The Project Gutenberg eBook of Nick Carter Stories No. 120, December 26, 1914: An uncanny revenge; or, Nick Carter and the mind murderer.
    
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Title: Nick Carter Stories No. 120, December 26, 1914: An uncanny revenge; or, Nick Carter and the mind murderer.

Author: Nicholas Carter

Contributor: Burke Jenkins

Release date: June 22, 2022 [eBook #68376]
                Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Street & Smaith

Credits: David Edwards, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Northern Illinois University Digital Library)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NICK CARTER STORIES NO. 120, DECEMBER 26, 1914: AN UNCANNY REVENGE; OR, NICK CARTER AND THE MIND MURDERER. ***

                              NICK CARTER
                                STORIES

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=No. 120.=      NEW YORK, December 26, 1914.      =Price Five Cents.=




                          AN UNCANNY REVENGE;

                Or, NICK CARTER AND THE MIND MURDERER.

                     Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.




CHAPTER I.

A TRAGEDY OF THE STAGE.


The members of Nick Carter’s household all happened to meet at the
breakfast table that morning--a rather unusual circumstance.

The famous New York detective sat at the head of the table. Ranged about
it were Chick Carter, his leading assistant; Patsy Garvan, and the
latter’s young wife, Adelina, and Ida Jones, Nick’s beautiful woman
assistant.

It was the latter who held the attention of her companions at that
moment. She was a little late, and had just seated herself. Her flushed
cheeks and sparkling eyes gave no hint that she had reached the
house--they all shared the detective’s hospitable roof--a little after
three o’clock that morning.

“You good people certainly missed a sensation last night,” she declared.
“It was the strangest thing--and one of the most pitiable I ever
beheld!”

Nick, who had been glancing at his favorite newspaper, looked up.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

It was Ida’s turn to show surprise.

“Is it possible you don’t know, any of you?” she demanded, looking
around the table. “Haven’t you read of Helga Lund’s breakdown, or
whatever it was?”

Helga Lund, the great Swedish actress, who was electrifying New York
that season in a powerful play, “The Daughters of Men,” had consented,
in response to many requests, to give a special midnight performance, in
order that the many actors and actresses in the city might have an
opportunity to see her in her most successful rôle at an hour which
would not conflict with their own performances.

The date had been set for the night before, and, since it was not to be
exclusively a performance for professionals, the manager of the
theater, who was a friend of Nick Carter’s, had presented the detective
with a box.

Much to Nick’s regret, however, and that of his male assistants, an
emergency had prevented them from attending. To cap the climax, Adelina
Garvan had not been feeling well, so decided not to go. Consequently,
Ida Jones had occupied the box with several of her friends.

Nick shook his head in response to his pretty assistant’s question.

“I haven’t, anyway,” he said, glancing from her face back to his paper.
“Ah, here’s something about it--a long article!” he added. “I hadn’t
seen it before. It looks very serious. Tell us all about it.”

Ida needed no urging, for she was full of her subject.

“Oh, it was terrible!” she exclaimed, shuddering. “Helga Lund had been
perfectly wonderful all through the first and second acts. I don’t know
when I have been so thrilled. But soon after the third act began she
stopped right in the middle of an impassioned speech and stared fixedly
into the audience, apparently at some one in one of the front rows of
the orchestra.

“I’m afraid I can’t describe her look. It seemed to express merely
recollection and loathing at first, as if she had recognized a face
which had very disagreeable associations. Then her expression--as I read
it, at any rate--swiftly changed to one of frightened appeal, and then
it jumped to one of pure harrowing terror.

“My heart stopped, and the whole theater was as still as a death
chamber--at least, the audience was. Afterward I realized that the actor
who was on the stage with her at the time had been improvising something
in an effort to cover up her lapse; but I don’t believe anybody paid any
attention to him, any more than she did. Her chin dropped, her eyes were
wild and seemed ready to burst from their sockets. She put both hands to
her breast, and then raised one and passed it over her forehead in a
dazed sort of way. She staggered, and I believe she would have fallen if
her lover in the play hadn’t supported her.

“The curtain had started to descend, when she seemed to pull herself
together. She pushed the poor actor aside with a strength that sent him
spinning, and began to speak. Her voice had lost all of its wonderful
music, however, and was rough and rasping. Her grace was gone,
too--Heaven only knows how! She was positively awkward. And her
words--they couldn’t have had anything to do with her part. They were
incoherent ravings. The curtain had started to go up again. Evidently,
the stage manager had thought the crisis was past when she began to
speak. But when she only made matters worse, it came down with a rush.
After a maddening delay, her manager came out, looking wild enough
himself, and announced, with many apologies, that Miss Lund had suffered
a temporary nervous breakdown.

Nick Carter had listened intently, now and then scanning the article
which described the affair.

“Too bad!” he commented soberly, when Ida had finished. “But haven’t you
any explanation, either? The paper doesn’t seem to have any--at least,
it doesn’t give any.”

A curious expression crossed Ida’s face.

“I had forgotten for the moment,” she replied. “I haven’t told you one
of the strangest things about it. In common with everybody else, I was
so engrossed in watching Helga Lund’s face that I didn’t have much time
for anything else. That is why there wasn’t a more general attempt to
see whom she was looking at. We wouldn’t ordinarily have been very
curious, but she held our gaze so compellingly. I did manage to tear my
eyes away once, though; but I wasn’t in a position to see--I was too far
to one side. She appeared to be looking at some one almost on a line
with our box, but over toward the other side of the theater. I turned my
glasses in that direction for a few moments and thought I located the
person, a man, but, of course, I couldn’t be sure. I could only see his
profile, but his expression seemed to be very set, and he was leaning
forward a little, in a tense sort of way.”

Nick nodded, as if Ida’s words had confirmed some theory which he had
already formed.

“But what was so strange about him?” he prompted.

“Oh, it doesn’t mean anything, of course,” was the reply; “but he bore
the most startling resemblance to Doctor Hiram Grantley. If I hadn’t
known that Grantley was safe in Sing Sing for a long term of years, I’m
afraid I would have sworn that it was he.”

The detective gave Ida a keen, slightly startled look.

“Well, stranger things than that have happened in our experience,” he
commented thoughtfully. “I haven’t any reason to believe, though, that
Grantley is at large again. He would be quite capable of what you have
described, but surely Kennedy would have notified me before this if----”

The telephone had just rung, and, before Nick could finish his sentence,
Joseph, his butler, entered. His announcement caused a sensation. It
was:

“Long distance, Mr. Carter. Warden Kennedy, of Sing Sing, wishes to
speak with you.”

The detective got up quickly, without comment, and stepped out into the
hall, where the nearest instrument of the several in the house was
located.

Patsy Garvan gave a low, expressive whisper.

“Suffering catfish!” he ejaculated. “It looks as if you were right,
Ida!”

After that he relapsed into silence and listened, with the others. Nick
had evidently interrupted the warden.

“Just a moment, Kennedy,” they heard him saying. “I think I can guess
what you have to tell me. It’s Doctor Grantley who has escaped, isn’t
it?”

Naturally, the warden’s reply was inaudible, but the detective’s next
words were sufficient confirmation.

“I thought so,” Nick said, in a significant tone. “One of my assistants
was just telling me of having seen, last night, a man who looked
surprisingly like him. When did you find out that he was missing?... As
early as that?... I see.... Yes, I’ll come up, if necessary, as soon as
I can; but first I must set the ball rolling here. I think we already
have a clew. I’ll call you up later.... Yes, certainly.... Yes,
good-by!”

A moment later he returned to the dining room.

“Maybe your eyes didn’t deceive you, after all, Ida,” he announced
gravely. “Grantley escaped last night--in time to have reached the
theater for the third act of that special performance, if not earlier.
And it looks as if he subjected one of the keepers of the prison to an
ordeal somewhat similar to that which Helga Lund seems to have endured.”




CHAPTER II.

ESCAPE BY SCHEDULE.


“What do you mean by that, chief?” demanded Chick.

“Kennedy says that one of the keepers was found, in a peculiar sort of
stupor, as he calls it, in Grantley’s cell, after the surgeon had gone.
He had evidently been overpowered in some way, and his keys had been
taken from him. Kennedy assumes, rightly enough, I suppose, that
Grantley lured him into the cell on some pretext, and then tried his
tricks. The man is still unconscious, and the prison physician can do
nothing to help him. Kennedy wants me to come up.”

“But I don’t see what that has to do with Helga Lund,” objected Chick.
“Even if it was Grantley that Ida saw--which remains to be proved--I
don’t see any similarity. He didn’t render her unconscious, and, anyway,
he wasn’t near enough to----”

“Think it over, Chick,” the detective interrupted. “The significance
will reach you, by slow freight, sooner or later, I’m sure. I, for one,
haven’t any doubt that Ida saw the fugitive last night. If so, Grantley
did a very daring thing to go there without any attempt at disguise--not
as daring as might be supposed, however. He doubtless counted on just
what happened. If any one who knew him by sight had noticed him in the
theater, the supposition would naturally be that it was a misleading
resemblance, for the chances were that any one who would be likely to
know him would be aware of his conviction, and be firmly convinced that
he was up the river.

“There doesn’t seem to be any doubt that he disguised himself carefully
enough for his flight from Sing Sing, and covered his tracks with
unusual care, for Kennedy has been unable to obtain any reliable
information about his movements. If he was at the play, we may be sure
that he restored his normal appearance deliberately, in defiance of the
risks involved, in order that one person, at least, should recognize
him without fail--that person being Helga Lund. And that implies that he
was again actuated primarily by motives of private revenge, as in the
case of Baldwin.

“The scoundrel seems to have a supply of enemies in reserve, and is
willing to go to any lengths in order to revenge himself upon them for
real or fancied grievances. If he’s the man who broke up Lund’s
performance last night, it is obvious that he knew of the special
occasion and the unusual hour before he made his escape. In fact, it
seems probable that he escaped when he did for the purpose of committing
this latest outrage. Even if his chief object has been attained,
however, I don’t imagine he will return to Sing Sing and give himself
up. We shall have to get busy, and, perhaps, keep so for some time.
Plainly, the first thing for me to do is to seek an interview with Helga
Lund, if she is in a condition to receive me. She can tell, if she will,
who or what it was that caused her breakdown. If there turns out to be
no way of connecting it with Grantley, we shall have to begin our work
at Sing Sing. If it was Grantley, we shall begin here. Did you see
anything more of the man you noticed, Ida?”

“Nothing more worth mentioning. He slipped out quickly as soon as the
curtain went down; but lots of others were doing the same, although many
remained and exchanged excited conjectures. I left the box when I saw
him going, but by the time I reached the lobby he was nowhere in sight,
and I couldn’t find any one who had noticed him.”

“Too bad! Then there’s nothing to do but try to see Helga. The rest of
you had better hang around the house until you hear from me. Whatever
the outcome, I shall probably want you all on the jump before long.”

Nick hastily finished his breakfast, while his assistants read him
snatches from the accounts in the various morning newspapers. In that
way he got the gist of all that had been printed in explanation of the
actress’ “attack” and in regard to her later condition.

All of the accounts agreed in saying that Helga Lund was in seclusion at
her hotel, in a greatly overwrought state, and that two specialists and
a nurse were in attendance.

The prospect of a personal interview with her seemed exceedingly remote;
but Nick Carter meant to do his best, unless her condition absolutely
forbade.

       *       *       *       *       *

Doctor Hiram A. Grantley was very well, if not favorably, known to the
detectives, in addition to thousands of others.

For a quarter of a century he had been famous as an exceptionally daring
and skillful surgeon. In recent years, however, his great reputation had
suffered from a blight, due to his general eccentricities, and, in
particular, to his many heartless experiments upon live animals.

At length, he had gone so far as to perform uncalledfor operations on
human beings in his ruthless search for knowledge.

Nick Carter had heard rumors of this, and had set a trap for Grantley.
He had caught the surgeon and several younger satellites red-handed.

Their victim at that time was a young Jewish girl, whose heart had been
cruelly lifted out of the chest cavity, without severing any of the
arteries or veins, despite the fact that the girl had sought treatment
only for consumption.

Grantley and his accomplices had been placed on trial, charged with
manslaughter. The case was a complicated one, and the jury disagreed.
The authorities subsequently released the prisoners in the belief that
the chances for a conviction were not bright enough to warrant the great
expense of a new trial.

Nevertheless, as a result of the agitation, a law was passed, which
attached a severe penalty to all such unjustifiable experiments or
operations on human beings.

After a few weeks of freedom, Grantley had committed a still more
atrocious crime. His victim in this instance had been one of the most
prominent financiers in New York, J. Hackley Baldwin, who had been
totally blind for years.

For years Grantley had been nursing two grievances against the afflicted
millionaire. Under pretense of operating on Baldwin’s eyes--after
securing the financier’s complete confidence--he had removed parts of
his patient’s brain.

Owing to Grantley’s great skill, the operation had not proved fatal; but
Baldwin became a hopeless imbecile.

Nick Carter and his assistants again captured the fugitive, who had fled
with his assistant, Doctor Siebold. This pair was locked up, together
with a nurse and Grantley’s German manservant, who were also involved.

To these four defendants, Nick presently added a fifth, in the person of
Felix Simmons, another famous financier, who had been a bitter rival of
Baldwin’s for years, and who was found to have aided and abetted the
rascally surgeon.

It was a startling disclosure, and all of the prisoners were convicted
under the new law and sentenced to long terms of confinement.

That had been several months before; and now Doctor Grantley was at
large again, and under suspicion of having been guilty of some strange
and mysterious offense against the celebrated Swedish actress, who had
never before visited this country.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nick had learned from the papers that Helga Lund was staying at the
Wentworth-Belding Hotel. Accordingly, he drove there in one of his motor
cars and sent a card up to her suite. On it he scribbled a request for a
word with one of the physicians or the nurse.

Doctor Lightfoot, a well-known New York physician, with a large practice
among theatrical people, received him in one of the rooms of the
actress’ suite.

He seemed surprised at the detective’s presence, but Nick quickly
explained matters to his satisfaction. Miss Lund, it seemed, was in a
serious condition. She had gone to pieces mentally, passed a sleepless
night, most of the time walking the floor, and appeared to be haunted by
the conviction that her career was at an end.

She declared that she would not mind so much if it had happened before
any ordinary audience, but as it was, she had made a spectacle of
herself before hundreds of the members of her own profession. That
thought almost crazed her, and she insisted wildly that she would never
regain enough confidence to appear in public again.

If that was the case, it was nothing short of a tragedy, in view of her
great gifts.

Doctor Lightfoot hoped, however, that she would ultimately recover from
the shock of her experience, although he stated that it would be months,
at least, before she was herself again. Meanwhile, all of her
engagements would have to be canceled, of course.

In response to Nick’s questions, the physician assured him that Helga
Lund had given no adequate explanation of her startling behavior of the
night before. She had simply said that she had recognized some one in
the audience, that the recognition had brought up painful memories, and
that she had completely forgotten her lines and talked at random. She
did not know what she had said or done.

Her physicians realized that she was keeping something back, and had
pleaded with her to confide fully in them as a means of relieving her
mind from the weight that was so evidently pressing upon it. But she had
refused to do so, having declared that it would serve no good purpose,
and that the most they could do was to restore her shattered nerves.

The detective was not surprised at this attitude, which, as a matter of
fact, paved the way to an interview with the actress.

“In that case I think you will have reason to be glad I came,” he told
Doctor Lightfoot. “I believe I know, in general, what happened last
night, and if you will give me your permission to see Miss Lund alone
for half an hour, I have hope of being able to induce her to confide in
me. My errand does not reflect upon her in any way, nor does it imply
the slightest danger or embarrassment to her, so far as I am aware. My
real interest lies elsewhere, but you will readily understand how it
might help her and reënforce your efforts if I could induce her to
unbosom herself.”

“There isn’t any doubt about that, Carter,” was the doctor’s reply; “but
it’s a risky business. She is in a highly excitable state, and uninvited
calls from men of your profession are not apt to be soothing, no matter
what their object may be. How do you know that some ghost of remorse is
not haunting her. If so, you would do much more harm than good.”

“If she saw the person I think she saw in the audience last night,” Nick
replied, “it’s ten to one that the remorse is on the other side--or
ought to be. If I am mistaken, a very few sentences will prove it, and I
give you my word that I shall do my best to quiet any fears my presence
may have aroused, and withdraw at once. On the other hand, if I am
right, I can convince her that I am her friend, and that I know enough
to make it worth her while to shift as much of her burden as possible to
me. If she consents, the tension will be removed at once, and she will
be on the road to recovery. And, incidentally, I shall have gained some
very important information.”

The detective was prepared, if necessary, to be more explicit with
Doctor Lightfoot; but the latter, after looking Nick over thoughtfully
for a few moments, gave his consent.

“I’ve always understood that you always know what you are about,
Carter,” he said. “There is nothing of the blunderer or the brute about
you, as there is about almost all detectives. On the contrary, I am sure
you are capable of using a great deal of tact, aside from your warm
sympathies. My colleague isn’t here now, and I am taking a great
responsibility on my shoulders in giving you permission to see Miss
Lund alone at such a time. She is a great actress, remember, and, if it
is possible, we must give her back to the world with all of her splendid
powers unimpaired. She is like a musical instrument of incredible
delicacy, so, for Heaven’s sake, don’t handle her as if she were a
hurdy-gurdy!”

“Trust me,” the famous detective said quietly.

“Then wait,” was the reply, and the physician hurried from the room.

Two or three minutes later he returned.

“Come,” he said. “I have prepared her--told her you are a specialist in
psychology, which is true, of course, in one sense. You can tell her the
truth later, if all goes well.”




CHAPTER III.

THE ACTRESS CONFIDES.


Nick was led through a couple of sumptuously furnished rooms into the
great Swedish actress’ presence.

Helga Lund was a magnificently proportioned woman, well above medium
height, and about thirty years of age.

She wore a loose, filmy negligee of silk and lace, and its pale blue was
singularly becoming to her fair skin and golden hair. Two thick, heavy
ropes of the latter hung down far below her waist.

She was not merely pretty, but something infinitely better--she had the
rugged statuesque beauty of a goddess in face and form.

She was pacing the floor like a caged lioness when Nick entered. Her
head was thrown back and her hands were clasped across her forehead,
allowing the full sleeves to fall away from her perfectly formed,
milk-white arms.

“Miss Lund, this is Mr. Carter, of whom I spoke,” Doctor Lightfoot said
gently. “He believes he can help you. “I shall leave you with him, but I
will be within call.”

He withdrew softly and closed the door. They were alone.

The actress turned for the first time, and a pang shot through the
tender-hearted detective as he saw the tortured expression of her face.

She nodded absent-mindedly, but did not speak.

“Miss Lund,” the detective began, “I trust you will believe that I would
not have intruded at this time if I hadn’t believed that I might
possibly possess the key to last night’s unfortunate occurrence, and
that----”

“You--the key? Impossible, sir?” the actress interrupted, in the precise
but rather labored English which she had acquired in a surprisingly
short time in anticipation of her American tour.

“We shall soon be able to tell,” Nick replied. “If I am wrong, I assure
you that I shall not trouble you any further. If I am right, however, I
hope to be able to help you. In any case, you may take it for granted
that I am not trying to pry into your affairs. I have seen you on the
stage more than once, both here and abroad. It is needless to say that I
have the greatest admiration for your genius. Beyond that I know nothing
about you, except what I have read.”

“Then, will you explain--briefly? You see that I am in no condition to
talk.”

“I see that talking, of the right kind, would be the best thing for
you, if the floodgates could be opened, Miss Lund,” Nick answered
sympathetically. “I shall do better than explain; with your permission,
I shall ask you a question.”

“What is it?”

“Simply this: Are you acquainted with a New York surgeon who goes by the
name of Doctor Grantley--Hiram A. Grantley?”

The actress, who had remained standing, started slightly at the
detective’s words. Her bosom rose and fell tumultuously, and her
clenched hands were raised to it, as Ida Jones had described them.

A look of mingled amazement and fright overspread her face.

Nick did not wait for her to reply, nor did he tell her that it was
unnecessary. Nevertheless, he had already received his answer and it
gave him the greatest satisfaction.

He was on the right track.

“Before you reply, let me say this,” he went on quickly, in order to
convince her that she had nothing to fear from him: “Grantley is one of
the worst criminals living, and it is solely because our laws are still
inadequate in certain ways that he is alive to-day. As it is, he is a
fugitive, an escaped prisoner, with a long term still to serve. He
escaped last night, but he will undoubtedly be caught soon, despite his
undeniable cleverness, and returned to the cell which awaits him. Now
you may answer, if you please.”

He was, of course, unaware of the extent of Helga Lund’s knowledge of
Grantley. It might not be news to her, but he wished--in view of the
actress’ evident fear of Grantley--to prove to her that he himself could
not possibly be there in the surgeon’s interest.

His purpose seemed to have been gained. Unless he was greatly mistaken,
a distinct relief mingled with the surprise which was stamped on Helga’s
face.

“He is a--criminal, you say?” she breathed eagerly, leaning forward,
forgetful that she had not admitted any knowledge of Grantley at all.

“You do not know what has happened to Doctor Grantley here in the last
year?”

“No,” was the reply. “I have never been in America before, and I have
never even acted in England. I do not read the papers in English.”

“You met Grantley abroad, then, some years ago, perhaps?”

The actress realized that she had committed herself. She delayed for
some time before she replied, and when she did, it was with a graceful
gesture of surrender.

“I will tell you all there is to tell, Mr. Carter,” she said, “if you
will give me your word as a gentleman that the facts will not be
communicated to the newspapers until I give you permission. Will you? I
think I have guessed your profession, but I am sure I have correctly
gauged your honor.”

“I promise you that no word will find its way, prematurely, into print
through me,” Nick declared readily. “I am a detective, as you seem to
have surmised, Miss Lund. I called on you, primarily, to get a clew to
the whereabouts of Doctor Grantley, but, as I told you, I am confident
that it will have a beneficial effect on you to relieve your mind and to
be assured, in return, that Grantley is a marked and hunted man, and
that every effort will be made to prevent him from molesting you any
further.”

“Thank you, Mr. Carter,” the actress responded, throwing herself down on
a couch and tucking her feet under her.

The act suggested that her mental tension was already lessened to a
considerable degree.

“There is very little to tell,” she went on, after a slight pause, “and
I should certainly have confided in my physicians if I had seen any use
in doing so. It is nothing I need be ashamed of, I assure you. I did
meet Doctor Grantley--to my sorrow--five years ago, in Paris. He was
touring Europe at the time, and I was playing in the French capital. He
was introduced to me as a distinguished American surgeon, and at first I
found him decidedly interesting, despite--or, perhaps, because of--his
eccentricities. Almost at once, however, he began to pay violent court
to me. He was much older than I, and I could not think of him as a
husband without a shudder. With all his brilliancy, there was something
sinister and cruel about him, even then. I tried to dismiss him as
gently as I knew how, but he would not admit defeat. He persisted in his
odious attentions, and one day he seized me in his arms and was covering
my face and neck with his detestable kisses, when a good friend, a young
Englishman, was announced. My friend was big and powerful, a trained
athlete. I was burning with shame and rage. I turned Doctor Grantley
over to his tender mercies and left the room. Doctor Grantley was very
strong, but he was no match for the Englishman. I am afraid he was
maltreated rather severely. At any rate, he was thrown out of the hotel,
and I did not see him again until last night. He wrote me a threatening
letter, however, to the effect that he would have his revenge some day
and ruin my career.

“I was greatly frightened at first, but, as time passed and nothing
happened, I forgot him. Last night, those terrible, compelling eyes of
his drew mine irresistibly. I simply had to look toward him, and when I
did so, my heart seemed to turn to a lump of ice. I forgot my
lines--everything. I knew what he meant to do, but I could not resist
him. He was my master, and he was killing my art, my mastery. I was a
child, a witless fool, in his hands. My brain was in chaos. I tried to
rally my forces, to go on with my part, but it was impossible. I did
manage to speak, but I do not know what I said, and no one will tell me.
Doubtless, I babbled or raved, and the words were not mine. They were
words of delirium, or, worse still, words which his powerful brain of
evil put into my mouth.”

Helga Lund halted abruptly and threw out her hands again in an
expressive gesture.

“That is all, Mr. Carter,” she added. “It was not my guilty conscience
which made me afraid of him, you see. As for his whereabouts, I can tell
you nothing. I did not know that he had been in trouble, although I am
not surprised. I had neither heard nor seen anything of him since he
wrote me, five years ago. Consequently, I fear I can be of no assistance
to you in locating him--unless he should make another attempt of some
sort on me, and Heaven forbid that!”

“I have learned that he was here last night,” said Nick, “and that is
all I hoped for. That will give us a point of departure. I assure you
that I greatly appreciate your confidence, and that I shall not violate
it. With your permission, I shall tell your physicians just enough, in
general terms, to give them a better understanding of your trouble. It
will be best, for the present, to let the public believe that you are
the victim of a temporary nervous breakdown, but I should strongly
advise you to allow the facts to become known as soon as Grantley is
captured. It will be good advertising, as we say over here, and, at the
same time, it will stop gossip and dispel the mystery. It will also
serve to reassure your many admirers, because it will give, for the
first time, an adequate explanation, and prove that the cause of your
mental disturbance has been removed.”

The actress agreed to this, and Nick Carter took leave of her, after
promising to apprehend Grantley as soon as possible and to keep her
informed of the progress of his search.

Before he left the hotel he had a short talk with Doctor Lightfoot,
which gave promise of a more intelligent handling of the case, aside
from the benefit which Helga Lund had already derived from her frank
talk with the sympathetic detective.

The man hunt could now begin in New York City, instead of at Ossining,
and, since the preliminaries could be safely intrusted to his
assistants, Nick decided to comply with Warden Kennedy’s urgent request
and run up to the prison to see what he could make of the keeper’s
condition.




CHAPTER IV.

STRONGER THAN BOLTS AND BARS.


The great detective set his men to work and called up the prison before
leaving New York. As a result of the telephone conversation, the warden
gave up the search for the fugitive in the neighborhood of Ossining.

Ossining is up the Hudson, about an hour’s ride, by train, from the
metropolis. It did not take Nick long to reach his destination.

He found Warden Kennedy in the latter’s office, and listened to a
characteristic account of Doctor Grantley’s escape, which--in view of
the fugitive’s subsequent appearance at the theater--need not be
repeated here.

Bradley, the keeper, was still unconscious, and nobody seemed to know
what was the matter with him. Nick had a theory, which almost amounted
to a certainty; but it remained to confirm it by a personal examination.

The warden presently led the way to the prison hospital, where the
unfortunate keeper lay. No second glance was necessary to convince the
detective that he had been right.

The man was in a sort of semirigid state, curiously like that of a
trance. All ordinary restoratives had been tried and had failed, yet
there did not appear to be anything alarming about his condition.

The prison physician started to describe the efforts which had been
made, but Nick interrupted him quietly.

“Never mind about that, doctor,” he said. “I know what is the matter
with him, and I believe I can revive him--unless Grantley has blocked
the way.”

“Is it possible!” exclaimed Kennedy and the doctor, in concert. “What is
it?” added the former, while the latter demanded: “What do you mean by
‘blocking the way’?”

“Your ex-guest hypnotized him, Kennedy,” was the simple reply, “and, as
I have had more or less experience along that line myself, I ought to
be able to bring Bradley out of the hypnotic sleep, provided the man who
plunged him into it did not impress upon his victim’s mind too strong a
suggestion to the contrary. Grantley has gone deep into hypnotism, and
it is possible that he has discovered some way of preventing a third
person from reviving his subjects. There would have been nothing for him
to gain by it in this case, but he may--out of mere malice--have thrown
Bradley under a spell which no one but he can break. Let us hope not,
however.”

“Hypnotism, eh?” ejaculated Kennedy. “By the powers, why didn’t we think
of that, doctor?”

The prison physician hastily sought an excuse for his ignorance, but, as
a matter of fact, he could not be greatly blamed. He was not one of the
shining lights of his profession, as his not very tempting position
proved, and comparatively few medical practitioners have had any
practical experience with hypnotism or its occasional victims.

Nick Carter, on the other hand, had made an exhaustive study of the
subject, both from a theoretical and a practical standpoint, and had
often had occasion to utilize his extensive knowledge.

While Warden Kennedy, the physician, and a couple of nurses leaned
forward curiously, the detective bent over the figure on the narrow
white bed and rubbed the forehead and eyes a few times, in a peculiar
way.

Then he spoke to the man.

“Come, wake up, Bradley!” he said commandingly. “I want you! You’re
conscious! You’re answering me. You cannot resist! Get up!”

And to the amazement of the onlookers, the keeper opened his eyes in a
dazed, uncomprehending sort of way, threw his feet over the edge of the
bed, and sat up.

“What is it? Where have I been?” he asked, looking about him. And then
he added, in astonishment: “What--what am I doing here?”

“You’ve been taking a long nap, but you’re all right now, Bradley,” the
detective assured him. “You remember what happened, don’t you?”

For a few moments the man’s face was blank, but soon a look of shamed
understanding, mingled with resentment, overspread it.

“It was that cursed Number Sixty Thousand One Hundred and Thirteen!” he
exclaimed, giving Grantley’s prison number. “He called to me, while I
was making my rounds--was it last night?”

Nick nodded, and the keeper went on:

“What do you know about that! Is he gone?”

This time it was the warden who replied.

“Yes, he’s skipped, Bradley; but we know he was down in New York later
in the night, and Carter here can be counted on to bring him back,
sooner or later.”

Kennedy had begun mildly enough, owing to the experience which his
subordinate had so recently undergone, but, at this point, the autocrat
in him got the better of his sympathy.

“What the devil did you mean, though, by going into his cell, keys and
all, like a confounded imbecile?” he demanded harshly. “Isn’t that the
first thing you had drilled into that reënforced-concrete dome of
yours--not to give any of these fellows a chance to jump you when you
have your keys with you? If you hadn’t fallen for his little game----”

“But I didn’t fall for nothing, warden!” the keeper interrupted warmly.
“I didn’t go into his cell at all. I know better than that, believe me!”

“You didn’t--what? What are you trying to put over, Bradley?” Kennedy
burst out. “You were found in his cell, with the door unlocked and the
keys gone, not to mention Number Sixty Thousand One Hundred and
Thirteen, curse him! Maybe that ain’t proof.”

“It ain’t proof,” insisted the keeper, “no matter how it looks. He
called to me, and I started toward the grating to see what he wanted. He
fixed his eyes on me, like he was looking me through and through, and
made some funny motions with his hands. I’ll swear that’s all I
remember. If I was found in his cell, I don’t know how I got there, or
anything about it, so help me!”

The warden started to give Bradley another tongue-lashing, but Nick
interposed.

“He’s telling the truth, Kennedy,” he said.

“But how in thunder----”

“Very easily. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but it is evident that
Grantley hypnotized him through the bars and then commanded him to
unlock the door and come inside. There is nothing in hypnotism to
interfere; on the contrary, that would be the easiest and surest thing
to do, under the circumstances. Grantley is too clever to try any of the
old, outworn devices--such as feigning sickness, for instance--in order
to get a keeper in his power. All that was necessary was for him to
catch Bradley’s eye. The rest was as easy as rolling off a log. When he
got our friend inside, he put him to sleep, took his keys and his outer
clothing, and then--good-by, Sing Sing! It’s rather strange that he
succeeded in getting away without discovery of the deception, but he
evidently did; or else he bribed somebody. You might look into that
possibility, if you think best. The supposition isn’t essential,
however, for accident, or good luck, might easily have aided him. As for
the means he used to cover his trail after leaving the vicinity of the
prison, we need not waste any time over that question. Fortunately, we
have hit upon his trail down the river, and all that remains to do is to
keep on it, in the right direction, until we come up with him. It may be
a matter of hours or days or months, but Grantley is going to be brought
back here before we’re through. You can bank on that, gentlemen. And
when I return him to you it will be up to you to take some extraordinary
precautions to see that he doesn’t hypnotize any more keepers.”

“I guess that’s right, Carter,” agreed Warden Kennedy, tugging at his
big mustache. “Bolts and bars are no good to keep in a man like that,
who can make anybody let him out just by looking at him and telling him
to hand over the keys. I suppose I’d have done it, too, if I’d been in
Bradley’s place.”

“Exactly!” the detective responded, with a laugh. “You couldn’t have
helped yourself. Don’t worry, though. I think we can keep him from
trying any more tricks of that sort, when we turn him over to you
again.”

“Hanged if I see how, unless we give him a dose of solitary confinement,
in a dark cell, and have the men blindfold themselves when they poke his
food in through the grating.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Nick assured the warden as he prepared to
leave. “We can get around it easier than that.”

Half an hour later Nick was on his way back to New York City.

He was not as light-hearted or confident as he had allowed Warden
Kennedy to suppose, however.

The fact that Grantley had turned to that mysterious and terrifying
agency, hypnotism, with all of its many evil possibilities, caused him
profound disquiet.

Already the fugitive had used his mastery of the uncanny force in two
widely different ways. He had escaped from prison with startling ease by
means of it, and then, not content with that, he had hypnotized a famous
actress in the midst of one of her greatest triumphs--for Nick had known
all along that Helga Lund had yielded to hypnotic influence.

If the escaped convict kept on in the way he had begun, there was no
means of foretelling the character or extent of his future crimes, in
case he was not speedily brought to bay.




CHAPTER V.

THE TRAIL VANISHES.


Grantley’s trail vanished into thin air--or seemed to--very quickly.

Nick Carter and his assistants had comparatively little trouble in
finding the hotel which the fugitive had patronized the night before,
but their success amounted to little.

Grantley had arrived there at almost one o’clock in the morning and
signed an assumed name on the register. He brought a couple of heavy
suit cases with him.

He had not been in prison long enough to acquire the characteristic
prison pallor to an unmistakable degree, and a wig had evidently
concealed his closely cropped hair.

He was assigned to an expensive room, but left his newly acquired key at
the desk a few minutes later, and sallied forth on foot.

The night clerk thought nothing of his departure at the time, owing to
the fact that the Times Square hotel section is quite accustomed to the
keeping of untimely hours.

That was the last any of the hotel staff had seen of him, however. His
baggage was still in his room, but, upon investigation, it was found to
contain an array of useless and valueless odds and ends, obviously
thrown in merely to give weight and bulk. In other words, the suit cases
had been packed in anticipation of their abandonment.

It seemed likely that the doctor had had at least one accomplice in his
flight, for the purpose of aiding him in his arrangements. But not
necessarily so.

If he had received such assistance, it was quite possible that one of
the six young physicians, who had formerly been associated with him in
his unlawful experiments, had lent the helping hand.

Nick had kept track of them for some time, and now he determined to look
them up again.

It was significant, however, that Grantley had, apparently, made no
provision for the escape of Doctor Siebold, his assistant, who had been
in Sing Sing with him.

In the flight which had followed their ghastly crime against the blind
financier, Siebold had shown the white feather, and it was easy to
believe that the stern, implacable Grantley had no further use for his
erstwhile associate.

There was no reason to doubt that the escaped convict had gone directly
to the theater after leaving the hotel. But why had he gone to the
latter at all, and, what had become of him after he had broken up Helga
Lund’s play?

There was no reasonable doubt that Grantley had disguised himself pretty
effectually for his flight from Ossining to New York, and yet the night
clerk’s description was that of Grantley himself.

It followed, therefore, that the fugitive had already shed his disguise
somewhere in the big city. But why not have gone directly from that
stopping, place, wherever it was, to the theater?

Nick gave it up as unimportant. The hotel episode did not seem to have
served any desirable purpose, from Grantley’s standpoint, unless on the
theory that it was simply meant to confuse the detectives.

However that might be, it would be much more worth while to know what
the surgeon’s movements had been after his dastardly attack on the
actress.

Had he gone to another hotel, in disguise or otherwise? Had he returned
to his former house in the Bronx, which had been closed up since his
removal to Sing Sing? Had he left town, or--well, done any one of a
number of things?

There was room only for shrewd guesswork, for the most part.

An exhaustive search of the hotels failed to reveal his presence at any
of them that night or later. The closed house in the Bronx was
inspected, with a similar result.

That was about as far as the detective got along that line. Nick had a
feeling that the fellow was still in New York. He had once tried to slip
away in an unusually clever fashion, and had come to grief. It was fair
to assume, therefore, that he would not make a second attempt,
especially in view of the fact that the metropolis offers countless
hiding places and countless multitudes to shield a fugitive.

If he was still in the city, though, he was almost unquestionably in
disguise; and he could be counted on to see that that disguise was an
exceptionally good one.

Certainly, the prospect was not an encouraging one. The proverbial
needle in a haystack would have been easy to find in comparison.

And, meanwhile, Helga Lund would not know what real peace of mind was
until she was informed that her vindictive persecutor had been captured.

Three days was spent in this fruitless tracking, and then, in the
absence of tangible clews, the great detective turned to something which
had often met with surprising success in the past.

He banished everything else from his mind and tried to put himself, in
imagination, in Doctor Grantley’s place.

What would this brilliant, erratic, but misguided genius, with all of
his unbridled enmities and his criminal propensities, have done that
night, after having escaped from prison and brought Helga Lund’s
performance to such an untimely and harrowing close?

It was clear that much depended on the depth of his hatred for the
actress who had repulsed him five years before. Undoubtedly his enmity
for the beautiful Swede was great, else he would not have timed his
escape as he had done, or put the first hours of his liberty to such a
use.

But would he have been content with what he had done that first night?
If he had considered his end accomplished, he might have shaken the dust
of New York from his feet at once. On the other hand, if his thirst for
revenge had not yet been slaked, it was probable that he was still
lurking near, ready to follow up his first blow with others.

The more Nick thought about it the more certain he became that the
latter supposition was nearer the truth than the former. Grantley had
caused Helga Lund to break down completely before one of the most
important and critical audiences that had ever been assembled in New
York, to be sure, but, with a man of his type, was that likely to be
anything more than the first step?

He had threatened to ruin her career, and he was nothing if not thorough
in whatever he attempted. Therefore--so Nick reasoned--further trouble
might be looked for in that quarter.

The thought was an unwelcome one. The detective had taken every
practicable precaution to shield Helga from further molestation, but he
knew only too well that Grantley’s attacks were of a sort which usually
defied ordinary safeguards.

The possibility of new danger to the actress spurred Nick on to added
concentration.

Assuming that Grantley was still in New York, in disguise, and bent upon
inflicting additional injury on the woman he had once loved, where would
he be likely to hide himself, and what would be the probable nature of
his next move?

The detective answered his last question first, after much weighing of
possibilities.

Grantley was one of the most dangerous of criminals, simply because his
methods were about as far removed as possible from the ordinary methods
of criminals. He had confined himself, thus far, to crimes in which he
had made use of his immense scientific knowledge, surgical and hypnotic.

Accordingly, the chances were that he would work along one of those two
lines in the future, or else along some other, in which his special
knowledge would be the determining factor.

Moreover, since his escape, he had repeatedly called his mastery of
hypnotism to his aid. That being so, Nick was inclined to believe that
he would continue to use it, especially since Helga had shown herself so
susceptible to hypnotic influence.

Could the detective guard against that?

He vowed to do his best, notwithstanding the many difficulties involved.

But it was not until he had carefully balanced the probabilities in
regard to Grantley’s whereabouts that Nick became seriously alarmed.

As a consequence of his study of the problem, an overwhelming conviction
came to him that it would be just like the rascally surgeon to have gone
to Helga’s own hotel, under another name.

The luxurious Wentworth-Belding would be as safe for the fugitive as any
other place, providing his disguise was adequate--safer, in fact, for it
was the very last place which would ordinarily fall under suspicion.

In addition to that great advantage, it offered the best opportunity to
keep in touch with developments in connection with the actress’
condition, and residence there promised comparatively easy access to
Helga when the time should come for the next act in the drama of
revenge.

This astounding suspicion had sprung up, full-fledged, in Nick’s brain
in the space of a second. The detective knew that his preliminary
reasoning had been sound, however, and based upon a thorough knowledge
of Grantley’s characteristic methods.

It was staggering, but his keen intuition told him that it was true. He
was now certain that Grantley would be found housed under the same huge
roof as his latest victim, and that meant that Helga’s danger was
greater than ever.

The next blow might fall at any minute.

It was very surprising, in fact, that Grantley had remained inactive so
long.

The detective hastily but effectively disguised himself, left word for
his assistants, and hurried to the hotel--only to find that his flash of
inspiration had come a little too late.

Helga Lund had mysteriously disappeared.




CHAPTER VI.

HELGA IS AMONG THE MISSING.


Doctor Lightfoot, the actress’ physician, was greatly excited and had
just telephoned to Nick’s house, after the detective had left for the
hotel.

The doctor had arrived there about half an hour before, for his regular
morning visit. To his consternation he had found the night nurse
stretched out on Helga Lund’s bed, unconscious, and clad only in her
undergarments.

The actress was nowhere to be found.

The anxious Lightfoot was of very different caliber from the prison
physician at Sing Sing. He had recognized the nurse’s symptoms at once,
and knew that she had been hypnotized.

He set to work at once to revive her and succeeded in doing so, after
some little delay. As soon as she was in a condition to question, he
pressed her for all the details she could give.

They were meager enough, but sufficiently disquieting. According to her
story, a man whom she had supposed to be Lightfoot himself had gained
entrance to the suite between nine and ten o’clock at night.

He had sent up Doctor Lightfoot’s name, and his appearance, when she saw
him, had coincided with that of the attending physician. He had acted
rather strangely, to be sure, and the nurse had been surprised at his
presence at that hour, owing to the fact that Lightfoot had already made
his two regular calls that day.

Before her surprise had had time to become full-fledged suspicion,
however, the intruder had fixed her commandingly with his eyes and she
had found herself powerless to resist the weakness of will which had
frightened her.

She dimly remembered that he had approached her slowly, nearer and
nearer, and that his gleaming eyes had seemed to be two coals of fire in
his head.

That was all she recalled, except that she had felt her senses reeling
and leaving her. She had known no more until Doctor Lightfoot broke the
dread spell, almost twelve hours afterward.

She had met the bogus Lightfoot in one of the outer rooms of the suite,
not in the presence of the actress. Miss Lund had been in her bedroom
at the time, but had not yet retired.

The nurse was horror-stricken to learn that her patient was missing, and
equally at a loss to explain how she herself came to be without her
uniform.

But Doctor Lightfoot possessed a sufficiently analytical mind to enable
him to solve the puzzle, after a fashion, even before Nick arrived.

The detective had told him that the sight of an enemy of the actress’
had caused her seizure, and it was easy to put two and two together.
This enemy had doubtless made himself up to represent the attending
physician, had hypnotized the nurse, and then passed on, unhindered, to
the actress’ room.

He had obviously subdued her in the same fashion, after which he had
removed the unconscious nurse’s uniform and compelled Helga to don it.

The doctor remembered now that the two women were nearly alike in height
and build. The nurse had dark-brown hair, in sharp contrast to Helga’s
golden glory; but a wig could have remedied that. Neither was there any
similarity in features, but veils can be counted on to hide such
differences.

Doctor Lightfoot, despite his alarm, was rather proud of his ability to
reason the thing out alone. He had no doubt that Helga Lund, under
hypnotic influence, had accompanied the strange man from the hotel,
against her will.

It would have been very easy, with no obstacle worth mentioning to
interpose. No one who saw them would have thought it particularly
strange to see the nurse and the doctor leaving together. At most, it
would have suggested that they were on unusually good terms, and that he
was taking her out for an airing in his car.

The keen-witted physician had progressed thus far by the time Nick
arrived, but he had not yet sought to verify his deductions by
questioning any of the hotel staff.

Nick listened to his theory, put a few additional questions to the
nurse, and then complimented Doctor Lightfoot on his analysis.

“That seems to be the way of it,” the detective admitted. “A light,
three-quarter-length coat, which the nurse often wore over her uniform,
is also missing, together with her hat. The distinctive nurse’s skirt
would have shown beneath the coat and thereby help the deception.”

Confidential inquiries were made at once, and the fact was established
that the two masqueraders--one voluntary and one involuntary--had left
the building about ten o’clock the night before.

The supposed Lightfoot had arrived in a smart, closed town car, which
had been near enough to the physician’s in appearance to deceive the
carriage starter. The chauffeur wore a quiet livery, a copy of that worn
by Lightfoot’s driver. The car had waited, and the two had ridden away
in it.

That was all the hotel people could say. The night clerk had thought it
odd that Miss Lund’s nurse had not returned, but it was none of his
business, of course, if the actress’ physician had taken her away.

It was of little importance now, but Nick was curious enough to make
inquiries, while he was about it, which brought out the fact that a man
had registered at the hotel the morning after the affair at the theater,
and had paid his bill and left the evening before.

It might have been only a coincidence, but certain features of the
man’s description, as given, left room for the belief that Doctor
Grantley had really been at the Wentworth-Belding during that interval.

But where was he now, and what had he done with the unfortunate actress?

Such as it was, the slender clew furnished by the closed car must be
followed up for all it was worth.

That was not likely to prove an easy matter, and, unless Grantley had
lost his cunning, the trail of the machine would probably lead to
nothing, even if it could be followed. Nevertheless, there seemed to be
nothing else to work on.

The chauffeur of the car might have been an accomplice, but it was not
necessary to suppose so. It looked as if the wily Grantley had hunted up
a machine of the same make as Doctor Lightfoot’s, and had engaged it for
a week or a month, paying for it in advance.

There are many cars to be had in New York on such terms, and they are
extensively used by people who wish to give the impression, for a
limited time, that they own a fine car.

It is a favorite way of overawing visitors, and chauffeurs in various
sorts of livery go with the cars, both being always at the command of
the renter.

It would not, therefore, have aroused suspicion if Grantley had
furnished a livery of his own choice for his temporary chauffeur.

The first step was to ascertain the make of Doctor Lightfoot’s car.
Another make might have been used, of course, but it was not likely,
since the easiest way to duplicate the machine would have been to chose
another having the same lines and color.

“Mine is a Palgrave,” the physician informed Nick, in response to the
latter’s question.

“Humph! That made it easy for Grantley,” remarked the detective; “but it
won’t be so easy for us. The Palgrave is the favorite car for renting by
the week or month, and there are numerous places where that particular
machine might have been obtained. We’ll have to go the rounds.”

Nick and his assistants set to work at once, with the help of the
telephone directory, which listed the various agencies for automobiles.
There were nearly twenty of them, but that meant comparatively little
delay, with several investigators at work.

A little over an hour after the search began, Chick “struck oil.”

Grantley, disguised as Doctor Lightfoot, had engaged a Palgrave town car
of the latest model at an agency on “Automobile Row,” as that section of
Broadway near Fifty-ninth Street is sometimes called.

The machine had been engaged for a week--not under Lightfoot’s name,
however--and Grantley had furnished the suit of livery. The car had been
used by its transient possessor for the first time the night before, had
returned to the garage about eleven o’clock, and had not since been sent
for.

The chauffeur was there, and, at Nick’s request, the manager sent for
him.

The detective was about to learn something of Grantley’s movements; but
was it to be much, or little?

He feared that the latter would prove to be the case.




CHAPTER VII.

A SHREWD GUESS.


The detective had revealed his identity, and the chauffeur was quite
willing to tell all he knew.

He had driven his temporary employer and the woman in nurse’s garb to
the Yellow Anchor Line pier, near the Battery. Grantley--or Thomas
Worthington, as he had called himself in this connection--had
volunteered the information that his companion was his niece, who had
been sent for suddenly to take care of some one who was to sail on the
_Laurentian_ at five o’clock in the morning.

Both of the occupants of the car had alighted at the pier, and the man
had told the chauffeur not to wait, the explanation being that he might
be detained on board for some time.

The pier was a long one, and the chauffeur could not, of course, say
whether the pair had actually gone on board the vessel or not. He had
obeyed orders and driven away at once.

Neither the man nor the woman had carried any baggage. The chauffeur had
gathered that the person who was ill was a relative of both of them, and
that the nurse’s rather bewildered manner was due to her anxiety and the
suddenness of the call.

That was all Nick could learn from him, and an immediate visit to the
Yellow Anchor Line’s pier was imperative.

There it was learned that a man and woman answering the description
given had been noticed in the crowd of people who had come to bid
good-by to relatives and friends. One man was sure he had seen them
enter a taxi which had just dropped its passengers. When interrogated
further, he gave it as his impression that the taxi was a red-and-black
machine. He naturally did not notice its number, and no one else could
be found who had seen even that much.

A wireless inquiry brought a prompt reply from the _Laurentian_, to the
effect that no couple of that description were on board, or had been
seen on the vessel the night before.

It was clear that Grantley had made a false trail, for the purpose of
throwing off his pursuers. It had been a characteristic move, and no
more than Nick had expected.

The detective turned his attention to the taxi clew. Red and black were
the distinctive colors of the Flanders-Jackson Taxicab Company’s
machines. Consequently, the main garage of that concern was next
visited.

Luckily, the man at the pier had been right. One of the company’s taxis
had been at the Yellow Anchor Line pier the previous night, and had
picked up a couple of new passengers there, after having been dismissed
by those who had originally engaged it.

Nick obtained the name and address of the chauffeur, who was off duty
until night. He was not at home when the detective called, but, after a
vexatious delay, he was eventually located.

A tip loosened his tongue.

“I remember them well, sir,” he declared. “The man looked like a doctor,
I thought, and, if I’m not mistaken, the woman had on a nurse’s uniform
under her long coat. I couldn’t see her face, though, on account of the
heavy veil she wore. She acted queer--sick or something. The fellow
told me, when they got in, to drive them to the Wentworth-Belding, but
when I got up to Fourteenth Street, he said to take them to the
Metropolitan Building. I did, and they got out. That’s all I know about
it. I drove them to the Madison Square side, and they had gone into the
building before I started away, but that’s the last I saw of them.”

“Well, we’ve traced them one step farther, Chick,” Nick remarked to his
first assistant as they left, “but we haven’t tracked them down, by a
long shot. Grantley doubtless went through the Metropolitan Building to
Fourth Avenue. There he either took the subway, hailed another taxi,
or--hold on, though! Maybe there’s something in that! I wonder----”

“Now, what?” Chick asked eagerly.

“You remember Doctor Chester, one of the six young physicians who was
mixed up with Grantley in that vivisection case?”

“Of course I do,” his assistant answered. “He has taken another name and
given up his profession--on the surface, at least. He’s living on East
Twenty-sixth Street----”

“Exactly--a very few blocks from the Metropolitan Building!” interrupted
his chief.

“You mean----”

“I have a ‘hunch,’ as Patsy would call it, that Grantley has taken Helga
Lund to Chester’s house. Chester has rented one of those old-fashioned,
run-down bricks across from the armory. It’s liable to be demolished
almost any day, to make way for a new skyscraper, and he doubtless gets
it for a song. He can do what he pleases there, and I wouldn’t be
surprised to find that Grantley had been paying the rent in anticipation
of something of this sort. They undoubtedly think that we lost sight of
Chester long ago.”

“By George! I’ll wager you’re right, chief!” exclaimed Chick. “The fact
that we’ve traced Grantley to the Metropolitan Building certainly looks
significant, in view of Chester’s house being so near to it. It’s only
about five minutes’ walk, and a man with Grantley’s resourcefulness
could easily have made enough changes in his appearance and that of Miss
Lund, while in the Metropolitan Building, to have made it impossible for
the two who entered Chester’s house to be identified with those who had
left the Wentworth-Belding an hour or so before.”

“That’s the way it strikes me,” agreed the detective. “And, if the
scoundrel took her there last night, they are doubtless there now. I
think we’re sufficiently justified in forcing our way into the house and
searching it, and that without delay. We don’t know enough to take the
police into our confidence as yet; therefore, the raid will have to be
purely on our own responsibility. We must put our theory to the test at
once, however, without giving Grantley any more time to harm the
actress. Heaven knows he’s had enough opportunity to do so already!”

“Right! We can’t wait for darkness or reënforcements. It will have to be
a daylight job, put through just as we are. If we find ourselves on the
wrong scent, Chester will be in a position to make it hot for us--or
would be, if he had any standing--but we’ll have to risk that.”

“Well, if Chester--or Schofield, as he is calling himself now--is
tending to his new business as a commercial chemist, he ought to be away
at this hour. That remains to be seen, however. I imagine, at any rate,
that we can handle any situation that is likely to arise. If time were
not so precious, it would be better to have some of the other boys along
with us, but we don’t know what may be happening at this very moment.
Come on. We can plan our campaign on the way.”

A couple of tall loft buildings had already replaced part of the old row
of houses on the north side of Twenty-sixth Street, beginning at Fourth
Avenue. Nick and his assistant entered the second of these and took the
elevator to one of the upper floors, from the eastern corridor of which
they could obtain a view of the house occupied by young Doctor Chester,
together with its approaches, back and front.

The house consisted of a high basement--occupied by a little hand
laundry--and three upper stories, the main floor being reached by a
flight of iron steps at the front.

Obviously, there was no exit from the body of the house at the rear.
There was only a basement door opening into the tiny back yard, and that
was connected with the laundry.

The detective decided, as a result of their general knowledge of such
houses, not to bother with the back at all. Their plan was to march
boldly up the front stairs, outside, fit a skeleton key to the lock, and
enter the hall.

They argued that, owing to the fact that the basement was sublet, any
crooked work that might be going on would be likely to be confined to
the second or third floor to prevent suspicion on the part of those
connected with the laundry.

Therefore, they hoped to find the first floor deserted. If that were the
case, it was improbable that their entrance would be discovered
prematurely.

There was, doubtless, a flight of steps at the rear of the house,
leading down to the laundry from the first floor; but they were
practically certain that these rear stairs did not ascend above the main
floor. If they did not, there was no way of retreat for the occupants of
the upper part of the house, except by the front stairs, and, as the
detective meant to climb them, it seemed reasonable to suppose that
Grantley, Chester & Company could easily be trapped.

Nick and Chick returned to the street and made their way, without the
slightest attempt at concealment, toward the suspected house.

They met no one whose recognition was likely to be embarrassing, and saw
no faces at the upper windows as they climbed the outer steps.

They had already seen to it that their automatics were handy, and now
Nick produced a bunch of skeleton keys and began fitting them, one after
another.

The fifth one worked. They stepped into the hall as if they belonged
there--taking care to make no noise, however--and gently closed the
doors behind them.

The adventure was well under way, and, technically speaking, they were
already housebreakers.




CHAPTER VIII.

“HOW ARE THE MIGHTY FALLEN!”


The house in which Nick and Chick found themselves had been a good one,
but it was now badly in need of repair.

The main hall was comparatively wide for so narrow a building, and a
heavy balustrade fenced off the stairs on one side.

The detectives paused just inside the door and listened intently. The
doors on the first floor were all closed and the rooms behind them
appeared to be untenanted. At any rate, all was still on that floor.
Subdued noises of various sorts floated down to them from above,
however, seemingly from the third floor.

They looked at each other significantly. Evidently, their theory had
been correct--to some extent, at least.

They approached each of the doors in turn, but could hear nothing. Under
the stairway they found the expected door leading down to the basement,
but, as it was locked, and there was no key, they paid no further
attention to it.

Instead, they started to mount the front stairs to the second floor. The
stairway was old and rather creaky, but the detectives knew how to step
in order to make the least noise. Consequently, they gained the next
landing without being discovered.

Here they repeated the tactics they had used below, with a like result.
The sound of voices and footfalls were louder now, but they all came
from the third floor. The second seemed to be as quiet as the first.

The doors on the second floor, like those on the first, were all closed,
but Nick ascertained that at least one of them was unlocked.

That fact might be of great advantage in preventing discovery, in case
any one should start down unexpectedly from the third floor, for the
halls and stairs offered no place of concealment.

The detectives noiselessly removed their shoes before attempting the
last flight, and placed them inside the unlocked room, which they
noiselessly closed again.

They were now ready for the final reconnaissance.

By placing the balls of their stockinged feet on the edges of the steps,
they succeeded in mounting to the third floor without making any more
noise than that produced by the contact of their clothing.

A slight pause at the top served to satisfy them that the noises all
proceeded from one room at the front of the house. They were already
close to the door of this room, and they listened breathlessly.

Words were plainly audible now, punctuated at frequent intervals by loud
bursts of laughter.

It sounded like a merrymaking of some kind. What was going on behind
that closed door? Had they made a mistake in entering the house and
wasted precious time in following a will-o’-the-wisp, when Helga Lund
might be even then in the greatest danger?

Nick and his assistants feared so, and their hearts sank heavily.

But no. The next words they heard reassured, but, at the same time,
startled them. The voice was unmistakably Grantley’s.

“That’s enough of pantomime,” it said, with a peculiar note of cruel,
triumphant command. “Now give us your confession from ‘The Daughters of
Men’--give it, but remember that you are not a great actress, that you
are so bad that you would be hooted from the cheapest stage. Remember
that you are ugly and dressed in rags, that you are awkward and ungainly
in your movements, that your voice is like a file. Remember it not only
now, but always. You will never be able to act. Your acting is a
nightmare, and you are a fright--when you aren’t a joke. But show us
what you can do in that confession scene.”

Nick and Chick grew tense as they listened to those unbelievable words,
and to the heartless chuckles and whisperings with which they were
received. Apparently there were several men in the “audience”--probably
Chester and some of Grantley’s other former accomplices.

The meaning was plain--all too plain.

The proud, beautiful Helga Lund was once more under hypnotic influence,
and Grantley, with devilish ingenuity, was impressing suggestions upon
her poor, tortured brain, suggestions which were designed to rob her of
her great ability, not only for the moment, but, unless their baneful
effect could be removed, for all the rest of her life.

She, who had earned the plaudits of royalty in most of the countries of
Europe, was being made a show of for the amusement of a handful of
ruthless scoffers.

It made the detectives’ blood boil in their veins and their hands clench
until their knuckles were white, but they managed somehow to keep from
betraying themselves.

The employment of hypnotism in such a way was plainly within the scope
of the new law against unwarranted operations or experiments on human
beings, without their consent; but it was necessary to secure as much
evidence as possible before interfering.

To that end Nick Carter took out of a pocket case a curious little
instrument, which he was in the habit of calling his “keyhole
periscope.”

It consisted of a small black tube, about the length and diameter of a
lead pencil. There was an eyepiece at one end. At the other a
semicircular lens bulged out.

It was designed to serve the same purpose as the periscope of a
submarine torpedo boat--that is, to give a view on all sides of a given
area at once. The exposed convex lens, when thrust through a keyhole or
other small aperture, received images of objects from every angle in the
room beyond, and magnified them, in just the same way as the similarly
constructed periscope of a submarine projects above the level of the
water and gives those in the submerged vessel below a view of all
objects on the surface, within a wide radius.

Nick had noted that there was no key in the lock of the door. Taking
advantage of that fact, he crept silently forward, inserted the
wonderful little instrument in the round upper portion of the hole, and,
stooping, applied his eye to the eyepiece.

He could not resist an involuntary start as he caught his first glimpse
of the extraordinary scene within.

The whole interior of the room was revealed to him. Around the walls
were seated three young men of professional appearance. Nick recognized
them all. They were Doctor Chester, Doctor Willard, and Doctor Graves,
three of Grantley’s former satellites.

They were leaning forward or throwing themselves back in different
attitudes of cruel enjoyment and derision, while Grantley stood at one
side, his hawklike face thrust out, his keen, pitiless eyes fixed
malignantly on the figure in the center of the room.

Nick’s heart went out in pity toward that pathetic figure, although he
could hardly believe his eyes.

It was that of Helga Lund, but so changed as to be almost
unrecognizable.

Her splendid golden hair hung in a matted, disordered snarl about her
face, which was pale and smudged with grime. She was clothed in the
cheapest of calico wrappers, hideously colored, soiled and torn, beneath
which showed her bare, dust-stained feet.

She had thrown herself upon her knees, as the part required; her
outstretched hands were intertwined beseechingly, and her wonderful eyes
were raised to Grantley’s face. In them was the hurt, fearful look of a
faithful but abused dog in the presence of a cruel master.

Her tattered sleeves revealed numerous bruises on her perfectly formed
arms.

The part of the play which Grantley had ordered her to render was that
in which the heroine pleaded with her angry lover for his forgiveness of
some past act of hers, which she had bitterly repented.

She was reciting the powerful lines now. They had always held her great
audiences breathless, but how different was this pitiable travesty!

It would have been hard enough at best for her to make them ring true
when delivered before such unsympathetic listeners and in such an
incongruous garb, but she was not at her best. On the contrary, her
performance was infinitely worse than any one would have supposed
possible.

She had unconsciously adopted every one of the hypnotist’s brutal
suggestions.

There was not a vestige of her famous grace in any of her movements. The
most ungainly slattern could not have been more awkward.

Her words were spoken parrotlike, as if learned by rote, without the
slightest understanding of their meaning. For the most part, they
succeeded one another without any attempt at emphasis, and when emphasis
was used, it was invariably in the wrong place.

It was her voice itself, however, which gave Nick and Chick their
greatest shock.

The Lund, as she was generally called in Europe, had always been
celebrated for her remarkably musical voice; but this sorry-looking
creature’s voice was alternately shrill and harsh. It pierced and rasped
and set the teeth on edge, just as the sound of a file does.

Nothing could have given a more sickening sense of Grantley’s power over
the actress than this astounding transformation, this slavish adherence
to the conditions of abject failure which he had imposed upon her.

It seemed incredible, and yet, there it was, plainly revealed to sight
and hearing alike.

A subtler or more uncanny revenge has probably never been conceived by
the mind of man. The public breakdown which Grantley had so mercilessly
caused had only been the beginning of his scheme of vengeance.

He doubtless meant to hypnotize his victim again and again, and each
time to impose his will upon her gradually weakening mind, until she had
become a mere wreck of her former self, and incapable of ever again
taking her former place in the ranks of genius.

There was nothing impossible about it. On the contrary, the result was a
foregone conclusion if Grantley were left free to continue as he had
begun.

The very emotional susceptibility which had made Helga Lund a great
actress had also made her an easy victim of hypnotic suggestion, and if
the process went on long enough, she would permanently lose everything
that had made her successful.

Outright murder would have been innocent by comparison with such
infernal ingenuity of torture. It seemed to Nick as if he were watching
the destruction of a splendid priceless work of art.

He had seen enough.

He withdrew the little periscope from the keyhole and straightened up.
One hand went to his pocket and came out with an automatic. Chick
followed his example.

They were outnumbered two to one, but that did not deter them.

Helga must be rescued at once, and her tormentors caught red-handed.




CHAPTER IX.

THE SWING OF THE PENDULUM.


What was to be done, though?

To burst into the room and seek to overpower the four doctors then and
there, in Helga’s presence, would place the actress in additional
danger.

Nick was convinced, however, that that risk would have to be run. He had
seen evidences that more than one of the men were tiring of the cruel
sport, and it might now come to an end at any moment.

He swiftly considered two or three possible plans for drawing the four
away from their victim, but rejected them all. They would only increase
the danger of a slip of some sort, and he was bent upon capturing the
four, as well as releasing the actress.

Furthermore, he did not believe that even Grantley would dare to harm
Helga further in his presence, even if the fortunes of war should give
the surgeon a momentary opportunity.

He, accordingly, motioned to his assistant to follow close behind him,
and laid his left hand on the knob.

He turned it noiselessly, and was greatly relieved to find that the door
yielded. Their advent would be a complete surprise, therefore, and would
find the four totally unprepared.

Nick paused a moment, then flung the door back violently and strode into
the room.

Grantley was the ringleader, the most dangerous of the lot at any time,
and the fact that he was an escaped convict would render his resistance
more than ordinarily desperate. The periscope had told Nick where the
fugitive stood, and thus the detective was enabled to cover him at once
with the unwavering muzzle of the automatic.

“Hands up, Grantley! Hands up, everybody!” cried Nick, stepping a little
to one side to allow Chick to enter.

His assistant took immediate advantage of the opening and stepped to his
chief’s side, with leveled weapon. Chick’s automatic was pointed at
Doctor Chester, however. After Grantley, the man whose house had been
invaded, was naturally the one who was likely to put up the hardest
fight.

The guilty four were spellbound with astonishment and fear for a moment,
then the three younger ones jumped to their feet like so many
jacks-in-the-box. Grantley had already been standing when the detectives
broke in.

“Did you hear me, gentlemen?” Nick demanded, crooking his finger a
little more closely about the trigger. “I said ‘Hands up!’ and it won’t
be healthy for any of you to ignore the invitation. One--two--three!”

Before the last word passed his lips, however, four pairs of hands were
in the air. Doctor Willard’s had gone up first, and Grantley’s last.

“Thank you so much!” the detective remarked, with mock politeness. Now,
if you will oblige me a little further, by lining up against that right
wall, I shall be still more grateful to you. Kindly place yourselves
about two feet apart, not less. I want you, Number Sixty Thousand One
Thirteen”--Grantley winced at his prison number--“at this end of the
line, next to me, with Chester, alias Schofield, next; Graves next to
him, and Willard last. You see, I haven’t forgotten any of my old
friends.”

This disposition of the trapped quartet was designed to serve two
purposes. In the first place, it would remove them from proximity to
Helga Lund, who, crouched in the middle of the floor, was watching the
detectives with bewildered, uncomprehending eyes. In the second place,
it would enable Chick to handcuff them one by one, while Nick stood
ready to fire, at an instant’s notice, on any one who made a false move.

It looked, for the time being, as if the capture would be altogether too
easy to have any spice in it, but the detectives did not make the
mistake of underrating their adversaries--Grantley, especially.

To be sure, they were probably unarmed, and had been taken at such a
disadvantage that they would hardly have had an opportunity to draw
weapons, even if they had worn them. Still, any one of a number of
things might happen.

The four doctors had been caught “with the goods,” as the police saying
is, and they might be expected to take desperate chances as soon as they
had had time to collect their scattered wits and to realize the
seriousness of their plight.

Nick Carter had shown his usual generalship in the orders he had given
so crisply.

Grantley himself, the most to be feared of the lot, was to be placed
nearest to the detective, where Nick could watch him most narrowly. That
was not all, however. The detective meant that Chick should handcuff
Grantley first, and thus put the leader out of mischief at the earliest
opportunity.

After him, Chester was to be disposed of, and the two that would then
remain were comparatively harmless in themselves.

Grantley doubtless saw through Nick’s tactics from the beginning, and if
the detective could have caught the gleam behind the wily surgeon’s
half-closed lids, he would have known that Grantley thought he saw an
opportunity to circumvent those tactics.

With reasonable promptness, hands still in the air, Grantley started to
obey the detective’s order. He moved slowly, grudgingly, his face
distorted with rage and hate.

Chester started to follow the older man toward the wall, but Chick
halted him.

“Hold up, there, Schofield-Chester!” the young detective ordered. “One
at a time, if you don’t mind!”

He wished to prevent the confusion that would result from the
simultaneous movement of the four scoundrels.

Chester paused with a snarl, and Grantley went on alone. He was making
for the corner nearest to Nick, who still stood close to the door. In
doing so, he was obliged to pass in front of the detective.

It had been no part of Nick’s plan to have the fugitive take to that
corner, and he suddenly realized that the criminal was crossing a little
too close to him for safety.

“Here, keep to the left a little----” he began sharply, when Grantley
was about four feet away.

But before he could complete his sentence, the escaped convict ducked
and threw his body sidewise, the long arms were already above his head
and he left them where they were. Their abnormal length helped to bridge
the distance between him and Nick as he flung himself at the detective.

Nick guessed the nature of the move, as if by instinct, and when he
fired, which he did immediately, it was with depressed muzzle. He had
allowed, in other words, for the swift descent of Grantley’s body.

In spite of that, however, the bullet merely plowed a furrow across the
criminal’s shoulder and back, as he dropped. It did not disable him in
the least, and, before Nick could fire again. Grantley’s peculiar dive
ended with a vicious impact against his legs, and clawlike hands gripped
him about the knees in an effort to pull him down.

The convict’s daring act broke the spell which had held his companions.
Without waiting to see whether Grantley’s move was to prove successful
or not, the three of them threw themselves bodily upon Chick, while the
latter’s attention was diverted for a moment by his chief’s peril.

Doctor Chester, who had been looking for something of the sort from
Grantley, was the first to pounce upon Nick’s assistant. He gripped
Chick’s right wrist and began to twist it in an attempt to loosen the
hold on the weapon.

“Help Grantley, Willard,” he directed, at the same time, between his
clenched teeth. “Graves and I can handle this fellow, I guess.”

Willard started for Nick, while Graves shifted his attack, and, edging
around behind Chick, seized him by the shoulders. At the same moment he
placed one knee in the small of the young detective’s back.

There could be only one result.

Chick was bent painfully back until his spine felt as if it was about to
crack in two; then, in his efforts to relieve the strain, he lost his
footing and went down, with Chester on top of him, and still clinging
doggedly to his wrists.

A few feet away Nick was being hard pressed by two other rascals.

The pendulum of chance had swung the other way, and things looked very
dubious for the detectives--and for what was left of Helga Lund!




CHAPTER X.

A HUMAN WHEEL.


Chick had thrown himself to one side to ease the pressure on his back.
Accordingly, he struck the floor on his left side.

Chester and Graves dropped heavily upon him before he had more than
touched the boards, the former at his feet, the latter on his shoulders.

Their bony knees crushed him down, and Graves used his weight to try to
pull Chick over on his back.

Nick’s assistant had twisted his left wrist out of Chester’s grasp as he
fell, but the renegade physician had clung for dear life to the hand
which held the automatic.

Chick allowed himself to be pulled over on his back--for a very good
reason. His free arm had been under him as he lay on his side, and he
wanted an opportunity to use it.

Graves grabbed at it at once, but Chick stretched it--all but the upper
arm--out of his antagonist’s reach. Graves would have to lean far over
Chick in order to reach the latter’s left wrist, and, in so doing, he
would expose himself not a little. Or else he would be obliged to edge
around on his knees, behind Chick’s head.

He chose to try the latter maneuver, but Chick feinted with his left
arm. Graves dodged, and Chick’s hand darted in behind the other’s guard,
grasping Graves firmly by the hair.

Almost at the same instant the young detective jerked his right foot
loose and gave the startled Chester a tremendous kick in the stomach.

The master of the house gave a grunt and doubled up, like a jackknife.
His grip on Chick’s right wrist relaxed simultaneously, and its owner
tore it away.

Chester had involuntarily lurched forward, and the act had brought his
head well within the reach of Chick’s right hand, which was now once
more at liberty.

While Nick’s assistant held the struggling Graves at arm’s length by the
hair, with one hand, he brought down the butt of the automatic, with all
the strength he could bring to bear, on Chester’s lowered poll.

He had juggled the weapon in a twinkling, so that it was clubbed when it
descended. The blow was surprisingly effective, considering the
circumstances.

Chester groaned and toppled forward, over Chick’s legs.

The detective’s assistant was ready to follow up his advantage at once.
He wriggled about until he was facing Graves, and then he began pulling
that individual toward him by the hair.

Tears of pain were in Graves’ eyes, and he struck out blindly in a
desperate effort to break Chick’s relentless hold. The attempt was a
failure, however. Despite all of Graves’ struggles, he was irresistibly
drawn nearer and nearer. The fact that he wore his hair rather long
helped Chick to maintain his grip.

Presently the young physician’s head was near enough to allow Chick to
strike it with his clubbed weapon. He drew the latter back for the blow,
but his enemy, seeing what was coming, suddenly changed his tactics.

Instead of trying to pull away any more, he ducked and threw himself
into Chick’s arms.

The revolver butt naturally missed its mark and, for a time, they fought
at too close quarters to permit such a blow to be tried again.

Graves had seized Chick around the body as he closed in, and he drew
himself close, burying his head on Chick’s chest. Chick still maintained
his hold of his opponent’s hair, however, and now retaliated by rolling
over on Graves, working his feet from under the unconscious Chester as
he did so.

Graves snuggled as close as he could to avoid the dreaded blow, but
Chick, now being on top, was able to hold Graves’ head on the floor by
main force, while he arched his own powerful back and began to tear his
body from his antagonist’s straining arms.

Graves was game; there was no doubt about that. The pulling of his hair
must have been torture to him, but he did not relinquish his hold about
Chick’s waist.

His eyes were closed, his face drawn and twisted with pain, but he clung
obstinately, and without a whimper.

Slowly but surely, nevertheless, Chick raised himself, and the space
between their laboring breasts widened. Graves’ hold was being loosened
bit by bit, but it had not broken.

As a matter of fact, Chick did not wait for it to break. It was not
necessary, for one thing; and for another, he realized that it would be
a kindness to Graves to end the painful struggle as soon as possible.

Accordingly, as soon as he had raised himself enough to deliver a
reasonable effective blow with the clubbed automatic, he struck
downward, with carefully controlled aim and strength.

The butt of the little weapon landed in the middle of the physician’s
forehead. A gasp followed, and the tugging arms fell away.

Chick had floored his two opponents.

He got quickly to his feet and looked to see if Nick needed him. Chester
and Graves ought to be handcuffed before they had time to revive, but
that could wait a little if necessary.

It was well that Chick finished his business just when he did, for Nick
was in trouble.

Doctor Grantley was not an athlete, and his long, lanky build gave
little promise of success against Nick Carter’s trained muscles and
varied experience in physical encounters of all sorts.

On the other hand, the convict was possessed of amazing wiriness and
endurance, and, although he was not cut out for a fighting man, his
keen, quick mind made up for most of his bodily deficiencies.

His original attack, for instance, was an example of unconventional but
startlingly successful strategy. On the surface, it would have seemed
that such a man, without weapons, had precious little chance of gaining
any advantage over Nick Carter, armed as the latter was, and a good four
feet away.

But Grantley followed up his impetuous dive in a most surprising way.
His long arms closed about Nick’s legs, but, instead of endeavoring to
pull the detective down in the ordinary way, Grantley unexpectedly
plucked his legs apart with all his strength.

The detective’s balance instantly became a very uncertain quantity, for
the surgeon’s abnormally long, gorilla-like arms tore his legs apart and
pushed them to right and left with astonishing ease.

Nick felt like an involuntary Colossus of Rhodes as he was forced to
straddle farther and farther. He threw one hand behind him to brace
himself against the wall, reversed his automatic and leaned forward,
bent upon knocking the enterprising Grantley in the head.

The fugitive had other plans, however. Just as Nick bent forward,
Grantley suddenly thrust his head and shoulders between the detective’s
outstretched limbs, and heaved upward and backward.

The detective was lifted from his feet and pitched forward, head
downward. His discomfiture was a decided shock to him, but he neither
lost his presence of mind nor his grip on his weapon.

Had he struck on his head and shoulders, as Grantley evidently intended
he should, the result might have been exceedingly disastrous. The
detective would almost certainly have been plunged into unconsciousness,
and his neck might easily have been broken.

Nick saw his danger in a flash, though, drew his head and shoulders
sharply inward and downward, and at the same time grasped one of
Grantley’s thighs with his left hand.

The result would have been ludicrous under almost any other
circumstances. The detective’s lowered head went, in turn, between
Grantley’s legs, and their intertwined bodies formed a wheel, such as
trained athletes sometimes contrive.

This countermove of Nick’s was as much of a surprise to the surgeon as
the latter’s curious mode of attack had been to the detective.

They rolled over and over a couple of times, until Nick, finding himself
momentarily on top, brought them to a stop. So awkward were their
positions that neither was able to strike an effective blow at the
other.

Nick had the upper hand temporarily, however, and proceeded to wrench
himself loose. He had been busily engaged in this when Willard had
rushed to Grantley’s assistance.

That put still another face on the situation at once.




CHAPTER XI.

NICK’S EXTREMITY.


The newcomer saw his opportunity and snatched up a chair as he rushed
toward the tangled combatants.

Nick heard him coming, but did not have time to extricate himself from
Grantley’s dogged grasp.

He raised his weapon, though, and was about to fire at Willard, when he
saw that the latter was directly between him and Helga Lund. Under the
circumstances, the detective did not dare to fire for fear of hitting
the actress.

He kept Grantley down as best he could with his left hand, and waited
for Willard with his right hand still extended, holding the automatic.

He might have an opportunity to fire, but, if not, he could at least
partially ward off the expected blow from the chair.

Just as Willard paused and swung the chair aloft, Grantley managed
partially to dislodge the detective, with the result that Nick was
obliged to lower his right arm quickly. Otherwise he would undoubtedly
have lost his balance completely, and the surgeon-convict would have had
the upper hand in another second or two.

This involuntary lowering of Nick’s guard served the purpose that
Grantley had intended. Willard’s cumbersome weapon descended with
uninterrupted force on the detective’s shoulders and the back of his
head.

Nick lowered the latter instinctively, and thus saved himself the worst
of the blow. Nevertheless, the impact of the chair was stunning in its
force.

The detective felt his senses reeling, but he somehow managed to retain
them and to grasp the chair, which he blindly wrenched from Willard’s
grasp.

As he did so, however, Grantley succeeded in throwing him off and
scrambling to his feet. Nick followed his example almost simultaneously,
dropped his revolver into his pocket--for fear it would fall into the
hands of one of his enemies--and, grasping the heavy chair with both
hands, whirled it about his head.

His two antagonists dodged it hurriedly, thus clearing a space about
him. Their blood was up, however--especially Grantley’s--and they felt
sure that the detective had by no means recovered from the blow.

“Catch the chair, Willard!” cried Grantley.

The younger physician obeyed instantly, grasping the round of the chair
with both hands, and thus preventing Nick from using it to any
advantage.

The detective shoved it forward into the pit of Willard’s stomach, but
the newcomer managed to retain his hold. He guessed that Grantley
merely meant him to keep Nick busy in front, in order to allow of a rear
attack; and such was the case.

While the detective was occupied with Willard, Grantley stole behind him
and plunged his hand into Nick’s pocket, in search of the automatic.

The detective was obliged to let go of the chair and clamp his hand on
Grantley’s wrist. He was still feeling very groggy as a result of the
punishment he had recently received, and a thrill of apprehension went
through him.

Grantley’s hand was already deep in his pocket, grasping the butt of the
weapon; and there was nothing about the wrist hold to prevent the
criminal from turning the muzzle of the automatic toward his side and
pulling the trigger.

Incidentally, Nick foresaw that he could not hope to hold the chair with
one hand. Willard would twist it away and turn it upon him.

He was right. That was precisely what Willard did. Nick let go just in
time to escape a sprained, if not broken wrist, and dodged back.

In order to keep his hand in Nick’s pocket, Grantley was then obliged to
circle about, between the detective and Willard. That saved Nick from
the latter for the moment, and, simultaneously, the detective shifted
his hold from Grantley’s wrist to his hand, pressing his thumb in under
the latter in such a way that it prevented the hammer of the automatic
from descending.

He was just in time, for Grantley pulled the trigger almost at the same
moment. Thanks to Nick’s foresight, however, the weapon did not go off.

Grantley cursed under his breath, but he had not emptied his bag of
tricks. He suddenly drove his head and shoulders in between Nick’s right
arm and side, and threw his own left arm around, with a back-hand
movement, in front of the detective’s body.

The move threw the detective backward, over Grantley’s knee, which was
ready for him. At the same time, the criminal, whose right hand had
remained on the weapon in Nick’s pocket, began to draw the automatic out
and to the rear.

In other words, he was forcing the detective in one direction with the
left arm and working the revolver in the other with his right. It was
manifestly impossible for Nick to stand the two opposing pressures for
long.

Either he must break the hold of Grantley’s left arm, which pressed
across his chest like an iron band, or else he must let go of the
weapon.

The former seemed out of the question in that position; and to
relinquish his hold on the revolver meant a shot in the side, which,
with Grantley’s knowledge of anatomy, would almost certainly prove
fatal.

Backward went Nick’s straining right arm, inward turned the hard muzzle
of the weapon. Grantley was twisting the automatic now, hoping to loosen
the detective’s grasp all the quicker.

Something was due in a few moments, and it promised to be a tragedy for
the detective.

Then, to cap the climax, Willard circled about the two combatants, like
a hawk ready to swoop down on its prey, and, seeing Nick’s head
protruding from under Grantley’s left arm, hauled off and let drive with
the chair.

The surgeon received part of the blow, but Nick’s head stopped enough of
it to end the strange tussle.

The detective crumpled up, but Grantley held him from the floor and
wrested the weapon from the nerveless fingers. He withdrew it from
Nick’s pocket and put it to the detective’s left breast, determined to
end it all, without fail.

It was at that supreme moment that Chick charged up and took a hand.

Nick’s assistant reached Willard first. The latter’s back was toward
him, and he was just in the act of drawing back the chair. Chick’s
clubbed weapon descended on his head without warning, and Willard
pitched forward on his face.

It was not until then that Chick saw the automatic at his chief’s
breast. There was no time to reach Grantley--not a second to waste.

The young detective did what Nick and his men seldom allowed themselves
to do--he turned his automatic around again and shot to kill.

Nick’s own life depended upon it, and there was nothing, else to do.

The bullet struck Grantley full between the eyes, and the escaped
convict dropped without a sound.

The battle was over and won.

       *       *       *       *       *

Doctor Hiram A. Grantley--so called--master surgeon and monster of
crime, would never return to Sing Sing to serve out his unexpired term;
but neither would he trouble the world, or Helga Lund, again.

If the truth were known, it would doubtless be found that Warden Kennedy
heaved a sigh of profound relief when he heard of Grantley’s death. It
left no room for anxiety over the possibility of another hypnotic
escape.

Doctors Chester, Willard, and Graves were speedily brought to trial, and
they were convicted of aiding and abetting the deceased Grantley in an
illegal experiment in hypnotism on the person of the great Swedish
actress.

As for Helga Lund, she was a nervous wreck for nearly a year, but
gradually, under the care of the best European physicians, she recovered
her health and her confidence in herself.

She has now returned to the stage, and Nick Carter, who has seen her
recently in Paris, declares that she is more wonderful than ever.

He wishes he could have spared her that last humiliating ordeal, but she
is wise enough to know that, but for him and Chick, the man she had
despised would have made his dreadful vengeance complete.


THE END.


“The Call of Death; or, Nick Carter’s Clever Assistant,” is the title of
the story that you will find in the next issue of this weekly, No. 121,
out January 2d. This story is the first of three, that will deal with a
most remarkable criminal and his associates in crime.




THE LARGEST LEAVES.


The palms are said to be the plants possessing the largest leaves. The
Quaja palm of the Amazons has leaves approaching fifty feet in length by
sixteen feet in breadth. The leaves of some palms in Ceylon are more
than eighteen feet long, and nearly as wide, and are used by the natives
for making tents. The cocoa palm has leaves nearly thirty feet long. In
other families than the palms, the parasol magnolia of Ceylon forms
leaves large enough to shelter fifteen or twenty persons. One of the
leaves, taken to England, as a specimen, measured nearly thirty-five
feet. The largest leaves grown in temperate climates are those of the
exotic Victoria regia, which sometimes reach about seven feet in
diameter.




The Riddle and the Ring.

By Gordon MacLaren.

(This interesting story was commenced in No. 113 of NICK CARTER STORIES.
Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the
publishers.)




CHAPTER XLIII.

HIS SECOND HALF.


The rattle of the window shade and the tramping of a number of feet on
the stairs brought Barry to himself with a start just as the unknown put
his finger to his lips and stepped noiselessly back into the shadow.

“Face round, but stand where you are,” breathed the unknown.

Lawrence obeyed instinctively, and the next instant the hall door opened
to admit several men. The first was well on in years, with a tall,
splendid figure and a noble, distinguished face. He seemed in the grip
of some great, though partially suppressed, emotion; and, as he caught
sight of Barry, he sprang hastily toward him, both hands outstretched.

“Oscar!” he cried, in a deep, vibrating voice which held a distinctly
foreign intonation. “My dear boy! I----”

The words died in a queer gurgling sound. One of the men by the door
cried out sharply; another drew his breath through his teeth with an
odd, whistling noise. Then silence--tense, vibrating silence--fell upon
the room as out of the shadows appeared the other man and moved
noiselessly forward to Barry’s side.

He did not speak or stir after he had taken up his position there. The
two men, so absolutely, unbelievably alike, stood shoulder to shoulder,
motionless as statues, while the seconds ticked away and those who
witnessed the amazing spectacle stared and stared with dazed faces,
unable to credit the evidence of their senses.

Once only did Barry’s gaze waver from the stunned countenance of the
older man to the other end of the room, where Shirley Rives stood
bending far over the table, her face absolutely white, and her wide,
dark eyes staring at him as if she were looking at a ghost.

At last a laugh, clear, hearty, and full of mirth, came from the man at
his side, and broke the spell.

“Rather good, don’t you think, uncle?” the newcomer chuckled, stepping
forward a little.

“_Gott in Himmel!_” breathed the older man. “You are----”

“Of course. Don’t you know me? I never supposed that you would be
deceived.”

With a swift motion, the other caught his hands and drew him over to the
light.

“Let me look at you!” he exclaimed, speaking German in his agitation. “I
cannot tell! I do not know! I feel as if the whole world had been turned
topsy-turvy.”

For a long minute he gazed searchingly into the young man’s face, while
the others moved unconsciously closer to the two, Barry quite as dazed
and bewildered as any of them. Suddenly he threw back his gray head and
flung one arm impulsively around the young fellow’s shoulder.

“You _are_ Oscar!” he exclaimed. “I know it!”

For a second he was silent. Then he turned swiftly toward the group of
men who had entered with him, and singled out one with his flashing
eyes.

“What does this mean, Baron Hager?” he demanded imperiously. “How dare
you play such a trick upon me? It is infamous!”

It was the man with the beard who stepped forward; and Barry saw that he
was trembling in every limb, while beads of perspiration stood out on
his forehead.

“Your highness!” he gasped. “I--I---- It is not a trick. I--have never
seen--this man before.”

“Never seen him! Nonsense! I’m not a child. How did he get here? What is
he doing in this house? Who is he?”

Hager stared helplessly at Lawrence, and then his bewildered eyes
wandered dazedly to the smiling double. His emotion was so great,
however, that he did not speak, and it was Brennen who answered.

“I can tell you that,” he said shortly. “He’s the man we’ve been
trailing all over New York, thinking he was your nephew. He’s the man we
decoyed here to-night for you to meet. If he ain’t the right one, we’re
a lot of suckers, that’s all.”

“He’s my second half, uncle,” interposed the young man, smiling. “It
isn’t everybody who can have such a good one, you know.”

“Is that the truth, Oscar?” demanded the older man. “Has he been passing
himself off for you all this time?”

“Exactly, and he did it wonderfully well, too. I owe him an everlasting
debt----”

The sentence was never finished. As he stood there, unable to make head
or tail of what was being said, Barry had a horrible conviction that
somehow his curiosity was never going to be gratified. He had come as
close as this several times before to learning the name of the man he so
resembled, and he was determined to take no more chances.

“My dear fellow,” he burst out, unable longer to contain himself, “if
you owe me anything at all, for Heaven’s sake pay me now by telling me
who on earth you are.”

“You mean to say you do not know!” exclaimed the older man
incredulously. “Why, such a thing is preposterous.”

The laughter vanished suddenly from the nephew’s face, and, stepping
swiftly forward, he caught Barry’s hand in a firm grip.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Lawrence,” he said contritely. “I’ve been
fearfully discourteous. Please forgive me, and do not think me
ungrateful for what you have done. I am Prince Oscar, of Ostrau, and
this is my uncle, the Grand Duke Frederick.”




CHAPTER XLIV.

THE RIDDLE SOLVED.


In the brief silence which followed there came to Barry’s ears the sound
of a quick gasp, followed by a strangled sob, from the girl at the
table. And in that second, as he stood holding his own hand, as it were,
and gazing into his own eyes, he realized with a rush of joy that this
was what had troubled Shirley. They had told her that he was the crown
prince of an Old World kingdom, and it was small wonder she had been
dismayed.

“I am more than happy at meeting your highness at last,” he went on the
next instant, gazing into the pleasant face of the young foreigner. Then
his lips twitched and curved into an involuntary smile. “It seems as if
I had known you all my life instead of a scant ten minutes.”

The prince laughed delightedly. From the very beginning he had
apparently enjoyed the situation to the full, and there was a total lack
of royal dignity and stiffness about him which was refreshing.

“It’s the greatest lark I ever had,” he chuckled. “Haven’t you begun to
see the fun of it yet, uncle?”

The grand duke sighed. “Are you never going to be serious?” he asked
sadly. “Do you mean to go through life taking everything as a jest,
content to remain an irresponsible boy always?”

The prince straightened suddenly, and there came into his handsome face
an expression which was very far from boyish. His jaw squared, and he
pressed his lips firmly together as he stood regarding his uncle out of
clear, level, uncompromising eyes.

“It isn’t any use, uncle,” he said abruptly. “My mind is made up, and
nothing you can say will induce me to change.”

The grand duke’s lips parted as if he meant to speak, but closed swiftly
again, and he darted a significant glance at the man with the beard.

“Be so good as to leave us, baron,” he said curtly.

Baron Hager gave a start and turned hastily toward the door, followed
closely by his two compatriots and the American detectives. Brennen
brought up the rear, moving with evident reluctance, as if there were
numberless points about the affair he was pining to have cleared up.

“By the way, Mr. Brennen,” Lawrence called after him, struck by a sudden
thought, “whatever you’ve done to my two friends, I’d be obliged if you
would undo it at once.”

The detective nodded sourly and closed the door behind him. As he
disappeared, Barry realized that it would be more graceful for him also
to leave the room; but, when he made a move to do so, the crown prince
caught him by the arm.

“Please stay,” he said quietly. “Mr. Lawrence is my friend, uncle.
Whatever you say before him will go no farther.”

“As you will,” returned the grand duke indifferently. He hesitated an
instant, his eyes fixed pleadingly upon his nephew’s face. “Oscar,” he
went on swiftly, “your father, the king, has sent me to beg of you to
come home to your family, your people, your country. He wants you. He
needs you. You cannot realize the nature of the step you have taken. You
acted hastily--heedlessly. For the honor of the throne, Oscar, I beg of
you--I beseech you--to give up your harebrained scheme and resume again
the place in life to which you were born.”

There was no gleam of mirth in the face of the crown prince now. It was
firm and serious and a little white; his eyes were fixed unfalteringly
on his uncle’s face.

“And what of my wife?” he asked quietly.

A flicker of pain flashed into the grand duke’s face and was gone.

“There are ways----” he began hesitatingly.

“Ways!” broke in the prince swiftly. “What ways? You mean a morganatic
marriage, I suppose. You know that is impossible, even if I would
consider it. She is an American girl.”

Lawrence, standing a little behind the duke, listening with an interest
he made no attempt to conceal, noticed how the faint, foreign
intonation--it could hardly be called an accent--in the young man’s
voice was intensified in a moment of excitement.

The grand duke did not answer at once, and, when finally he spoke, there
was a hopeless undercurrent in his voice which showed clearly that he
had little hope of his argument meeting with success.

“Under the laws of Ostrau,” he said in a low tone, “a woman without
royal or noble blood cannot marry into the reigning family. She,
therefore, has no standing as your wife. In Ostrau the bond does not
exist, and you would be free to marry your father’s choice, Princess
Olga, of Gratz.”

The young man’s lips curled and his eyes narrowed. “Never!” he exclaimed
impulsively. “She’s ten years too old and a thousand times impossible.
Luckily,” he went on more composedly, “we’re in America, not Ostrau, and
I propose to stay here. I’m beastly sorry, uncle, for your sake. We’ve
always been great pals, and ever since I was a kid I’ve loved you more
than my august father. I’d do anything else for you gladly, but this is
impossible. I’ll renounce my rights to the succession for myself and my
heirs forever. Let Maurice be crown prince, can’t you? He’ll make a lot
better king than I ever could. All I want is to be let alone; to be free
to live my own life and be happy in my own way. Ostrau stifles me with
its foolish, cramping etiquette and narrow bigotry. It’s ruined your
life, and I’ll take precious good care----”

He broke off abruptly as the grand duke groaned and covered his face
with one hand.

“Forgive me, uncle!” the prince begged. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I
forgot myself. But you understand,” he went on softly, “because you,
too, have suffered.”




CHAPTER XLV.

THE GIFT OF THE RING.


The older man did not answer at once, and Lawrence, feeling as if he had
no right to listen, moved slowly backward till he touched the table.
Then he turned suddenly and looked down quizzically into Shirley’s eyes.

“You--understand?” he whispered gently.

She nodded swiftly. “What must you think of me?” she murmured a little
unsteadily. “I didn’t believe it at first, but they swore it--was true;
and, somehow, things--fitted in, and--and---- Do you think you’ll ever
forgive me?”

One hand stole across the table, and the strong brown fingers closed
over the tiny gloved ones.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t?” he questioned softly, gazing into her
wonderful eyes with an expression in his own which swiftly brought her
long lashes sweeping down on crimsoning cheek.

“Well?” he queried as she made no answer.

“I--I hoped,” she faltered.

It was the voice of the grand duke, weary, sorrowful, but full of an
unmistakable resignation, which broke the silence.

“I cannot blame you, Oscar,” he was saying quietly. “I have clung to the
old traditions because there seemed no other way--perhaps I lacked the
courage to do what you have done--and my life turned to dust and ashes.
I love you too well ever to wish to see that happen to you. Have you
any--plans?”

“Heaps of them, uncle,” the prince answered jauntily. “I’m going to
become an American citizen. I think I’ll buy a big place in the South
and turn farmer. I’ve money enough.”

The two at the table saw the old man wince slightly, but in an instant
he had recovered his composure.

“What a thoroughbred he is!” Barry whispered admiringly. He had
apparently forgotten to release Shirley’s hand, but she seemed too
absorbed to notice the lapse.

“There will be no difficulty on that score,” the duke remarked. “Your
estates belong to you personally, and their sale should net a million or
more.”

Suddenly he gave a start and arose swiftly to his feet.

“I beg your pardon, Oscar,” he ejaculated, in chagrin. “My preoccupation
has made me forget entirely my desire to meet your--wife. This lady----”

He glanced at Shirley with a courtly inclination, just in time to see
her snatch her hand from Barry’s grasp and spring to her feet with
blazing cheeks. The prince saw it, too, and his eyes twinkled.

“I have not the honor,” he said quietly. “My wife is just recovering
from an illness which has been the cause of most of these complications.
Mr. Lawrence, will you be so good as to present us?”

With swiftly recovered composure, Shirley acknowledged the introduction
with a naïve dignity; and, when they had all seated themselves again,
the prince begged for a recital of Barry’s adventures.

“Extraordinary and most diverting,” he said when the tale had been told.
“Perhaps a little more amusing in retrospect. My dear Mr. Lawrence, I
feel more than ever indebted to you for what you have done. When I
started the ball rolling last Monday morning I had no conception of the
strenuous experiences I was bringing upon you. You see, I had left
Ostrau secretly with only Watkins, my American secretary, who has been
with me for years, but I was almost certain of being followed. I hoped,
however, that we should succeed in losing ourselves somewhere in the
South or West before our trail was picked up. I should explain, perhaps,
that my wife and I were married in Paris, where she was spending the
winter. She was Miss Isabel Patterson, of Baltimore. We sailed under
assumed names; or, rather, under a name I used in England during our
exile----”

“I beg your pardon,” Lawrence put in, “but was it Nordstrom?”

“Why, yes. How did you know?”

“I met a friend of yours who had known you at Cambridge. He was an
Englishman named Brandon.”

“John Brandon!” exclaimed the prince. “Of course! We were great friends
during my university days, but I haven’t seen him in years. You see, Mr.
Lawrence, our family was exiled from Ostrau until the timely revolution
three years ago which restored my father to power. I was brought up in
England, and, as we were very poor, indeed, I went through Rugby and
Cambridge under the name of Nordstrom, which is one of our family names.
It would have been absurd for a poverty-stricken individual to be
strutting about as a prince. What times we had!” he sighed. “I think
they were the happiest days of my life--until now. But I am digressing.
Unfortunately for our plans, my wife was taken ill just as we were on
the point of leaving New York. I knew that the pursuit would be keen,
and, unless attention was diverted from us to another quarter, we would
be hunted out no matter how carefully we hid ourselves in New York.
Considering my wife’s health, I was most anxious to avoid anything of
that sort until she was recovered.

“I was at my wit’s end,” he continued, “and could think of nothing until
one day, while waiting with Watkins in the Pennsylvania Station for a
physician from Philadelphia, whom I knew well, and who had promised to
come on, I suddenly caught sight of you. I was simply stumped, of
course; then, like a flash, I realized that here was the way out, which
I had hitherto been searching for in vain. It took but a moment for me
to outline a plan to Watkins, arrange my bill case, and place the ring
in it. You see, that had been given me by the Rajah of Sind when I
toured India two years ago, and I had scarcely had it off my finger
since then. If an added mark of identification were needed, that would
amply suffice.

“The plan worked to a charm. When Hager, my father’s chief of police,
arrived, he was completely taken in. He kept on your trail day and
night, and my purpose was accomplished. We had taken rooms in what I
considered the most out-of-the-way locality in New York. When I went out
it was always after dark and wearing a semidisguise. In spite of every
care, however, fate seemed to be against me, and caused Hager to choose
this very house for the culmination of his little drama. My rooms are
just back of this. Through the door I heard all that passed; and, when I
found that my uncle was expected, I realized that the better way would
be to end everything at once and be free from further persecution. I can
only close, Mr. Lawrence, by offering my most sincere apologies for the
annoyance to which you have been subjected.”

“There is not the slightest need of that, your highness,” Barry returned
hastily. “I am more grateful to you than I can say, for without your aid
I should probably have missed--the greatest happiness of my life.”

“You are good to say that,” the prince said simply. “I am very happy.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Lawrence asked, as they arose.

The crown prince looked slightly puzzled. “I’m afraid I do not
understand.”

“This,” explained Lawrence, drawing the emerald ring from his finger and
holding it out. “It belongs to you, you know.”

“Not at all. That is yours. It is part of the bargain, and I am sure you
have earned it.”

“But it’s worth a king’s ransom,” Barry protested. “I really can’t take
it. You have given me more than enough without that. Besides, it is much
too rare a jewel for me to be wearing.”

The prince darted a mischievous glance at Shirley Rives.

“Perhaps there is some one else who might be willing to relieve you of
its care,” he murmured, his fine eyes twinkling.

There was no mistaking his meaning, and the girl dropped her lids, while
a rush of color crimsoned her lovely face. The next instant, however,
she lifted them again and looked bravely into Barry’s questioning eyes.

“Perhaps--some day,” she murmured.


THE END.




RUBY LIGHT.

By BURKE JENKINS.




CHAPTER I.

QUICK ACTION.


At a quarter to five in the afternoon, when the thing really began as
far as I myself was concerned, I happened to be swinging my legs from
the stringpiece of the town dock of Port Washington. How and why I had
been sitting there some two hours, in a hot, summer sun, will develop in
due course. Sufficient now to state that my frame of mind was one of
general disgust at the world’s handling; this coupled to a dark-brown
ennui.

Quite listlessly I had been running my eye over a trimlined launch of
the “day-cruiser” type that was moored, bow and stern, to a float below
me. For the most part, I love boats far more than people; so it must
have been something out of the ordinary that made me shift my attention
suddenly from the craft itself to the two men who manned it.

One, a clean-limbed, undersized man of about forty, much spattered with
gilt braid and buttons, I sized up as the captain. He stood on the float
alongside the diminutive wheelhouse, steadying the slight roll of the
craft with his left hand, while his right constantly sought his watch in
nervous consultation of the exact time.

“A precise and pompous bit of a fool!” I remember grunting to myself.
But my gaze happened that instant to travel toward the other.

This fellow hadn’t quitted the boat, but busied himself lumbering, I
thought, about the engine, which was situated in the after cockpit. A
loosely knit chap he was, whose fingers were all thumbs.

And I, who fairly caress a bit of machinery, wondered how in thunder
such a clumsy cuss could ever have got the position as engineer of so
trim a little vessel.

But the little skipper again caught my attention, for he suddenly
snapped his watch case and quickened to attention. His gaze never left
the road that led to the wharf, which, by the way, was the way to the
railroad station.

An auto, quick-driven and skidding slightly in the dust, rounded the
turn by the shore hotel and took to the wharf’s planks.

Now, how it was that my eyes whirled from this decidedly new interest
back to the heavy man in the boat I don’t know; but I am certainly glad
now that I did glance that way on that particular second.

For, with a furtive look at his little chief, the fellow made a quick
step forward and to starboard. It was but a second that his hand groped
under a locker; but, when he withdrew it, his face lighted to a grin. He
checked it quickly, though, as he slid back to his old position before
the flywheel.

The car groaned to sharply applied brakes directly alongside the gangway
that led steeply down to the float, for the tide was low.

Immediately a man popped from the limousine, and handed down a closely
veiled woman; then he slipped a coin to the chauffeur, who forthwith
made off.

Somehow or other, I was getting mighty interested by this time; though,
of course, none of it was any of my business.

The woman wore a dream of a little, high-heeled boot, which showed
prettily enough in her terror of the sharply sloping plank. But the man
steadied her firmly to the float, where he nodded curtly to the little,
gilded captain.

“Well, we made it, Stevens,” I heard him say.

Then he called his own bluff at being the gentleman, for he lighted a
cigarette, drawing his match across a polished mahogany panel of the
wheelhouse. I could see the little skipper fairly writhe. He had my
sympathy; for, owner or no owner, right is right.

“New rich, and thinks he’s the real thing,” I muttered to myself, little
realizing how soon I was to assume another rôle.

With but a moment’s delay, the girl reached a seat on a transom of the
midship half cabin; and, just before joining her, the man drew out a
handsomely jeweled watch.

“No time to spare, eh, Stevens?” he inquired, a bit anxiously, I
thought.

Stevens deftly cast off the moorings and took his position at the wheel.

“I’ll get there,” said he, as he jangled the bell for “ahead.”

The lumbering engineer leisurely grasped the starting lever and drew her
up to compression. The coil buzzed viciously, but no cough told of
explosion.

His surprise was a fine imitation of the genuine as he cranked once
more, but without result. The engine lay dead. Then I saw a sharp look
of dismay flash across the features of the man I reckoned to be the
owner.

“What’s the matter?” he snapped, in a tone far removed from his former
easy one.

“Don’t know,” grumbled the engineer surlily. “She wuz runnin’ all right
comin’ over.”

He went on with his futile cranking. Then the girl leaped to her feet
with a little cry, the wind whipping aside the veil a moment. Her face
decided me. If there was anything I could do to take away that look of
anxiety, almost terror, I’d do it. And, furthermore, I was pretty sure I
could. I knew I’d be taking a chance; but I didn’t believe it was much
of a one; and, besides, I like to take chances.

By the time I had reached the boat’s side, Stevens had thrust aside the
burly fellow, and was trying to start the balky machine himself, while
the owner chafed in bitterest impatience.

I caught his eye.

“I think I can start her,” I said simply.

He must have read something in my tone that conveyed more than the usual
talk of the “butter-in.”

“You understand engines?” he queried sharply.

“Enough to know that they need gasoline to run with,” I replied; and,
before even the engineer knew what I was up to, I entered the cockpit,
and strode quickly over to the tank locker, where I found my guess
correct. I was no longer taking any chances.

A stopcock which I had counted upon finding there was there, and turned
off.

“I saw him turn it off a moment before you arrived,” said I.

I know now I should have been a trifle more diplomatic, and I might well
have regretted it; for the fellow had me nicely by the throat in the
time you could count three.

But aid came speedily.

With a neatness and dispatch with which I would never have credited his
build, the owner shot out a white-knuckled fist, and caught the engineer
prettily beneath the cheek.

There’s a spot that effects the result nicely.

Grip relaxed, he toppled over the rail. The next second he bobbed to the
surface, gurgling stertorously.

I had regained my breath from the strangle by this time.

“Here, quick!” said I, springing for the stopcock and turning it on
full. “I’ll run her for you.”

I had caught the glitter of a constable’s star in the small crowd that
had collected on the dock from nowhere. I realized that explanation
would delay.

And little Skipper Stevens proved a man of quick action, too; for this
time the bell jangled with a result.

I threw her over, and she caught on the first spark.

Two minutes after, we shaved the angle of the channel and headed
straight for Plum Beach Point.

That engine, given fuel, certainly was a sweet-running piece of metal.




CHAPTER II.

A BIT OF ACTING.


For the next ten minutes I was too busy tuning the launch up to her best
performance to pay much attention to the others, or even to realize the
oddity of my position.

I refilled the grease cups, which I found had run pretty low, screwed
them down to a good tension, and gave a look at the sight tubes of the
automatic oiler.

Of course, the engine, new to me, was a bit of a problem. Twice she
choked--not to a stop, but enough to make Stevens cast an apprehensive
eye back at me. A quarter turn of the needle valve did the trick,
though; and, as though she were chortling at a mischievous prank, she
settled down to a steady, mile-eating gurgle.

Finally--it was just about as we were quitting the harbor for the open
Sound--I found time to flop myself down upon the engineer’s transom and
size up the situation.

Stevens, the skipper, was no problem at all. I had him right on my thumb
nail. His like are to be encountered the yacht world over. A
punctilious, efficient commander of any kind of a pleasure vessel from
two hundred feet to twenty overall length. No great head on him, but a
perfect wonder at taking orders and obeying them. And dumb as a bivalve.

The owner bothered me far more; partly, as was natural, from the fact
that I didn’t get one really fair-and-square look at him. He stood
squarely beside Stevens at the wheel, his watch in his palm, and his
eyes never off the water ahead. This I did notice, though: his head, in
the intensity of his gaze, had a trick of settling forward and down. Not
a crouch, but buzzardlike and scouring.

Somehow I caught myself fancying that I’d recognize that attitude when I
saw it again. Events, however, will prove that I wasn’t quite as smart
as I thought I was.

But it was as though I had been saving up for the verdict that hit me
fairly between the eyes when I finally settled covert attention upon
the girl. Sudden is no name for it.

Once clear of the harbor, and with the freshing, southerly breeze
whipping smartly, she flung aside the disgusting veil with a pleasure as
apparent as my own at having her do it. And, eyes dancing to the delight
of it all, for a bit of spray was flying, she fairly made me a comrade
with the smile of a gleeful child.

Now I’m not going to waste any words as to whether such things ever
really do happen or not. I’m not even going to slack up my yarn,
describing the how, when, or where.

The fact remains; and it was real fact. I dug it then and there from
somewhere ’way down in some inner chink of me where I’m only half awake.
But I never yet was fooled from that quarter.

That little girl there on that plush-covered transom was born to be my
wife.

And the funniest thing about it all was that it seemed to be the most
natural thing in the world. There was an “of-courseness” to it that was
fairly delicious; and the fact that she herself hadn’t waked to it quite
yet was immaterial.

The bell brought me back to machinery, and suddenly. I checked her to
half speed, and peered ahead for the cause of it. We were just abreast
Stepping Stones Light, just to north’ard of it, and with plenty of clear
water ahead. I saw nothing to justify any change in speed, especially
since up to this time both men had seemed most keen to get every
revolution possible out of her.

I noticed, however, that they were scanning closely a column of black
smoke that was slowly moving along the farther side of Throgg’s Neck.
Finally a long puff of white steam showed against the darker smoke, and,
some seconds thereafter, the hoarse toot of a whistle told me that a
steamer, whose hull was invisible beyond the land, was approaching the
turn at Fort Schuyler.

Stevens and the owner whispered a moment, then the little skipper
jangled the bell once more for full speed. But even then I didn’t tumble
to the thing. I don’t believe yet that I am much to be blamed for
stupidity on this score, however; for the next few minutes certainly
were crowded with the unusual.

I have often since marveled at the nicety with which Stevens had
calculated the relative distances. He certainly knew his book when it
came to helmsmanship.

For, at the moment that the bluff bows of the steamer, rounding the
point and keeping to the channel, straightened out to lay a course to
Execution Rocks, then it was that Stevens edged our course sharply to
port.

This, in turn, he followed by a frantic pawing of the wheel’s spoke to
starboard. It was some of the finest acting I had ever seen; and no one
in the world would have suspected him of being other than a distinctly
panic-stricken helmsman whose steering gear had suddenly gone all to
pot.

And it really was dangerous. I can still see that black wall of steel
plates towering above us; for he had actually had the nerve to whirl the
launch within ten feet of the steamer.

In the glance I shot up to the vessel’s rail, I could see the frightened
eyes of several passengers; and, above them, in the farther distance of
the bridge, an officer was fingering a bell pull hesitatingly.

Whether the owner saw his indecision, I don’t know, but his action
seemed to point to that effect; for he suddenly grabbed our whistle
cord, and sent shriek after shriek in a perfect panic of nervousness.
And all this time Stevens was clawing the wheel. Then suddenly he gave
me “full speed astern.” It was enough to wrench the gears’ bearings
apart; but I swung her to it. And we groaned and churned astern.

Then it was that the officer on the bridge did signal his engine room,
and he sang out in clear bass:

“What’s the trouble? Can’t you work clear of me?”

I could well understand the disgust that was only slightly veiled; for
yachtsmen certainly are a nuisance to the professional seaman,
especially the new-fledged power boatmen.

But it was an imperative tone that met him.

“The steering gear’s clean gone!” bellowed Stevens, in a volume I could
never have credited to his diminutive frame. “Drop us a ladder.”

And, without so much as a hint of hesitancy, the little fellow shoved a
boat hook back at me with the word to keep by the steamer, which had not
yet quite lost her way.

I believe it was really because he caught sight of the girl, who was
naturally terrified. Anyway, the officer shot out a sharp order, and
next instant the coils and rungs of a rope boarding ladder came swaying
down to us.

“Come on, Stella,” chuckled the owner, taking her arm and trying hard to
repress his gleeful satisfaction at the way things were going. “Keep a
stiff upper lip, girl, and hold tight. There’s really no danger, and you
are as spry as a monkey. Up you go!”

And up she did go with an agility and grace that only a man who knows a
rope ladder could appreciate.

The owner followed her immediately; and, the instant he was fairly on
his way to the deck of the steamer above us, I got my next surprise.

“Shove off!” snapped Stevens, in a sharp whisper to me.

Almost mechanically I did so; for I was in that particular daze of
unreality we are all familiar with.

“Full speed ahead!” came the next quick command; and I threw the gear
from the “neutral.” The cogs caught nicely, and we gathered instant
motion.

And in less than a minute thereafter we were speeding away, the steering
gear working like new.

In my day I have known more conventional ways of taking passage to
Portland, Maine.

For I read the steamer’s name on the stern. I had sailed on her once
myself.




CHAPTER III.

BY CHANCE.


Not one word could I get out of that tight-mouthed little cuss, Stevens.
He didn’t even deign to look my way till we had rounded the couple of
points, and he was approaching the float of a hotel dock that ran
alongside the ferry slip at College Point.

But what he did say then was rather complimentary, and I liked the smack
of it. We had come alongside the float; and both of us, at his nod, had
quitted the launch; and he stood there steadying her with his left hand.

“Well,” said he heartily, as he stuck out his right for a shake, “you’re
a good man at obeying orders.”

I felt something crumple in my fist as I withdrew it. A crisp twenty it
proved to be, and I realized that I had served my purpose.

“That yellow boy was pretty easy earned; eh, lad?” said he, with a
chuckle. “And with a little excitement thrown in, eh? But a closed mouth
spills no mush. So I guess I’ll run her back myself.”

And blow me if the little, old rascal didn’t pop right into the craft,
start her with the skill of an old hand at the game; and, steering with
the side lever with which the boat was fitted, he sped away, directly
retracing the course we had just covered.

I strolled shoreward along the wharf toward the hotel porch, where I sat
myself at one of the tables and ordered a steak. And, while it was
cooking, I tried to dope out a little of the mystery.

Fifteen minutes of hard concentration brought me but one point; and that
point, as I have already said, had already flashed to me on an
intuitional second. I mean about the girl. Beyond my sudden love for
her, nothing showed up to me at all. I simply couldn’t make head or tail
to a thing that had transpired since I had been sitting with my grouch
back there on the town dock at Port Washington.

And now, perhaps, it’s the best time to explain the reason for the
grouch, and let out how I happened to be there at all.

Briefly stated, I had been discharged the day before. Fired,
canned--call it what you will; and for what I now recognize to have been
an entirely good and sufficient reason.

But in the hot-headed asininity which I had not the sense to master in
those days, I had flared up to the quiet, but firm, remonstrance of my
chief. It had been a case in which I had exceeded my orders, and I
thought he ought rather to have applauded my zeal.

So that; in that blurting, blubbering fashion of the man who can’t keep
his temper, I had let out a string of heated nonsense.

Whereupon Chief Garth’s tone had raised not a whit.

“Well, Grey,” said he slowly--too slowly, “I’m sorry, though I was
afraid it would have to come. I had hoped it wouldn’t; but I simply
cannot brook such repeated displays of inability to control your temper.
I might waive the personal note; but I must not lose sight of the fact
that such a trait, unmastered, makes you less a man to be relied upon.”

I started to interrupt him, but a gesture checked me.

“You remember,” said he, holding his same evenness, “that I told you the
very first day you entered the detective service that orders were
orders, and that I was distinctly a martinet. Now, I like you, and I’m
not chary of admitting that you’re a very valuable man to me in many
ways. But----”

And here I had been fool enough to whirl into my usual, youthful burst
of independence. As I look back upon the scene, the chief was too
moderate; though I did flounce from his office finally, with my pay to
date and walking papers.

But now--what a change one look into certain eyes can make--I sat there
on that hotel porch and realized what an ass I was. And, by the way,
such a realization proved most salutary.

For, next instant, I made up my mind to eat “humble pie.” I wouldn’t
waste a minute in finding the chief. I would make a straightforward
apology and ask him to reinstate me.

Of course, it was long past office hours, but I decided not to let my
resolution cool.

I knew where Chief Garth lived, and could count pretty well upon his
being at home; for that little wife of his held him snug enough by her
whenever he wasn’t personally engaged on an important case.

So I bolted my meal, and caught the ferryboat which landed at East
Ninety-ninth Street. I even took a taxi to his house, so firmly did my
new resolution grip me.

Finally we whirled the last corner, and brought up sharp before Chief
Garth’s house, which was brilliantly enough indicated by a Welsbach
light in the vestibule.

It showed the number plainly, and, just as I stepped from the cab and
paid my fare, it showed more. For, at this moment, the door opened. I
heard a word or two exchanged; then the door closed, and a man came down
the stoop as hurriedly as a slight limp would let him.

He passed close by me as I was about to mount the steps, and I
experienced that uncomfortable sensation of having seen him some time,
but no more. Such a haunting inability to spot my man is one of my worst
points as a detective.

“Anyway,” thought I, “whoever he is, he’s in about as bad a temper as
I’ve ever seen ’em.”

With that I rang, and was admitted by a negress. It wasn’t another
minute before I was ushered into the chief’s den.

He was pacing up and down, puffing violently at a fat cigar. From his
first word, I knew him well enough to know that he was anything but
displeased at my showing up.

“Well, Grey,” he grumbled, “what’s the lay now?”

Five hours before I would have snapped back a sharp retort and seen him
to the deuce, but things glowed different now.

“Why, chief,” I replied, with a laugh, “I just came back because I think
you’ll want me now. You see, I’ve sworn off--losing my temper.”

He stopped short before me and shot me a glance.

“You mean it?” said he. “Because if you do,” he went on, “I believe you.
The one thing that has always struck me about your past offenses
is--that you never have promised to do better in the future. And,
strange as it may seem,” he chuckled, “that’s the very reason I put up
with you so long.”

“Well, I mean it now,” said I simply.

My tone must have carried complete conviction, for his manner abruptly
changed.

“Sit down,” said he suddenly, and we faced each other over his broad,
flat-top desk. “It just happens at this moment that I do need you, Grey;
and need you pretty bad, too; for I’ve just been put in line with a
thing that already got beyond Pawlinson, of Washington.”

“Yes?” said I, catching fire at the interest.

“The affair was important enough to warrant Pawlinson taking the trail
himself; and it certainly has led him a pretty dance during the two days
he’s been at it.”

I had never met Pawlinson personally, but his position among us was the
byword of efficiency. I glowed to the compliment the chief was
indirectly paying me.

“What’s the exact nature of the case?” said I.

“That’s just it,” muttered Garth disgustedly. “What we’ve got to go on
is the slimmest ever. Pawlinson’s so cursed secretive that he hasn’t
even let out what the fellow’s wanted for.

“Fact is, Pawlinson was here; just this moment gone. You must have
passed him coming in. But for all he’s been pretty definitely shaken off
the trail, he won’t let out but this much:

“A man answering this description”--here the chief tossed me the usual
paper of height, color of hair, et cetera--“arrived off quarantine
aboard the _Benzobia_ yesterday at daylight. Pawlinson had one of his
men waiting for him when the vessel docked; but in some outlandish way
the chap managed to get the skipper to let him go over the side and into
a gasoline launch that hove alongside while they were slowing down just
abreast of Liberty.

“Now Pawlinson gets kind of hazy as to just what happened directly after
that,” continued the chief; “nor does he give me any particulars as to
how he ever managed to get a berth as engineer of the little launch. But
how he lost the job he told me fully enough; and he sprinkled the
narrative with plenty of cuss words. It seems that while the launch was
waiting for the fellow at the town dock of Port Washington, Long Island,
that----”

“Port Washington!” I cried sharply.

“Why, yes--know the place?” He, of course, couldn’t understand my
excitement.

“And do you mean to tell me that it was Pawlinson himself whom I saw
that fellow shoot so prettily over the rail with a punch that would do
your heart good?” Things were fitting together for me now. But they
certainly were not for the chief.

“What the deuce are you talking about, anyway?” he said. “I hadn’t told
you about that yet.”

“I know, I know,” I jumbled on; “but what does Pawlinson say of the
girl? What had she to do with the thing, anyway?”

“The girl? For Heaven’s sake, Grey, how much do you know about this
thing?”

But he got little satisfaction from me then, for a sudden realization
swept over me.

I caught up the paper describing the man who was wanted, and crowded it
into my pocket.

“Explain later, chief,” I blurted, making for the door. “I’ll wire you
the minute I’ve got him located. Meanwhile wire me money when I call for
it, will you?”

“Aye, aye, boy!” agreed the chief, understanding thoroughly that even
his curiosity must wait. He was a big enough man to know when to play
second fiddle.

So I caught the midnight train to Boston which connected with the
Portland express.




CHAPTER IV.

TWO PANETELAS.


Upon quitting Chief Garth’s door and trotting down his stoop, I walked
briskly westward in the direction of a square which I counted upon
getting another cab; for, expecting no further use of him, I had
dismissed my former driver. I found two cabs, both taxis, and
immediately stepped toward the nearest.

“Grand Central Station!” said I to the fellow dozing on his seat.

He came to with a start just as I was yanking open the door.

“Hold on a minute, mister,” stammered the man, “I’m engaged.”

I glanced at his “clock.” Sure enough, his “vacant” sign was down. He
was waiting for somebody.

“Bill, yonder, ain’t got no fare,” offered the driver, thumbing in the
direction of the car beyond. “He’ll carry ye.”

And next minute I had given directions to “Bill,” who cranked forthwith;
and, speed having evidently showed in my attitude, we turned the corner
almost on two wheels. But my ear caught the whir of the first car as it,
in turn, was started.

I might have saved myself some anxiety had I stopped to think that, near
midnight as it was, the streets were free from traffic. There is
something in me that delights in speed, and that ride was a little slice
of joy in itself. We reached the station in plenty of time for my train.

I broke the twenty-dollar bill I had so easily earned that afternoon,
and secured my berth before boarding the Pullman.

Some impulse prompted me to turn my head just as I was passing through
the gate entrance to trains; and the station, at this hour, was deserted
enough for me to note the fact that another man stood before the Pullman
ticket window, his back toward me. Once aboard the sleeping car, I
slipped a quarter into the eagerly expectant palm of the dusky
attendant, and said: “Make up number seven, George,” and then passed up
the aisle into the smoking room.

I had been on a steady and momentous jump since the minute I had clapped
my eyes on the launch at a quarter to five. I must run over things a
bit; and I reasoned that the two dark-hued panetelas that still remained
unbroken in my upper vest pocket would help.

What I wondered at was my own attitude in the matter of this chase.
Where did I stand? Here I was, without any data whatever as to what he
was wanted for, virtually throwing myself into the chase of a man who
had shown himself closely related in some way to a girl whom I had, in a
most freakish and outlandish manner, fallen in love with. Why?

Honesty with myself soon told me that it wasn’t alone professional duty
that was whirling me toward Portland.

But what of Pawlinson? It must be big game, or he wouldn’t be connected
with it, let alone personally engaged in sleuth work.

Then, again, how was I going to figure with Pawlinson when he discovered
that I, who now was engaged as his own hireling through Chief Garth, was
the selfsame man who had just thwarted him by having him punched
prettily over the side of a launch?

I was really not much to blame in this; for I had done the thing
unwittingly enough; but such things aren’t easily brooked. In spite of
myself, though, I couldn’t help chuckling at the memory of the incident.

I had never seen Pawlinson before; but I stood in as much awe as the
rest of the cubs at his name; and it did me a bit of inward good to
think of the merriment I could make in recounting the thing to them
later.

I knew little of the history of the man; but the little I did know was
out of the ordinary.

To begin with, nobody had ever heard that such a man existed until a
short three years before; but then he had suddenly sprung into the most
dazzling limelight.

At that time the entire country had been bewildered and infuriated by a
succession of daring safe-crackings. To make it worse, these jobs were,
in nearly every instance, characterized by what appeared to be the most
useless bloodshed. The perpetrators had seemed to go out of their way to
use pistol and dirk.

Watchmen were found viciously stabbed; clerks, working late, had been
murdered; and all these crimes had been committed in small communities
and upon small dealers.

From chagrin, the public had quickly turned to indignation and storm;
for the detective force had proved themselves absolutely powerless and
inefficient.

Then had come Pawlinson.

He entered Washington headquarters one day, and quietly informed the
chief there that he wanted to enter the detective service. Asked his
credentials and former experience, he as quietly stated that by the end
of that week he would bring in the entire gang that was puzzling them
all.

And he did. Since which his place had been established, a place not a
little enhanced by the very mysteriousness of him; a mysteriousness
which I had heard he was at no pains to explain or eliminate.

“Well”--I concluded my soliloquy finally--“here I am mixed right up--and
closely, too--with Pawlinson himself.”

But my duty was clear enough. I had told the chief I would wire him when
I had located the man; and so, not only my own word, but his, as my
chief, was out.

“That much I can do, anyway,” I grunted to myself, dropping the end of
my second cigar into the cuspidor. “Beyond that we shall see what we
shall see.”

With that I quitted the smoking room and sought my berth. As I lurched
at a rolling gait down the aisle toward my number, for we were hitting
up a lively clip, I noticed that all the berths had been made up by this
time.

Then I seemed to recall that, in my abstraction, I had been vaguely
conscious of a stop some half hour before; and I now reasoned that it
was Stamford, Connecticut, or thereabout.

In the aisle I stripped off coat, vest, collar, tie, and shirt; then,
just before ducking under the heavy curtain for the berth, and for no
real reason that I yet know, I happened to sweep my eye up and down the
car from one end to the other. And I could vow to this day that I saw
the curtains of both number nine and number three drawn vigorously in
toward the respective berths.

But really, down deep, I am of a care-free nature, and I was asleep in
three shakes.


TO BE CONTINUED.


CAUGHT IN THE COILS.

The following adventure which befell Speke, the great explorer, forms
one of the most thrilling episodes in a life full of perils and escapes.
Captain Speke himself tells the tale.

It appears that he, with his comrade Grant, left the camp together one
day to hunt game for their supper. Their first victim was a fine young
buffalo cow.

Soon after, they had a prospect of still better fortune. An enormous
elephant with particularly fine tusks was observed within range. Speke
quickly brought his rifle up to his shoulder, took a careful aim, and
fired.

A moment after, as he was watching for the effect of his shot, he heard
a startled exclamation from the attendant negroes, and looked round.

To his horror, he saw a huge boa constrictor in the very act of darting
down upon him from a branch overhead.

In less than a second--indeed, before he had time to stir a muscle to
spring aside--the beast had shot out of the heavy foliage and caught him
in a coil. Speke put out all his strength to get clear, and at the same
instant, glancing round for help, saw Grant standing a few paces away,
with rifle leveled.

“In a moment,” he continues, “I comprehended all. The huge serpent had
struck the young buffalo cow, between which and him I had unluckily
placed myself at the moment of firing upon the elephant. A most singular
good fortune attended me, however, for, instead of being crushed into a
mangled mass with the unfortunate cow, my left forearm had only been
caught in between the buffalo’s body and a single fold of the
constrictor. The limb lay just in front of the shoulder, at the root of
the neck, and thus had a short bed of flesh, into which it was jammed,
as it were, by the immense pressure of the serpent’s body, that was like
iron in hardness.

“As I saw Grant about to shoot, a terror took possession of me; for if
he refrained, I might possibly escape, after the boa released its folds
from the dead cow; but should he fire and strike the reptile, it would,
in its convulsions, crush or drag me to pieces.

“Even as the idea came to me, I beheld Grant pause. He appeared fully to
comprehend all. He could see how I was situated, that I was still
living, and that my delivery depended upon the will of the constrictor.
We could see every one of each other’s faces, so close were we, and I
would have shouted or spoken or even whispered to him, had I dared. But
the boa’s head was reared within a few feet of mine, and a wink of an
eyelid would perhaps settle my doom; so I stared, stared, stared, like a
dead man at Grant and at the blacks.

“Presently the serpent began very gradually to relax his folds, and,
after retightening them several times as the crushed buffalo quivered,
he unwound one fold entirely. Then he paused.

“The next ironlike band was the one which held me a prisoner; and as I
felt it, little by little, unclasping, my heart stood still with hope
and fear. Perhaps, upon being free, the benumbed arm, uncontrolled by
any will, might fall from the cushionlike bed in which it lay! And such
a mishap might bring the spare fold around my neck or chest--and then
farewell to the sources of the Nile!

“Oh, how hard, how desperately I struggled to command myself! I glanced
at Grant, and saw him handling his rifle anxiously. I glanced at the
negroes, and saw them still gazing, as though petrified with
astonishment. I glanced at the serpent’s loathsome head, and saw its
bright, deadly eyes watching for the least sign of life in its prey.

“Now, then, the reptile loosened its fold on my arm a hair’s-breadth,
and now a little more, till half an inch of space separated my arm and
its mottled skin. I could have whipped out my hand, but dared not take
the risk. Atoms of time dragged themselves into ages, and a minute
seemed eternity itself.

“The second fold was removed entirely, and the next one easing. Should I
dash away now, or wait a more favorable moment? I decided upon the
former: and with lightning speed I bounded away toward Grant, the crack
of whose piece I heard at the next instant.

“For the first time in my life I was thoroughly overcome; and, sinking
down, I remained in a semiunconscious state for several minutes. When I
fully recovered, Grant and the overjoyed negroes held me up, and pointed
out the boa, which was still writhing in its death agonies. I shuddered
as I looked upon the effects of its tremendous dying strength. For yards
around where it lay, grass and bushes and saplings, and, in fact,
everything except the more fully grown trees were cut quite off, as
though they had been trimmed by an immense scythe.

“The monster, when measured, was fifty-one feet two and a half inches in
extreme length, while round the thickest portion of its body the girth
was nearly three feet, thus proving, I believe, to be the largest
serpent that was ever authentically heard of.”


POWERFUL BEGGARS.

The Chinese are more charitable than they have been given credit for.
They give freely, especially on occasions of public or private
rejoicing.

Beggars are numerous everywhere, and are organized into a sort of union
or guild, with a master at the head, whose word is law to his mendicant
subjects, and whose laws are as unchanging as those of the Medes and
Persians. No man can be buried without a large share of “funeral baked
meats” falling to the lot of the beggars’ guild.

No person is allowed to marry by this powerful union unless he or his
friends pay a tribute to the king of beggars, in the shape of a big
feast and a sum of money.

The last varies from one to five hundred dollars, according to the means
of the tribute payer. The feast must consist of as good food as is
served to the wedding guests.

On this the beggar king and his cabinet dine, with as much gusto, if not
as much ceremony, as the Emperor of China when feasting his ministers.
In almost every city you will find a beggars’ guild. The subjects of any
one king vary in number, according to the size of the city. These kings
of China’s submerged millions, whose territories consist of streets,
gutters, bridges, and doorsteps, and whose subjects have been won for
him by poverty, accident, vice, and disease, exercise a patriarchal sway
and dispense a rough and primitive justice. The office is not
hereditary, but elective, and tenable for life.

The beggar king lives in a house that is almost a palace, compared to
the miserable shelter that his subjects have to be contented with. Not
infrequently he grows rich from the tribute paid him by the people of
the upper crust of society. He has powerful means of enforcing his
demands. He has means of annoyance which the police are unable to put a
stop to.

Suppose a man about to marry refuses to recognize the claim of the
beggar king. His wedding procession will be blocked by thousands of
lame, halt, and leprous beggars, who will ease their minds by
imprecations such as are unfit for a bride to hear, and will be sure to
bring ill luck on the married couple. Else this unseemly rabble will
besiege the house of the unlucky bridegroom, and go through a similar
performance. It is worth a large sum to be rid of such pests.

Even the magistrates, autocrats as they are in their own realms, respect
the office of the beggar king, and never offend him if they can avoid
it.

Ordinarily beggars go from house to house and from shop to shop with a
bowl in hand, into which is poured the handful of rice, or is dropped
the copper coin of charity. They are irrepressible, and will not take
“no” for an answer.


QUEER THINGS TO EAT.

At the department of agriculture in Washington, hidden away in an
obscure corner, is an odd sort of exhibit of queer foods eaten by
out-of-the-way people. There is a loaf of bread made from the roasted
leaves of a plant allied to the century plant. Another kind of bread is
from a dough of juniper berries. These are relished by some tribes of
Indians, while others manufacture cakes out of different kinds of bulbs.
The prairie Indians relish a dish of wild turnips, which civilized
people would not be likely to enjoy at all. In the great American desert
the “screw beans,” which grow on mesquite bushes, are utilized for food.
Soap berries furnish an agreeable diet for some savages in this country,
while in California the copper-colored aborigines do not disdain the
seeds of salt grass. Also in California the Digger Indians collect pine
nuts, which are seeds of a certain species of pine--sometimes called
“pinions”--by kindling fires against the trees, thus causing the nuts to
fall out of the cones. At the same time a sweet gum exudes from the
bark, serving the purpose of sugar. The seeds of gourds are consumed in
the shape of mush by Indians in Arizona.

In addition to all these things, the exhibit referred to includes a jar
of pulverized crickets, which are eaten in that form by the Indians of
Oregon. They are roasted, as are likewise grasshoppers and even slugs.
These delicacies are cooked in a pit, being arranged in alternate layers
with hot stones. After being thus prepared, they are dried and ground to
powder. They are mixed with pounded acorns or berries, the flour made in
this way being kneaded into cakes and dried in the sun. The Assiniboines
used a kind of seed to stop bleeding at the nose. Among other curious
things used for food are acorns, sunflower seeds, grape seeds, flowers
of cattails, moss from the spruce fir tree, and the blossoms of wild
clover. The exhibit embraces a number of models representing grape seeds
enormously enlarged. It is actually possible to tell the species of a
grape by the shape of the seed. There is a jar of red willow bark which
Indians mix with tobacco for the sake of economy. This, however, is only
one of a thousand plants that are utilized in a similar fashion.


WHY HE WHISTLED.

Old Lady (to grocer’s boy)--“Don’t you know that it is very rude to
whistle when dealing with a lady?”

Boy--“That’s what the boss told me to do, ma’am.”

“Told you to whistle?”

“Yes’m. He said if we ever sold you anything we’d have to whistle for
our money.”




THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.


Honor for German Heroes.

The German kaiser has conferred on the pioneer company of a Lorraine
battalion the right to wear the skull and crossbones on the cap, a
distinction monopolized by the Death’s Head Hussars. The action was
taken at the instance of the crown prince, who reported the valor of the
pioneers in building bridges and constructing earthworks under dangerous
circumstances.


Austrians and Germans Foes.

Until recently the Austrians and German prisoners of war were kept
together, but the Russian authorities had so much difficulty in
preserving order among these nationalities that to prevent fights they
have separated them in the hospitals. In Saratoff the Austrian wounded
petitioned the authorities to separate them from the Prussians.


Mystery Man Fights for Estate.

“J. C. R.,” the man of mystery, whose case has puzzled the country since
he was found at Watseka, Minn., in June, 1907, has stepped from a
comfortable home in Chicago into a tragic drama, the central figure in
which is a wealthy rancher of near Dickinson, N. D., whom he claims as
his father and from whom he is seeking to obtain $100,000 as his share
of the estate.

No stranger story has ever been told than that of “J. C. R.,” the man
who couldn’t remember. In 1900, it is now claimed, he was Jay Allen
Caldwell, obstinate son of a former Chicagoan. Then he was struck on the
head with a spade.

For a dozen years thereafter, without memory, without knowledge of his
own identity, and without means of caring for himself, he wandered
about, known only as J. C. R.

A few months ago a Chicago woman identified him as her missing son, Earl
Iles, and J. C. R. gained a name and a home at the cost of his quondam
fame. Bereft of his chief attributes of interest, the man and his little
tragedy dropped from sight.

The suit which his lawyers filed early this week against A. J. B.
Caldwell, whom he claims as his father, has been dismissed, but the
lawyers say this was permitted in order to get more evidence, and it
will be filed again within a few weeks.

Dispatches from Dickinson, the scene of the tangle, disclose the fact
that seventy-five residents of the town, former neighbors of the
Caldwells, identified J. C. R. as the missing son three months ago.
Caldwell reiterates his charge that J. C. R. and his Chicago backers are
conspirators, but Caldwell’s daughter has identified the man of mystery
as her brother.

Mrs. H. E. Pitkin, 895 East Oakwood Boulevard, Chicago, who identified
J. C. R. last summer as her long-lost son, Earl Iles, has disappeared
from her home.

And to complete the complexity of the enigma, J. C. R., the mute object
of the whole identity tangle, is being kept in hiding by those who are
backing his claims for $100,000 worth of North Dakota farm lands now
held by the supposed father.

Friends of the elder Caldwell alleged that it was Mrs. Pitkin’s early
knowledge of Caldwell, junior, that gave her the information on which
she satisfied the authorities with her identification of the man as her
son. They charge that it was through this information that Mrs. Pitkin
gained the custody of the man, which later resulted in the promotion of
his fight for the $100,000.

It appears that for the last couple of months the mystery man has been
in Dickinson. In the first part of that time he was busy asking
questions of old residents--or, rather, writing them, for, along with
his other afflictions, he is a mute.

The answers to the questions seemed to satisfy J. C. R. He filed suit
against Caldwell. Simultaneously papers were filed making it impossible
for Caldwell to transfer his lands in whole or in part.

Dickinson rubbed its eyes and sat up with a start when news of the suit
filtered through town. The “dummy,” who had been going up and down Main
Street with his pencil, his paper, and his ever-increasing questions
about old times, had come into the open and announced himself as no
other than Jay Allen Caldwell, old man Caldwell’s son.

No one who was willing to admit the fact knew what had happened to Jay.
He had just disappeared one day. Not a word did he send home in all the
ensuing months and years. His father, after waiting what seemed a decent
time, produced notes aggregating $70,000. The notes were signed with the
name of Jay Allen Caldwell and were drawn in favor of his father, who
went into court, got judgment, and took his son’s land in satisfaction.


Londoners Get “Zeppelin Neck”.

“Zeppelin neck” is the form of malady now prevalent in London. This is
the popular term for stiff necks, commoner than ever now because so many
Londoners are craning their necks scanning the heavens for the enemy.

Westminster Abbey has been insured for $750,000 against damages from
air-craft attacks.


Schoolboy Makes Record With Corn.

The largest per-acre yield of corn ever grown in Becker County, Minn.,
of which Detroit is the county seat, was raised during the season of
1914 by a thirteen-year-old schoolboy. Becker is one of the most
northerly of Minnesota counties, and its farmers have always declared
that it was useless to attempt corn-raising because of the cold climate
and short seasons. But thirteen-year-old Hilmer Carlson, who lives on a
farm three miles from Detroit, grew an acre of corn this year that
yielded 96¼ bushels to the acre.

It was the first experiment for the Carlson boy in corn-raising. He was
induced to enter by a prize offered by the Minnesota Society of
Agriculture to the boy who should grow the most bushels of corn on an
acre of ground. Without the experience of father and friends, who never
had grown corn, the boy followed the instructions of the agricultural
society, planted the Minnesota No. 13 variety, and grew a field of
stalks that were twice as high as his head. It husked 95 bushels rough
measure. When the farmers of the community heard of the yield, they
declared it could not be true; that some deception had been practiced.
An expert of the State Agricultural College then came to the Carlson
farm, measured both field and yield and found the exact yield to have
been 96¼ bushels per acre. State authorities declared the yield to have
been by far the biggest per acre ever grown in the county. Ten Becker
County boys went into the acre-yield corn contest. The boy who took
second place grew 74 bushels to the acre.

Indicating the unpopularity of corn-growing in Becker County, the State
board records show that of over 160,000 acres crop area in the county
only 4,880 are given over to corn.


Veteran Fulfills Vow.

Sixty years ago, when, a lad ten years old, he fell from the limb of a
giant tree and broke a leg, forcing him to spend his birthday in bed,
Carl Grossmayer, of Evansville, Ind., vowed that on his seventieth
birthday he would blow the tree from the ground. Grossmayer, now a
veteran of the Second Regiment of Indiana Civil War Veterans, kept his
vow by blowing from the ground the stump of the tree.

When he met with the accident, Grossmayer lived on a farm of 180 acres.
Now that area has shrunk to a house and three lots. The elderly
veteran’s only relative, a son living in St. Louis, came to this city to
see his father keep his sixty-year-old vow. A stump was all that
remained of the oak, but Grossmayer drilled under it, and, with a charge
of dynamite, blew it from the ground.


Placer Mining in Heart of City.

The gold-mining industry, both placer and quartz, in most instances has
been for long so closely associated with the wilderness that the average
man instantly conjures up pictures of ice-bound mountain passes, or
glaring, sun-scorched stretches of desert, when he thinks of it. To such
places his imagination turns where men daily and hourly must face
hardship and danger in order to win the precious metal.

Yet in the city of Edmonton, Canada, since the outbreak of war, some
thirty “grizzlies” have been at work on the banks of the Saskatchewan
River. Here, within half a block of the city’s main street, and always
with the sound of its traffic in their ears, nearly a hundred men daily
shovel and sluice for gold.

The bars of the Saskatchewan River in the early days and as late as 1900
were worked. Many prospectors at that time made from three to ten
dollars a day. Of late years, however, mining of this kind has been
abandoned, though a large dredge, working the bars of the river, has
proven a paying proposition.

The river runs directly through the city. With the outbreak of war and
the possibility of large numbers of men being out of employment, the
city council suddenly turned their attention to gold mining, which
offered returns right in the heart of the city. Within its gates are
to-day a large number of old mining men. Men who, after going through
the Klondike rush, settled here. Most of them are to-day wealthy and
retired. But some half dozen of them offered their services as tutors.

A number of grizzlies, so commonly used in the working of river bars and
other placer-mining propositions, were constructed and for a while they
gave instructions as how to work them. About a hundred men soon went to
work. Though the highest daily clean-up so far has been seven dollars,
the majority of the workers are making from one to two dollars a day.

The workmen are from all classes of society. Old-time sourdoughs work
next to new-come English immigrants. Two college students, working their
way through a nearby university, put in their off hours shoveling and
panning. An out-of-work literary man and an out-of-work actor here are
working a claim together.

The mining game has always been marked for its tragic side. The stories
of men made suddenly rich overnight by some fortunate strike has been
told in a hundred stories; but seldom is the other side mentioned, the
story of quick-flung-away wealth that went almost as rapidly as it came.

Working slowly, toilfully, with the mark of old age upon him, in this
diggings within the heart of the city is at least one man who is a
living representative of this sad side of the game. His name is Tim
Foley. Ten years ago he sold his third interest in a quartz mine in
northern Ontario for $40,000. To-day he toils strenuously on the river
bank, his great hope, as he himself expressed it, to clean up three or
four dollars a day.


Stage Lines Still in the West.

It has been many years since stage lines were the chief mode of
transportation across Kansas, and had regular time-tables and rate
schedules, as the railroads have at the present time. But there are
still several stage lines in Kansas, and the railroads are publishing
the schedules for these lines in their regular list of connections, as
they do in the more Western States, where stage transportation is still
common.

Along the Union Pacific and the Rock Island lines in northern Kansas,
the Missouri Pacific through the center of the State and the Santa Fe in
southern Kansas, there are still connecting stage lines which operate as
regularly as the railroad trains. The building of the railroad from
Garden City north to Scott City on the Missouri Pacific and then to
Winona on the Union Pacific has caused several stage lines to go out of
business. The building of the Colmor cut-off in southwest Kansas has
caused the abandonment of several stage lines that reached the towns in
the railroadless counties of the State.

There are two regular mail stage lines operated in Shawnee County, one
connecting Dover with the Rock Island and another connecting Auburn with
the Santa Fe. Both are only eight or nine miles long, but they carry
mail and passengers to the railroads.

The Santa Fe “connecting-line” table shows stage lines connecting with
its trains at Syracuse, Lakin, and Coolidge to points in the extreme
southwest corner of the State not reached by rail. The Union Pacific has
half a dozen stage lines listed in its tables in Kansas. These lines
connect with the Missouri Pacific on the south or the Rock Island, or
another branch of the Union Pacific on the north, touching several
inland towns and saving traveling men long detours if they attempted to
make the trip by rail. From Grainfield to Gove City there is a regular
stage line, as Grain field is on the railroad while Gove City, the
county seat, is twelve miles away.

The stages have comparatively low fares and haul almost as much baggage
free as does the railroad. The stage trips in Kansas are no longer the
picturesque outings of former days, as there are none of the old
stagecoaches left with a six- or eight-mule team and a driver with a long
whip and a fine command of “mule-killing” language. All the stage lines
in Kansas are motors now, one or two in the southwest part of the State
having real motor trucks for baggage, express, and freight, and the trip
is made almost as rapidly as the trains, unless a tire blows up.


Life-term Prisoner Gains Freedom

When C. J. Livering, life-term prisoner, sent up on the charge that he
poisoned his wife in Louisville, Ky., eight years ago, walked out of the
Eddyville State’s prison under parole, it was to enter his own
manufacturing establishment, made possible by his own industry and
incentive genius, as he invented a patent while in prison that may net
him a fortune.

His parole followed the declaration of the judge who sentenced him of
his belief in Livering’s innocence. Honorable H. S. Barker, president of
the State University, was the court-of-appeals judge at the time. In
addition to the judge’s opinion, Commonwealth Attorney Huffaker, of
Louisville, says he believes that if a man who filed an affidavit had
been called, he would have testified to hearing Mrs. Livering threaten
to take her own life.

An effort was made at the trial to show that a woman was in love with
and jealous of Livering and was responsible for the story that Livering
had fixed up a suicide note in imitation of his wife’s handwriting, had
given his wife strychnine tablets as medicine and then went to his farm,
hurrying back in time to place the suicide note and poison before
calling any one to the scene.

Livering testified that he was on his farm, twenty-five miles away, when
his wife phoned him to come home, and that he found her dead. A druggist
testified that Mrs. Livering bought strychnine tablets. The suicide note
was found on the dresser. The coroner’s jury returned a verdict of
suicide.

It was two years later when the woman’s story resulted in Livering’s
conviction.


Machine Comes to Telegrapher’s Aid.

Telegraph operators throughout the country are showing keen interest in
a device perfected by Walter P. Phillips, of Bridgeport, Conn., for the
purpose of rapidly handling commercial messages and press reports.
Phillips is an old-time telegrapher and newspaper man and an inventor of
wide fame. He was the originator of the “Phillips Code,” used by
newspapers. Operators from all parts of Connecticut gathered at
Bridgeport to watch the demonstration of the new device.

It was shown that the invention will allow an operator receiving
messages or news dispatches to regulate the incoming flow of telegraphy
as fast or as slow as he may desire; to stop it altogether and go out to
lunch, resuming business at increased speed upon his return, and
catching up with the machine upon which the messages or news has been
continually recording itself in impressions of dots and dashes on a tape
awaiting reproduction. What the invention will do is to double or treble
the number of words that can be sent over a single wire and do it
without requiring that the operators learn anything more than they now
know.

The result is brought about by adding to each office a set of very
simple instruments. At times when there is no need of hurrying matter
forward on the wires, the rapid system can be cut out through shifting a
plug. The wires are then used in the ordinary way, sending messages
directly by the key. As a result it is considered that the system is one
of value principally to telegraph companies or those using leased wires.
The general public, however, will benefit through the prompter sending
of messages and doing away with the delay so often experienced when
there are wire troubles and capacity is reduced below normal.

In the new system the messages or reports to be sent are recorded in
raised telegraphic characters on a strip of paper. This paper is run
through a reproducing machine, the sounds being repeated at the other
end of the wire and being taken down by typewriter or hand. The sending
operator is able to vary the speed to suit himself, is able to stop it
at any point and pull it back, if there is need of repeating. The
superiority of the invention over the old system is said to lie in the
reading and sending. It is in this, telegraphers say, where the greater
number of mistakes occur. The ear of a trained operator is found to be
more accurate than the eye and also faster.


What a German Officer Saw.

From the diary of a German petty officer who is fighting in France,
these extracts, as his own experience, are made:

“On all sides and in front, as well as below in the valley, the red
breeches can be seen swarming in the underbrush. Thus both divisions of
our tenth company find themselves facing apparently overwhelming
superior forces. I myself make a run to where the captain should be. On
the way a trumpeter transmits this order to me: ‘Third column deploy and
continue firing, or, if possible, attack!’ I never ran so fast as I did
then over those stubbles.

“‘Third column, up! up! Fix bayonets! Right turn, forward, double-quick!
Follow me!’ I cried. Out comes the shining steel from its sheath. I
catch a glimpse of an opening in a garden wall. “This way, through!
Occupy the hedge! Cut loopholes!’

“‘What range?’ the men call.

“‘Range seven hundred! Half right, straight ahead in the poplars,
hostile infantrymen! Range seven hundred! Fire!’ was my reply.

“Just as we opened fire the enemy comes charging from out the poplars.
Only a few steps they run, and then, as if thunder-stricken, the whole
line of red breeches sinks to the earth. Our aim was good. How quiet the
fallen Frenchmen lie! But soon the hellish racket begins again. In front
of us a machine gun goes ‘tap, tap, tap.’ Whizzing and whirring, the
bullets fly about us.

“Through an opening the men swarm through to the left! The bravest hurry
on in advance. Five or six hang back till their leader roughly grabs
them and kicks them through the hedge opening. There must have been 800
rifles or more! A withering fire tells us that the enemy has discovered
our movements. But we return his fire as we run. Many of our men fall.
But, lo! presently the enemy’s fire begins to dwindle and soon dies down
almost completely. There, what is that? In the midst of the enemy’s line
of fire a tremendous pillar of smoke.

We saw how the French were blown yards high. A terrible thunderclap
reaches our ears. Hurrah! Our artillery!

“Shell after shell buries itself, as if measured with extraordinary
exactitude in the very midst of the French infantry lines. We follow
this up with our own fast rifle fire.

“Now we charge forward to where we can plainly see their faces. The
panic of the enemy was indescribable. Our fellows mow them down. And now
a new hail of shrapnel beats down upon them. Again the red breeches
surge back in wild flight. We fire on the retreating enemy in a
cornfield beyond. Many Frenchmen can be seen falling in the gold
cornfield beyond, never to rise again.”


Works Sixty Years on Propeller.

At the age of seventy-four years, James Henry Miller, of Albany, Ore.,
believes that the ambition of a lifetime is about to be realized. Sixty
years ago, when he first saw a river boat with a stern propeller, Miller
made up his mind to construct a propeller which would not strike the
water with such resistance. He says that his invention, now virtually
completed, will revolutionize river and ocean navigation throughout the
world.

The propeller has eight blades, each six feet long and twelve inches
wide, and each working on ratchets, so that the edge of the blade
strikes the water as it enters, falls into propelling position while in
deepest water, and continues to adjust itself as the wheel turns, so
that it emerges from the water edge first. The flat side of the blade
never strikes the water. As the wheel turns, the blades enter and leave
the water with as little resistance as a feathered oar.


New Farming in South.

One Southern landowner has a plan for diversification of crops that
might be followed by many others. He has divided his land into tracts
that rent for $100 a year each. This is about equivalent to two bales of
cotton under the old tenant system. But hereafter no cotton will be
accepted as rent for these tracts. Instead, it will be required in food
crops, according to this schedule:

 50 bushels of corn                            $50
 15 bushels of wheat                            15
  3 bushels of peas                              5
100 pounds of meat                              15
 15 bushels of potatoes                         15
                                              ----
      Total rent                              $100

The landowner in question, realizing the novelty of his plan, proposes
to cooperate with his tenants in getting selected seed. If the scheme is
successful, it will merit a bulletin by the department of agriculture,
to be widely distributed.


Florida Sharks That Nurse Their Young.

The curious piglike habits of the nurse sharks of Florida have been
brought to the notice of the North Carolina Academy of Science by E. W.
Gudger. A third of the circumference of Boca Grande Cay, a small coral
sand island twenty miles west of Key West, is bounded by a gently
sloping rock bottom, on which the water half a mile from the shore is
not more than four or five feet deep.

On this bottom great numbers of the sharks gather in the sun, play, and
possibly feed. With seldom less than a dozen visible, as many as
thirty-three have been in view at one time.

They are broad, sluggish, so little afraid that a boat may touch their
fins before they will move, and they lie piled together in a confused
herd, like well-fed pigs in a barnyard. Sometimes three or four swim
aimlessly about.

They are harmless, with small mouths filled with small pointed teeth,
and, though they are vegetarians to some degree, their chief food seems
to be the young oysters, clams, crabs, and various other crustaceans.


Ostrich Farming as a Business.

James H. Reece, of Joplin, Mo., who has been in California studying the
“ins and outs” of the Pasadena ostrich farm, with a view of giving the
business a try-out in this vicinity, has returned, and has considerable
to say on the subject of the profitable raising of the big birds.

“Unless you have money to start with,” said he, “you shouldn’t attempt
to go into ostrich farming in the United States for profit. Still, there
are a number of ostrich farms in this country, and not all are failures.
The first ostriches were brought here in 1862 from South Africa, and
between that date and 1886, 120 birds were imported. We have now about
10,000 ostriches with us, nearly all of them American bred.”

“And,” he continued, “Arizona is the leading ostrich-farming section,
though there are farms in California--the one at Pasadena being probably
the best known of all of them--Texas, Arkansas, and Florida. Something
like two millions of dollars is invested in the industry, not counting
the value of the land. The business pays if the climate is all right and
the birds receive proper care, for the ostrich, though tough, must be
looked after carefully.

“An acre of alfalfa will support four ostriches with no other food than
gravel and ground bone. A cow will require the same amount of alfalfa,
but at the end of five years she is worth forty or fifty dollars, while
the four five-year-old ostriches are worth a thousand dollars. A bird
will yield a hundred dollars’ worth of feathers a year, besides the
eggs, which, even if they are not productive of little ostriches, bring
a good price as curios.

“Ostrich plumes vary in price, from ten to one hundred and fifty dollars
a pound, so you see it is worth money to the ostrich farmer, not only to
have good birds, but to keep them in the best condition, for the better
the bird the better the product.

“It costs about ten dollars a year to keep a bird; that is, to feed it.
The ostrich farm at Pasadena is one of the show places there, and
thousands of tourists visit it every year. Another good feature of the
ostrich is that he lasts so long. None in this country has died of old
age yet, and it is supposed that they will live seventy-five years.”


French Story of Bravery.

A French battalion occupied Mezieres in order to guard the bridges over
the Meuse River. One detachment had hardly arrived at the railroad
bridge when its officer, Lieutenant de Lupel, was informed that a German
patrol was hidden in the station. The French at once attacked and drove
the Germans here and there among the heaps of coal and the buildings.
The French officer followed the German officer into the roundhouse,
revolver in hand, and caught sight of him crouching behind a tender. The
two men looked at each other. Mutual respect and a tacit understanding
sprang up. With fifteen paces between them, each took up a dueling
position. “Kindly fire,” cried the Frenchman, just as his ancestors had
cried at Fontenoy under similar circumstances. The German fired and
missed. Then the Frenchman slowly raised his arm and fired, killing his
opponent.

He returned to his men, aided them to overcome the Germans’ last stand,
and walked away coolly at the head of his battalion.


Nail Snaps from Box to Eye.

Joseph R. Henderson, proprietor of an Egg Harbor, N. J., poultry plant,
was opening a box when a nail snapped from the box and entered the
eyeball. He was taken to the Atlantic City Hospital. At this time it is
not known whether he will lose the sight of the eye.


Woman’s Throw Hits Mark.

Mrs. Dervin Shumaker, of Jackson township, Pa., noticed a large hawk
feasting on her chickens. Picking up a stone, the woman threw it at the
intruder. The stone struck the hawk on the head, killing the bird. She
took the hawk to a justice of the peace and received forty cents bounty.


Man and Dogs Fight Rattler.

The biggest snake ever encountered near Watonga, Okla., was killed by
Jeff Saunders seven miles north of that town. Mr. Saunders was hunting
coyotes in the cañons when his dogs ran on to the snake, and started the
fight which lasted an hour. After the battle, in which one dog was
killed, the snake was hacked to pieces. Mr. Saunders gathered up the
rattles which had been torn off. There were thirty-six of them.

The snake showed a disposition to ignore the dogs and fight Mr.
Saunders, and several times he barely escaped being bitten. Mr. Saunders
brought one piece of the snake home with him which measured 6 feet 9
inches in length, and there were several smaller pieces left on the
battle ground.


Honoring the Hero of Peace.

Sixty-nine acts of heroism have just been given recognition by the
Carnegie Hero Fund Commission, at its annual meeting, through the
distribution of medals and pensions. The commission has awarded silver
medals in fifteen cases and bronze medals in fifty-four cases. Thirteen
of the heroes lost their lives.

Among the number receiving silver medals is Miss Phoebe Briggs, of
Sacramento, Cal., a student at Vassar College, Poughkeepsie, N. Y. Miss
Briggs saved four girls from drowning. She was walking across the campus
at the college when a toboggan carrying five of her fellow students
coasted onto the ice on Vassar Lake and broke through. One of the girls
came up under the ice and was drowned, but the others grasped the edge
of the ice. Miss Briggs crawled toward the hole, pushing a small sled
ahead of her. Two of the girls in turn grasped the sled and were pulled
to safety. Miss Briggs went toward the hole a third time, but the ice
broke and she fell into water nine feet deep. She pushed the sled down,
and it remained in a perpendicular position, resting on the bottom. She
then got her feet on the sled and supported the other girls several
minutes until a man took them all to safety.

A silver medal has been awarded to the father of Henry West, a negro, of
Chapel Hill, N. C. West, aged thirty-four, a crossing watchman, died
saving Judson A. Haviland, aged nine, and Charles W. Jones, aged eleven,
from being run over by a train at Asbury Park, N. J. The boys were
driving a pony toward a track on which a passenger train was
approaching. West, who had only one arm, waved a warning to them and
then ran across the track and grabbed the harness beneath the pony’s
head. The pony turned aside and West lost his hold, falling. A step of
the engine struck him, causing injuries from which he died. Neither of
the boys was injured.

A bronze medal has been given to the father of Henry L. Wyman, of
Moorestown, N. J. Wyman, aged twenty-four, a painter, died attempting to
save G. Allen Seltzer, aged twenty-five, from drowning in Rancocas
Creek, at Boughter, N. J. Wyman waded and swam thirty-five feet to the
distressed man and caught him under the armpits. Wyman kept Seltzer’s
head above water for a time, but both men sank and were drowned.

To the dependents of three heroes the commission granted pensions
aggregating $1,980 a year and the dependents of seven others who lost
their lives were granted sums totaling $4,700, to be applied in various
ways. Besides the money grants, in twelve cases sums aggregating $21,000
were appropriated for educational purposes, payments to be made as
needed and approved. In forty-one cases awards aggregating $41,000 were
made, to be applied toward the purchase of homes and to other worthy
purposes.


Big Turtle Attacks Southern Fisherman.

Henry Simmons, of New Orleans, went fishing in Bayou Bienvenue, Miss.,
and had the unusual experience of being attacked by and afterward
killing, in terrific battle, a large water turtle. He was fishing from a
pirogue in ten feet of water, and the monster, a hundred-pounder, caught
his line.

It came to the surface, and bit at the boat, tearing away a large piece
of the prow. It continued to bite at the small craft until it almost
turned over.

Simmons then reached for his shotgun and shot the monster’s head off. He
carried it to New Orleans, where, with the bitten boat, it is now on
exhibition.

Just before he shot it, the turtle had raised a heavy paw to strike him.
The experience of having such a vicious monster suddenly rise to the
surface and peer into one’s eyes with such evident determination to
fight to the death, is an awful one, says Simmons.


Can a Pup Inherit a Kink in His Tail?

Deciding that a pup could inherit a kink in its tail from a similar
peculiarity attached to its father, no matter if the wagger did happen
to receive its twist through an accident after the “dad” had reached his
majority, District Court Judge Frank Smathers, after most careful
consideration of the unique problem, awarded Elmer D. Sooy, of Atlantic
City, N. J., a rabbit-hound pup, to which both Sooy and Thomas Hudson,
of Pleasantville, claim ownership.

During the hearing of the case, Sooy trotted in a putative papa hound,
which had an odd curl in its wagger. Under cross-examination he
testified that the peculiar kink was there because a third-rail trolley
had run over it. The pup happened to have a similar Marcel to its tail.

Hudson, on the other hand, led in another supposed pop hound, which had
blotches on its flanks identical to those that marked the pup, and said
it was this dog’s offspring.

It was too much for the court to decide in one sitting, but the next
day, after his honor had spent his evening at home, pondering over
canine spots and tails, Sooy got the pup.

The animal is worth fifty dollars, but the two men have spent more than
three times that amount in their dispute over it, and Hudson says he
will appeal and spend as much more, if necessary, to win.


Gypsies Travel in Auto.

Nomads of the old days would probably have refused to believe their eyes
if they had seen a gypsy caravan which has just arrived at Worcester,
Mass., from Denver, Col. Instead of traveling in the familiar wagons,
drawn by worn horses, the tribe mounted the wagon tops on big automobile
trucks. On the top, sides, and rear of the two wagons were the tents,
pots, and others things inseparable to gypsy camps, and the dogs
followed as best they could. Needless to say, the journey was made in
record time.


Mother’s Appeal Granted.

Mrs. Mathilda Zoll, of Washington, D. C., is happy in the thought that
when she dies, her final resting place will be beside the body of her
son in a soldier grave in Arlington National Cemetery. Her earnest plea
that permission to this effect be given was granted by Secretary
Garrison, although it is a rule that only the widows of army men may be
buried in Arlington. Mrs. Zoll’s son died a few weeks ago and was laid
at rest in the national cemetery.

When Mrs. Zoll first made her request, it was refused, but her friends
told Secretary Garrison she did not ask that her name be placed on the
headstone, but would be satisfied to have her body cremated and the
ashes placed in an urn in her son’s grave. The secretary then issued the
necessary orders.


Devil Worm Has Eight Horns.

Mrs. J. B. Lamb brought to the _Leader_ office, at Fulton, Ky., a
formidable-looking worm which she captured on a tree in the back yard of
her home on Carr Street. This monster worm is nearly six inches in
length and longer when in motion. It has eight horns on its head,
curving backward, and is a scary-looking object. It is more than one and
one-half inches in circumference, and is green in color. A little boy
called it a “devil worm,” and, for the lack of a better name, we will
let it go at that.


Rancher Bags Bird Maimed in June.

While mowing hay last June, Abe Bruger, a Cathcart, Wash., rancher,
surprised a mother pheasant and her brood in the tall grass. One of the
flock was overtaken by the mower, which amputated both of its legs. It
escaped to an alder thicket.

While hunting recently, Bruger winged a pheasant. When he recovered the
bird, both of its legs were missing, a fact which recalled the accident
of the early summer. The bird had become full grown, was in perfect
condition, plump, and, in fact, larger than the average of this year’s
birds taken in the locality.

The wounds had completely healed, and, nature, in the process of
healing, had developed a substitute for claws in the form of hard scales
at the extremities.


Off Year for Peace Prize.

A report from Christiania says that the managers of the Nobel Institute
have decided to give this year’s peace prize, which amounts to about
$40,000, to the Netherlands government, to be applied toward the support
of Belgian refugees in Holland.


Stallings a Brick Mason.

The Waycross, Ga., _Herald_ is authority for the statement that George
Stallings, the “Miracle Man” of baseball, used to be a brick mason, and
a mighty good one, at Thomasville. Hence, it is not so hard to
understand his remarkable ability to “build up” a team.


Missourian’s Strange Pet.

There are many strange pets in the world, but the one belonging to John
Barnes, of Maysville, Mo., is perhaps as strange as any. It is a giant
blue racer, five feet long, and as large in the middle as an average
man’s arm. Mr. Barnes keeps the snake for the purpose of freeing the
place of mice and other pests. It never molests any one and seems
perfectly tame.


War Correspondents’ Troubles.

Who wants to be a war correspondent? Two American correspondents arrived
at Rouen, France. They had been shifted around the country for days.
They had hay in their hair and sleep in their eyes, and they hadn’t
eaten for years, it seemed to them. Every hotel and boarding house and
joint in Rouen was filled to overflowing. They found their way to
headquarters and placed their journalistic cards on the table.

“Thank goodness, we’re here at last!” they said. “Tell us----”

But the major wouldn’t tell them. He wouldn’t even listen to them.

“For your impertinence in coming here,” he said severely, “you shall
sleep in jail to-night.”

The correspondents smiled happily and shook hands with each other.

“It began to look as though we’d sleep under a bridge,” they said to the
major. So he found out about their plight.

“That being the case,” said he sternly, “you shall not sleep in jail
to-night. You shall take the train for the coast. There are no places
left in the train, but that makes no difference. You shall take it, just
the same.”

When they got back to London they went to a Turkish bath and slept for
twenty hours before reporting at the office.


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                        The Nick Carter Stories

          ISSUED EVERY SATURDAY      BEAUTIFUL COLORED COVERS


When it comes to detective stories worth while, the =Nick Carter Stories=
contain the only ones that should be considered. They are not overdrawn
tales of bloodshed. They rather show the working of one of the finest
minds ever conceived by a writer. The name of Nick Carter is familiar
all over the world, for the stories of his adventures may be read in
twenty languages. No other stories have withstood the severe test of
time so well as those contained in the =Nick Carter Stories=. It proves
conclusively that they are the best. We give herewith a list of some of
the back numbers in print. You can have your news dealer order them, or
they will be sent direct by the publishers to any address upon receipt
of the price in money or postage stamps.

692--Doctor Quartz Again.
693--The Famous Case of Doctor Quartz.
694--The Chemical Clue.
695--The Prison Cipher.
696--A Pupil of Doctor Quartz.
697--The Midnight Visitor.
698--The Master Crook’s Match.
699--The Man Who Vanished.
700--The Garnet Gauntlet.
701--The Silver Hair Mystery.
702--The Cloak of Guilt.
703--A Battle for a Million.
704--Written in Red.
707--Rogues of the Air.
709--The Bolt from the Blue.
710--The Stockbridge Affair.
711--A Secret from the Past.
712--Playing the Last Hand.
713--A Slick Article.
714--The Taxicab Riddle.
715--The Knife Thrower.
717--The Master Rogue’s Alibi.
719--The Dead Letter.
720--The Allerton Millions.
728--The Mummy’s Head.
729--The Statue Clue.
730--The Torn Card.
731--Under Desperation’s Spur.
732--The Connecting Link.
733--The Abduction Syndicate.
736--The Toils of a Siren.
737--The Mark of a Circle.
738--A Plot Within a Plot.
739--The Dead Accomplice.
741--The Green Scarab.
743--A Shot in the Dark.
746--The Secret Entrance.
747--The Cavern Mystery.
748--The Disappearing Fortune.
749--A Voice from the Past.
752--The Spider’s Web.
753--The Man With a Crutch.
754--The Rajah’s Regalia.
755--Saved from Death.
756--The Man Inside.
757--Out for Vengeance.
758--The Poisons of Exili.
759--The Antique Vial.
760--The House of Slumber.
761--A Double Identity.
762--“The Mocker’s” Stratagem.
763--The Man that Came Back.
764--The Tracks in the Snow.
765--The Babbington Case.
766--The Masters of Millions.
767--The Blue Stain.
768--The Lost Clew.
770--The Turn of a Card.
771--A Message in the Dust.
772--A Royal Flush.
773--The Metal Casket Mystery.
774--The Great Buddha Beryl.
775--The Vanishing Heiress.
776--The Unfinished Letter.
777--A Difficult Trail.
778--A Six-word Puzzle.
782--A Woman’s Stratagem.
783--The Cliff Castle Affair.
784--A Prisoner of the Tomb.
785--A Resourceful Foe.
786--The Heir of Dr. Quartz.
787--Dr. Quartz, the Second.
788--Dr. Quartz II. at Bay.
789--The Great Hotel Tragedies.
790--Zanoni, the Witch.
791--A Vengeful Sorceress.
792--The Prison Demon.
793--Doctor Quartz on Earth Again.
794--Doctor Quartz’s Last Play.
795--Zanoni, the Transfigured.
796--The Lure of Gold.
797--The Man With a Chest.
798--A Shadowed Life.
799--The Secret Agent.
800--A Plot for a Crown.
801--The Red Button.
802--Up Against It.
803--The Gold Certificate.
804--Jack Wise’s Hurry Call.
805--Nick Carter’s Ocean Chase.
806--Nick Carter and the Broken Dagger.
807--Nick Carter’s Advertisement.
808--The Kregoff Necklace.
809--The Footprints on the Rug.
810--The Copper Cylinder.
811--Nick Carter and the Nihilists.
812--Nick Carter and the Convict Gang.
813--Nick Carter and the Guilty Governor.
814--The Triangled Coin.
815--Ninety-nine--and One.
816--Coin Number 77.
817--In the Canadian Wilds.
818--The Niagara Smugglers.
819--The Man Hunt.


NEW SERIES

NICK CARTER STORIES

1--The Man from Nowhere.
2--The Face at the Window.
3--A Fight for a Million.
4--Nick Carter’s Land Office.
5--Nick Carter and the Professor.
6--Nick Carter as a Mill Hand.
7--A Single Clew.
8--The Emerald Snake.
9--The Currie Outfit.
10--Nick Carter and the Kidnapped Heiress.
11--Nick Carter Strikes Oil.
12--Nick Carter’s Hunt for a Treasure.
13--A Mystery of the Highway.
14--The Silent Passenger.
15--Jack Dreen’s Secret.
16--Nick Carter’s Pipe Line Case.
17--Nick Carter and the Gold Thieves.
18--Nick Carter’s Auto Chase.
19--The Corrigan Inheritance.
20--The Keen Eye of Denton.
21--The Spider’s Parlor.
22--Nick Carter’s Quick Guess.
23--Nick Carter and the Murderess.
24--Nick Carter and the Pay Car.
25--The Stolen Antique.
26--The Crook League.
27--An English Cracksman.
28--Nick Carter’s Still Hunt.
29--Nick Carter’s Electric Shock.
30--Nick Carter and the Stolen Duchess.
31--The Purple Spot.
32--The Stolen Groom.
33--The Inverted Cross.
34--Nick Carter and Keno McCall.
35--Nick Carter’s Death Trap.
36--Nick Carter’s Siamese Puzzle.
37--The Man Outside.
38--The Death Chamber.
39--The Wind and the Wire.
40--Nick Carter’s Three Cornered Chase.
41--Dazaar, the Arch-Fiend.
42--The Queen of the Seven.
43--Crossed Wires.
44--A Crimson Clew.
45--The Third Man.
46--The Sign of the Dagger.
47--The Devil Worshipers.
48--The Cross of Daggers.
49--At Risk of Life.
50--The Deeper Game.
51--The Code Message.
52--The Last of the Seven.
53--Ten-Ichi, the Wonderful.
54--The Secret Order of Associated Crooks.
55--The Golden Hair Clew.
56--Back From the Dead.
57--Through Dark Ways.
58--When Aces Were Trumps.
59--The Gambler’s Last Hand.
60--The Murder at Linden Fells.
61--A Game for Millions.
62--Under Cover.
63--The Last Call.
64--Mercedes Danton’s Double.
65--The Millionaire’s Nemesis.
66--A Princess of the Underworld.
67--The Crook’s Blind.
68--The Fatal Hour.
69--Blood Money.
70--A Queen of Her Kind.
71--Isabel Benton’s Trump Card.
72--A Princess of Hades.
73--A Prince of Plotters.
74--The Crook’s Double.
75--For Life and Honor.
76--A Compact With Dazaar.
77--In the Shadow of Dazaar.
78--The Crime of a Money King.
79--Birds of Prey.
80--The Unknown Dead.
81--The Severed Hand.
82--The Terrible Game of Millions.
83--A Dead Man’s Power.
84--The Secrets of an Old House.
85--The Wolf Within.
86--The Yellow Coupon.
87--In the Toils.
88--The Stolen Radium.
89--A Crime in Paradise.
90--Behind Prison Bars.
91--The Blind Man’s Daughter.
92--On the Brink of Ruin.
93--Letter of Fire.
94--The $100,000 Kiss.
95--Outlaws of the Militia.
96--The Opium-Runners.
97--In Record Time.
98--The Wag-Nuk Clew.
99--The Middle Link.
100--The Crystal Maze.
101--A New Serpent in Eden.
102--The Auburn Sensation.
103--A Dying Chance.
104--The Gargoni Girdle.
105--Twice in Jeopardy.
106--The Ghost Launch.
107--Up in the Air.
108--The Girl Prisoner.
109--The Red Plague.
110--The Arson Trust.
111--The King of the Firebugs.
112--“Lifter’s” of the Lofts.


Dated Nov. 7th, 1914.

113--French Jimmie and His Forty Thieves.


Dated Nov. 14th, 1914.

114--The Death Plot.


Dated Nov. 21st, 1914.

115--The Evil Formula.


Dated Nov. 28th, 1914.

116--The Blue Button.


=PRICE, FIVE CENTS PER COPY.= If you want any back numbers of our
weeklies and cannot procure them from your news dealer, they can be
obtained direct from this office. Postage stamps taken the same as
money.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Ave., NEW YORK CITY



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NICK CARTER STORIES NO. 120, DECEMBER 26, 1914: AN UNCANNY REVENGE; OR, NICK CARTER AND THE MIND MURDERER. ***


    

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