“But that will not do, Nick,” protested Mr. Raymond Gilsey, with an immediate display of apprehension.
“Not do, sir?”
“It may not be what I want.”
“Not what you want?”
“Not exactly, Nick,” and Mr. Raymond Gilsey decisively shook his head.
He was a venerable banker, with a remarkably gentle and benevolent countenance. He was the president of the Milmore Trust Company, a banking-institution located in Forty-second Street, the patrons of which consisted chiefly of business firms in the immediate neighborhood, and of wealthy women, to whom the up-town location of the bank was a convenience.
It was in Mr. Gilsey’s handsome private office that Nick Carter was seated, one afternoon early in May, in response to a telephone request from the banker about an hour before. Between the two there existed a friendship of long standing, and the celebrated detective had hastened to respond. As yet, however, he had received but a hint at the business for which he had been called, and he wondered a little at the banker’s obvious misgivings, as appeared in his remarks noted above.
“Please explain, Mr. Gilsey,” said Nick. “Certainly, if there is a deficit in your cash, and you suspect—— Ah, but stop a moment. Perhaps it will be just as well, my dear Gilsey, if our interview——”
The last, spoken with lowered voice, was considered with a significant glance in the direction of Gilsey’s private stenographer, who sat busily engaged near one of the office windows, and Nick’s glance was equivalent to a suggestion that the presence of a third party might wisely be dispensed with.
This third party was a young woman named Belle Braddon, apparently about twenty-five years of age. Certain features about her, however, which Nick’s keen eyes were quick to notice, indicated that Miss Braddon was in divers ways experienced beyond her years.