencil. Suddenly she turned away, and the article was no longer in her grasp. She returned to the settee and seated herself beside me again, where she remained ten or fifteen minutes. Then she rose abruptly, and went away. I watched her until she was out of sight. Then I went to the urn and paced around in the dirt myself. In a few moments I found a small gutta-percha tube and cap, buried among the pansies. I returned to my settee with the tube, opened it, and found a sheet of paper tightly rolled inside. A glance told me that the writing on the paper was in cipher, so without making any effort to read it, I made an exact copy upon the fashion-plate. I returned the tube to the place where I had found it, and again occupied the settee."
"Did somebody come for the letter?"
"Yes. A man, as handsome as the young lady. He went straight to the urn, found the gutta-percha tube at once, put it in his pocket, and walked away."
Ethel handed her husband the fashion-plate, upon which she had copied the following words:
"Etha eedo x unda. Ingstha x edyri oofa etha rateg tepsi. Etha orpseka ustmi b isposedofi ati wunsa a ybi i.e. Ingstha x uchsa athaty ie anca umki uta etha ousehai ati ena imeti. Avehai one eeofa fo etha geday. Ehixindbla. Y illwa axpaktsie istha iteni ati viiti. Istha x etha aydi henwa y edsa y oodwi eveda istha oteni, Iti ie x amp-trapo ie illwa etga iti.
Nick glanced at the cipher letter somewhat carelessly, and then returned it to his wife.
"You found it, read it," he said. "It is probably a love-letter. I have no time to bother with it now, for I must call at Inspector Byrnes' house."
A half-hour later Nick Carter and Inspector Byrnes were smoking together in the house of the latter.
"Nick," said the Inspector, "I received a letter yesterday, to which I paid no attention at first. Later I got to thinking it over, and—well, here is the letter. Read it for yourself."
The detective took the letter, and read:
"Inspector Byrnes:
"A crime was committed one week ago in the house which for many years has been the residence of Archibald Kempton, Fifth avenue, near Thirty-ninth street. The crime was murder; the victim was a young man. The body is now concealed in the house. You may use this information as you see fit. I will reveal no more, and, shrewd as you are, you will never know
"The Writer."
"A hoax," murmured Nick.
"That is exactly what I thought," replied the inspector. " However, I sent one of my men to Kempton's house."
"Well?"
"He saw the old man, talked with him on indifferent topics, pumped the servants a little, and came away with the same opinion."
"And now?"
"I simply want your impressions regarding the letter. Ordinarily, after the investigation I have already made, I should not give the letter a second thought, but somehow this subject keeps coming up in my mind, undigested, and I thought a little pepsine, in the form of your opinion, might set me right."
"Who is Archiblald Kempton?"
"A retired banker. Rich and totally blind."
"Has he any family?"
"Two daughters."
"At home?"
"Yes."
"Everything seemed all right when your man went there?"
"Perfectly."
"The thing is a hoax."
"Undoubtedly. I get a hundred letters every year, of which this is a fair sample. Investigation proves that there is nothing in them, and the subjects are dropped. This one has haunted me, for some reason. You know there are times when impressions seem to take a forcible hold of us without any perceptible reason. In my case this is one of them."
"Do you wish me to investigate the matter any further?"
"Yes, if you feel like giving up a day or two to the matter."
"Certainly. I have nothing else on hand just now. Does the old banker receive anybody who calls?"
"Yes."
Nick rose from his chair, took a few necessary articles from his pocket, and, stepping before the long mirror in the inspector's parlor, made some rapid alterations in his appearance.
The inspector watched him critically.
"Nick," he said, when the detective was transformed into a perfect representation of a middle-aged, well-to-do gentleman, "you are the most marvelous fellow at disguises that I ever saw."
"Because I have made it the study of my life," replied Nick. "All things are possible when one is determined to accomplish them. Well, I must be off. I will see you to-morrow."
Thirty minutes later Nick Carter rang the bell at Archibald Kempton's house.
A pompous looking servant replied to his summons, and ushered him into the reception-room.
While Nick was waiting for the servant to take his card to the old man, he busied himself in studying the room in which he was seated.
Presently a large painting, which hung over the mantel, attracted his attention.
It was the likeness of a beautiful face. A young lady, scarcely past her teens, with olive complexion, coal-black hair, and midnight eyes. Hers was of the Spanish type of beauty, and every line of expression which the artist had delineated in copying nature, told of a character unusually strong and determined.
"She would make a steadfast friend, or a foe worthy of any opponent's steel," mused Nick, audibly.
"Do you think so?" asked a soft voice behind him.
Nick wheeled suddenly, and found himself face to face with the original of the painting.
He bowed low, and with genuine old-fashioned courtesy, as he replied:
"Yes, such is my impression, and I am charmed to find that the original is even more beautiful than the copy."
She did not blush at the compliment. She did not bow, or acknowledge it in any way.
"You have called to see my father, I believe," she said, courteously.
"I have requested an interview with Mr. Archibald Kempton, but I was not aware that he had—"
"'Such a beautiful daughter,' you were about to add. I am accustomed to compliments, sir, and they affect me neither one way nor the other, so, if you please, we will omit them."
Nick bowed and remained silent.
"My father has just retired," she continued, "and requested me to see you for him. I am Janet Kempton, his elder daughter. Is your business of importance?"
"Not particularly. It relates to a transaction which a client of mine had with him years ago. I can call again, to-morrow."
"You prefer not to tell me about it?"
"It would be an unnecessary infliction upon you, Miss Kempton. Is your father's health good now? I have not seen him in years."
"He is not very well; we think that he is failing."
"Indeed! Will he be able to see me to-morrow?"
"Perhaps. I cannot say."
"At what hour would it be best for me to call?"
"Between four and six in the afternoon."
Nick rose and prepared to take his leave.
He felt that for some reason the young lady did not wish to have her father interviewed that night, and that she had purposely foiled him in the effort.
There was an air about her of quiet resolve and keen scrutiny which set him to thinking.
When Nick left the mansion a few moments later, he carried with him an uneasy recollection of the smile which Janet Kempton had bestowed upon him as he bade her good-night.
"By Jove!" he muttered, pausing for an instant upon the corner; "that woman—or girl—is either an immaculate saint or an incarnate fiend, for there isn't a half-way post in her entire make-up. I'm going to find out if she lied to me before I sleep to-night, just as sure as my name is Nick Carter."
Then he hurried away down the street.
At 9.15 the same evening the bell of the Kempton mansion rang again, and the servant found a negro in livery at the door, who said that he had a package which he was instructed to give into Mr. Kempton's own hands that night.
"CAN'T I take it up to him and bring you a receipt?" asked the servant.
"No. I wish you could. My orders were to gib de package to de banker myself."
"Very well; come with me."
The negro was led up the stairs to the front room on the second floor.
The servant rapped softly on the door, and was bidden to enter in a voice which Nick (for he was the negro) rightly guessed belonged to the old man.
The next moment he stood before him.
Archibald Kempton had not retired, and evidently had no thought of doing so for some time. He was sitting in an easy-chair near the window, smoking a cigar, and enjoying the evening breeze, for the night was very warm.
Nick delivered the package, and was backing out of the room, when the old banker said:
"What is this, and who sent it? I cannot see, you know."
"It is a book, sir. My master wrote it and wished you to have it read to you."
"Who is your master?"
"Edgar Saltus, sir."
"Oh! All right. Thank him for me. I never knew him, but I will have the book read to me, and will send him a note about it."
Nick said good-night, and followed the servant from the room.
At the foot of the stairs in the hall, they came face to face with Janet.
"You have disobeyed me, John," she said, sternly. "If you repeat the offense it will cost you your place," and she turned haughtily away.
"Golly!" said Nick, when he was outside the door, while John lingered a moment there with him; "dot missus o' yourn made me creep, an' jes' cos you took me to see de ole man. Don't you dare to take nobody up to him?"
"No, not without first telling her."
"But s'posen she's out, eh?"
"Then the caller has to call again when she is in. Mr. Kempton is sick, and—"
"He seemed purty well."
"He has a bad spell every day, and they think he's getting worse."
"Oh! Say, Mister John, my master would like to know all bout Mr. Kempton. Jes' tell me 'bout dem spells, will you?"
"There's nothin' to tell."
"What time do they come on?"
"Just after he goes to bed at night."
"What are they like?"
"I don't know. I've got to go in now. Good-night," and John disappeared behind the door, which he closed and locked.
Nick strolled away slowly toward his own house.
"The inspector's impressions were not without foundation," he mused. "There is something going on in that house which would not bear investigation. There are two daughters; I wonder where the other one is, and what she looks like. One thing is certain. Janet Kempton lied to me to-night, and I would like to know her reason for doing so. She does not want anybody to see her father without her knowledge. Why? Her father has peculiar spells every night just after retiring. Why?"
He entered his house, by the secret way from the other street, and going straight to his own apartments, was soon Nick Carter again.
"Well, Ethel," he said, when he joined his wife a little later, "have you made out the cipher?"
"No, and Chick and I have been at work on it ever since you went out."
"Let me see it again."
Ethel handed it to her husband, and he bent his energies to the work of reading the cipher.
Suddenly he laughed.
"Why, it's perfectly easy," he said.
"Eh?" said Ethel.
"What?" muttered Chick.
"It's plain, downright English," continued the detective. "Very English, in fact, as it is nothing more than the dialect employed by London thieves, slightly changed and improved. I confess, though, it would puzzle anybody who had never heard of it."
"Read it," said Ethel.
"No. Let Chick read it. Here, pass it to him, and we will see what he is made of. Now, Chick, what is the first word you see there?"
"Etha."
"Exactly. Strike out the last letter altogether. Have you done that?"
"Yes."
"Now, you have 'e—t—h.' In this dialect, whenever the letters t and h come together, you use them together; therefore take 'th' and place them before the only letter you have left. What do you get?"
"The!"
"Good. What is the next word?"
"Eedo."
"The vowel 'o' means that the consonant which precedes it remains where it is while you also borrow one from it to use as you did the 'th,' always destroying the last vowel. Now, what do you find?"
"Deed."
"We have 'the deed.'
"The letter 'x'—"
"Which means a verb which the sense of the other words will supply, so pass to the next. What is it?"
"Unda."
"Well, work it out yourself."
"I strike off 'a.'"
"Yes."
"And place the consonant before the remaining letters!"
"Yes."
"What is the next?"
"I get 'dund.'"
"No, you don't. There is no vowel 'o' there to tell you to repeat the 'd'; you get 'dun,' which is a short way of spelling 'done,' 'x' means either 'is' or 'was.' See? Therefore—"
"It reads, 'the deed is (or was) done,'" said Chick, greatly elated.
"Right. Now, what is the next word?"
"Ingstha."
"Strike out 'a.'"
"Yes."
"Transpose 'th' as before, and read—"
"Things."
"The next word?"
"Is the letter 'x.'"
"'Things' being plural, 'x' represents 'are' or 'were' in this case. Now the next."
"Edyri."
"The letter 'i' is used the same as 'a,' and means nothing. Therefore we have 'redy,' which means 'ready.' Now, give me the remainder of that sentence."
"'Orfa etha rateg tepsi."
"Ah! There is but one word there which needs explanation. That is 'rateg.' It does not end in a vowel, and therefore we simply transpose the ending consonant and read 'grate,' which means 'great.' 'Orfa etha tepsi, is 'for the step,' following the rule I have already given you. What have we read so far?"
"'The deed is done. Things are ready for the great step.'"
"Good! Now read on."
"'Bthea orpseka ustmi b isposedofa ati wuns a ybi u!'"
"Hello!" cried Nick, who understood the letter as well when spoken as in reading "This thing is getting interesting. Can you read it, Chick?"
"'The korpse (corpse) must be'—what is the next word?"
"There are two together. Pronounce them quickly, without the final 'i'. What do they sound like?"
"'Disposed of.'"
"Exactly. 'The corpse must be disposed of at once' (wunsa is arbitrary, and means once, a means and, and u means precisely what it is, you), 'and by you.' Here, Chick, let me have it, and read the whole thing. I begin to think that Ethel stumbled upon a genuine case.
"'The deed is done. Things are ready for the great step. The corpse must be disposed of at once, and by you. Things are such that you can come to the house at any time. Have no fear for the aged. He is blind.'" Nick whistled softly and then continued. "'I will expect you this night at eight. This is the day when I said I would leave this note. If you are prompt, you will get it. Y.'"
Nick paused, while Ethel and Chick both gazed expectantly into his face.
He remained silent for several moments.
"Ethel," he said, presently, "describe the young lady whom you saw leaving this note in Madison square."
"She was taller than I. Very dark; black eyes; black hair; red cheeks; low, straight brows; features as perfect as a Greek goddess. Her fingers were long and slender, and she wore a small serpent-ring on the third finger of her right hand. The serpent's head was raised as if to strike, and—"
"That will do. I know her."
"You do?"
"Yes, Did you notice a small mole on the back of the left hand, near the middle knuckle-joint?"
"I did."
"Good! What time is it now?"
"Half-past ten."
Nick rose.
"Are you going out again to-night?"
"Yes."
When Nick was again in the street he was dressed as an ordinary all-around tough.
He hurried along the street, until he stood once more before the door of the house occupied by Archibald Kempton, the blind banker.
Nick sought shelter in the portico of a house just opposite the one he was engaged in watching.
It was half-past twelve when the door of Kempton's house opened, and a man came out.
He started at a brisk walk down Fifth avenue to Twenty-ninth street, and thence through to the Gilsey House, which he entered.
Nick's dress would not permit him to enter the Gilsey, and so he loitered outside for a while, waiting to see if the man whom he was following would come out again.
In about twenty minutes he did so, passing through to Sixth avenue, thence down to Twenty-eighth street, and then westward again until he reached a large row of flats.
Nick was now in a neighborhood where his costume was exceedingly appropriate, and he was quite close to his man when he entered the flat.
The stranger rang no bell, but walked directly in, and Nick, nothing loth, entered also, only a few feet behind him.
The man turned and faced Nick when he entered behind him, and by the light in the hall the detective had an excellent view of his features.
The look which he bent upon Nick when he turned in the hall-way was one of idle curiosity, such as one gives who turns to see who is behind without an idea of knowing any the better when he sees the strange face again than he did before.
After the idle look, he continued on his way to the stairs, and was about to ascend when he turned again.
"My friend," he said to Nick, "you look like a man who would not object to earning a few dollars."
"If I could do it honestly," replied Nick, with a grin.
"Of course. That goes without saying. You look as though you had made the acquaintance of several detectives in your time; have you?"
"Well, yes; two or three."
"I thought so. Who is the best one in the city?"
"A feller named Philips, I think."
"Do, eh? Could you find Philips for me to-night?"
"Oh, I kin find him, but he won't come here, ef that's what you mean. He never calls on clients. They have to go to him."
"Where does he live?"
Nick gave the number of a house in West Tenth street that he owned, which was at that time tenantless, although thoroughly furnished.
"He won't come to me, eh?" asked the stranger.
"No; he never does."
"Then I won't go to him either, but here's a dollar for your trouble. Good-night."
THE stranger went on up the stairs, while Nick pretended to enter the apartments on the second floor.
In reality, he paused and listened intently until he heard his man go into a door on the top floor.
"Now," muttered Nick, "I must get Mr. Philips ready to receive you, for late as it is, I am very much mistaken if you are not in West Tenth street inside of an hour."
Nick hurried away, boarded a down town train on the Sixth avenue elevated, and rode to Eighth street.
He soon reached the house, and twenty minutes later he was sitting in the back parlor reading, and looking as though he had always lived there.
An hour passed, and just as he was beginning to think that perhaps he had been mistaken after all, the door-bell rang.
"Ah!" said Nick, but he continued smoking until the bell rang the second time, more loudly and impatiently than before. Then he rose and went softly to the door.
He turned the key and the knob noiselessly, and then with a sudden motion, threw the door wide open.
The man on the steps started, for he had not heard a sound.
"What do you want?" demanded Nick, gruffly.
"A man named Philips, detective," replied the caller.
"What do you want of him?"
"I'll tell him, when I see him."
"Well, you see him now; what do you want?"
"I want to engage your services."
Nick led his caller to the back parlor, requested him to be seated, and remained standing himself.
"Well, sir?" he said. "What is your business with me?"
"I want you to find a child for me. It was stolen one year ago in London, but brought to New York immediately afterward."
"How do you know that the child was brought to the United States after it was stolen?"
"Because I saw it here with its nurse, in the Fifth Avenue Hotel, eight months ago, this very day."
"That would be the fourth of last October."
"Yes."
"Why didn't you recover the child then?"
"Because I was outwitted."
"What is the child's name?"
"Eldridge Marcy."
"How old is he?"
"Fifteen months."
"Any marks?"
"Yes; his name is tattooed on his left shoulder, in script."
"Whose child is he?"
"My sister's."
"Who stole him?"
"His nurse and a man who acted as her accomplice."
"The nurses' name?"
"Jane Denning."
"What is your name?"
"Mortimer Guernsey."
"Your address?"
"The Gilsey House."
"What am I to do when I have found the child?"
"Inform me."
"Nothing more?"
"No. Will you take the case?"
"Yes. I shall begin at the fourth of last October at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and work from there. You may call on me a week from to-night, at the same hour."
"Very well. Good-night."
Mortimer Guernsey rose and took his hat.
He was a handsome specimen of manhood, and there was absolutely nothing in his face to betray the fact that he was not utterly and thoroughly above reproach.
Nick saw him to the door, and bowed him out with the same grave and dignified air which he had worn during the entire interview.
But the door was no sooner closed than he sprang into the front parlor, and pressed his face against the window in order to watch the departure of Mortimer Guernsey.
Guernsey, instead of walking down the street and disappearing after the manner of most men when leaving a house where they have been making a call, darted across to the opposite side, and stepping into a dark doorway, waited and watched.
"Very kind of him, I'm sure," muttered Nick, and while still watching his man through the window, he destroyed the identity of Mr. Philips, detective, and became a gentleman of fashion.
Guernsey waited in the doorway fully half an hour, and then, probably satisfied that the detective would not come out that night, sauntered away, going toward Fifth avenue.
But he had not gone far when Nick was out of the house and after him.
He used his utmost caution, keeping in the shadows, and darting from place to place in order to avoid being seen.
Nevertheless, when Guernsey reached the corner of Fourteenth street and Fifth avenue, Nick saw that he knew that he was followed.
But how?
Nick had not betrayed himself in any way; he was positive of that.
There was not his equal in New York in expert shadowing. How then had he been discovered?
Perhaps he had not been. It might be only a regular habit of caution which prompted Guernsey to resort to the peculiar method he had adopted.
At all events he stopped on the corner of Fourteenth street and waited.
Nick stopped also a considerable distance behind, and well concealed in a dense shadow.
Guernsey tapped the toe of his boot impatiently with his cane, and then suddenly walked briskly, directly toward the detective.
Nick stood perfectly still, expecting the man to pass, but he did not.
On the contrary, he paused directly in front of him, and said with an ironical smile on his face:
"Good-evening, Mr. Philips."
Nick was disgusted.
"Are you addressing me, sir?" he asked, haughtily.
"Yes; I was."
"Then you have evidently made a mistake, for I neither know you, nor the person by whose name you called me."
"Nevertheless, you are Mr. Philips. I waited outside for you for some time, and then concluded that you had seen me go into the doorway opposite, so I started on, expecting you to follow. You did so, and here you are. I am not offended. Come, confess that you wished to know whom you were working for."
Nick saw that it would be best to be frank, and so he laughed and said:
"All right, Mr. Guernsey. You are sharper than I thought you. You have got me this time. It will be my turn next."
"Well, do you want to go with me to the hotel, and ask the clerk who I am?"
"Not now. To-morrow will do."
"Then, so we part here?"
"Yes."
"A genuine parting? Because I shall object if you persist in following me."
"Yes; we'll part for good this time."
"Then good-night. I will call upon you as agreed, in one week."
"Very good, sir."
Nick turned away.
It was the first time in his life that he had been discovered shadowing, and he felt it keenly.
He took good care to see that Guernsey did not turn the tables on him, and do some shadowing on his own account.
Then he boarded a car and went to Twenty-eighth street, intending to visit the flat where Guernsey had gone when he first left the Kempton Mansion.
But he took the precaution to first resume the garb and manner of the tough.
Reaching the flat, he found no difficulty in entering and mounting to the top floor.
Becoming satisfied that there was no one inside, he resorted to his pick-lock, and silently opened the door.
As he stepped through, he heard a low laugh, and looking up, found that he was face to face with Guernsey.
FACE to face with Mortimer Guernsey, and under circumstances which would justify him in shooting down the intruder mercilessly.
But he evidently had no intention of doing any such thing.
He only laughed mockingly, as though the scene was to him one of intense enjoyment.
"Well, my friend," he said, presently, for Nick would not speak first, "you make your calls at an unreasonable hour."
"I do, hey?" replied Nick, in a voice which Guernsey could not possibly recognize. "I never call exceptin' about this time, 'r mebby a mite earlier."
"Did you expect to find something of value here?"
"Well, I didn't expect to find you."
"And now that you have, what shall I do?"
"Put yer hans up," said Nick, suddenly drawing a revolver and pointing it straight at Guernsey's heart.
But he only laughed again; not uneasily, but with genuine irony.
"I shall not put up my hands," he replied, calmly; "neither will you use that weapon, so return it to your pocket. Murder is a worse crime by far than simple burglary, and I am not sure that I will give you up for that, even. Come, put away your pistol, for I know you will not use it."
Marveling somewhat at the iron nerve displayed by Guernsey, Nick complied, and returned the weapon to his pocket.
"Good!" said Guernsey. "You are a sensible fellow, after all. Now tell me why you came to this apartment."
"For the same reason that I would ha' gone to a bank instead, ef I could ha' got inter one."
"Exactly, to rob."
"No; to borry. The pawnbroker does the robbing."
"Come inside," said Guernsey, stepping back into the room. "I would like to talk with you a little. Do you know, if you had been fifteen minutes later, you would not have found me—nor anything else, either, for that matter. What's you name?"
"Kempton," said Nick, playing a bold hand.
"Eh?" half exclaimed Guernsey, for the first time startled a little out of his sang froid.
"Dick Kempton."
"Burglar, thief, pickpocket, cut-throat, and general all-around crook; eh, Dick?"
"I s'pose so."
"Getting rich?"
"No."
"Want to?"
"Cert," and Nick grinned as though well pleased. "Got a job on hand?" he added.
"Yes."
"Want help?"
"Yes."
"I'm your huckleberry."
"Yes, I think you are. Ah, this is my little room where I hold private conversations; step in."
For one instant only Nick neglected his usual caution.
He allowed himself to pass in front of Guernsey, and for a second his back was turned toward him.
That second was enough.
Nick received a violent blow on the back of his head which sent him stunned and helpless to the floor, face down.
As he fell, he heard that mocking laugh which Guernsey used so much, and then, for a time, all was blank.
When consciousness returned to him, he was in total darkness, and the air he breathed was stifling.
He felt in his pockets at once, and was rejoiced to learn that Guernsey had contented himself with simply knocking him down and turning the key on him. He had evidently not considered it worth his while to search his pockets.
Nick's wonderful little lantern, which he was never without, was in his pocket.
He drew it out, opened the slide, and touched the button.
The lantern did the rest, and a brilliant ray of light shot across the little room.
An examination of the door proved it to be made of sheet iron nailed upon wood, and very strongly made.
Nick saw at once that he could not break it down, and he did not try.
The place was very close and uncomfortably warm. Not only that, but it seemed to be getting warmer every moment.
A faint smell of burning wood reached his nostrils.
Suddenly the situation forced itself upon the detective.
The flat had been set on fire.
He listened, and could hear the crackling of flames as they devoured everything they touched.
Like a rat in a trap, helpless and unable to escape, Nick was locked into a room from which there seemed to be no way of exit, while a raging fire was momentarily creeping nearer and nearer, and there seemed to be no way to escape from the miserable and awful fate.
Exerting all the great strength of which he was so thoroughly the master, Nick threw himself against the door.
The effort was useless.
It resisted the attack as thoroughly as though it were built of stone and brick.
But Nick Carter was not the one to lose his heart in the presence of danger, no matter how imminent or terrible the peril might be.
He stood back in one corner of his little prison, and thought the whole matter over as calmly as he could.
The walls of the room wherein he was confined were hard, and smooth, and firm.
The ceiling was the same.
The door had already been tried to the utmost of his strength, and had proved impassable.
He had not yet examined the floor.
There might prove to be a way of escape for him there. It was covered by a carpet, and with one bound Nick seized the edge of it, ran his finger between the tacks, and pulled.
There was a loud ripping sound, and half of the carpet was in his grasp, pulled away from its place on the floor. A quick examination revealed the fact that the floor was made of ordinary pine boards.
In Nick's pocket was that wonderful knife without which he never went abroad, and in a twinkling he had it out and was cutting away at one of the boards at a place where he could get the blade between the cracks.
When a man's life depends upon his own exertions, he can work with quadruple strength and swiftness, and only a few seconds elapsed ere Nick had succeeded in cutting a place large enough for him to insert the fingers of both his hands.
Returning the knife to his pocket he seized the board and pulled upon it with all his strength.
It gave a little; then more and more, until suddenly with a loud snap it came loose in his hands, torn from its fastenings by Nick's gigantic strength.
He seized another in the same way, and then another.
By great good fortune the house had been cheaply built, and the floors were not double-boarded.
By the exercise of his phenomenal strength he had torn a hole large enough for him to pass through.
Below him were the lathes and plaster of the ceiling of the room beneath.
He raised his foot and jammed it through the ceiling beneath him.
Then he dropped upon his knees and looked down.
The room below was dark, and he could see nothing; but if was also free from fire and smoke, and he felt that he was saved.
Again he used his lantern, throwing the bright ray of light into the apartment which he was about to enter.
It was a sleeping room, but unoccupied.
The bed, which had not been disturbed, was directly beneath him.
A moment more and he lowered himself through the hole he had made, and dropped upon the bed.
With the aid of his lantern, he quickly found the door, which led into the hall, and it took him but a moment to open it and hurry out.
IT was very nearly daylight when Nick made his escape from the burning flat in Twenty-eighth street, and he went immediately home.
The night had been such that he needed some rest, and moreover, he wanted to think over the case which in so short a time had assumed such gigantic proportions.
He entered his house by the secret way from the adjoining street, and went directly to his own room.
Then, dismissing the entire subject from his thoughts, he composed himself for two hours of solid sleep.
At the end of that time he arose and went to his desk, for he sometimes indulged in the habit of thinking with his pen, when he wished to be unusually logical and sequential.
"First," he wrote, "Mortimer Guernsey was undoubtedly sincere in engaging Detective Philips to find the child Eldridge Marcy.
"Second—the accomplice of Jane Denning was no other than Guernsey himself, who has been in some way foiled in his purpose by the nurse, Jane.
"Third—Jane has succeeded in eluding Guernsey, and in keeping the child. He cannot find it.
"Fourth—the reasons which existed for the abduction of the child have come to an end, and Guernsey is now as anxious to get the child in his possession as he was once to steal it.
"Summary No. 1: If I find Jane Denning and the child, I will find out from her much that has influenced Guernsey's acts for the last two years, and consequently the relation which he bears to Janet Kempton and the probable crime in which she has assisted.
"Again, first—there is no doubt that a crime has been committed at the Kempton Mansion, or near it, in which Janet Kempton and Mortimer Guernsey are implicated, and probably others as well.
"Second—the crime was murder, and the body has not yet been disposed of, unless it was done while I was struggling to escape from the burning flat.
"Note: this is probably the case, and to it may be assigned one of Guernsey's reasons for confining me there.
"Third—the apartment in Twenty-eighth street was occupied by Guernsey for some reason which I must discover. The probable reason is that he meant to leave the body of his victim where he left me, and destroy it as he attempted to destroy my life.
"Fourth—Guernsey is a man who is exceptionally shrewd and far-seeing. He would have made a good detective. He was at the Kempton's Mansion when I called there each time, and it may be that he saw me waiting outside before he came out shortly after midnight. If so, he knew that I was following him. Now, how does he know so much?
"Summary No. 2: Either he wrote the letter to Inspector Byrnes, or he knows that it was written. It may be that Jane Denning, suspecting what was going on, wrote it, and then warned Guernsey of the fact that she had done so.
"Being warned, or knowing beforehand that he would be it does not seem logical that he wrote the anonymous letter, he was on the watch for detectives, and therefore 'tumbled' to me at once.
"Grand summary: If he knew that I was a detective in the disguise of a city rough, why did he ask me to send him to a detective to whom he could intrust an important case?
"The man is shrewd. He thought that by employing me, he might bribe me to leave him alone. When he found that I stuck to him so persistently, he knew that he could not. I did not fool him with the identity of Philips.
"He knew that the tough and Philips were one and the same. Why then did he give me a bona fide case?
"Because of the hope of bribing me; and failing to do that, because he could, by that means, lead me into some trap where he could destroy me.
"Conclusion: The crime referred to is so vague, that it must be discovered by roundabout methods.
"First: Guernsey must believe me dead.
"Second: I must find Jane Denning.
"Third: I must watch Janet Kempton.
"Fourth: I must know something of Janet's unknown sister.
"Fifth: When informed on these four points, the history of the crime, the motive, and the identity of the victim will all be established."
As soon as Nick had eaten his breakfast, he hurried to the office of Inspector Byrnes.
"Well, inspector," he said, "your impressions were correct; the letter which you received was not a hoax, and I am on the track of remarkable developments. Read that."
He handed the inspector the notes he had written, and then related his experiences of the preceding night.
"Now, sir," he said, in conclusion, "do you wish me to continue the thing, or would you prefer to delegate it to one of your regular staff?"
"I want you to stick to it, if you will?"
"Certainly I will."
"This fellow Guernsey is a shrewd one, isn't he?"
"The shrewdest I ever tackled yet."
"And he tried to burn you up."
"Yes, and almost succeeded, too."
"Well, Nick, you have some of the narrowest escapes of any man I ever heard of; but you always seem to come out all right."
"Inspector, I want you to do just one thing for me in this case."
"What is it?"
"Do you know anybody whom you could trust, whose recommendation would bear weight with Archibald Kempton?"
"Let me think. Yes; I believe I do."
"Who?"
"Sylvester Schuyler. He and I are great friends, and I would not be afraid to trust him implicitly. What do you want?"
"Have Schuyler call on the old man and advise him to employ a secretary or something of the kind. Let him tell him that he knows the very man for the place, and recommend me."
"By what name?"
"Any. Richard Jones will do."
"When?"
"Right away."
"It shall be done to-night."
"Good. I want a situation in that house for a few days, or a week."
"I can send one of my men to do that."
"No; I prefer to do it myself. Do you know anything about Kempton's daughter?"
"Very little. There are two."
"Yes. Janet, and—what is the sister's name?"
"Yolande; why?"
"The cipher note was signed Y. Have you ever seen Yolande?"
"Several times."
"And Janet?"
"Yes."
"Do they look alike?"
"Not at all."
"Janet is very dark—"
"And Yolande is a decided blonde."
"Indeed! Be sure and have your friend Schuyler fix that matter for me, will you?"
"Certainly. I will send you word in the morning."
"Thanks."
Nick went from the inspector's straight home.
"Chick," he said, "I want you to do a little detective work."
"Yes sir."
"A woman named Jane Denning was at the Fifth Avenue Hotel with a child named Eldridge Marcy, the fourth day of last October. I want to find both."
"Yes, sir."
"Do you think you can do it?"
"I can try."
"Very well. Try!"
Chick went out and Nick began some important changes in his disguise.
His purpose was to work but two identities for the next few days, and they were so entirely different in character, and yet so similar in design, that he employed great care in getting ready for both.
He used up nearly three hours in preparations, which with him was an unprecedented occurrence.
At the end of that time, however, it is doubtful if even Ethel would know him.
He was thoroughly the elegant gentleman.
His costume was faultless. His dark, curling hair and exquisitely trimmed Van Dyke beard were works of consummate art. A brilliant diamond glittered in his shirt-front. Rimless eye-glasses were upon his nose, and in short, he was a perfect representative of a thoroughbred gentleman who had come to New York to enjoy life, and to mix in society to his heart's desire.
Then he packed two trunks, filling one with articles for various disguises, which he might or might not want, and the other with the necessaries of his position as Maxwell Vane, of Boston.
"Ethel," he said, a few moments later, "I may not come here again for several weeks, except as far as the front door with a message, or just to catch a glimpse of your face. The fellow I am after thinks that I am dead, and I want him to think so for some time to come."
"If any body calls for me—no matter who, manage to convey the impression that I have mysteriously disappeared."
A half-hour later, Nick was at the Grand Central Depot, and before long he was driven to the Gilsey House, trunks and all.
There he secured rooms under the name of Maxwell Vane, Boston.
He wrote a note to Inspector Byrnes at once, sending it by a messenger boy, and promptly received a reply which brought a smile of pleasure to his face.
The note which he sent to the inspector, read as follows:
"My Dear Sir:
"I have just arrived from Boston, and have unfortunately lost the address of my old friend Sylvester Schuyler. Remembering that it is known to you, I venture to request that you will apprise him of my arrival. I shall remain a week or more, perhaps, and wish him to make me known to some of his friends, notably a beauty to whom I have heard him refer several times. Miss Kempton I think was her name. "If you could get word to him so that he would call this evening, I would consider it a favor. I am, yours very truly,
"Maxwell Vane."
"P.S.—The facts communicated to you in my last still hold good as per our little agreement, M.V."
It was an ambiguous note, but Nick knew that the inspector would thoroughly understand it.
The reply was as follows:
"Mr. Maxwell Vane:
"My Dear Sir:—
Your favor received. Mr. Schuyler was with me at the moment. He is pleased to know that you are here. He bids me say that he will call for you this evening at 8:30; that he would like you-to go out with him. etc. He will be delighted to meet an old friend again. I note your postscript. Very truly,
"T.H. Byrnes."
During the early part of the evening, Nick managed to look over the register of the hotel, and he discovered that chance had performed a service for him in placing him in the rooms opposite those occupied by Mortimer Guernsey.
Whether or not any advantage would be gained by that fact, he could not say, but it certainly afforded better opportunity for observation than though they had been wide apart.
At 8:30 Sylvester Schuyler's card was brought to him in his room.
NICK ordered that Mr. Schuyler be shown at once to his room, and had there chanced to be an eavesdropper who could have seen their meeting or overheard what passed between them, he would have reported a commonplace meeting between two old friends, and nothing more.
"When did you arrive?" asked Schuyler, who was in every sense a genuine New York society man.
"This afternoon," replied Nick.
"You are just in time, for I am going to call, this evening, at a house which contains the most beautiful creature in New York."
"Do you mean Miss Kempton?"
"Yes."
"Is not her sister beautiful, also?"
"Miss Yolande? No—not particularly. She is interesting, but rather too angelic, don't you know."
"Ah—yes. Had we not better be starting?"
"At once. Come along."
As they passed through the hotel office, Nick brushed elbows with Mortimer Guernsey, but neither bestowed more than a passing glance upon the other.
Schuyler evidently did not see Guernsey at all, for he was walking on when the latter accosted him.
"Schuyler!" he said, and Nick's friend turned and bowed coldly.
"Good-evening, Mr. Guernsey," he said, with haughty politeness. "I did not recognize you as we passed."
"So I perceived," returned Guernsey lightly, and in a tone which plainly meant that he put a different meaning to Schuyler's remark. "Won't you and your friend join me in a bottle of wine?"
"Thank you, no; we are going out. Allow me; Mr. Vane, Mr. Guernsey."
The two men acknowledged the introduction by a bow. They were not near enough to shake hands.
"You will excuse us now, would you, Mr. Guernsey?" continued Schuyler.
"Oh, certainly. Good-night."
"Good-night."
"Who was that?" asked Nick, as soon as he and Schuyler were in the street.
"A fellow whom I don't like," replied Schuyler.
"That was evident; but may I ask why?"
"No, sir; you may not. I am willing to do all that I am doing for Inspector Byrnes, even to introducing a man whom I do not know to my best friends. You may be the worst scoundrel unhung, or the best fellow alive for aught I know, Mr. Vane, but I shall not go one step farther in this matter than I agreed to, with the inspector."
"Very good, Mr. Schuyler, I do not blame you. If I trespass beyond the limit, do not hesitate to say so. We will endeavor to be friends in fact as well as in name."
"I trust that we may."
"This man Guernsey interests me. He has a handsome face and a very genial air."
"Very."
"Does he know the Kemptons?"
"I believe he does."
"Ah! calls there frequently, I suppose."
"Yes, since the old man became blind. He never did before."
"Why, I wonder?"
"So do I. I would give much to know."
"Perhaps I may be able to inform you before long, Mr. Schuyler. Shall I tell you a secret that I have discovered?"
"If you please."
"Very well. A gentleman of my acquaintance, named Sylvester Schuyler, is in love with Janet Kempton."
"Sir—"
"And the day will come before you are a month older, when you will disdain Janet Kempton more than you love her now."
"Sir—"
"Wait. Let your anger be tempered by the thought that Inspector Byrnes, in whom you have great faith, would tell you the same thing."
"I will ask him."
"Do."
They walked on in silence until the house was reached. They were ushered at once into the parlor, and presently Janet Kempton was for the third time in the presence of Nick Carter, although she did not know it.
Introductions were formally made between Nick and Janet, and also to Yolande when she entered, which was very soon after her sister.
Nick exerted himself to his utmost to be agreeable, and succeeded so well that even Schuyler looked upon him with astonishment.
At half-past nine, Schuyler requested permission to go up stairs, and call upon the old gentleman, which he secured, leaving Nick alone with the young ladies.
Notwithstanding the fact that they were spoken of as twins, the sisters were as unlike as two persons could be.
Yolande was the exact opposite of Janet in every way.
Janet was dark to swarthiness and Yolande was golden-haired and pale.
Janet was a woman upon whose face great strength of character for good or evil was written, while Yolande's face would at once be pronounced infinitely good, though rather weak.
Janet was bold and fearless in her manner. Yolande was timid and wayward in hers.
Schuyler had been gone but a few moments when Mortimer Guernsey was announced.
"Ah!" he said, when he saw Nick; "I suspected that Mr. Schuyler was bringing you here. Had I known it of a certainty, I should not have intruded."
"I am sure that I am delighted to meet you so soon again," replied Nick, speaking the absolute truth. "I believe we are stopping at the same hotel, are we not?"
"Yes; I think so; the Gilsey."
"We may have an opportunity of improving our acquaintance there."
"I hope so. Ah, ladies, we are to be honored by your father's presence to-night."
Nick thought that he noticed a quick flush sweep over the face of Mortimer Guernsey as he spoke, and he was sure that the shadow of a frown darkened Janet's brow for an instant.
Schuyler was walking down the parlor with Archibald Kempton, the blind banker, on his arm.
He bowed coldly to Guernsey and then said:
"I have persuaded your father to join us down here. Mr. Kempton, allow me to introduce my friend from Boston, Mr. Vane. Vane, shake hands with the best friend I ever had."
"Strong words, Sylvester, my boy," murmured the old man.
"I cannot make them half strong enough. By the way, sir, you of course know Mr. Guernsey."
"Guernsey—Guernsey? No, I think not. Is he here?"
"Yes, Mr. Guernsey won't you shake hands with Miss Kempton's father?"
The scene was full of interest for Nick, for he plainly saw that there was a powerful under-current at work somewhere, though what it was he could not yet determine.
Guernsey stepped forward in response to Schuyler's request and touched the old man's hand rather weakly, murmuring a few words of acknowledgment in an undertone as he did so.
Nick saw Janet's lips tighten a little over her ivory-like teeth, and wondered what the cause was.
He was guessing, but he had not quite made up his mind yet.
Guernsey, who was usually so talkative, remained silent, except that he now and then addressed a few words in an undertone to Yolande, who sat near him.
Schuyler kept up a brisk conversation with the old man, while Nick devoted himself to Janet.
Suddenly, Schuyler, who had been talking politics with the host, appealed to Guernsey for his opinion, so that he was obliged to answer at some length.
The banker listened gravely, and then, without replying to the remarks that had been made, addressed himself directly to Guernsey.
"Did I understand your name to be Guernsey?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Strange. Your voice sounds very familiar to me, and yet I never knew any one by that name."
"His voice sounds strangely unfamiliar to me," thought Nick, "and he is evidently doing his best to disguise it without making the change marked enough for the rest of us to notice it."
"A coincidence, I suppose," said Guernsey, in reply to the banker.
"Probably."
"Of whose voice does Mr. Guernsey remind you, sir?" asked Schuyler, with the utmost innocence, seemingly.
Guernsey's face did not change, but if the glance of eyes could kill, Sylvester Schuyler would have fallen dead then and there.
Janet, also, cast one instantaneous glance of anger upon the meddlesome caller.
"This is rich," thought Nick. "My new friend, Schuyler, is a prize. He has got a private ax to grind for some reason, and he is playing directly into my hand after the most approved style."
"I beg Mr. Guernsey's pardon for noticing the likeness in his voice to a man whom I have every wish to forget. Mark Granger was a handsome fellow, too, but oh, what a consummate scoundrel he was!"
"Where is he now, papa?" asked Yolande, who was evidently as ignorant of the snake in the grass as any one could be.
"Dead," exclaimed the old man, "and, blind though I am, and almost helpless, if Mark Granger stood before me now alive, and I knew positively that it was he, and no other, I would, if I could, strike him dead at my feet!"
"There—there! Come, Janet; help me back to my room. I have been down too long now, I fancy. Good-night, gentlemen. Please forget that an unpleasant subject was mentioned. Sylvester, don't forget the commission I gave you."
"No, sir; I will not."
"What time will he come?"
"About eleven in the forenoon, I think."
"Make it nine."
"Very well, sir."
"Once more, good-night."
After the departure of the old gentleman, the conversation was greatly constrained, and presently Schuyler arose to take his leave.
Nick, of course, followed his example, but he succeeded in getting from Yolande a very cordial invitation to call again—an invitation which he could accept if he saw fit.
"Now tell me all about it," he said to Schuyler, as soon as they were in the street.
"About what?"
"The nigger in the fence."
"Eh?"
"The snake in the grass; the skeleton in the Kempton closet."
"What do you want to know?"
"Who was Mark Granger?"
"A nephew of the banker."
"What became of him?"
"Report said he was killed."
"When and where?"
"Two years and a half ago. He took poison, I was told."
"What is your opinion?"
"I hardly know that."
"You think that Mortimer Guernsey and Mark Granger are the same?"
"I do, certainly."
"Why are you not sure?"
"Chiefly because there is enough resemblance to unsettle me, and not enough to satisfy me."
"Do they look alike, then?"
"Very much, and not at all."
"I don't comprehend."
"Granger was very dark—as dark as Janet."
"And Guernsey is very light—as light as Yolande."
"Precisely."
"Well, cannot you account for that?"
"No. Guernsey's hair and mustache are natural if ever any were, and—"
"As natural as mine, for instance?"
"Yes."
"Mine are false, though."
"Impossible!"
"They are. But go on, for I have studied Guernsey's closely, and I will admit that they are genuine."
"Isn't that enough?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"They might have been false when they were black, or he might have dyed them."
"True; I did not think of that."
"Was Granger employed by his uncle?"
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"About two years."
"And then—"
"He went away."
"Why did he go?"
"The old man sent him."
"For stealing?"
"No—yes, for stealing."
"What did he steal?"
"Something more valuable than money."
"Ah!"
"There was another daughter."
"Indeed!"
"Younger than Janet and Yolande. He persuaded her to run away with him. They were married, but a few months later Servia returned to her home one night, and said that her husband was not her husband, that he had another wife living, and that she had left him."
"Well?"
"The next morning they found her dead in her bed."
"The banker was not blind then, was he?"
"No. He could see. He started out to find Mark Granger."
"Well? Did he find him?"
"Yes."
"And attempted to kill him?"
"No."
"No! Why not?"
"He was already dead."
"You say that the banker saw Mark Granger's corpse, and notwithstanding that fact, you believe the man to be still alive?"
"I say that he believed he had found his corpse."
"Mr. Schuyler, is there not much more to tell about the history of this family, if the telling could do any good?"
"Yes."
"On my assurance that it will do good, will you tell me the whole story?"
"No."
"Then I will tell you one part of it that you do not know."
"Very well; what?"
"The wife that Mark Granger had before he married Servia, was Janet, her sister, and the two are now plotting together to work out some scheme of villainy which you and I must prevent."
Schuyler turned slowly and faced Nick, his eyes gleaming with anger.
"Sir" he said, "I believe you to be—a liar!"
NICK was not surprised when Sylvester Schuyler expressed anger at the accusation against Janet Kempton.
To have the woman one loves accused of crime would be maddening to any man, and certainly to one who possessed the high spirit that seemed a part of Schuyler's personality.
"I forgive you, Mr. Schuyler," he said, "for I understand your feelings. I am willing that you should consider me a liar for a while, for I know that sooner or later you will come to me with an apology for that word."
"When you have proved your statement I will—not before."
"Very well. That is a bargain. Now, will you permit me to ask you a few questions?"
"You may ask them."
"Do you believe that Mark Granger is dead?"
"No."
"In your opinion, is Mortimer Guernsey Mark Granger?"
"Yes."
"If that is true, do you believe that Janet Kempton is unaware of his identity?"
"N—no."
"Being aware of it, and fully cognizant of his dastardly conduct regarding her sister Servia, is she not open to severe criticism for receiving him as she does, and for deceiving her father and others about him?"
"Yes, and yet—"
"And yet you believe that she could explain the doubts away."
"I certainly do."
"Well, I certainly do not. That's flat! Neither do you, in your sober judgment, but in your heart you seek to excuse her."
"It may be so."
"Was it ever known who was the first wife of Mark Granger?"
"Yes."
"Was Janet at home when Servia returned after leaving her husband?"
"Yes."
"Did she see Janet?"
"No; she refused to see anybody but her father."
"Exactly. She knew who it was for whom she had been made a victim. She knew that it was her own sister, I have not a doubt. Now, tell me; did Servia resemble Janet?"
"Not at all. She looked very much like Yolande."
"Are you sure that Janet is Kempton's daughter?"
"Am I sure? Of course I am!"
"Well, I am not. Mr. Schuyler, I have made physiognomy a study for many years. No matter how unlike different members of a family may be there is always a family resemblance somewhere. It may be in the expression alone, or in a mannerism; in the walk or in the voice. No matter where, it always exists. There is not a point about Janet Kempton which at all resembles any other member of the family that I have seen. Am I mistaken?"
"No; you are right. And yet the idea that she is not Yolande's sister is preposterous."
"Let us see if it is. Follow me, please."
"All right."
"I know nothing of their family history, yet I am going to guess a little, using my theory as a basis. Janet and Yolande are said to be twins, are they not?"
"Yes."
"I will wager that Mrs. Kempton was away from home at the time of their birth; in Europe, perhaps."
"She was. In Madrid, I think."
"Good; when she returned, she brought two babies—the twins, eh?"
"So I have been told."
"Now, let us get another point. How much is Archibald Kempton supposed to be worth?"
"Between one and two millions."
"Who is his attorney?"
"I am."
"Good! Do you know whether he has made a will?"
"I know that he did so a month ago."
"Is there any special mention of Janet made in the will?"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"I should be betraying confidence if I answered such a question."
"So you would; but I will make a bargain with you."
"What?"
"I will make one guess regarding the old man's reference to Janet in the will. If I guess right, you are to admit the fact. If I am wrong you will say so, and I will not guess again. Is that a bargain?"
"Yes."
"Very well. My guess is this: That the banker leaves Janet a very small amount, and states in explanation, that she had taken her part of the legacy before the making of the will, and that, therefore, he bequeaths all the 'rest, residue, and remainder' to his daughter Yolande. How is that?"
Schuyler gazed at Nick in unfeigned astonishment.
"You are a wonderful guesser," he said, dryly, "for I know that you have not seen the will."
"Then I am right?"
"Yes."
"Is anybody else benefited by the will besides Yolande?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"A person named Franklin Giddings."
"Can you remember the reference made to him?"
"The banker gives to Franklin Giddings, a copy of a Greek Testament, bound in wood, and the contents of his strong-box in the Adamant Safety Deposit Company."
"Do you know anything about either?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"The Greek Testament is a curiosity, which he always keeps locked in the desk in his room. The bindings are of wood, and thicker than the book proper."
"And the strong-box—"
"Is one of the smallest at the disposal of the company. It is capable of holding nothing but letters and papers, or small jewels."
"Have you any idea who Franklin Giddings is?"
"None."
"Hum! This is quite a complicated affair, Mr. Schuyler, but I think I am beginning to see daylight through it all. When I am sure, I will give you a peep. Now, one more question. How about the secretary?"
"He is expected at nine in the morning."
"Very well. And now, good-night. I am very greatly your debtor for to-night's work."
Schuyler bowed and walked away, and Nick entered the Gilsey House, lighted a cigar, and seated himself where he could not fail to see Mortimer Guernsey when he entered.
A half-hour later he came, and with a smile on his face, went directly to Nick.
"I am glad to find you," he said, "for I have got the dumps to-night. Will you help me dispose of a bottle of wine in my room?"
"Certainly," replied Nick, marveling at the indifference of a man who had just disposed of a fellow-creature by cremating him alive—or who believed he had done so.
They spent an hour together, resulting in no new revelations for the detective.
The only question he asked during the evening, bearing upon the case, was when the conversation drifted to the subject of their call at the Kemptons'.
Then Nick said, lightly:
"The old gentleman seemed rather down upon that fellow Granger, whoever he was."
"Yes," returned Guernsey. "He was an unmitigated scoundrel, I believe. One of the kind who are too contemptible to be mentioned in good society. I do not feel flattered by the likeness that I am told I bear to him."
Then Guernsey shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject, and soon afterward they parted.
At nine o'clock the following morning, Nick Carter, thoroughly disguised in the character of the expected secretary, presented himself at the door of Archibald Kempton's residence.
But he was not to enter just then, for a sad and sudden event had happened during the night.
Archibald Kempton was dead.
NICK CARTER considered himself always prepared for surprises, but he was, for a moment, rather nonplused by the unexpected circumstance of the banker's death.
Plainly there was no such thing as admittance for him there in the capacity of secretary.
He turned away and walked thoughtfully down the street, after asking the servant a few simple and natural questions.
"Found dead in his bed this morning, eh?" mused Nick, "and the doctor says that he died of heart disease. By Jove! that term 'heart disease' is the most comprehensive bit of nomenclature that I ever knew. It may mean any one of the thousand and one varieties of the real article, or it may mean anything else which the physician in attendance does not specifically recognize.
"Subtle poisons produce heart failure—ergo, the patient died of heart disease. Lung disease, or wind-pipe disease, referring to inability to breathe, would be quite as appropriate in many cases, and more so in this one, I will wager.
"Archibald Kempton was murdered, and did not die from any natural cause. I will bet my life on that."
There was one reason why Nick was greatly disappointed in not being able to enter the house of Archibald Kempton, for the others he did not now care so much; but since his conversation with Schuyler about the will, he had made up his mind that he must see that peculiar Greek Testament.
Regarding the crime, or the report of a crime which had started the investigation, he did not know what to think.
That a murder could have been committed, and the body concealed about the premises all this time did not seem reasonable, and he relied upon Chick's ability to find Jane Denning, to unravel a portion of that part of the mystery.
From the dead banker's residence, Nick went at once to his own house, and rang the bell in such a way that Ethel would know who was at the door.
She came herself, and in a very few words he told her what he wanted.
"Send Chick to Maxwell Vane, Gilsey House, to-night at 7.30. He is seeking a position, and Vane has written him to call," he said. Then with a few hasty words to his wife, not connected with the case in hand, he hurried away.
He paused long enough on a corner near at hand to write a note to the inspector, which he dropped in the box.
Next, he hurried to West Tenth street, and entered the house where he had received Mortimer Guernsey.
"Aha!" he muttered. "Guernsey has been here before me."
It was true.
The house had been entered by somebody and thoroughly ransacked, although nothing had been taken away.
"Very good," said Nick to himself. "This proves one thing very satisfactorily to my mind. Guernsey believes that I am dead. He knew that the tough whom he locked into the room, and whom he supposed to be cremated in Twenty-eighth street, was Philips in disguise, and he does not expect any information about the child."
Nick was careful not to disturb anything so that it would be known that he had been there, and he took his leave without even venturing to alter his disguise while there.
"I will call again when the new proprietor is at home," he muttered, grimly. "My business now is to turn undertaker for a while."
He returned to the hotel, and went to his room.
When he again emerged it was in the character of a smooth-faced, respectable looking man of uncertain age, who looked as though he might be either a half-fledged minister or an understudy undertaker.
He had learned at nine that morning from John the name of the undertaker who had been employed by the Kemptons, and he went at once to that somber individual's place of business.
The proprietor was in, and Nick took him at once into his confidence.
"Have you ever heard of Nick Carter?" he asked.
"Often."
"Have you ever seen him?"
"Never but once."
"How could he prove to you that he was Nick Carter, if he happened to present himself here?"
"Oh, I would know him at once!"
"I beg your pardon, but you are mistaken. I am Nick Carter."
"You!"
"Yes; I."
The undertaker laughed.
"Too thin," he said.
"I will prove it."
"How?"
"By repeating something that you said to me when we last met."
"Where was that?"
"On the deck of the Steamship Queen, of the National Line. You were sick and despondent, and attempted suicide."
"Stop."
"I saved you, and you said—"
"What?"
"That I had better keep my hands out of other people's affairs."
"Right."
"Do you believe me?"
"Yes."
"Will you do me a small favor?"
"Certainly."
"You are the undertaker for Archibald Kempton, are you not?"
"Yes," looking rather astonished.
"I want you to think of some good excuse for returning to the house, now."
"Very well; I have one. What next?"
"I want you to take me with you."
"What for?"
"To please Inspector Byrnes as well as myself."
"All right. I'll do it."
"Where is the old man's body now?"
"In the room where he died."
"Good. I want you to take me to that room, and contrive so that we will be alone. You can see everything that I do."
"Very well." -
"Has the coroner been there?"
"Yes."
"And the body; is it packed in ice?"
"No; I am to embalm it."
"When?"
"This afternoon."
"Can you go with me now?"
"Yes."
"Then come. I am one of your assistants."
Nick and the undertaker soon reached the house of the dead banker, where they asked to be shown to the death-chamber at once.
Janet was there with the corpse, and looked both astonished and annoyed by the intrusion.
"I am just in time," thought Nick, who heard the faint jingle of some keys in her hand.
"What do you want, Mr. Green?" she asked of the undertaker.
"I am very sorry, Miss Kempton, but I will have to request that you permit me a few moments with your father's body, preparatory to the final work of embalming. I will not keep you from him more than a few moments."
She withdrew reluctantly, and Mr. Green closed and locked the door after her.
"There," he said, turning to Nick. "Now be quick, Mr. Carter—"
"Hush! Call me anything but that!"
Nick's first duty was to hang his handkerchief upon the door-knob, thus effectually covering the keyhole.
Then he walked briskly to the desk, which was locked.
Locks were trivial things to Nick, and he soon unfastened that one and opened the desk.
"Stop," said the undertaker. "This was not in the bond. The body is here; not in the desk."
"I will attend to the body in a moment, Mr. Green," replied Nick, continuing his search of the desk. "Watch me, please."
The undertaker did so. Presently, after picking another lock, Nick found the Greek Testament.
There was no mistaking it.
As he had suspected from the description given him by Schuyler, the binding was not only of wood, but was hollow.
In a few moments he found the way of reaching the interior, and there he discovered a sheet of paper carefully folded.
There was nothing else in the binding, and, after placing the sheet of paper in his pocket-book and putting the volume in the condition in which he found it, Nick returned the book to its place, closed and locked the desk, exerting great care to leave no traces by which it would be known that the desk had been tampered with.
"So far so good," he muttered. "Now, Mr. Green, we will take a look at the body."
"But what have you taken from the desk?"
"Nothing that will be missed, except by one person. If you have any misgivings, you can go with me to the inspector."
"No—no. It is all right, I suppose."
"It is."
"Do you wish to see the body?"
"Yes."
The undertaker pulled away the handkerchief from the dead man's face.
"He died easily," he said.
"Yes: but not naturally. He should not be embalmed."
"He must be."
"Why? You have used no preservatives of any kind thus far, have you?"
"No—none."
"Ah! He has now been dead how many hours?"
"Twelve."
"There should be some signs of death visible about the body by this time, then, should there not?"
"Yes."
"Please see if you can find any. I will not assist you, but wait while you search."
Ten minutes later the undertaker turned again to Nick.
"Well?" said the detective.
"The body is perfectly preserved."
"Indeed!"
"Better than I could do it by the use of any embalming fluid."
"What time is he supposed to have died?"
"About two or three o'clock this morning."
"What time were you called?"
"About eight."
"What did you do then?"
"Nothing. The body was as you see it now, and there was really nothing to do until the time for embalming, inasmuch as the daughter would not have ice used."
"Then, in fact, you had not touched the body until now?"
"No."
"Humph! Examine it again, and see if it is not extraordinarily rigid, considering the time that has elapsed since death ensued. I do not know that it is, but I do suspect that you will find it so."
"You are right, sir," said the undertaker, a few moments later.
"I thought so; but be thorough. Ascertain, if you can move a joint or a finger, but do not be too violent."
"It is impossible, sir. I am astonished at the condition of the body."
"I am not."
"Why, sir?"
"Because Archibald Kempton is not dead, and if you use embalming fluid in his veins, you, Mr. Green, will be his murderer."
The undertaker became ghastly in his astonishment and fright.
"What do you mean!" he exclaimed.
"Exactly what I say."
"Then this is not death?"
"No."
"Catalepsy, produced by hypnotism."
"My God! it is awful!"
"Yes, it is awful, for if you had not brought me here, you would have been a murderer before night."
Cold sweat stood in beads upon the undertaker's forehead.
"What shall I do?" he gasped.
"Nothing."
"But the embalming—"
"Pretend to do that, or better, when we go out, say that we have already done it, and that you did not wish to harrow the daughters' feelings by informing them until it was done."
"Do you advise that, seriously?"
"No, I command it, in order to save you the second time from committing a crime."
"And now—"
"Let us go."
AS soon as they were in the street and out of sight of the house where Janet Kempton ruled with a rod of iron, Nick left the undertaker and hurried to the hotel.
He wished, before it was time for Chick to arrive, to examine the sheet of paper that he had taken from the binding of the Greek Testament.
As soon as he was in his room, and had again become Maxwell Vane, he unfolded the little document and spread it on the table before him.
"Another cipher," he murmured, for he saw before him nothing but line after line of figures.
Here is what he saw:
"Whew!" exclaimed Nick. "That is a poser! The other cipher was easy, but this would puzzle almost anybody.
"7,907,015. I wonder what that means?"
He studied for a long time over the puzzle without getting any clew.
"They say that the simplest way is always the best," he thought, presently, "and I will try the simplest way first." He seized a pencil and wrote out the alphabet, letter for letter; then, beginning at A, he numbered each letter 1, 72, 3, etc., throughout.
Next he reasoned that the plus signs divided the words, and that the double plus-signs took the place of periods.
"That being the case," he thought, "my first word is 7907015. Let me see what that is."
He referred to his key and found (not using the naughts) "Gigoe."
That won't do," he muttered. "Ah! I have an idea. The naughts are, perhaps, used to divide the letters. Let's try it that way. 79 is no letter at all, because the numbers do not run as high as that; consequently 7 and 15 are my letters. What are they?
"Go."
"Good! Now, the next is 34020015."
Referring to the key he had made, and following the same rule as before he found: Bo.
"'Go bo!'" he muttered. "Something wrong there. I strike out 34 because there are not so many letters in the alphabet. Then the 0 because I don't use them. That gives me 2, which is the letter B.
"Hold on, Nick!" he exclaimed, a moment later. "Two ciphers come together there, and I have a figure 20 in my simple key. Let me see what that is. Ah! 20 is T, and now, following my idea, I have the word 'to,' or the two words: 'Go to.' Good! I think I have struck it the first time trying. Next!
"440,301,201,018,011.
"Striking out 440, I have 3, which is C; skipping the cipher I get 12, which is L; again, skipping the cipher, I find 1 which is A; another jump brings me to 18, or R; then over the river to 11, or K. Total c—l—a—r—k, Clark.
"The next is 5027. Hum! There are not 59 letters in the alphabet; neither are there 27, but if I follow my rule here, and strike out the 5 and the 0, I have 27 left. The twenty-sixth letter is Z, and, according to all rule, the twenty-seventh should be the character &; therefore I have 'Clark and.'
"Next, '701,001,501,405,019.'
"7 is G; 10 is J; That won't do. Oh, yes! I leave off the first figure before the first cipher, and my first letter is J. To continue: 10 is J; 15 is O; 14 is N; 5 is E, and 19 is S; total, Jones. Grand total, 'Go to Clark & Jones.'
"10,120,102,302,505,018,019."
Comparing the word with his key, he found 'L—A—W—Y—E—R-S,' and reading on to the end of the sentence, he completed it as follows:
"'Go to Clark & Jones, Lawyers, Watkins, N. Y.'"
The following sentences went very smoothly until he came to the last word that it contained, which was:
"90,120,504,005,018."
Reading it and following his key and the rule which had succeeded so well up to that point, the result was:
Striking out 90, and beginning with 12, or L; then 5, or E; then—what?
"4 is D," he mused, but there are two ciphers next to it, and according to the principle that has worked so far, I should read 40, and there are not forty letters in the alphabet. The other letters, leaving out the two ciphers, are E and R, and the whole word, according to that, is L—E—D—E—R, which is no word at all.
"I wonder if the old man meant 'ledger,' and forgot the 'G.'?
"Probably. However, let me see how the whole thing reads thus far.
"'Go to Clark & Jones, Lawyers, Watkins, N. Y. Show them this, and get—'leder'? no; 'ledger'? perhaps.
"I wonder if I can make anything else out of it."
He studied for some time, and then uttered a sharp exclamation of pleasure.
"Simple as the nose on my face," he exclaimed. "The old man stuck to his rule about the ciphers, and wrote the word correctly besides.
"40 is the right number, and 40 is twice 20, of course. Two twenties would be two T's, and I get l—e—t—t—e—r, letter."
So he worked on until the entire cipher was revealed, and then he read:
"Go to Clark & Jones, lawyers, Watkins, N.Y. Show them this and get letter. Also key. Follow the directions.
"Archibald Kempton."
Just as the detective finished his work over the cipher, which had been very absorbing, there was a rap at the door.
Before replying, Nick returned the papers to his pocket.
Then, leaning back in his chair, he cried:
"Come in!"
The door opened, and a red-headed Irish lad entered briskly.
"Faith," he said, bowing to Nick, "the spalpeens made me walk up the hull o' thim shtairs, be gob, instid av invitin' a gintlemon loike me to roide in the caar."
For an instant Nick looked thoroughly astonished. Then he burst out laughing:
"Shut the door, Chick," he said. "You are a brilliant pupil, my boy. Your own mother wouldn't know you."
"No, I don't think she would, for if I ever had one, I don't know it except by hear-say evidence."
"Well," said Nick, "what do you know?"
"I've found the kid."
"And the woman, Jane Denning?"
"Yes."
"Where are they?"
"In a little house on Washington Heights."
"Have you spoken with her?"
"I'm her man-of-all-work."
"Very good. You are going back there to-night, I suppose."
"Certainly."
"Well, skip. Go there and stay. Don't leave them until I come. If they go away, go with them, and notify me at once."
"All right. I'm off!"
"Wait a moment; there is one thing more. There is a man in this hotel named Guernsey who wants to find Jane Denning and the child, and just at present I don't want him to. He is sharp and may succeed. If he does, you must notify me at once."
"Correct; but I don't know him."
"Go down stairs and stand in the street near the Twenty-ninth street entrance until you see me come out with a tall, handsome man, blonde hair and mustache."
Ten minutes later, Nick tapped at Guernsey's door.
"Are you going down?" he asked, when bidden to enter. "I have a wholesome dislike to drinking alone."
"Yes, I'll join you. By the way, have you heard that Mr. Kempton is dead?"
"What? the old gentleman who is blind? the one upon whom we called—"
"The same. Died a few hours afterward. The memory of that fellow Marker—er—what's his name, was too much for him."
"Very sorry, I'm sure."
"Yes—very sad. Hard for the girls."
"Um! I say, Guernsey, why don't you marry one of them, eh? There's money there, eh?"
Guernsey smiled knowingly, but made no reply.
Nick saw his protege take a good look at Guernsey as they walked through the corridor.
As that was all that he cared for at the moment, he was glad when Guernsey presently said that he would have to be excused, as he had to keep an important engagement.
Nick smiled knowingly, taking all the liberty that he could without giving downright offense.
"Going to condole with the queenly Janet, I suppose. I wish you luck, old man," he said. "As for me, I have an engagement also, but it is at midnight, and not half so pleasant."
"Indeed!"
"Yes. I am going to consult an oracle; in other words, a detective."
"What in the world—"
"Do I want of a detective? Nothing."
"Then what—"
"The old story. I am the victim of a friend in Boston. He was on here a while ago; got full one night; lost his watch; heir-loom, and all that; offers a reward for its recovery, and I've got to make the arrangements. Infernal nuisance."
"Who is your detective?"
"Don't know, I'm sure. A friend of mine gave me the card. It's in my room now, I think. I haven't it here. I forget the name, but he lives somewhere in Tenth street."
"Indeed! I know a detective in Tenth street. His name is Philips."
"That's the man. Well, good-night. I won't ask you if Philips is a good detective, because you would say yes anyhow, and, to tell the truth, I don't care whether he is or not."
They parted at the Broadway entrance of the hotel, Guernsey turning the corner toward Fifth avenue, and Nick hastening back to the office, where he called for a Bullinger Railroad Guide.
NICK soon found what he wanted in the railroad guide.
He felt that things were rapidly approaching a climax, and that he must work quickly if he would have everything in readiness for the grand coup by the time set for the funeral of Archibald Kempton.
There was one advantage that he had now, however, and that was that he could foresee almost every point in the case, just as it would work out ultimately.
Every point but one, and that one was the crime mentioned in the anonymous letter which had been received by Inspector Byrnes.
In an upper flat on Eighth avenue there lived a shrewd little man whom Nick sometimes employed as a shadow, and after consulting the guide, he hastened to find Peleg Smart.
Peleg was at home and received Nick warmly, when he discovered who he was.
"Ready to start out, Peleg?" asked Nick.
"Yes, sir; any moment."
"Very good. Your train leaves at 1 A. M. from the Grand Central Depot, Hudson River Road. Your destination is Watkins, via Albany, Syracuse, Auburn, Geneva, and thence via Syracuse, Geneva, and Corning Railroad to Watkins. Your name is Franklin Giddings, and you are going to see Clark & Jones, Lawyers, at Watkins. You will study this letter and cipher on your way. You will show it to Clark & Jones, get the letter and key to which it refers, and bring them both to me; letter unopened. You will return as quickly as possible, and you will wire Maxwell Vane, Gilsey House, stating hour of your arrival at his rooms."
"All right, sir. You are Maxwell Vane?"
"Yes."
Nick left Peleg, and went straight to the residence of Inspector Byrnes, where he was soon in consultation with the chief.
As concisely as possible, he related all that had occurred since their last interview.
"Inspector," he said, in conclusion, "this fellow Guernsey, or Granger, is a man of iron nerve. Until I have seen and talked with Jane Denning, I do not know just how I want to manage him. He will be a hard one to corner."
"You will corner him, I think."
"I will if I can. Now, I have a plan regarding the old banker."
"What is it?"
"I want the funeral to take place."
"Well?"
"They have a family vault at Woodlawn, in which the body will be placed. I am not sure about the ability of science to resuscitate a person in his condition. I have heard that the person who brings about the condition must be the one to undo the work. However, if science, restoratives, and galvanic batteries can restore the old man to life without the knowledge of Guernsey and Janet, I want it done. The difficulty is to get the body, but you can do that, with the assistance of the authorities, while I would have to steal it. Will you attend to that part of it?"
"Yes."
"The funeral is fixed for Saturday at 10 A.M. That gives me two whole days between. By Sunday noon, the old gentleman should be able to play his part in the piece, if he can be saved at all. Of course, I may be wrong, and he may be dead, but I want it proven. Now, what shall I do with the letter when Peleg returns with it?"
"Read it."
"And carry out the directions?"
"Yes. Let's have the whole thing."
"Good. I'm going now. It's almost time for me to call upon Mr. Philips. Good-night."
At twelve precisely, Nick rang the bell of the house in Tenth street.
There was a short wait, and then the door was opened and Nick was invited to enter.
It was Guernsey who admitted him, and he was superbly made up as an old man.
He had not endeavored to copy the real Philips, as he had seen him in Nick's disguise, but had only sought to thoroughly disguise himself.
Nick gave an elaborate description of a supposed watch, and formally engaged the services of the pseudo detective.
"Now," he said, when that part of the business was concluded "I want you to do something for me, for which I will pay you handsomely."
"I shall be most happy, sir. State your case."
"It is very simple, and you may not like it."
"I take everything that pays."
"Very good. An old banker named Kempton just died. He was rich. He left two daughters. I don't know whether he left a will or not. If he did, I want to know what was in it, and which daughter will get the most money."
"Ah! you wish to pay court to one of them?"
"Yes; but the right one. Now, here is a point. If the daughter named Janet gets the lion's share I've got to cut out a fellow named Guernsey, who is stopping at the Gilsey, and in order to do that I must get him out of the way for a while, or else—or else—"
"Poison this Janet's mind against him."
"Precisely."
"Suppose the daughters share alike?"
"Then I want Janet."
"But if the other takes the boodle?"
"I'll take her. Do you comprehend my little game?"
"Thoroughly. How much will you pay for the information you seek?"
"Satisfy me that it is correct, and I will give you five thousand dollars down and five thousand dollars more the day I am the husband of either of the daughters."
"Will you sign a paper to that effect?"
"Yes, when you have done the first half of the work."
"You are sharp."
"So are you. I will give you until Monday night. I will come here then at this same hour."
"Very good. I will expect you to bring the first five thousand dollars with you."
"I will do so."
Nick smiled grimly as he returned to the hotel.
"If Guernsey eludes me Sunday," he muttered, "I will know where to find him Monday night, for he will want that five thousand dollars."
The following morning, still in the disguise of Maxwell Vane, he took a carriage and started for Washington Heights.
At the time of his interview with Chick, he had not intended to go there so soon, but circumstances had hastened his plans.
He found the house easily, for Chick had been explicit in his directions.
The protege was in the door-yard, and obeying hurried commands which Nick gave him in an undertone, ushered the detective at once into the presence of Mrs. Jane Denning.
"Madam," said Nick, abruptly, "who was Franklin Giddings?"
"What do you mean, sir?"
"What I say. You wrote a letter to Inspector Byrnes about a crime. Franklin Giddings was the victim. I have come to you for information."
It was a bold stroke, but it told.
The woman sank into a chair, thoroughly cowed, and prepared to answer all questions.
"Who was Franklin Giddings?" repeated Nick.
"An illegitimate child; nephew of Archibald Kempton."
"How was he killed?"
"I do not know that he was, I only think so."
"Where did it happen?"
"In Kempton's house on Fifth avenue."
"When?"
"At the time mentioned in my note."
"By whom?"
"Janet Kempton and Mark Granger."
"Mortimer Guernsey is Mark Granger?"
"Yes."
"Why did they wish to murder Giddings?"
"For the fortune he was to inherit from the old banker."
"Tell me about it."
"The banker did not wish to recognize Giddings in a will, but he had a fortune, left by his sister, which he was obliged to transfer to Giddings at his death. He converted it all into money, and hid it away somewhere. Then he prepared a cipher, which he placed in a book in his desk. He was foolish enough to tell Janet all about it, and she and Granger plotted to secure the money."
"What is she to Mark Granger?"
"His wife."
"Is she Kempton's daughter?"
"No. She is a foundling. The Kemptons brought her from Spain with them."
"She knows the truth?"
"Yes. The banker gave her a share of his estate three years ago, telling her the truth at the same time, and also telling her that he would leave her as much as she would have received jointly with Yolande."
"Whose child is Eldridge Marcy?"
"His name is Eldridge Marcy Granger."
"Ah! Son of Mark and Janet."
"Yes, sir."
"Why did Granger help you to abduct the child?"
"Because, at the time, he wanted him out of the way. He found that Janet was not the banker's daughter, and then ran off with Servia, relying upon Janet's fear of him to keep her quiet. I thought he would murder the boy, and I stole him away."
"You once lived in the Kempton family?"
"Since Janet and Yolande were born."
'You know the house thoroughly?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is there a place there where the body of Franklin Giddings could be concealed?"
"For a time—yes, sir.'
"Where?"
"In a vault under the cellar-floor, which was once used for keeping wines."
"That will do. I wish you to remain here until I want you. Do not try to run away, for you will not succeed. Good-morning."
IN leaving the house where Jane Denning had been in hiding from Mark Granger for so long a time, Nick again spoke a few words in an undertone to his protege.
"Summing up the case to the present moment, what have I?" he thought.
"First, the strong presumption that I will find the body of Franklin Giddings in the sub-cellar, and that if found, there will be no difficulty in convicting Granger and Janet Kempton of the crime.
"Second, the present peril in which the old banker lies—if he is not already dead. If living, he may die, and these two fiends will be the cause of his death. If dead, there is no doubt that they killed him.
"I do not think that poison was used. I am satisfied that it was not, but, if it was, there has been no embalming fluid employed to destroy its traces.
"If it transpires that he is in a state of total catalepsy resulting from the hypnotic influence of either Mark Granger or Janet, I can prove attempted murder against them by the undertaker who was engaged to make use of the poisonous fluid.
"Third, the conspiracy between the two villains of the play, to possess themselves of Franklin Giddings' money.
"Fourth, the attempt upon my life by Mark Granger, by setting fire to the flat in Twenty-eighth street, although I can only prove that circumstantially, but the subsequent representation of the character of Philips, the detective, by the man who thought he had made away with him is pretty strong proof of his conduct in the matter."
The day of the funeral came, and at ten o'clock the house on Fifth avenue was thronged with old friends of the dead banker.
Nick was there, again disguised as the undertaker's assistant, and with Peleg Smart, made up in the same way, to assist him.
Peleg had returned from his hurried trip to Watkins, entirely successful; for Clark & Jones had received explicit instructions from Archibald Kempton during his life.
There were preliminary services in the house, followed by the regular observances in the church, and Nick contrived that other assistants should take his and Peleg's places when the cortege left the banker's residence.
At eleven o'clock, with the exception of the servants, they were alone in the house, and that was the opportunity sought by the detective.
No time was lost in frightening the servants into subjection, and then the cellar was visited.
Jane Denning had described the condition of things accurately, and the trap-door in the middle of the cellar-floor was soon found.
Raising it, they discovered a vault, to which air was admitted by means of a small shaft which led out to the back yard, protected there by an iron grating.
In the vault was a cot, and upon the cot, fully dressed, was stretched the rigid form of a young man who could not have passed his twenty-fifth birthday.
A glance told Nick that Franklin Giddings—for it could be no other—was a victim of the same influences that had been at work upon the blind banker.
It was impossible to tell whether he was dead or not, but in all probability he was not, and only existed in a condition of suspended animation, resulting from hypnotic-catalepsy.
They carried the body up stairs, and Peleg ran for a hack.
Twenty minutes later Franklin Giddings was on his way to Bellevue Hospital.
Sunday afternoon at five o'clock.
Janet Kempton and Mortimer Guernsey were sitting alone in the parlor of the Kempton mansion.
The door-bell rang loudly, and John, who had received his instructions from Nick, replied to the summons.
When the door was thrown open, Nick Carter, still disguised as Maxwell Vane, entered, supporting the tottering and muffled form of an old man upon his arm.
Behind Nick came Inspector Byrnes, also assisting a companion, who, though much younger than the man upon Nick's arm, was also weaker.
Not a word was spoken, and the four filed into the reception-room on the opposite side of the hall.
Then the inspector handed a card to John, instructing him to take it to his mistress. It read:
THOMAS H. BYRNES,
Chief Inspector New York Police.
As John entered the parlor with the card, the inspector followed, while Nick lingered in the doorway, ready at an instant's notice.
There was a flush upon Janet's face, as she rose to meet her caller.
"To what am I indebted —" she began, but the officer interrupted her.
"You are arrested for murder, together with your husband, Mark Granger," he said.
Janet started, but Granger only laughed.
"Whose?" he asked, sardonically.
"Where is Franklin Giddings?" asked the inspector.
"He is alive—not dead."
"Where is Archibald Kempton?"
"He is dead, truly—but of heart disease."
"Where is Detective Philips?"
"Really, I could not say."
"Did he not perish in the flames which you started in Twenty-eighth street."
Granger only shrugged his shoulders.
"Very well," said the inspector. "I arrest you for the murder of Detective Philips and the attempted murder of Franklin Giddings and Archibald Kempton, together with a half-dozen other charges, which we won't stop to mention now.
Then the curtains parted.
The form of an old man, with sightless, staring eyes, tottered forward.
Janet saw it.
She uttered a loud scream and attempted to run.
As she did so, another figure entered. It was that of Franklin Giddings.
The sight was too much for Janet.
Uttering a shriek of terror, she swayed a moment, and then fell crashing to the floor.
"Very pretty," murmured Granger. "Inspector, are these ghosts, automatons, or men? Really, it needs but one more to make the exhibition complete. Where is Philips?"
Then Nick stepped forward.
"Philips died in the fire in Twenty-eighth street," he said, "and I am here to prove it."
"Ah! my friend Maxwell Vane."
"Yes: but I cannot keep my appointment with you to-morrow night; you won't be there."
"Nor here, either," replied Granger.
With a quick motion he drew a revolver and pointed it first at Nick, and then at the inspector, waving it back and forth to keep them both covered.
"Stand aside," he said, calmly. "I am going out, and it will be dangerous to try to stop me."
But he had tackled the wrong party.
Nick stooped and leaped forward.
He moved so quickly that Granger did not have time to discharge his weapon.
The next moment, he was handcuffed and a prisoner, between Nick and the inspector.
The old banker lived several years, and enjoyed good health, but Franklin Giddings died soon afterward, never having recovered his mental equilibrium.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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