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No. 141. NEW YORK, May 22, 1915. Price Five Cents.

THE DUPLICATE NIGHT;
Or, NICK CARTER’S DOUBLE REFLECTION.

Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.

CHAPTER I.
THE DUPLICATE NIGHT.

It was a fateful moment—one to be remembered.

A fateful moment in the lives and fortunes of some to whom there then came no premonition of evil, no dread of the terrible sword that hung by a hair above their heads, upon whom was cast no shadow through the glare and glitter around them, amid the gay festivities in which each played a part.

It was a fateful moment, one brought only by chance to the notice of Nick Carter.

It was remembered by the celebrated detective, moreover, only because of two incidents that would have been entirely unnoticed by a less keen and discerning man.

One was the single stroke of a tall, old-fashioned clock in the main hall of the great mansion.

It struck the half after ten.

The hall in which it struck, and in which Nick Carter then was standing, was that of the magnificent Carrington mansion on Washington Heights, the home of the wealthy railway magnate, Horace K. Carrington, a millionaire fifty times over, and prominent with his handsome wife in the most fashionable and exclusive circles of New York society.

It was the night of the fifteenth of January, memorable for an unusual warm spell of more than a week, which had melted the last vestige of snow and drawn the last sign of frost from the ground.

It was also memorable as the night of a private masked ball in the Carrington mansion, in which something like three hundred of their most intimate friends had gathered.

The avenue and streets adjoining the extensive estate were thronged with conveyances of the most expensive kinds, limousines, and costly motor cars predominating.

The elegant grounds, covering nearly an entire square, were almost as bright as day under the glare of a myriad of electric lights suspended among the trees of the surrounding park.

The superb mansion itself was ablaze from basement to roof. Its broad halls and spacious, sumptuously furnished rooms were thronged with masked guests, many in elaborate fancy and historic costumes, and some in nondescript attire.

Courtiers and princes rubbed elbows with clowns and jesters. Queens in regal raiment hobnobbed in corners and alcoves with country bumpkins, while the whirl of the dance presented a kaleidoscopic picture, the details of which would require a volume. It was a weird, yet dazzling picture, with the gleam and glitter of jewels of inestimable worth.

Aside from the numerous officers and guardians in and about the extensive grounds, guardians of diamonds and gems that would have aggregated millions, two men in evening dress and of refined and unofficial bearing mingled with the servants and other house functionaries in various parts of the mansion, apparently having only an eye to the general conduct of affairs.

These two men were Nick Carter and his chief assistant, Chick Carter, both carefully disguised, the balmasque feature of the gathering and the unusual opportunity for knavery that it presented, in view of costly jewels worn by his guests, having led their host to secretly employ the two famous detectives as safeguards against designing intruders and possible crime.

At precisely half past ten, the fateful moment mentioned, Nick Carter was standing in the main hall and near the front door of the house. He could see the entire length of the hall, the broad stairway to the second floor, and through several open doors the throng of dancers in the adjoining rooms. All of them still wore masks, eleven o’clock having been the hour stipulated for their removal.

Mingled with the strains of orchestral music the single stroke of the clock reached the detective’s ear. There was no mistaking the sweet and mellow resonance of its bell.

At the same moment a woman, threading her way between numerous other persons in the hall caught the detective’s eye.

She was one of the guests, and her costume spoke for itself. She was clad completely in black, from her dainty ties to the mask that hid her face and the veil that partly concealed her hair and fell in picturesque folds over her shapely neck and shoulders. But this ebon costume was bespangled with countless glittering stars and radiant diamonds.

Plainly enough, she was a personification of—Night.

Nick thought it a striking costume, one that set off to advantage the fine, graceful form of the woman. He watched her furtively while she came through the hall and went up the stairs to the second floor. He could see the gleam and glitter of her eyes, but no other feature of her face, yet he felt sure she was comparatively young and beautiful.

“She appears to be a bit nervous and in a hurry,” he said to himself, while she mounted the stairs. “She may be seeking some one, or possibly has lost her partner for this dance. That would irritate most young women.”

Nick turned upon hearing the voice of his chief assistant. Chick had just entered through the open front door and paused at Nick’s elbow.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he said quietly.

“They are not worth it,” Nick dryly answered. “I was thinking of a woman who just went upstairs. She is clad all in black and sprinkled with stars. She evidently represents Night, and I——”

“There she is, now,” said Chick, with a glance toward the rear part of the hall.

Nick gazed in that direction.

“By Jove, that’s quite remarkable,” he muttered audibly.

“It is a striking costume, Nick, for fair.”

“I don’t mean the costume.”

“No? What do you mean?”

“That two women have costumes precisely alike,” said Nick. “This one appears to be an exact duplicate of the other. She is, so to speak, a duplicate Night.”

“She probably is the same one,” said Chick.

“Impossible!”

“Why so?”

“The other just went upstairs. She cannot be in two places at once.”

“She may have come down. There is a side stairway.”

“She would not have had time when you called my attention to her. She had only disappeared at the head of these stairs.”

“There can be only one explanation,” said Chick. “There are two women wearing similar costumes. There evidently is, as you put it, a duplicate Night.”

Nick had been watching this second woman while they were talking, and his brows had knit perceptibly.

“She appears a bit nervous and in a hurry, like the other,” he muttered, after the masked woman had gazed into two of the rooms in which the dance was in progress. “She evidently is searching for some one.”

“Some one she knows, then, or with whom she came here,” said Chick. “She could not identify any one else, unless informed of the wearer’s costume.”

“True.”

“She appears to be——”

“Wait!” Nick interrupted. “Ah, she has found him. He was dancing in the rear parlor.”

The music had ceased and the dance ended.

A man in the costume of a Mexican toreador had just emerged from the room mentioned.

The woman in starry black hastened to approach and speak to him.

He bowed and listened to her, while she slipped one hand around his arm and strove to draw him away. He hesitated for a few seconds, then bowed again and accompanied her.

They disappeared into a diverging hall, one leading to a side door of the palatial residence.

“We’ll go out this way,” Nick muttered, turning toward the front door.

“Out after them?” questioned Chick, a bit surprised.

“Yes. I’m something more than curious. I want to know where they are going.”

“After a breath of fresh air, most likely, and one cannot blame them,” said Chick. “It’s like a melting pot indoors.”

“No hotter than that melting pot from which we saved the Waldmere plate a few months ago,” Nick replied, as they picked their way out through the throng and descended the front steps.

“That’s right, too.”

“This is an ice box, Chick, compared with that room in which we rounded up Stuart Floyd and his gang when engaged in that infernal work. It’s a pity that that rascal gave the prison-hospital guardians the slip and is again at large. The community would be more safe if your bullet had killed him, instead of only wounding him. He was a bad egg and is likely to break out again.”

“Quite likely,” Chick admitted. “But his escape was no fault of ours.”

“That’s very true, but it’s no less deplorable.”

“Are the Waldmeres here to-night?”

“I don’t know. I imagine they are, however, for they are friends of the Carringtons, and travel with the swell set. Ah, there they go,” Nick abruptly digressed, upon turning a front corner of the great house.

It brought a side driveway, the porte-cochère, and the side door into view, also the grounds south of the house and the side and rear streets, then brightly lighted and in which numerous motor cars and carriages were waiting.

The couple in whose movements Nick Carter had become interested had left the house and were walking quite briskly toward a broad driveway gate in the rear, one entered from the back street and leading to the garage and stable. Both of these were brightly lighted, also, and contained many waiting conveyances, with their liveried chauffeurs, drivers, and footmen.

The Spanish cavalier and woman in starry black paid no attention to others, however, nor appeared to have any occasion for secrecy. They still wore their masks, nevertheless, and they walked briskly out through the rear gate and entered a limousine waiting near by.

The door was closed with a bang and the chauffeur drove quickly away, so quickly that Nick was unable to get a glimpse of his face, or to learn the number of the car.

“They evidently are going home,” Chick remarked, while they paused in the driveway some thirty feet from the gate, which was as near as they had come to overtaking the couple. “The woman may be ill, or overcome with the heat in the house.”

Nick shook his head.

“Nothing of the kind,” he replied. “She walked too briskly for one in that condition.”

“There is something in that,” Chick allowed.

“Furthermore, if they are going home, why did they wear their masks after leaving the house? They either are coming back, or there is something under the surface.”

“A secret love affair, perhaps,” suggested Chick. “They may have stolen out for a brief flirtation, intending to return before the festivities end. I don’t see, Nick, as it’s anything for us to butt into.”

“Not at present, Chick, at all events,” Nick replied. “We’ll return to the house.”

They did so without further comment upon the circumstances, and they separated again after rejoining the throng in the house.

Nearly two hours later, or considerably after midnight, Nick Carter felt a hand on his arm and heard the subdued voice of Mr. Horace Carrington, the host, a portly man in the fifties, then wearing an elaborate courtier’s costume.

“I want you for a few moments, Carter,” he said quietly. “Come with me.”

“Anything wrong?” questioned Nick, noting his gravity.

“I fear so,” said Carrington. “A lady, one of my guests, wants to talk with you. She is waiting in my private library. This way.”

Nick followed him with further questions and entered the room, where the lady at once arose to meet him.

She was a woman in starry black—the duplicate Night.

She no longer wore a mask, however, and Nick found himself face to face with an old acquaintance, one for whom he already had done double service. She was none other than the whilom beautiful chorus girl for love of whom Lord Archie Waldmere had sacrificed his heritage and English birthrights and become estranged from home and family—now Lady Mollie Waldmere.

“Good gracious!” Nick quietly exclaimed. “Is it you, Mrs. Waldmere? What has happened?”

She extended a trembling hand and gazed at him with apprehensive and glistening eyes.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I cannot even imagine. I have told Mr. Carrington, and he said you were here incognito and in disguise, so I asked him to call you. I have not forgotten what you have done for Archie and me, Mr. Carter.”

“Don’t mention that, Mrs. Waldmere,” said Nick. “What now is the trouble?”

“I don’t know,” Mollie tremulously repeated. “I only know that I—I cannot find my husband.”

CHAPTER II.
A DEEPENING MYSTERY.

Nick Carter was much less surprised, of course, upon learning of the mysterious disappearance of Archie Waldmere, than he would have been if he had not seen the episodes that had occurred about half past ten, and the remarkable duplication of the costume described.

Naturally, too, several pertinent questions at once arose in Nick’s mind.

Who was the other woman—the duplicate Night?

Was Waldmere the masked man who had accompanied her from the house and departed in a limousine?

Did he, in that case, know with whom he was going, or did he suppose he was departing with his wife?

If not, and he went willingly with another, what motive had he in so doing?

Was he guilty of a secret love affair, as Chick had suggested, and had he gone to indulge in a clandestine flirtation, intending to return within a reasonable time, only to be inadvertently detained until this late hour?

Nick was not inclined to believe anything of that kind, as a matter of fact. He had a very high opinion of the titled young Englishman, who had been loyal enough to his love for a beautiful chorus girl to make her his wife, in spite of the opposition of his choleric old father, the Earl of Eggleston, and the consequent estrangement from home and family and native land, he having for the two years since his marriage been engaged in Western mining projects, occupying a fine residence in Riverside Drive.

In view of all of these facts, of which Nick was thoroughly informed, he did not believe that Waldmere was guilty of a clandestine love affair. He decided that he would not immediately disclose what he had seen, however, and that he first would look into the matter superficially and make sure he was right on certain points.

For Nick did not know positively, of course, that it was Mollie Waldmere whom he had seen ascending the front stairs at precisely half past ten. There was a possibility of its having been the other—the unknown personification of Night.

“It really is extraordinary, most extraordinary,” Mr. Carrington remarked, when the detective did not reply for a moment to the anxious woman. “I cannot account for it.”

“I don’t think there is any cause for alarm,” said Nick. “Have you made sure, Mrs. Waldmere, that your husband is not in the house?”

“Dear me, yes!” exclaimed Mollie, gazing at him. “I have searched everywhere in the crowd. It is nearly two hours since we unmasked. Archie was to have gone in with me for refreshments, but I have waited and searched in vain. I know, Mr. Carter, that something has happened to him. He would never desert me in this way. Besides, he did a most extraordinary thing earlier in the evening.”

“What was that?” Nick inquired. “Sit down, Mrs. Waldmere, and tell me. I will look into the matter.”

Mr. Carrington had closed the door of his private library, and all three then sat down to continue the discussion.

“He sent me a note about half past ten, Mr. Carter, asking me to join him in the west-front chamber, and saying that he wanted me. Here it is, merely these penciled lines on a scrap of paper. I thrust it into my waist, not wanting to drop it on the floor.”

Nick read the fragment of paper she hurriedly produced. It contained only these lines:

“Come up to the west-front chamber, Mollie. I want you.

Archie.”

Nick returned the paper to her, remarking:

“I infer that you did not find Archie in the west-front chamber.”

“No, I did not,” said Mollie nervously. “I could not imagine why he wanted me. I hunted vainly for him on the second floor. I have not seen him since, Mr. Carter.”

“Examine the writing, Mrs. Waldmere,” said Nick. “Does it look like Archie’s hand?”

“Why, no, not exactly,” she replied, after a brief scrutiny. “I really don’t believe that it is his. But I did not notice it, Mr. Carter, at the time. I felt a bit nervous and hastened upstairs to find him.”

Nick remembered having observed it, and he now had positively fixed the identity of the woman seen on the stairs. He took the note from her again and asked:

“Was this brought to you by one of the servants?”

“No, it was not.”

“By whom?”

“It was slipped into my hand by a man clad in a Mexican costume. I was surprised, of course, but I opened and read it. The man then had disappeared. I wondered how he had identified me, of course, but I supposed that Archie had told him what costume I was wearing. That made me nervous, you see, for I feared he might be ill. I could think of no other reason for his wanting me.”

“When had you previously seen him?”

“Not for half an hour, Mr. Carter, or longer.”

Nick took the note from her again, saying, while he slipped it into his pocket:

“I will keep this for a time, Mrs. Waldmere, if you have no objection.”

“None whatever.”

“Tell me, now, what costume your husband wore.”

“That of a Spanish cavalier.”

“Did he have it made, or rent from a costumer?”

“He hired it from Perrot, in Fifth Avenue.”

“And yours?”

“Came from the same place. Some of the jewels have been added, and will be removed before I return it,” said Mollie, pointing to some of the ornaments.

Nick gazed thoughtfully at the floor for a moment, then turned to Mr. Carrington.

“Your guests were admitted by card, I believe?” he said inquiringly.

“Yes. Each presented an invitation card to Perkins, the butler, with the bearer’s name and that of the costume worn.”

“Who now has the cards?”

“Perkins has charge of them.”

“Have him bring them here,” Nick directed. “I wish to examine them.”

Mr. Carrington withdrew to find the butler.

“When did you decide to wear this costume, Mrs. Waldmere?” Nick then asked, turning to her again.

“Oh, nearly a week ago,” said Mollie. “I engaged it of Perrot about that time.”

“Who except him knew you were to wear it? Did you inform any person?”

“Only one, aside from my husband and the servants, who may have heard me discussing it with him,” said Mollie. “I told one intimate friend of mine, Clara Ringold, of Brooklyn. She and her husband were invited and intended coming, but I have not seen either of them. Something must have prevented them.”

“What costume was she to wear?”

“That of a cabaret singer. She has a beautiful voice. We confided in one another, Mr. Carter, that we might recognize each other during the evening.”

“Where were you at that time?”

“When we confided in one another?”

“Yes.”

“I was calling on Mrs. Ringold in her Brooklyn residence. That was several days ago.”

“Were you alone with her?”

“Yes. We were seated in the library.”

“She is the wife of the Honorable Charles Ringold, I take it, who was a member of the last Congress.”

“Yes, the same,” bowed Mrs. Waldmere. “She——”

“One moment, please,” Nick interposed.

Mr. Carrington had returned, bringing a pasteboard box containing the invitation cards received by the butler at the front door, and presumably bearing the name of every guest who had entered the house.

Nick at once began a rapid inspection of them, his companions watching him with mute interest, and he was not long in finding what he sought. He discovered first the two cards presented by the missing man and his wife:

“Mr. Archie Waldmere, Spanish Cavalier. Mrs. Archie Waldmere, Night.”

The names of the costumes had been written on the cards by Waldmere himself, and his wife readily identified them.

A few moments later Nick produced two others, and he then placed the box on the table.

“Here are two of more importance,” he remarked, showing them to Carrington and Mollie.

They bore the following names:

“Mr. Charles Ringold, Mexican Toreador. Mrs. Clara Ringold, Cabaret Singer.”

“The names of the costumes evidently were written by the same person, for the hands are identical,” Nick observed, while his companions examined them.

“But this is very strange,” said Mr. Carrington, with a look of perplexity. “I have not seen Ringold nor his wife since the unmasking. I supposed they were not here.”

“I am very sure they have not been here, Mr. Carrington,” said Mollie confidently.

“But these admission cards—how came they here, in that case?” Carrington demanded. “Perkins certainly received them at the door.”

“The arriving guests were not required to unmask for Perkins, were they?” Nick inquired.

“No, certainly not. He had a list of the invited guests, and checked off each arrival.”

“The explanation is a simple one,” said Nick. “Two strangers got by Perkins by using these two cards.”

“But Ringold would not have given his cards to others. He is above such discourtesy as that,” Carrington warmly protested.

“Undoubtedly,” Nick agreed. “It is safe to assume, then, that the cards were obtained from him by covert means, also that a subterfuge of some kind was employed to prevent him and his wife from coming here to-night, or even communicating with you.”

“But that smacks of knavery, Mr. Carter, if not crime itself,” said Mr. Carrington apprehensively.

“I now am sure of knavery of some kind,” Nick replied. “Whether it is so serious as to come under the head of crime remains to be learned.”

“Dear me, this is shocking.”

“I now will tell you what I saw about half past ten this evening,” Nick added. “I want you to say nothing about it, pending my further investigations.”

Both of his companions pledged themselves to secrecy, and Nick then briefly told them of his earlier observations, much to the amazement of Mr. Carrington and the increasing anxiety of Mollie Waldmere.

“Don’t let my disclosures add to your alarm,” said Nick, observing her paleness. “The circumstances admit of only one interpretation.”

“What is your opinion?” Mollie questioned.

“Though he departed voluntarily, your husband did not go intentionally with another woman,” Nick explained. “He was lured away by her, thinking her to be you, Mrs. Waldmere, and detecting no difference in the two costumes. You were likewise lured to the second floor of the house by the forged note given to you, in order to preclude your seeing and preventing the subterfuge that deceived your husband.”

“That undoubtedly explains it, Nick,” said Mr. Carrington.

“And all this was evidently accomplished by two persons who, in some way, obtained the invitation cards of Mr. and Mrs. Ringold, and also prevented their coming here to-night.”

“Oh, my! this is terrible,” said Mollie, with lips quivering. “I cannot help feeling alarmed, Mr. Carter.”

“I will take the case and sift it to the bottom,” Nick assured her. “You suspect no person, of course, of having designs upon Mr. Waldmere?”

“No, indeed!”

“Nor know of any reason for such?”

“I have not the slightest suspicion.”

“I see you have a telephone here,” said Nick, with a glance at Mr. Carrington. “Let me try to get the Ringolds and see what I can learn.”

“Do so, Carter, by all means.”

“I am sure they have a telephone,” said Mollie. “I frequently talk with Clara.”

Nick looked up the number, but he tried in vain for several minutes to get a response. All he could obtain was that of the exchange operator:

“They do not answer.”

“There must be a reason for this,” said Nick, replacing the receiver. “They ought to hear the repeated ringing of a telephone bell, even if they are abed.”

“What’s to be done?” asked Mollie anxiously. “I am trying to be calm, Mr. Carter, but I am frightfully disturbed.”

Nick came to an abrupt determination.

“I will go to Brooklyn and see what can be learned,” he replied. “In the meantime, Mrs. Waldmere, you must go home and wait until you hear from me.”

“When will that be?”

“I will telephone to you as soon as I return from Brooklyn. I then shall go to my residence, from which I will ring you up. Chick will remain here, Mr. Carrington, until your guests have departed. I think there will be nothing more wrong.”

“This is bad enough, Carter, Heaven knows,” was the grave reply.

“Oh, it may not prove as serious as you apprehend, not serious at all, perhaps,” Nick said lightly, though chiefly to encourage the woman.

“Well, well, I hope not.”

“Do nothing more about it, nor say anything to others,” Nick repeated. “Leave the matter entirely to me. I will do all that can be done with the case, and will lose no time in doing it.”

Mollie Waldmere thanked him feelingly, then went to make her preparations for returning home.

Mr. Carrington detained the detective for a moment, asking gravely:

“Tell me frankly, Carter, what do you think of this? Do not deceive me.”

“Frankly, then, Mr. Carrington, it looks bad, quite bad,” said Nick. “Knaves do not take such risks, nor go to so much trouble, unless with some strong incentive. I cannot conjecture what lies back of it, of course, but I am going to find out.”

“Will you communicate with me later?”

“Surely by to-morrow morning. Keep quiet in the meantime and leave me to do the rest.”

Nick remained only to talk briefly with Chick, telling him what he had learned, and he then departed hurriedly, heading for home in a taxicab.

CHAPTER III.
NICK CONFIRMS HIS THEORY.

Nick Carter stopped at his Madison Avenue residence on his way to Brooklyn only to pick up his junior assistant, Patsy Garvan, whom he aroused from bed and with whom he soon was seated in the waiting taxicab.

“I thought I might need you,” Nick remarked, as they sped away. “There’s no telling what we may learn, and it’s always well to be on the safe side.”

“Sure thing, chief,” Patsy readily agreed. “But what’s up?”

Nick then told him what had occurred in the Carrington mansion, carefully covering all of the essential points, as was his custom when discussing a case with any of his assistants.

“Gee whiz! it don’t look good to me,” said Patsy, after listening attentively. “Some one has it in for Waldmere good and strong, chief, or such chances would not have been taken.”

“That is what I told Mr. Carrington,” Nick nodded.

“But why did they take that way to get him?” Patsy doubtfully questioned. “They could have nailed him much more easily by——”

“But it is not easy to get away with a man like Waldmere,” Nick interrupted. “He is interested almost solely in his home, his business, and his social enjoyments. Any covert attempt to lure him from either would at once be regarded with suspicion. Besides, there may be much more to this affair than appears on the surface.”

“Have you any suspicions?”

“None whatever, Patsy, at present,” said Nick. “We must dig up evidence that will supply us with a definite clew. I think the Ringolds may be able to aid us.”

“Are you acquainted with them?”

“With Mr. Ringold, but not with his wife,” said Nick. “We will ring them up, however, in spite of the hour.”

It was two o’clock when they sprang from the taxicab in front of the fine Ringold residence in a fashionable quarter of Brooklyn. With Patsy following, Nick hastened up the walk leading to the house and rang the bell.

The summons brought a response from one of the front windows on the second floor. It was hurriedly opened and the head and shoulders of Mr. Ringold himself appeared.

“Who’s there?” he called, gazing down.

“Nick Carter,” replied the detective. “Slip on your bath robe, Ringold, and come down to the door. I want to talk with you.”

“Great Scott!” Mr. Ringold exclaimed audibly. “You here, Nick, at this hour? What’s wrong?”

“Come down and admit me. I then will tell you.”

“I’ll be with you in half a minute.”

Little more than that had elapsed when Mr. Ringold opened the door and admitted the detectives, conducting them in to the library, and switching on the light.

“Now, Nick, what’s it all about?” he inquired, gazing curiously at him.

“It’s about the Carrington ball,” Nick replied. “How happened it that you and your wife did not go?”

“For only one reason,” said Mr. Ringold. “It had been postponed, Nick, because of the sudden illness of Mr. Carrington.”

“That so?” queried Nick, smiling. “Who informed you?”

“A messenger sent out by Mrs. Carrington. He came in a limousine this afternoon. He stated that Carrington was ill, that the ball had necessarily been postponed, and that the invitation and admission cards had been recalled and would be reissued later.”

“Did you see the messenger?”

“No. I had not returned home from my office.”

“Who saw him?”

“My wife talked with him. She gave him the cards of our invitation. He said that he and the Carrington butler had been sent to collect them from all who had been invited.”

“Mrs. Ringold suspected nothing wrong?”

“Why should she?”

“Nor you, when she informed you?”

“Certainly not. The messenger told a plausible story. He appeared trustworthy, or my wife would have detected it. Is there something wrong, then, that you have called here?” Mr. Ringold demanded, a bit impatiently.

Nick then told him the circumstances, or in so far as served his purpose, while his hearer gazed amazedly and with manifest regret.

“By Jove, this is most astonishing, Carter,” he then said gravely. “Who would have thought of such an imposition? I care less for having been cheated out of a fine evening’s enjoyment, than that our invitation cards have been turned to such a despicable use. I will ask my wife to join us, if you wish to question her.”

“You may, Ringold, if you have no objection,” said Nick. “I want a description of the messenger, also any other information that your wife can give me.”

“I will speak to her.”

“Gee, it looks like a neatly framed-up job, chief, for fair,” said Patsy, while they waited.

“Decidedly so,” Nick agreed. “See whether that telephone is in working order.”

He glanced at one on the library table and Patsy hastened to obey, presently reporting that he could get no communication from the local exchange.

“The instrument has been put out of commission,” said Nick.

“That’s about the size of it,” nodded Patsy.

“It was done to prevent the Ringolds from calling up Mrs. Carrington to inquire concerning her husband’s alleged illness, or to verify the postponement, in case of any suspicion.”

“Right again, chief, for a hundred.”

“It’s ten to one that the wires have been cut outside where they enter the house,” Nick added. “We’ll have a look at them presently.”

Mr. Ringold returned with his wife at that moment and Nick resumed his inquiries. The woman could add but little, however, to what her husband already had stated. She described the messenger as a dark man of medium build, wearing a livery and accompanied by a chauffeur, who remained in the limousine while the other performed his supposedly genuine mission.

“At what time did he call, Mrs. Ringold?” Nick inquired.

“I think it was shortly after five o’clock,” she replied.

“It then was dark out-of-doors?”

“Yes, indeed. It had been dark for some little time.”

“It did not occur to you to telephone to Mrs. Carrington, I infer, to inquire concerning her husband, or to express your sympathy,” said Nick.

“Well, I think quite likely I should have done so,” Mrs. Ringold replied; “but I first undertook to call up my friend, Mrs. Waldmere, and I found that the telephone was out of order. That precluded both communications.”

“And you suspected nothing wrong?”

“No, nothing whatever. I did not dream of such an imposition as my husband has just mentioned.”

Nick did not add to his inquiries. He directed both to say nothing about the matter, and after a word of regret for having disturbed them, he withdrew from the house with his assistant.

“Now, Patsy, we’ll have a look at those wires,” he said quietly, after Ringold had closed the front door.

“I’m with you, chief,” Patsy nodded.

They had no difficulty in finding where the wires entered the house, a point near one of the library windows. As Nick had predicted, moreover, they were found to be neatly cut and the instrument temporarily rendered useless.

“Here are tracks of the rascal’s boots,” he remarked, pointing to some imprints in the damp earth. “He stole in here after getting the invitation cards and cut the wires.”

“Surest thing you know,” said Patsy.

“That is why he waited until after dark before calling here,” Nick added. “He then could turn the trick without being seen. Come, we’ll go home. We can accomplish no more until to-morrow.”

“But what can we then accomplish?” questioned Patsy. “We seem to have no clew to the identity of the rascals, nor any thread worth following up.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Nick replied. “We’ll consider it later.”

It was three o’clock when they arrived home, and they found Chick waiting for them in the library, with a cigar in his mouth and his heels elevated to the edge of the table.

“Well, we don’t get much beauty sleep to-night,” he remarked, with a laugh, when Nick and Patsy entered.

“You don’t need any,” said Patsy dryly.

“So my mirror tells me,” replied Chick, laughing again. “What more have you learned, Nick?”

Nick informed him of the results of his hurried visit to Brooklyn.

“By Jove, it’s a curious case,” Chick then declared. “The job certainly was well planned and very neatly executed. But what’s the big idea? Who is out after Waldmere? With what object, Nick, and who are the culprits?”

“Those are questions more easily asked than answered,” said Nick. “It is hard to say why Waldmere has been abducted.”

“You think, then, that he has been abducted?”

“The circumstances point strongly to that. Waldmere is not a man to be mixed in a mess with another woman.”

“That’s true,” Chick agreed. “The motive may have been revenge. Stuart Floyd is at large, you know, and he may have had it in for Waldmere because of those former cases, and for having put us on his track. He is capable of any kind of a knavish job.”

“There is nothing in speculations,” said Nick. “I’ll think it over in bed and we’ll discuss it in the morning.”

“That’s good judgment, in view of the hour,” Chick vouchsafed, rising. “There is a bare possibility, too, that Waldmere will have returned by that time.”

Nick did not reply to this, nor was it verified the following morning.

Ten o’clock found all three seated in the detective’s business office. Nick had been in communication with Mrs. Waldmere, also with Mr. Carrington, but only with negative results. The situation stood precisely where it had stood the previous night.

Nick Carter’s mind had been active in the meantime, however, and he had decided what steps must be taken.

“The motive for this crime is beyond conjecture,” said he, in reply to a question from Chick. “It can be learned only when we have identified Waldmere’s abductors, discovered what relations have existed between them, and unearthed additional evidence in the case. That is what next must be done.”