NICK CARTER’S CRAFT.

Nick Carter needed only to glance at the face of the man who had entered to feel assured of his honesty. He was a rugged, red-cheeked Scotchman of nearly fifty years, clad in a checked blouse and overalls and carrying in one of his begrimed and calloused hands a faded woolen cap.

“Come nearer, my man,” said Nick pleasantly. “What is your name?”

“Tom McLauren, sir,” he replied, complying.

“How long have you been in the employ of Macklin & Dale?”

“Ten years, sir.”

“I have been told on what job you were sent out this morning, also that you were detained by a policeman who——”

“That’s wrong, sir,” McLauren said quickly. “I may have said a policeman, sir, not thinking, but he was a plain-clothes man who stopped me.”

“One you knew by sight?”

“No, sir. But he showed me his detective badge and——”

“I understand,” Nick interrupted. “Where did he stop you?”

“In Forty-eighth Street, sir, when I was driving through from Second Avenue. He held me up and made me pull off to one side of the street, and then he began to question me, as much as saying that I was a crook he was looking for. I tried to convince him he was wrong, but the infernal bonehead wouldn’t have it, and he threatened to take me down to headquarters, team and all, unless I answered his questions. He hung me up there for near half an hour, sir, until I got hot around my collar and told him he’d better pull a gink who went by just then, instead of me.”

“Some one you knew?” questioned Nick.

“I know him by sight, sir, that’s all.”

“Why didn’t you appeal to him, then, and have him vouch for you?”

“I’d have got fat, sir, doing that,” said McLauren, with an expressive grin. “Surest thing you know, in that case, the dick would have collared me.”

“You mean that the man who went by is a crook?”

“I reckon so, though I couldn’t swear to it,” said McLauren. “But he’s a gangman, all right, and I’ve heard he’s a gunman, as well. I only know him by sight, sir.”

“Do you know his name?”

“I do.”

“What is it?”

“Tim Bannon, sir, though he’s better known as Bug Bannon, being a small, bow-legged chap with a head like a bullet.”

“Humph!” grunted Nick, who knew all about the young gangster. “Did he say anything, or look at the man who had stopped you?”

“He did not. He was whistling and on the other side of the street.”

“How much longer were you detained, McLauren?”

“Only a couple of minutes, sir. The dick seemed to see he was in wrong and he let me go.”

“Describe him,” said Nick.

“He looked all right, sir, as far as that goes,” said the truckman. “He’s a medium-built man, kind of pale, but with dark hair and a beard. He——”

“That’s all, McLauren,” Nick interrupted. “Send in Frank Gilbert when you go out. Wait until I have finished with him and I will give you further instructions.”

“I hope you don’t think, sir, that I——”

“I know that you had no hand in the robbery,” Nick again cut in, anticipating what the other was about to say. “Do what I have directed and say nothing about my inquiries.”

“I will not, sir,” McLauren assured him, with a look of relief as he turned and left the room.

“By Jove, this looks as if——” Chick began.

He quickly checked himself, however, when the chauffeur, who had been waiting in the hall, entered and closed the door.

He was a tall, clean-cut man in the twenties, with a frank face and clear blue eyes, that met with convincing gaze the somewhat searching scrutiny of the detective.

“I wish to ask you only a few questions, Gilbert,” said Nick. “Much may depend upon the information I obtain from you, however, so be very careful when replying. Don’t overlook any little incident that may have occurred, however trivial it may seem to you.”

“I understand you, Mr. Carter,” bowed the chauffeur, taking the chair to which the detective waved him. “I will overlook nothing, sir.”

“To begin with, then, have you told any person about the intentions of your employer, or why you were going to Boston?”

“Not one word, sir,” said Gilbert. “I was for two years in the chorus with Miss Royal, now Lady Waldmere, and I have always felt a very sincere regard for her. I would cut out my tongue, or lose a hand, rather than harm her in any way.”

“I believe you,” said Nick. “Tell me, now, just what you did after arriving in Boston. Omit nothing of importance.”

“I was there only one day,” Gilbert replied. “I first went to the customhouse, where I saw the collector and gave a voucher for what the imported cases contain, and I got permission to have them sent to New York without delay.”

“And then?”

“I then went to the pier where the Flodora was docked. I was fortunate in finding that all of the cases had been discharged from the liner, and I at once had them taken to the railway, to be put into a special freight car. A train was being made up when I arrived there, and I arranged for the car with the yardmaster, whom I found in his office in the freight house.”

“Did you see the twenty cases put into the car?”

“I did, sir. I also saw the car closed and locked.”

“Who handled the cases when transferred from the dray to the car?”

“The truckman, assisted by a train hand in the car.”

“Who else was present?”

“Only one other man, sir, who directed the loading of the car. I supposed he was one of the yard hands employed for that kind of work. He appeared to have some authority.”

“He appeared so to you?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“And to the train hand, no doubt?”

“So far as I noticed. The train hand did what he was told.”

“When and where did you first see this man?”

“He came along just as we were beginning to load the car. He at once began to tell the train hand where to put the cases. I supposed he wanted the car loaded in a certain way.”

“That was a natural supposition,” Nick allowed, smiling a bit oddly. “The train hand had much the same impression, no doubt.”

“He appeared to, Mr. Carter.”

“He probably inferred that this officious individual had an interest in the cases, and a right to say where they should be put,” said Nick. “Never mind about that, however. Did you see the man after the car was closed and locked?”

“Only when we were leaving the yard.”

“Did he leave with you?”

“He went as far as the freight house with me. Then he took the bill of lading given me by the freight agent, and told me to wait while he got a duplicate of it for the way-bill clerk. I did so, Mr. Carter, and he returned in about five minutes and gave me the bill of lading. I supposed he was one of the yard officials, and that was the last I saw of him.”

“You returned to New York that night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Describe the man, Mr. Gilbert,” said Nick.

“Why, sir, he was a man of medium build and about forty years old. He was quite dark, but with a rather pallid skin and——”

“That is sufficient,” Nick interrupted. “Tell Mr. Waldmere that he may send you and McLauren after the seventeen cases remaining in the car. I will look after getting—the other three.”

“Do you mean, Mr. Carter, that——”

“Never mind what I mean,” Nick again cut in. “Say nothing about the questions I have asked. Do only what I have directed.”

“I will, sir.”

Gilbert bowed and withdrew. He looked as if something unthought of before had suddenly dawned upon him.

“By Jove, we seem to be getting down to cases,” Chick remarked, when the chauffeur had closed the door.

“We are,” Nick tersely agreed.

“You think the man who showed up just in time to direct loading the freight car——”

“Is the man we want, or one of them,” put in Nick. “There is no doubt of that. He got by both Gilbert and the train hand by assuming an air of authority that completely deceived both. One supposed him a road employee; the other the owner, perhaps, of the twenty cases.”

“Most likely.”

“Be that as it may, he got the three cases containing the gold plate placed so near the car door that they could be quickly removed after arriving in New York. He further fooled Gilbert, moreover, into letting him forge a copy of the bill of lading, probably on a blank already obtained.”

“Sure thing,” Chick nodded. “That’s as plain as twice two.”

“He was on Gilbert’s trail from the time he left New York.”

“If we could discover his identity——”

“Leave that to me,” Nick interrupted. “Call in Patsy, also Waldmere, and his wife. Stay—wait one moment!”

Nick arose abruptly and approached a large roll-top desk near one of the walls. The cover of it was raised. Taking a lens from his pocket, Nick examined the polished woodwork on all sides, including the faces of several small interior drawers, surveying all of them at an angle that caught the light in a way that served his purpose.

“Now, Chick, I’m ready,” he remarked, resuming his seat.

Patsy Garvan entered a few moments later, followed immediately by Waldmere and his wife. Both gazed inquiringly at the detective, anxious to know what he had learned, but Nick did not inform them. Instead, addressing Waldmere, he said, with seeming indifference:

“I will have finished in a short time. I think you said, Waldmere, that the inventory of the twenty cases, which was mailed to you from London, was received about two weeks ago.”

“Yes. Just about that,” Waldmere nodded.

“Where is it?”

“In my desk.”

“Has it been there most of the time?”

“Yes. It is in one of the small drawers.”

“I inferred so,” Nick said, a bit dryly. “May I see it?”

“Certainly.”

Before the Englishman could open the small interior drawer toward which he reached, however, Nick checked him by saying abruptly, as if suddenly hit with another idea:

“Stay! I don’t think I really care to see it. Instead, Waldmere, I would like to question your butler and the two maids.”

“Very well.”

“Which of them, Mrs. Waldmere, has charge of this room?” Nick added, turning to her. “I refer to the sweeping and dusting.”

“Minerva Grand,” she replied.

“The general housemaid?”

“Yes. She is a very sweet and dainty girl.”

“Call in both maids and the butler,” said Nick, turning to Waldmere again. “I will question each of them. Do not interfere with me, nor volunteer any suggestion if I give either of them an order.”

Waldmere looked very much puzzled, but he bowed without replying, and rang for the butler.

Patterson came in with the two maids a little later. He was stiff and sedate, the type of man who could not commit a crime if he tried. He presented a marked contrast to the two girls, both of whom were pretty and only just turned twenty.

Della Martin, the elder, was a dark, capable-looking girl, who responded with manifest confidence to the detective’s questions, evincing no sign of fear.

The other, Minerva Grand, was the more attractive. She was slender and dainty, with a face like that of a doll. Her complexion was a clear pink and white, her eyes wonderfully blue, her mouth well formed and sensitive. An abundance of wavy yellow hair appeared like a halo over her winsome countenance. A more artless and innocent-looking girl could not be imagined, and her deportment was in keeping with her looks.

Nick Carter questioned all three, but his inquiries were really only a blind, to dispel misgivings on the part of either of them, and neither Chick nor Patsy could fathom at what he was driving.

After several minutes, however, Nick turned to Minerva Grand and said pleasantly:

“I wish you would bring me a cup of hot water with a spoon in it. Have it quite hot.”

“Yes, sir, I will,” she replied, bowing demurely.

“I want to dissolve an alkali to make a chemical test.”

“Yes, sir, please you,” said Minerva, hastening to obey.

“You may go, Patterson, and you,” Nick added, addressing the others. “If you are wanted again, I will ring.”

Both withdrew, and Waldmere was about to ask a question. He caught a forbidding gleam in the detective’s eyes, however, and he said nothing.

Nick fished out part of a lozenge from his pocket, a bit of confectionery that he happened to have. He held it in the palm of his hand when Minerva returned with a cup of steaming water, containing a silver spoon.

“Hold the spoon a moment, my girl,” said Nick, taking the cup from her.

Minerva removed it without speaking.

Nick dropped the piece of lozenge into the water, then glanced up at her pretty face.

“Now the spoon, if you please,” said he, taking it from her. “That is all, thank you. You may go.”

Minerva bowed, blushing, and left the room.

Chick, Patsy, and the Waldmeres were still more puzzled.

Nick arose and walked to the window. Unobserved by the others, he took his lens from his pocket and briefly studied—the finger print left by the girl on the steam-dampened handle of the silver spoon.