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Issued Weekly. Entered as Second-class Matter at the New York Post Office, by Street & Smith, 79-89 Seventh Ave., New York.

Copyright, 1915, by Street & Smith. O. G. Smith and G. C. Smith, Proprietors.

Terms to NICK CARTER STORIES Mail Subscribers.

(Postage Free.)

Single Copies or Back Numbers, 5c. Each.

How to Send Money—By post-office or express money order, registered letter, bank check or draft, at our risk. At your own risk if sent by currency, coin, or postage stamps in ordinary letter.

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No. 154. August 21, 1915. Price Five Cents.

THE MASK OF DEATH;
Or, NICK CARTER’S CURIOUS CASE.

Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.

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CHAPTER I.
A MYSTERIOUS ROBBERY.

“Nick Carter will solve the mystery. No crime is too deep for him. He’ll ferret out the truth and run down the rascals. He will recover your lost treasures, too, Mr. Strickland, one and all of them, take my word for it. If there is one man on earth who can accomplish it, Nick Carter is that one man. So pull yourself together, sir, and face this calamity man fashion. Carter already is on his way here, and he soon will fathom this outrageous and——”

Nick Carter did not wait to hear more. He pushed open the door through which he had heard the above remarks, observing that it was ajar, and he entered without ceremony the apartments of the man to whom they had been addressed.

They denoted that he was on the threshold of an extraordinary case, one shrouded in mystery and involving a great loss, and the scene within seemed to warrant all that he had overheard.

The entrance hall through which he had passed led into a beautifully furnished parlor overlooking Fifth Avenue. It was one of the front rooms of an apartment occupying the entire second floor of the spacious and magnificent old Vanhausen mansion, turned to other than strictly private residential uses since the encroachment of commercial interests upon that part of the fashionable New York thoroughfare.

A slender, strikingly pretty girl of eighteen sat weeping in one of the richly upholstered armchairs. Her fair face was of an artless, winsome type, evincing girlish innocence and that sweet and sensitive nature which none can resist. A light complexion and glistening golden hair, crowning a shapely and perfectly poised head, told plainly that she was of German extraction.

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One of her two companions was a man turned sixty. He was pacing to and fro in a state of abject distress and violent agitation. His short, corpulent figure was shaking as if his every nerve had become a writhing, red-hot wire in his palpitating flesh. His round, florid face was streaming with perspiration. His hair, a tawny mop on a large, intellectual head, was in indescribable disorder. He was wringing his hands and moaning as if his heart was broken.

The only other person present when Nick entered with his chief assistant, Chick Carter, was a tall, clean-cut man in the twenties, one Arthur Gordon, a successful broker and popular society man with whom Nick was well acquainted, and to whose urgent telephone request he then was responding.

“Ah, here is Mr. Carter now,” he exclaimed, when the two detectives entered. “Thank goodness, Nick, you could come immediately. We’re up against it good and hard, a terrible robbery.”

“H’m, is that so?”

“You know Mr. Rudolph Strickland by name and reputation, I’m sure. This is his niece, Wilhelmina Strickland, from Boston. Now, do, Mr. Strickland, compose yourself, that Mr. Carter may lose no time in sifting this matter to the bottom.”

There was, indeed, as Gordon had implied, little need of an introduction to Mr. Rudolph Strickland. His name was a familiar one in the best circles of New York society. He numbered among his friends and acquaintances nearly all of the distinguished artists, musicians, and literary people of any note, who were frequent visitors to his spacious apartments to admire his superb collection of art treasures, or hear his master hand manipulate his famous Stradivarius violin.

He was in no sense a society man, nevertheless, being a somewhat reserved and eccentric German, with a passion for music, literature, and art, treasures of which[Pg 4] he had collected from all parts of Europe, where he was a recognized connoisseur, critic, and man of letters.

Age had begun to undermine his health, however, and for nearly five years he had occupied his present quarters on the second floor of the old Vanhausen mansion, richly furnished and containing most of the fine collection upon which he had expended a considerable part of his fortune. He was a bachelor and lived entirely alone, save when encroached upon by the woman who cared for his apartments, or by his artistic and literary friends.

A glance around the parlor, while he responded to Arthur Gordon’s introduction and afterward presented Chick, gave Nick a hint at the character of the robbery. Several empty picture frames, from each of which the canvas had been removed, were lying on the floor and leaning against the walls; while vacant places on the mantel and in or on the several costly glass cabinets told the tale of depredation.

“Gordon is right,” said he, as to the young man’s advice. “You must be calm, Mr. Strickland, or valuable time may be lost.”

“Lost! What is loss of time compared with the loss I have suffered?” cried the old German, wringing his hands and desperately running his fingers through his thick growth of hair. “I am heartbroken. I am in despair. My beloved Murillo. My Titian. My Meissonier and Corot. My priceless Correggio, and two originals by Helleu. My antique, engraved gems. My costly collection of jade. My——”

“Hush! You will make yourself ill, Uncle Rudolph!” cried Wilhelmina, rising and clasping his arm with her dainty hands. “Do please try——”

“Ah, I am ill already. It is a loss to make angels weep,” Mr. Strickland went on, in pathetic agitation. “It is gone—that, too, is gone! My life, my soul, my best treasure on earth! My precious Stradivarius! Oh, Mr. Carter——”

Nick checked him by placing both hands on the old man’s shoulders, holding him firmly while he confronted him and said, with intense and impressive earnestness:

“Stop, sir, and listen to me. You have met with a great loss, but grief and lamentation will not bring back your stolen treasures. That now is what you most wish. That can be accomplished only by calm consideration of the circumstances, followed by speedy and energetic efforts to trace the crooks and recover their plunder. I feel sure that I can do both, but I will undertake it only on one condition, that you sit down and compose yourself while I look into the matter. Courage, Mr. Strickland! Your treasures are not hopelessly lost. They have not been destroyed by fire. They still exist—and I shall find them and restore them to you.”

Nick spoke with more assurance than he really felt, but the circumstances seemed to warrant his confident prediction, and it was not without effect, combined with his strong, personal influence.

Mr. Strickland pulled himself together, clasping both hands of the detective and saying fervently, but much more calmly:

“God bless you! God bless you for that encouragement. I will try to be composed. I really will try, Mr. Carter.”

“Capital!” Nick said approvingly, urging him to a chair. “I now think I shall accomplish something. Tell me, Arthur, what you know of this matter. Never mind at[Pg 5] present what has been stolen. State merely the circumstances.”

“That may be quickly done, Nick,” Gordon replied. “Miss Strickland, who resides in Boston and to whom I am engaged, is visiting my parents for a few days. We called here at five o’clock this afternoon, and her uncle consented to go with us to dinner. We left here about six o’clock and returned just before nine. During that brief interval these rooms were entered and robbed of treasures enough to fill a wagon, and the value of which can hardly be estimated. How the job was done is a mystery. There is not the slightest evidence showing where the thieves entered, or how they removed the property. It could not have been carried out through——”

“One moment,” Nick interposed. “Does Mr. Strickland occupy this entire floor?”

“He does.”

“Are you sure the door was closed and locked when you went out?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Who occupies the floor below?”

“Madame Denise, a fashionable milliner. Her rooms were open when we returned. Several girls were busy in the workroom. Madame Denise was in her display room in the front of the house. The door has a large plate-glass panel and is within a few feet of the street door.”

“You have questioned her, I infer?” Nick put in.

“Yes, certainly. I went down and questioned her after telephoning to you. She had only a few customers this evening, but was in the front room all the while. She is positive that no persons have visited these rooms, or left them, by means of the stairs and the street door. Such a quantity of plunder could not possibly have been taken out that way without her observing it.”

“Is there a rear door from the house?” Nick inquired.

“Yes,” Gordon quickly nodded. “It leads to a small paved area between the back of this and the adjoining dwelling and the side wall of the Carroll Building. I have learned positively, however, that no persons have been in or out of the rear door.”

“From whom?”

“From the janitor. He is thoroughly trustworthy. He lives in a rear room on the ground floor. He has been there all of the evening, and the door of his room has not been closed. No person could have passed through the hall without his having seen or heard him. He is absolutely sure there have been no intruders.”

“By Jove, it does appear a bit mysterious,” Chick remarked.

“Plainly enough the plunder must have been taken out in some direction,” Nick replied. “Who occupies the upper floor of the house?”

“Victor Gilbert, the well-known photographer. He is the only tenant on that floor. His integrity is beyond question.”

“Very true,” Nick allowed. “I know him personally.”

“His rooms were closed at six o’clock and have not since been occupied, so far as I can learn,” Gordon went on. “I have telephoned to him, telling him of the robbery, and he now is on his way here, that we may visit his rooms. It does not seem possible, however, that the robbery can have been committed from above.[Pg 6]”

“Nor from below, Arthur, if all you have stated is correct,” Nick said, a bit dryly. “Is it possible to reach the back windows of this apartment from those of the Carroll Building?”

“No, no; it is quite impossible,” Gordon protested. “The distance is more than twenty feet. Besides, Nick, there is no evidence that the windows of this flat have been opened. All of them were securely locked and——”

“I will inspect them presently,” Nick interrupted. “It is very evident, at least, that robbers have been here, and I know their knavery was not accomplished by any supernatural means. Who knew of Mr. Strickland’s intention to dine with you and be absent from his apartments this evening?”

“Nobody knew it, Mr. Carter,” Miss Strickland cried, with girlish earnestness. “We did not know it ourselves until after we came here. We then persuaded Uncle Rudolph to go with us.”

“Were any other persons present?”

“No, sir, only we three. No one could have overheard us.”

“Mina is right,” put in Gordon. “No person could have known that Mr. Strickland would be absent this evening. It was entirely unpremeditated. The crime could not have been planned from any knowledge of our intention.”

“Do you keep any servants, Mr. Strickland?” Nick inquired, turning to him.

He had overcome his agitation, his terrible distress immediately following his discovery of the crime, made hardly an hour before. He appeared to derive much hope and encouragement from what Nick had said to him, and from the fact that an investigation by the famous detective already was in progress.

Arthur Gordon had, in fact, telephoned immediately to Nick for assistance after making the superficial investigation mentioned, and finding the robbery so shrouded in mystery as, he felt sure, to completely baffle the ordinary police. It was about ten o’clock when the two detectives arrived upon the scene.

“No, I keep no servants,” said Mr. Strickland, replying to Nick’s question. “As you may infer, Mr. Carter, I have always been very careful to protect my treasures. My lost Stradivarius alone is worth forty thousand dollars. I would not have parted with it for ten times that sum. The door of my apartments is a very strong one, and it is provided with two heavy locks, which act automatically. My windows have patent fastenings, and they are always closed and securely locked when I am absent. This evening was no exception.”

“But who takes care of your rooms?” Nick inquired. “Do you look after them yourself?”

“Oh, no, not the care and cleaning of them,” said Mr. Strickland. “I employ a woman from the adjoining house, that occupied by Mr. Gerald Vaughn and his sister, both of whom are friends of mine. I pay their housekeeper, Mrs. Amelia West, to come in each day to make my bed and put my sleeping room in order, and to come once a week to sweep and dust all of my rooms.”

“I see,” Nick remarked, with a nod.

“She has been doing so for nearly three months,” Mr. Strickland added. “Alas! I now must find another. I am more than sorry to lose her.[Pg 7]”

“What is the trouble?” Nick questioned. “Has she been discharged by Mr. Vaughn?”

“Oh, no!” Mr. Strickland shook his head sadly. “Mrs. West died quite suddenly yesterday morning.”

CHAPTER II.
A VAIN SEARCH.

Nick Carter ended his interrogations quite abruptly.

“I will look around for myself in search of evidence,” he remarked, turning to Arthur Gordon. “You had better remain here with Mr. Strickland and his niece. If I require anything, or wish to add to my inquiries, I will call you. I shall return in a few minutes.”

“Go ahead,” Gordon nodded. “The case is in your hands.”

Nick Carter glanced at Chick and led the way into an adjoining front room.

It was a handsomely furnished music room. An expensive piano occupied one corner. Racks of music, a viola, with many articles of like significance, evinced the refinement and musical genius of the owner. Mr. Rudolph Strickland had, in fact, an international reputation as a violinist.

“Well, chief, the rascals have left the piano, at least,” Chick dryly observed, noting also in this room convincing evidence of the visit of the thieves.

“Yes, so I see,” Nick replied, more seriously.

“What do you make of it?”

“A remarkable job has been done here, if all that Gordon stated is correct. I think, Chick, you had better set about confirming it, while I look farther.”

“You mean?”

“Go down and talk with Madame Denise and the janitor. You can measure them better than Gordon. Have a look at the area back of the house and see what possibilities it presents for getting away with such a quantity of plunder. Find out whether a wagon, or a conveyance of any kind, has been standing in the avenue, the side street on which the Carroll Building fronts, or in any locality available for such a job.”

“I understand,” Chick nodded.

“Step to the door of the next house, also, and question Mr. Vaughn and his sister. It’s barely possible that one of them may have seen or heard the thieves, without having suspected what was going on in here. Find out, at all events, then rejoin me.”

Chick hastened to follow these instructions. A brief talk with Madame Denise and the janitor, one James Donald, convinced him that both were honest and could add nothing to what they already had stated.

An inspection of the area mentioned was equally convincing. It was only a narrow, paved space back of the Vanhausen dwelling and that adjoining it, which occupied a corner lot on the side street on which the Carroll Building faced.

There was no exit to the street, and Chick saw plainly that crooks not only could not have removed their booty from the rear door of the building, but also that they would have found it impossible to ascend to the back windows of Mr. Strickland’s apartments, which were more than twenty feet from the ground. A long ladder would have been necessary, and their movements in the quietude of the inclosed area would surely have been heard by the janitor.[Pg 8]

“Nothing was done out here,” thought Chick, turning to retrace his steps to the front of the house. “That’s dead open and shut. The stuff must have been taken out of the front door, despite the assertion of Madame Denise to the contrary.”

Investigation outside, nevertheless, seemed to confirm the statement of the milliner. Chick could not learn that any suspicious conveyance had been seen in the neighborhood. Both the avenue and side street were brightly lighted. Pedestrians were constantly passing. It seemed impossible that crooks could have committed such a crime without being detected. There would not have been greater risk in attempting it in broad daylight.

More deeply puzzled, now, as to how it could by any means have been accomplished, Chick went to question the occupants of the corner house. It was an attractive brownstone dwelling of three stories, its side wall adjoining that of the Vanhausen residence, with no passageway between them. A light in the front hall denoted that the Vaughns had not retired.

A large wreath tied with purple ribbon hung on the knob of the door, a token that the shadow of death had fallen upon the house. But this did not deter Chick from ringing the bell, in accord with Nick’s instructions.

It was answered almost immediately by a slender, serious-looking man about thirty, clad in a black suit. He was of dark complexion, with wavy black hair and a peculiarly clear and pallid skin, accentuated somewhat by a flowing black mustache. He gazed inquiringly at Chick, who bowed politely and said:

“I wish to see Mr. Vaughn. Is he at home?”

“I am Mr. Vaughn. What can I do for you?”

The reply was agreeably made, but with a gravity Chick was quick to observe and attributed to the death of one of the household.

“I am sorry to trouble you at such a time,” he rejoined. “My name is Carter. I am a detective. The apartments of your neighbor, Mr. Strickland, have been robbed this evening, and I——”

“Robbed!” Mr. Vaughn exclaimed, interrupting with a quick display of surprise and consternation. “Dear me, is it possible? Robbed of what, Mr. Carter?”

“Of several very valuable paintings, many of his art treasures, and his almost priceless Stradivarius, together with——”

“Oh, oh, that is dreadful!” Mr. Vaughn again interposed. “Strickland is such a fine old gentleman. I am sorry for him, more than sorry for him. Come in, Mr. Carter. Can I be of any assistance?”

Chick accepted the invitation and stepped into the hall. Through the open door of an adjoining parlor, dimly lighted by the rays from the hall lamp, he could see a closed casket on a bier, also numerous boxes of flowers, evidently prepared for removal the following day.

Observing his furtive glance in that direction, Mr. Vaughn said gravely, while he considerately closed the door of the room:

“My aunt, who long has been the housekeeper for my sister and myself, died suddenly of heart failure yesterday morning. She is to be taken to Springfield to-morrow for burial. Step into the library, Mr. Carter. Clarissa will be terribly shocked by Mr. Strickland’s misfortune. She is really fond of the old gentleman, and often runs in to see him and hear him play on his rare old Strad.[Pg 9] Stolen—that is too bad! It will be a terrible loss to him.”

“I agree with you,” Chick replied. “He appears heartbroken.”

“No wonder. This is my sister, Miss Vaughn, Mr. Carter.”

Chick had entered an attractively furnished library, where a handsome, dark girl, in the twenties, sat reading a book. She laid it aside at once and arose to acknowledge the introduction, though with manifest wonderment as to the visitor’s mission.

Gerald Vaughn hastened to inform her, however, evoking repeated expressions of surprise and sympathy, and Chick then said:

“I came here only to ask whether you have heard any disturbance outside this evening. We wish to find out, if possible, how the thieves entered Mr. Strickland’s apartments and got away with such a quantity of plunder without being seen or heard. It really is very mysterious.”

“Decidedly so, Mr. Carter,” Vaughn agreed. “But we have heard nothing unusual, not a sound suggestive of anything wrong.”

“We have been here alone, too, since dinner,” put in Clarissa, gazing with demure, dark eyes at the face of the detective. “Both of us have been reading, and it has seemed unusually quiet. If there had been any noise outside, Gerald, dear, we surely ought to have heard it.”

“It seems so, indeed, Clarissa.”

“I have not heard a sound that I can recall.”

“Nor have I, Mr. Carter, I assure you.”

“The circumstances are such, too, that I am unusually sensitive,” Miss Vaughn added. “The sudden death of my Aunt Amelia has made me very nervous. I think we should send a message of sympathy, Gerald, to Mr. Strickland. He was very kind to us yesterday, when he heard of our bereavement.”

“I think so, too,” Vaughn said quickly. “I had better step over there, perhaps, and see him personally.”

“That will be even better, Gerald.”

“Is there any objection, Mr. Carter, to my doing so?”

“Not the slightest,” said Chick. “You may go with me, if you wish, since there is no information you can give me.”

“None whatever, Mr. Carter, I regret to say,” Vaughn replied. “I hope you will command me, however, if I can be of any assistance. You don’t mind being alone here, Clarissa, for a few minutes?”

“No, indeed. I will sit here till you return.”

“I have closed the parlor door.”

“Very well. Good evening, Mr. Carter. I do hope you will recover Mr. Strickland’s property. Tell him, Gerald, how deeply grieved I am over his misfortune.”

“I will, Clarissa. Now, Mr. Carter, I am ready to go with you.”

Chick saw nothing to be gained by further inquiries. He accepted the slender, shapely hand of the young woman, tendered while she was speaking, noting that there were tears in the sad and somber eyes with which she regarded him, forcing a faint, momentary smile to her finely curved lips.

Gerald Vaughn, too, was equally impressive. There was something about both that lifted them above the ordinary, those indefinable qualities which denote class and char[Pg 10]acter, and which alone serve to avert distrust and suspicion.

Chick bowed and said a word of apology for having intruded, then accompanied Gerald Vaughn from the house.

Nick Carter was in the meantime proceeding with the investigations in the Strickland apartment, but only with negative results.

Adjoining the two front rooms was a third, partly furnished for a dining room and connecting with a spacious library. Back of these were two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small kitchen, evidently but little used. A window in the kitchen and in one of the bedrooms, also a small ground-glass window in the bathroom, overlooked the area back of the house.

Nick found that the first two were closed and securely locked, but that in the bathroom was open a few inches for ventilation. It was only about two feet square, and Nick looked in vain for any evidence denoting that a person had entered through it.

Gazing out, he could see the gloomy area below, also the dark wall of the Carroll Building some twenty feet away, much too far for access to have been gained from any of its windows, all of which were those of business offices of one kind or another.

Looking up, all that could be seen were the gloomy walls of the several buildings and a portion of the star-studded sky.

“By Jove, the rascals have cleverly covered their tracks,” Nick muttered a bit grimly after these futile observations. “It was the work of no ordinary crooks. I should need daylight, I reckon, in order to pick up a thread worth following.”

He was laboring at some disadvantage by means of the incandescent lamps only, and he returned in a few minutes to the front parlor.

“Are those back windows as you found them, Arthur, when you returned with Mr. Strickland?” he inquired, when Gordon started up to meet him.

“Yes, precisely,” he replied. “What have you learned?”

“Very little thus far,” said Nick. “I see that the bathroom window is open a few inches, Mr. Strickland. Are you in the habit of leaving it open?”

“Yes, Mr. Carter, I am,” was the reply. “But the bathroom door is always locked. The window, moreover, is hardly large enough to admit a man, nor could it be easily reached from the outside. I don’t see how the thieves could possibly have entered it.”

“Crooks devise means which no honest man would think of,” Nick replied. “It is my opinion that——”

He did not finish the remark, for Chick returned at that moment in company with Gerald Vaughn, and introductions and a brief discussion of the crime immediately followed. It was soon interrupted by the arrival of the photographer, however, who occupied the entire upper floor of the remodeled house.

“We will go up at once, Mr. Gilbert,” said Nick, after their greeting. “Come with us, Chick. Gordon will wait here with Mr. Vaughn.”

The photographer hastened to lead the way through the hall and up the stairs, switching on the light in his reception room, his studio, and in the extensive rear room containing the cameras and other paraphernalia required in his business.

“There appears to be nothing wrong,” he remarked, as[Pg 11] the detectives followed him to the rear room. “Everything is just as I left it at six o’clock, Mr. Carter, as far as I can see.”

“I will look a little farther, Gilbert, with your permission,” Nick replied.

“Certainly. Go as far as you like.”

Nick then began a careful inspection of the three back windows, all of which were found to be securely locked. None bore any evidence of having been recently opened. The floor near them bore no trace of earth, or dirt, denoting the recent presence of intruders.

So far as could be seen, in fact, even by the keen-eyed detective, everything in the rooms of Mr. Victor Gilbert was, as he had stated, precisely as he had left it.

“Is there a way to the roof?” Nick inquired, glancing up at a slightly sloping, twelve-foot skylight nearly in the middle of the ceiling.

“Yes. There is a ladder and a scuttle in my dark room,” said the photographer.

“Let’s go up there,” Nick said shortly. “I see that the roof is a flat one, or nearly so, and I wish to cover all of the ground.”

Mr. Gilbert again led the way.

One after another they mounted the ladder and crawled through the narrow scuttle. A stretch of slightly sloping, tar-and-pebble roof, the huge skylight aglow with light from below, the two chimneys with which the house was provided, the lower roof of that adjoining it, the gloomy side wall of the lofty Carroll Building, the black intervening abyss, the glare from the brightly lighted streets in other directions—only these and the purple dome of the starry sky met their searching gaze.

A fierce gust of wind caused the photographer to retreat toward the scuttle.

“By gracious, Carter, I’d rather venture up here by daylight, and in calm weather,” he shouted. “Go as far as you like, you two, but I am ducking back on the ladder.”

“I guess, Gilbert, daylight will be necessary for a further investigation,” Nick replied.

“That’s right, too,” Chick agreed. “It don’t seem possible that the job could have been done from here. The rascals would have been blown away with their plunder.”

“It is much more windy than early in the evening,” Nick rejoined. “We’ll wait till morning to seek further.”

“That’s good judgment, Nick, in my opinion.”

“Go ahead. I’ll follow you.”

Both crawled through the scuttle and picked their way down the steep ladder, and five minutes later found them again in the Strickland apartment.

The elderly German still was moaning over the loss of his costly treasures. He looked up with anxious eyes when the detectives entered, saying quickly:

“Don’t keep me in suspense. What have you learned, Mr. Carter?”

Nick smiled faintly and shook his head.

“You must not expect too much of us, Mr. Strickland,” he replied kindly. “Such problems as this are not solved in a moment. Most of our discoveries thus far are of a negative character.”

“The police——”

“Could not possibly accomplish more than we,” Nick interrupted. “Immediate publicity, too, might result in a disadvantage. You must leave the case entirely to me and wait patiently until morning. We will return at an early hour to continue our work.[Pg 12]”

“I shall remain here with uncle to-night, Arthur,” said Wilhelmina, turning to her lover.

“That will be wise, Mina, I think,” Gordon readily agreed. “But I will return to see you in the morning, Nick.”

“Very good,” nodded the detective. “You may expect us about seven o’clock.”

CHAPTER III.
THE FACE OF A CROOK.

“There are only six hundred Stradivarius violins known to be in existence. Their value varies from three to ten thousand dollars, but in a few cases these figures are greatly exceeded. Two are said to be worth no less than fifty thousand dollars each. One is the famous Emperor Stradivarius. It is two hundred years old, and the only one comparable with it is that left by Paganini to the city of Genoa. A sum running into five figures sterling was offered for it.”

“Gee! That sure is some fiddle, chief,” declared Patsy Garvan sententiously.

Nick Carter was having an early breakfast with Chick and his junior assistant before returning to the Strickland apartment on the morning following the robbery. They had nearly finished, when Nick, after a general discussion of the crime, made the foregoing comments concerning that rare make of violin that had been stolen from the elderly German.

“Some fiddle, Patsy, is right,” Chick agreed, laughing over his coffee.

“All Strads are very valuable, and many have had a strange and eventful history. Some have been repeatedly stolen, and at times have passed from one uninformed person to another at ridiculously low prices. I recall that one was accepted by a Geneva blacksmith from a traveler who had not money enough to pay for shoeing his horse. It hung for years on a wall in the blacksmith’s house, till a collector of violins happened to see and purchase it. Upon cleaning off the dirt and grime he found the Strad mark on it. He had acquired for a paltry sum an instrument worth thousands of dollars.”

“That was tough luck for the poor blacksmith, chief.”

“Not at all,” said Nick. “For the violin collector was as square as a brick. He returned and paid the blacksmith all that the instrument was worth.”

“Good on his head!” said Patsy. “He was one man in a thousand.”

“Make it ten thousand, Patsy,” Chick said dryly.

“The Strad stolen from Strickland is of great value, no doubt, and possibly worth what he has stated,” Nick continued. “With the rare old masters he mentioned, together with his antique gems, his collection of jade and the other missing treasures, his loss runs up over a hundred thousand dollars. He will have a complete list for us this morning. We’ll get a move on, now, if you are ready.”

Followed by both, Nick led the way to his library. His chauffeur, Danny Maloney, had not yet arrived with his touring car, but all three were engaged in putting on their outside garments when the doorbell rang, and Patsy glanced from one of the screened windows.

An erect, muscular, dark-featured man was standing on the front steps, awaiting the coming of Joseph, the detective’s butler.[Pg 13]

“It’s Detective Conroy, of headquarters,” said Patsy.

“What sent him here before seven o’clock?” Nick remarked. “He must have something on his mind.”

“A case, perhaps, on which he wants to employ us, or ask your advice,” Chick suggested.

“I shall take on no case until after I have sifted this robbery to the bottom,” Nick said decidedly. “I promised to recover Strickland’s stolen treasures, and I’m going to do it.”

“That’s the stuff, chief,” nodded Patsy. “Let’s make good, or bu’st a tire.”

Joseph ushered in the headquarters man at that moment, and Conroy said at once, with a look of surprise at all:

“Great guns! I hardly expected to find you out of bed, Nick, to say nothing of all hands being ready to leave the house. Something doing, eh?”

“Yes,” Nick bowed. “What’s on your mind, Conroy?”

“It’s in my pocket, Nick, rather than on my mind,” said Conroy, smiling. “I have an early appointment at headquarters, but thought I’d take a chance of seeing you for a few moments, as I was passing your house on my way. Have a look at this.”

He drew from his pocket while speaking a small photograph, not more than three inches square, which evidently had been snapped with a kodak, or a small camera, when the subject was ignorant of the fact. For he was walking at the time, a man clad in clerical robes, and his face was somewhat shaded from the sun by the broad brim of a black felt hat.

It showed quite distinctly, nevertheless, that he was a man about thirty years old. The smoothly shaved features were of an almost effeminate cast. The square jaw and thin lips denoted firmness, however, with bulldog nerve, tenacity, and determination. His figure evidently was of medium build and in no respect specially distinctive.

Nick took a large reading glass from his desk and viewed the picture quite intently.

“Who is he, Conroy?” he inquired.

“He is without exception, bar none, Nick, the most accomplished, most versatile and original, and for those reasons by far the most dangerous crook now at large in this wicked world,” said Detective Conroy forcibly. “That face is a libel on his character. He looks more like a saint than a thief. That is because, perhaps, it was taken while he was posing as a priest in Berlin, where he swindled an Austrian duchess out of jewels worth sixty thousand dollars and got safely away with them. He has a record of which the devil himself would be proud. That’s the only photograph of him known to be in existence. That’s Mortimer Deland.”

Nick knew him by name and reputation, and had read of his knavish exploits in Europe, where most of his evil work had been done; a series of crimes covering a period of nearly ten years, but accomplished with craft and elusiveness that had enabled him to avoid arrest and baffle the trained police of nearly every European country.

Mortimer Deland was, in fact, almost a myth and mystery, so little was known of him aside from the extraordinary crimes that had made his name notorious abroad, and comparatively well known to the police of America.

Nick viewed the photograph with considerable interest, therefore, and then handed it to Chick and Patsy for inspection.

“Where did you get it, Conroy?” he inquired.[Pg 14]

“It was sent to me by Jenks, of Scotland Yard,” replied the headquarters man. “It was snapped by an English woman who was in Berlin when the robbery of the Austrian duchess was committed.”

“There is no doubt about it, you think?”

“Not the slightest. Jenks is absolutely sure that the woman made no mistake and is thoroughly reliable. Here is a copy of Deland’s writing, merely the fictitious name he inscribed on a hotel register. Both this and the photograph are entirely reliable.”

“Make a tracery copy of the writing, Patsy,” Nick directed, handing him the scrap of paper Conroy had taken from his notebook. “We may find it useful, perhaps, sooner or later. Mortimer Deland, eh? If all I have read of him is true, Conroy, it will be a feather in the cap of the man who rounds up the rascal.”

“I thought you might wish to see the photograph.”

“Very much,” Nick nodded. “I’ll fix the face in my mind, though the print is too small to be of much value. The writing may prove useful, however.”

“I had another reason for dropping in to show them to you.”

“What is that?”

“Jenks wrote me that Mortimer Deland is probably in this country, if not in New York City.”

“On what does he base that belief?”

“First, on the fact that there has been a complete cessation of Deland’s knavish work abroad for more than six months. That is a very long and unusual period for him to be idle. Scarce a month has gone by for six or eight years Nick in which he has not committed a crime of some kind, easily identified as his because of their peculiarly original and crafty character. There is no mistaking his work.”

“And the other reason?” questioned Nick.

“Because, though it was not suspected at the time, it now is known that Deland fled from Vienna about six months ago and went to England. He is known to have been in London with a notorious English crook and adventuress named Fannie Coyle, and that they bought passage for Boston more than four months ago. Boston would be poor picking for a man of Mortimer Deland’s knavish aspirations, and it’s long odds that he was heading for New York, or one of the big Western cities. Be that as it may, Nick, his whereabouts now is unknown.”

“Fannie Coyle still is missing from England, I infer?”

“Yes.”

“When did you hear from Jenks?”

“Only two days ago. This photograph, or one like it, was given to him about ten days ago. He has clinched the points mentioned since then.”

“Did he give you any information about Deland himself, his early life, or his family?”

“Nothing is known about him,” said Conroy, shaking his head. “The name probably is an alias. He is said to have as many others as he has hairs in his head. If he is half as clever as the foreign police assert——”

“Here is Danny, chief, with the car,” put in Patsy, turning from the window.

“We must be off, Conroy,” said Nick, returning the photograph. “I’m glad you came in, however, and I will keep Deland in mind. Let me know if you hear anything more about him.”

“I will, Nick, surely,” Conroy nodded, while he accom[Pg 15]panied the three detectives from the house and proceeded on his way to police headquarters.

Ten minutes later Nick’s touring car rounded a corner of Fifth Avenue and stopped in front of the Vanhausen building.

The inclosed black wagon of an undertaker was standing in front of the Vaughn residence, also a hack, at the open door of which the driver was waiting.

The casket had been brought out and placed in the great, somber wagon, the rear door of which still was open. The undertaker’s assistant was bringing out the last of the numerous boxes of flowers, which nearly filled the wagon.

Preceded by the undertaker, just as Nick and Chick alighted from the touring car, Gerald Vaughn emerged from the house with Clarissa and closed the door.

“They are just leaving for Springfield with the body,” Chick remarked in an undertone to Nick.

Gerald Vaughn observed them and bowed gravely, while he descended the steps with his sister, who was heavily veiled. He placed her in the carriage, then turned and said a few words to the undertaker, afterward approaching the detectives, who were but a few feet away.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, bowing and smiling faintly. “I have seen Mr. Strickland for a few moments this morning. He is much more composed than he was last night. I wish I might do more than merely wish you speedy success.”

“Many thanks,” Chick replied.

“We shall do all that we can with the case,” Nick added.

Vaughn bowed again, then turned away and entered the waiting carriage. The door closed with a bang. The hackman mounted to his box, caught up the reins, then drove rapidly away.

The undertaker’s wagon already had departed.

CHAPTER IV.
WHAT DAYLIGHT REVEALED.

Nick Carter found Mr. Rudolph Strickland and his niece awaiting him, but Arthur Gordon had not yet arrived.

“I have talked with him by telephone, Mr. Carter, and he now is on his way here,” said Wilhelmina, after their greeting.

“There is nothing he can do to aid us,” Nick replied. “We shall set at work at once, and you must remain here with Mr. Strickland. Find out, Patsy, whether the photographer on the floor above has arrived. He promised to come down early this morning.”

Patsy hastened from the parlor in which they had been received, while Nick and Chick at once proceeded to the rear rooms.

“We’ll begin with the bathroom,” said Nick, leading the way. “Daylight may reveal more than I was able to discover last night. Ah, by Jove, I thought so.”

He had entered the bathroom and raised the lower section of the small, ground-glass window. A glance at the stone sill outside, which he then began to inspect with a powerful lens, evoked his last more forcible remark.

“It’s what I do not find,” Nick replied. “Notice the lack of dust on the upper surface of this stone. All that remains of the thin layer which ordinarily would be there is a small quantity next to each casing. The lens[Pg 16] shows, too, that it has been rubbed in each direction, as if with a piece of cloth, or a garment.”

“Plainly enough,” Chick agreed. “It would be indiscernible, nevertheless, except in a bright light.”

“That was the difficulty last evening. We had not light enough.”

“You now suspect——”

“More than suspect,” Nick interrupted. “I now am convinced that one of the crooks, at least, entered through this window.”

“But how could he have reached it? There certainly was no ladder used, or the janitor must have heard him. Nor is there any other window from which the rascal could have reached this one.”

“If not from below, Chick, he must have come from above.”

“From the photographer’s room?”

“Or from the roof.”

“Either would be possible,” Chick allowed. “But we discovered no evidence of it. Besides, Strickland stated that the bathroom door was locked, and Gordon found it so when they entered.”

“That would have been no barrier to a crook clever enough to pull off a job of this kind. He would have pushed out the key and—stop a bit! We may find evidence of it.”

Turning back, Nick removed the key from the bathroom door to examine it with his lens. He quickly found what he was seeking.

“Here we have it,” he added. “The end projecting beyond the tongue has been gripped with a pair of nippers. Notice the marks they left on it. The rascal unlocked the door by turning the key with the nippers, relocking it by the same means before he left the flat.”

“You think he went out through this window.”

“I do. The chances are ten to one, if he had left by way of the front door, that Madame Denise would have seen him.”

“He is some athlete, by Jove, if he climbed a rope to the roof, or even to the photographer’s window,” Chick declared.

“He had confederates who aided him,” Nick replied. “He could not have got away with such a quantity of plunder without assistance.”

“Surely not.”

“Let’s have a look at the bedroom window.”

Nick led the way into the room where, still using his lens, he began a thorough inspection of the window lock, the sashes and panes, and finally the interior sill and the outside stonework.

All that he found of any significance were a few tiny particles on the sill, hardly discernible without a lens, but which, when viewed through it, appeared to be short, yellow bristles, or hairs.

Quick to detect their true character and significance, however, Nick said, quite abruptly:

“I am right, by Jove, in that a rope was used. Here are particles of hemp on the sill. A rope, or a hemp cord of smaller size, was drawn in through this window.”

“But why did the rascal use this window, Nick, after entering through that in the bathroom?” Chick questioned.

Nick leaned out and gazed upward.

“I have it,” he replied. “A rope evidently was used[Pg 17] for removing the plunder through this window, which is much larger than that in the bathroom. It was not lowered to the rear area, however, for there is no exit to the street. Nor was it drawn up to the quarters of Gilbert, the photographer, or we would have found evidence of it last night. It must have been drawn up to the roof, therefore, and then transferred by some means to another building, or——”

“What’s up?” Chick cried, interrupting.

Nick had drawn back into the room with an abruptness that startled his assistant, even more than the altered expression on his strong, clean-cut face.

“I think, Chick, we’ve been fooled.”

“Fooled? What the deuce do you mean?”

“I mean——”

Nick did not remain to say what he meant. Instead, with a sharper light leaping up in his eyes, he strode hurriedly to the front parlor, in which Mr. Strickland and Wilhelmina then were seated.

“You told me last evening, Mr. Strickland, that Gerald Vaughn and his sister are old friends of yours. How long have you known them?” he asked, pausing in the middle of the room.

“Why, only since they have lived next door, Mr. Carter,” was the reply, with a look of surprise.

“How long is that?”

“About four months, as near as I can remember.”

“They do not own the corner house, then?”

“Oh, no. It is owned by Colonel Morgan Barker, who has been living abroad with his wife and two daughters for nearly a year. Their children are studying music in Berlin. The Vaughns met them, and, as they were about to visit New York for a few months, they arranged with Colonel Barker to occupy his furnished house during their stay here.”

“Who is Colonel Barker’s agent in New York?”

“Mr. John Archer, I believe, who has an office in Broadway. Mr. Vaughn brought a letter to him from Colonel Barker, directing him to let him occupy the house, and——”

“And turn, unless I am much mistaken, as crafty a trick as one often hears of,” Nick interrupted, with more austerity than he ordinarily displayed. “Come with me, Chick, and—ah, here is Patsy. What do you say? Has the photographer arrived?”

“Mr. Gilbert has just gone up, chief,” said Patsy, who had entered while Nick was speaking.

“Come, then, both of you,” said Nick, without further explanations.

He hurried from the room, followed by both Chick and Patsy, and led the way to the top floor. The photographer had just unlocked the door of his studio.

“Good morning, Gilbert,” Nick greeted him familiarly. “I want to visit your roof once more.”

“Certainly, Nick, as many times as you wish. Go ahead. You know the way.”

Nick already was on his way to the rear room, where he quickly mounted the ladder and opened the scuttle leading to the roof. One after another the three detectives climbed out.

It presented in the bright morning sunlight a much different appearance from that of the night before. There was much less danger of a slip and a fall to the pavements far below. Nick at once approached the rear edge of it, at a point directly over the window of the[Pg 18] bedroom in the Strickland flat. Some of the gravel near the edge had been brushed away. Crouching to gaze over, Nick made a discovery that immediately confirmed his increasing suspicions.

In the upper surface of the timber forming the edge of the roof were four holes, somewhat less than a foot apart, and which evidently had been recently made with four large screws.

“Here we have it,” Nick cried, when Chick and Patsy approached. “There has been a rigging of some kind screwed to this timber.”

“Gee! that’s as plain as twice two, chief,” said Patsy.

“Notice that it is directly in line with the chimney, which is less than eight feet from the edge of the roof. If I am not mistaken—no, I am right,” Nick broke off; then added confidently, rising to inspect the chimney. “Here are splinters of wood on some of the bricks, also particles evidently rubbed from a rope. Here in the gravel beyond the chimney, too, are indications that the end of a piece of joist rested.”

“You think, then——”

“The evidence speaks for itself,” Nick interposed. “A long piece of joist made fast to the chimney was run out over an ordinary sawhorse, I judge, which was fastened to a strip of board securely strewed to the edge of the roof. A rope from the outer end of the joist, or a rigging of some kind, enabled one of the crooks to descend to the windows of the Strickland flat.”