For answer, Doctor Miles pointed to the white paper on the table.
“The crossed needles!” whispered the detective, in an awed tone. Then, sternly: “The Yellow Tong is at it again. This is the second.”
“Yes, Carter. The other one was that poor hobo they got in a Bowery lodging house. It was the same thing, you remember. But I was coroner at that time, and I believed the ends of justice would be served by not letting any one know what I found inside his shirt. I have those crossed needles locked up in my laboratory now.”
“You’ve examined them, haven’t you?” asked Nick Carter.
“Of course. They are poisoned. Not that that is necessary,” replied the doctor. “When an inch of steel pierces the heart in two places, it is quite likely to prove fatal, without introducing poison. Still, the poison hurries the crime. Of course, when a victim dies on the instant, as he does with these needles, it may save the murderer some inconvenience. Poor Anderton! This is the penalty he pays for falling foul of the tong.”
“Will there be an inquest?” asked Nick quietly. “Or can you avoid it by certifying that he died of natural causes? I suppose you couldn’t do that—although, in one sense, he did die that way. It is quite natural for a human being to pass away when two poisoned needles are in his heart,” he added, in a thoughtful tone.
“That’s good logic, Nick,” admitted the doctor, with a slight smile. “But it wouldn’t do. In cases of sudden death, there must be an inquiry by the proper officer. But I can keep the crossed needles out of sight. I will cause the inquest to be entirely perfunctory, by certifying that poor Anderton came to his death at the hands of some person or persons unknown, without going too much into details. It will be passed up to the police, of course, and I shall have to show the weapon to the man in charge of the case from headquarters. But I can prevent its going any further.”
“That’s what I want,” answered Carter. “You know, as well as I, that this rascally gang from China, who call themselves the Yellow Tong, intend to fairly honeycomb this country with secret avenues for bringing in their people, if they can, and that, when they are ready, they will commence a series of crimes that will give the government, as well as the police of all the big cities, more trouble than the average citizen dreams of as possible.”
“Yes, I know that,” agreed Miles.
“Poor Anderton was a warm, personal friend of mine,” said Nick Carter, with a sobbing catch in his voice, “just as he was of yours. If I haven’t expressed much grief since coming into this room, it is because I feel that it is more important to avenge him than to mourn over his remains.”