“He came from Paris to New York?”
“So I am informed. That must be the clerk coming back, and there seems to be some one with him. I wonder if he called the police?”
The next moment the door was thrust open, and the clerk, accompanied by a youth of breezy manners, swung into the room. Nick looked at them sternly, for he was not patient when disturbed at his work.
“What do you want?” he asked.
The young man, who was red-headed, freckled-faced, and the owner of a perennial smile, advanced toward the detective.
“I am to blame for the intrusion,” he said. “I’m a reporter, and want to know all about this murder and the loss of the diamonds. Which is Mr. Charles Maynard, and which is Mr. Nicholas Carter, the famous detective? Ah! the coroner has not been called as yet. Here is the body of the murdered man. What luck! Now, if you will stand aside, I’ll take a snapshot of it.”
The young man began arranging a camera which he carried in his coat pocket. Nick took him by the back of the neck and landed him outside the door.
“Now, keep out of here,” he said. “And you, too,” he added, turning to the clerk.
“Oh, you can’t stop the press,” shouted the reporter, pounding on the door. “I’ve got the story right here. And another one to boot. Young girl mysteriously murdered half an hour ago in a tenement on East Houston Street. Beautiful girl! I took her picture.”
Nick opened the door.