The residence stood in a lonely part of the road, and as there was a thick growth of large trees inside, the visitors were well screened from the observation of any casual passers-by.
Nick went up on the porch. One glance at the letter box told him no one had been at the house for twenty-four hours, at least. The box was stuffed with newspapers which had not been taken in after the mail carrier had been there.
“No doubt there are letters in the box, too,” muttered the detective.
Turning to Chick, he ordered him, in an offhand way, to open the front door.
There was a lock on the door, and a good one. But Nick Carter knew his assistant would make little of that if he were told to get in.
It took Chick about five minutes to get the door open. He had used a piece of thin wire to pick the lock, and had done it as skillfully as would have been possible to a professional burglar.
The two detectives and the girl entered, followed by Captain. Chick closed the door behind them.
The hall, spacious and lofty, ran straight through the house from the front door to the back, and by it the girl led her companions to the kitchen.
“Nobody here!” she remarked, in a low, awe-stricken tone, such as comes natural to many people when going through an empty house. “I thought I might find one of the maids in the kitchen. Though that was not likely, either, or they would have come to the front door.”
“They must have got out in a hurry,” remarked Nick.