NICK STRIKES A STARTLING CLEW.
The mind of Nick Carter was, as he had remarked to Chick, stirred with a flood of questions not easily or quickly answered.
Who was this girl found dead in Central Park?
Had she, indeed, been foully murdered? If so, by what mysterious means? What had been the object? Who the perpetrator of the crime?
Or, on the other hand, was the evidence itself misleading, and had the unfortunate girl selected that sequestered seat in the park, and there deliberately committed suicide? Even then, by what means had the deed been accomplished? What had been the occasion?
What, moreover, had become of her companion at just that time? Why had he deserted her? What signified the pin-punctured wrapping paper, and the empty jewel casket, in the dead girl's possession?
Had the casket contained jewels of great value? Had the girl been robbed of them, and then foully murdered in some mysterious way?
Was Harry Boyden, the clerk employed by Hafferman, the last to leave the girl that fateful afternoon? Was he responsible for her death? Was robbery the incentive to the crime?
Or, on the other hand, had Boyden left the girl alive and well, and was the crime the work of another?
Or, finally, was there some strange and startling connection between this park murder and the robbery committed at Venner's store? Was there, between the two crimes, some extraordinary bond yet to be discovered—some tie uniting the two misdeeds as if with links of steel?
These were some of the conflicting questions that occurred to Nick Carter that afternoon, and in order to consider them before taking any decided action in the matter, Nick had kept to himself his startling discoveries, and left Officer Fogarty to take the customary steps in the affair.
At seven o'clock that evening, while Nick and Chick were seated at dinner, and still engaged in discussing the conflicting circumstances, a message was received from police headquarters, informing Nick that the girl had been identified, and that Harry Boyden had been found and arrested.
"Very good," observed Nick. "We shall now get something to work upon. I will go and question Boyden as soon as I finish my dinner."
"By all means," nodded Chick.
"Do you know," said Nick, "I am seriously impressed that there is some strange connection between this girl's death and that robbery at Venner's store. I believe that we have struck the very clew, or are about to strike it, that we so long have been vainly seeking."
"To the Kilgore gang?"
"Exactly."
"Egad, I hope so," laughed Chick, with a grimace. "I am beastly tired of nosing about on a scentless trail."
Nick joined in the laugh of his invariably cheerful associate.
"Odds blood, Nick, as they say in the play," added Chick. "I'd welcome any sort of stir and danger, in preference to this chasing a will-o'-the-wisp."
"There'll be enough doing, Chick, take my word for it, as soon as we once more get on the track of Kilgore and his push."
"Let it come, and God speed it," grinned Chick. "What's your idea, Nick?"
"This empty jewel casket, the possibility that it contained diamonds, of which the girl was robbed and then murdered, and the fact that Harry Boyden is the clerk who brought the stolen diamonds to Venner's store—certainly the circumstances seem to point to some strange relation between the two crimes."
While Nick was thus expressing his views, a rapidly driven carriage approached the residence of the famous detective, and a servant presently entered the dining room and informed Nick that a lady wished to see him.
Nick glanced at her card.
"Violet Page," he muttered. "I know no lady named Violet Page. Is she young or old?"
"Young, sir."
"Did you admit her?"
"She is in the library, sir."
"Very well. I will see her presently. Request her to wait a few moments."
Nick delayed only to finish his dinner, then repaired to the library. As he entered the attractively furnished room his visitor quickly arose from one of the easy-chairs and hastened to approach him.
Nick beheld a young lady of exquisite beauty and modest bearing, and though her sweet face, then very pale and distressed, struck him as one he had previously seen, he at first could not place her.
"Are you Mr. Carter—Detective Carter?" she hurriedly, inquired, in tremulous accents of appeal.
Nick had a warm place in his heart for one so timid and distressed as this girl appeared, and he bowed very kindly.
"Yes, Miss Page," said he. "What can I do for you? You appear to be in trouble."
"I am in trouble—terrible trouble, sir," cried the girl, with a half-choked sob. "Oh, Mr. Carter, I come to you in despair, a girl without friends or advisers, and who knows not whither to turn. I have been told that you have a kind heart, and that you are the one man able to solve the dreadful mystery which—"
Nick checked her pathetic flood of words with a kindly gesture.
"Calm yourself, Miss Page," said he, in a sort of paternal way. "Resume your chair, please. Though I am somewhat pressed for time just now I will give you at least a few moments."
"Oh, thank you, sir!"
"Be calm, however, in order that we may accomplish all the more."
"I will, sir."
"To what mystery do you refer? What is the occasion of your terrible distress?"
Violet Page subdued her agitation and hastened to reply.
"My maid and companion, a girl named Mary Barton," said she, "was found dead in Central Park late this afternoon. Nor is that all, Detective Carter. A very dear friend of mine, named Harry Boyden, has been arrested, under suspicion of having killed her. Oh, sir, that could not be possible!"
Nick felt an immediate increase of interest.
He decided that Miss Violet Page was the very person he wanted to interview, and while he did not then exhibit any knowledge of the case, he proceeded to question her with his own ends in view, at the same time ringing a signal for Chick to join him, which the latter presently did.
"Where do you live, Miss Page?" inquired Nick.
"I board in Forty-second Street, sir. I have no living relatives, and for about two years have employed a maid, or, I might better call her, a companion."
"The girl mentioned?"
"Yes, sir. Her parents also are dead. The fact that we both are orphans created a bond of sympathy between us."
"Are you a person of much means, Miss Page?"
"Oh, no, sir. I earn my living on the stage. I was a member of the big vaudeville troupe, which lately disbanded for the season. My stage name is Violet Marduke."
"Ah! now I remember," remarked Nick. "I thought I had seen you before. I happened to hear you sing one evening about two weeks ago."
"I recognized her when I entered," observed Chick, who had taken a chair near by.
Nick came back to business.
"Why are you so confident, Miss Page, that Boyden cannot have killed Mary Barton?" he demanded.
"Because, sir, Harry Boyden is a gentle, brave and honest man, and utterly incapable of committing such a crime," cried Violet, with much feeling. "Besides, sir, he can have had no possible reason for wishing her dead."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Absolutely!"
"What are your relations with Boyden?"
"We are lovers, sir," admitted Violet, with a tinge of red dispelling the paleness of her pretty cheeks. "We expect to be married the coming summer."
"Ah! I see," murmured Nick, thoughtfully. "How long have you been acquainted with Boyden?"
"For ten years, sir."
"Then you have been able to form quite a reliable opinion of his character."
"Indeed, sir, I have!" cried Violet, warmly. "Detective Carter, I know that Harry Boyden is far above any dishonorable action. I would trust him with my life."
Of the honesty of the girl herself Nick had not a doubt. It showed in her eyes, sounded in her voice, and was pictured in her ever changing expression. Nick was inclined to feel that her opinion of Boyden was worthy of very serious consideration, despite that circumstances seemed to implicate the young man in no less than two crimes.
"Is the fact that you are engaged to Boyden generally known, Miss Page?" Nick next asked.
"It is not, sir. We have said nothing about it."
"Ah, that opens the way for conjectures," cried Nick. "Is there any person who knows of the engagement, or who suspects it, that would jealously aim to injure Boyden by implicating him in a crime?"
"Oh, I cannot think so, sir!" said Violet, with a look of horror. "I certainly know of no such person."
"Have you been accepting the attentions of any other young man?"
"No, sir," smiled Violet. "That is not my style."
"I am glad to hear you say so, yet I really might have known it," laughed Nick.
"Thank you, Detective Carter," bowed the girl, blushing warmly. Then she hastened to add: "Still, I am not a prude, sir—don't think I mean that. In my profession one is obliged to be on friendly terms with a great many persons, both men and women. At the theater, for instance, I meet many men and form many acquaintances, both agreeable and the reverse."
"And sometimes have the attentions of men fairly forced upon you, I imagine?" said Nick, inquiringly, with a brighter gleam lighting his earnest eyes.
"Yes, sir; sometimes," Violet demurely admitted.
Nick drew forward in his chair, and Chick saw that he had caught up the thread at that moment suggested to himself.
"Miss Page," said Nick, more impressively, "I now want you to answer me without the slightest reserve."
"I will, sir," bowed Violet, with a startled look.
"Has any man of the late vaudeville company, or one connected with the theater, endeavored to force his love upon you?"
"No, sir; not one."
"Or any visitor admitted to the stage?"
"Well—yes, sir," faltered Violet, quite timidly. "Since you press me thus gravely, I must admit that I have been obliged to repel the affection of a certain man. Yet, please don't infer, sir, that he has ever been ungentlemanly. He even has done me the honor, if one can so term an undesired proposal, to protest that he wished to make me his wife."
"What is that man's name?" demanded Nick, quite bluntly.
Yet both Nick and Chick already anticipated it.
"Must I tell you his name, sir?" faltered Violet.
"You may do so confidentially, Miss Page."
"His name, sir, is Rufus Venner."
"One more question, Miss Page," cried Nick, quickly, "Was there any member of the vaudeville company who knew of Venner's proposal?"
"I don't think so, sir. At least I know of none."
Nick glanced at Chick and dryly remarked:
"All under the surface, Chick."
"Not a doubt of it, Nick."
Violet looked surprised and alarmed at this, and hastened to ask:
"Oh, Mr. Carter, is there something of which I am ignorant? Or have I done wrong in any way?"
Nick turned to her and gravely answered:
"No, Miss Page, you have done nothing wrong—far from it! But there is considerable of which you are ignorant."
"Oh, sir, what do you mean?"
"Wait just one moment, and I then may be able to tell you," said Nick, rising. "I have something here that I wish to show you."
He went to his library desk and took from a drawer the silver jewel casket which he had brought from Central Park.
When he turned he held it in his extended hand, and the eyes of the girl suddenly fell upon it.
Instantly she leaped to her feet, as pale as death itself.
Then a scream, as of sudden, ungovernable terror, rose from her lips and rang with piercing shrillness through the house.
"Catch her, Chick—she's fainting!" yelled Nick, with eyes ablaze. "By Heaven! we've struck the trail at last!"