CHAPTER III.
A FRIEND WORTH HAVING.
Nick Carter smiled amusedly when Frank Paulding, having fairly snatched the card and read it, straightened up in his chair and stared at him with almost ludicrous astonishment.
“Nicholas Carter!” he exclaimed; “the New York detective! Good gracious!”
“Is it so very amazing?” the detective asked dryly.
“Yes, by Jove, it is,” said Paulding, pulling himself together. “I do, indeed, know you by name, and who does not? Let the circumstances be what they may, too, I am very glad to become acquainted with you. I am not blind, nevertheless, to the fact that your visit is rather significant; decidedly so, in reality, in view of your duplicity and covert insinuations that——”
“That you know something about Todd’s sudden death,” Nick put in, checking him. “Don’t let that annoy you. I did so, Mr. Paulding, only to assure myself to the contrary. I have succeeded, too, completely.”
“But what was the occasion?” Paulding questioned. “I don’t see, Mr. Carter, why you thought I knew anything about it.”
“I did not really think so,” Nick said dryly. “I foresaw, however, what others possibly will think, sooner or later, and I wanted to look at you and take your measure before circumstances might make it difficult for me to do so with absolute certainty. He is a wise man and keen, you know, who anticipates coming events.”
“By Jove, I fail to get you, Mr. Carter,” Paulding said more seriously. “Take my measure, eh? What others will possibly think? Say, you don’t—you don’t mean that—that Gaston Todd was killed, do you? Not that he was—murdered?”