CHAPTER VI.
PLAYING THE SPY.
It was six o’clock when Sir Edward Chadwick left Nick Carter’s residence and departed in the waiting taxicab. Half an hour later Chick Carter came in and entered the library.
He found Nick seated at his desk. Lying on it were several articles that figured as evidence in the case, also a pad of cable blanks and a thick blue book as large as an unabridged dictionary.
On a chair near by was the gashed and bloody cape worn by Waldmere the previous night, the gory aspect and circumstances in connection with which seemed to tell beyond reasonable doubt his tragic fate.
“Ah, it’s you, Chick,” Nick remarked, looking up when his assistant entered. “Anything new?”
“No, nothing,” said Chick, removing his overcoat and hat and drawing up a chair. “I have tried in vain to trace the murder car, the limousine in which Waldmere was brutally done to a frazzle. There seems to be nothing in it, as far as I see, except murder most foul and——”
“Oh, but there is,” Nick interrupted, turning in his swivel chair.
“Something else to it?”
“Exactly.”
“What do you mean?” Chick questioned, gazing. “Have you discovered new evidence?”