“Home!” replied the detective laconically.
This taxi driver was a man who often was employed by Nick Carter, and who never made any comment on what he might see or hear. The detective had many such assistants about New York. More than once this particular driver had helped him out of a tight place, by putting on speed, without asking questions, and without delay. Incidentally, it may be explained that he was always well paid for his services.
Once in his own comfortable library on the second floor of his Madison Avenue home, Carter told his principal assistant, Chick, to give him volume ten of the “International Records.”
“Anything on, chief?” asked Chick, as he brought out the book from the steel-lined, fireproof closet. “I heard what you said at this end of the telephone, you know.”
Chick was an alert young man, and was so thoroughly in the confidence of the great detective that he was privileged to ask this kind of question.
“I was called to Andrew Anderton’s house by Doctor Miles,” replied Nick, opening the book and turning to a certain page. “Mr. Anderton is dead.”
Chick started and an expression of mingled sorrow and horror came into his face. But he said nothing, and Nick Carter continued:
“He was killed by the Yellow Tong.”
“The crossed needles?” gasped Chick.
“Exactly. He was found dead just as that man was in the lodging house. What was his name? Brand—something or other.”