They also wanted to find H.M., although their main purpose in coming to this small lumber village and summer resort was to look for a man wanted for a series of crimes in and about New York City. His name was said to be Andrew Lampton, although, considering the number of aliases he used, there was a strong possibility that it was not his real name.
“Harold Milmarsh is here, Chick,” said one of the two persons, after making sure the door of the double-bedded room was locked. “I did not see him to-night about the hotel. But the landlord says he is probably over at the garden looking at the show.”
“Shall I go over and get him?”
Nick Carter—for it was the celebrated detective who was sitting in the room with his principal assistant—smiled at the impetuosity of Chick.
“Not till I tell you, Chick. We must go cautiously about this thing, or we may lose our man.”
“I don’t see why. We are only taking him back to be a multimillionaire. He doesn’t know his father’s dead, I guess, or he’d have been back before without anybody coming after him.”
“What is the name of this village—or town, or whatever it is?” asked Nick, abruptly changing the subject.
“Maple. There are forty or fifty places named ‘Maple’ in Canada. You can safely bet on running into one every few hundred miles. It’s like ‘Newark’ in the United States. Did you ever think how many Newarks there are about the country?”
“Never mind about that, Chick,” was the rather impatient rejoinder. “This place is called Maple. That is enough for me. My information was that Lampton told somebody in Chicago that he might go to Maple. It seems he heard that some girl he wanted was coming here. She is a singer, and her father plays the violin.”
“Didn’t you get their names?”