And so it happened that when ten o’clock was striking, Peter Stuyvesant Danton was taking his coffee in his “den”; Reginald was drinking his coffee in his own rooms; Mercedes was sipping coffee with faithful old Sarah, in her boudoir; Chick, now serving in his capacity of butler, was partaking of the same refreshment in the servants’ hall, unbending his official dignity for the moment, for the purpose of placing himself in an attitude where he could pick up any gossip about the events of the afternoon that might be floating among the help; coffee was also served among the men at the stable, for it was the inevitable habit for the coachman to appear in the kitchen at the proper moment and to return with a pitcher of the delectable concoction; even the nurses, who were attending upon the still unconscious mistress of the house, were served with a pot of coffee, and sat together in the larger of the two rooms, sipping it and talking in low tones about almost any subject which did not include their patient.
And thus it was that from the roof to the cellar of Linden Fells, every inmate—save one—was drinking coffee at ten o’clock that night.
That one exception happened to be Nick Carter; and it was not because he disliked coffee, or because he harbored any suspicion that the coffee had been doctored, that he did not drink it with the rest, for there is, no doubt, that had he been where the “Nectar of Uarapam” could have been offered to him, he would have partaken.
But it so happened that when the house quieted down after the excitements of the afternoon, Nick intuitively smelt mischief in the air.
It was all mere intuition on his part, too, and the only serious treatment he gave it, in addition to his ordinary habit of watchfulness and wakefulness, was to determine that he would take a stroll through the grounds after the others had retired, and that he would keep an especial lookout upon the house from the shrubbery—at least, long enough to satisfy himself that there was no occasion for the exercise of extraordinary vision.
But even Nick Carter could have no idea of the terrible things that were to happen that night. Even he could not be supposed to foresee the plots and plans of so crafty an enemy as Paul Rogers and his gang of sixty or more assistants in villainy.
But back in the city of New York, at about the time when Mrs. Danton was thrown from her carriage, “Red” Tom Morgan, as we know him, was learning for the first time of events that were to happen—or that were planned to happen that same night.
He was told nothing of the runaway. He was given no information about the plan to worry and frighten the horses, in the belief that even if Mrs. Danton was not severely injured by the accident that was sure to follow, she at least would be sufficiently overcome by the shock and fright of the incident, that the household would be upset.
Of that little fact he was not told, because it was not considered necessary that he should know it; but of another and greater event to happen, he was fully informed and requested to play his part in it.
And this event, so far as his information went, was to the effect that the cook at Linden Fells, whose duty it was to prepare the coffee each evening, had fallen under the influence of a bribe, and had consented to drug the concoction, so deftly and at the same time so thoroughly, that within an hour after the time of drinking it not one who had swallowed so much as two tablespoonfuls would be awake or capable of being roused by any ordinary methods.