“My younger assistant has told me something of your startling adventure,” said Nick, “and I am especially interested in the matter, for I suspect that your assailant is a man who escaped me in the West.”
“You mean Yasmar?”
“Yes, or rather Ramsay, to give him his right name. Since coming East he has seen fit to spell his name backward—the thinnest kind of an alias conceivable. But please let me have your story from the beginning.”
“First let me ask, Mr. Carter, have you seen a copy of the evening paper?”
“Yes, I glanced hastily at one, and noticed your case.”
“That is what I wanted to know. What do the papers say about me?”
“Not much; they simply print a dispatch from Boston, saying that Mr. John Lansing has disappeared.”
“Any other particulars?”
“Oh, yes, the usual gush about your being such a good man and all that. They mentioned, by the way, that you left New York on a Fall River boat Monday night with Mr. Yasmar, and that the last Mr. Yasmar saw of you was on Tuesday afternoon.”
“Yes, I supposed he was spreading such a report,” said Lansing, “but the truth is, Mr. Carter, the last this man Yasmar saw of me was off the Long Island coast at midnight Monday, when he threw me overboard; and that brings me to the matter about which I wanted your help. You are the only man living who can help me; the question is will you do it?”