Had they succeeded much trouble might have been spared the house of Danton, over which dark clouds were even then gathering, and plots dark and threatening that involved death and disaster were hatching. For days, aided by the counsel and experience of Nick, the detectives sought high and low for the missing valet. But without success. With the man still at large Nick could not overcome a feeling that the family at Linden Fells was in danger. What that danger might be, or what form it might take, he could not conjecture. But, unlike most criminal cases which he had successfully unraveled, this one of the murder of Ramon Orizaba was not easily dismissed from his mind. It was, perhaps, the rose-garden picture that fixed in his mind all the ramifications of the murder of Orizaba.
Nick had just left the Waldorf-Astoria by way of the main entrance on Thirty-fourth Street. He walked slowly toward Fifth Avenue and was in the act of turning the corner toward the southward when a carriage halted at the curb at a point about midway of the block.
The door of the carriage swung open and a woman appeared for one instant at the opening. At the same instant two men, who were passing and who happened to be directly abreast of the point where the carriage had halted, came to a sudden stop. One of them uttered an exclamation of mingled astonishment and anger and darted forward away from his companion and toward the woman, who had not yet wholly emerged into view, and whose identity the detective could not determine.
It was evident that she discovered the man almost as soon as he saw her, for she uttered a little startled cry of consternation and leaped back into the carriage again.
At the same instant the driver, as if warned by her cry, and also as if prepared for just such an attack, brought the butt of his whip down with a sharp blow against the aggressor’s head, and so jammed his hat over his eyes and almost felled him to the pavement. Then, reversing the whip, and using it to good advantage upon the horses, the vehicle was hurried away at a furious pace, and was soon out of sight around the corner of Thirty-third Street.
Nick witnessed the whole thing, which did not occupy more than three or four seconds of time; but during those few seconds he was steadily approaching nearer to the spot where it happened, so that by the time he reached it the man with his hat over his eyes had succeeded in removing it. But he was standing with his back toward the detective, shaking his fist in the direction the carriage had gone and was swearing softly to himself.
Nick, however, recognized him at once, and he came to a halt, smiling, while he waited for the angry man to turn in his direction—which, after a moment of contemplative profanity, he did.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed instantly and impulsively, for he also recognized the detective; and he grasped Nick Carter’s extended hand with a fervor which was as genuine as his rage had been a moment before.
“I say, Nick, old chap, did you see that?” he asked, rubbing his head ruefully.
“Yes,” replied Nick, still smiling. “Nothing serious, I hope. Only one of your many adventures, eh, Danton? Really, I supposed you were serious when you told me not two weeks ago that you had turned over a new leaf. Or, is this a left-over affair?”