NICK CARTER STORIES

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.

Receipts—Receipt of your remittance is acknowledged by proper change of number on your label. If not correct you have not been properly credited, and should let us know at once.

THE SULTAN’S PEARLS;

Or, NICK CARTER’S PORTO RICO TRAIL.

Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.

CHAPTER I.

THE MAN WHO WAS LOST.

“Man overboard!”

Nick Carter—known to the captain and crew of the tramp steamer Cherokee as Sykes, the bos’n—heard this shout, taken up by man after man, as he lay stretched out on the foc’s’le head, in the early morning, just as the ship nosed her way into San Juan harbor, on the northern coast of Porto Rico.

The thrilling warning that somebody has fallen into the sea, which always sends a shock through both crew and passengers whenever heard, does not permit any ordinary person to remain quietly dozing.

The famous detective was one of the first to rush over to the side of the ship when the alarm had been given.

Close by him were his two assistants, Chick and Patsy Garvan, who, in the rôles of common sailors, had come down to Porto Rico to help him get back the fortune in jewels which had been stolen from Stephen Reed, the well-known New York millionaire.

“Who is it, chief?” asked Patsy, forcing his way to the front.

“I haven’t heard.”

“One of the crew, I suppose?” hazarded Chick.

“No doubt. There is only one passenger on board now, Paul Clayton. It isn’t he, for there he is, behind you.”

Meanwhile, under orders from Captain Bill Lawton himself, two life rings, each with some thirty fathoms of line attached, had been hurled over in the direction of where the drowning man might be expected to be.

It was too dark to make out plainly anything in the water, but a sharp lookout was kept for an hour, until the vessel reached her anchorage and the “mud hooks” were let go.

“Well, we couldn’t do any better,” grunted Captain Lawton, through his shaggy mustache, as he and his big, two-fisted first mate, Van Cross, stood together on the bridge. “We might have a roll call of the crew. I don’t know who it was went over. I reckon it wasn’t anybody who might have become President of the United States, nor nothing like that.”

The saturnine skipper gave vent to a husky “Haw-haw!” at his own joke, and Van Cross joined in with an equally raucous guffaw.

Nick Carter was the only person on board the Cherokee who thought of a certain possibility which would attach more importance to the falling off the vessel of the man than its commander had supposed.

“Patsy!” whispered Nick. “Go to Mr. Clayton’s cabin and see if that suit case of his, containing the Reed jewelry, is safe.”

“I can’t see it unless Clayton is there,” objected Patsy.

“Naturally. But he is there. I saw him go down just now. You may tell him I sent you to inquire.”

“Who shall I say? Sykes?”

“Of course. I have no other name on the Cherokee.”

As Patsy Garvan disappeared to obey his chief, although without understanding what it all meant, Nick Carter beckoned to Chick, and the two went down a forward hatch.

“What’s the idea, chief?” asked Chick.

“I want to see that the prisoners are secure, Chick. It has always been difficult to keep John Garrison Rayne behind the bars—except when he is inside the stone walls of a State’s prison—and I have not much faith in the place they have him in on the Cherokee.”

“The same about his man French, I suppose?”

“French is an insignificant scoundrel,” returned Nick. “He is entirely under Rayne’s influence. I dare say he regrets that he ever was persuaded to come on this ship—to act as assistant engineer and to do what he could toward robbing Clayton of the Reed jewelry.”

“The whole case strikes me as curious,” observed Chick. “To begin with, the robbery of Stephen Reed was traced directly to Paul Clayton, the passenger they call Miles.”

“I know, Chick. But I don’t want that talked about.”

“Nobody’s talking about it,” rejoined Chick. “Except to you. Of course, I think enough of Clayton—and his sweetheart, Lethia Ford—to be glad you are letting him go. But that isn’t all. If there should be any hitch about the delivery of the loot to Stephen Reed, it might put you in a bad position.”

Chick spoke with a gravity and directness that no one else would have ventured on with Nick Carter. But as the principal assistant of the great detective he had gained the right to advise with his chief, and the latter valued his counsel.

“There will not be any hitch,” answered Nick positively. “Paul Clayton has kept a constant eye on his suit case ever since we got it away from Rayne the other day.”

“Rayne nearly had it, in the engine room, that time,” remarked Chick, with a shrug.

“I cannot admit that,” was the detective’s quick negative. “He had stolen the suit case, jewelry and all, from Clayton’s stateroom, it is true. Also, he had stowed it away in the engine room. But, unless he got it off the ship, of what use could it ever have been to him?”

Chick shook his head dubiously.

“He’s as cunning as any old-time Indian, and you can’t tell what he might have done. No wonder they call him the Apache.”

“He is called the Apache partly because he is so ruthless when pursuing any object,” said Nick. “Remember that. I don’t believe I ever knew another white man with quite so cruel a disposition. He neither asks nor gives quarter. I give him credit for being a fighter. Only, like the Indian warrior of thirty or forty years ago, he is not satisfied with merely overcoming his foe. He wants to torture and kill him, too. But, come on, Chick! We’ll take a look at the door of his glory hole, anyhow. I don’t suppose it was Rayne who jumped or fell overboard just now. But I want to make sure.”

Chick was a few paces ahead of his chief as they turned a corner in a narrow passage, lighted by an oil lantern swinging from the ceiling, and it was Chick who exploded in a shout of astonishment and dismay.

“Chief! He’s gone!”

“Who?”

“Rayne!”

Nick Carter required only one glance at the open door of the confined space used as a prison cell on the Cherokee to understand that the man who had gone overboard was really John Garrison Rayne, the international crook, known as the Apache.

There were three cells in a row. When not employed as prisons they were used as storerooms for rope, spare canvas, and similar material. Now one was full of such stuff, the second was locked, and the third stood open.

“Well, it doesn’t so much matter,” remarked Nick Carter, when satisfied that Rayne had got away. “Of course he dived off the ship and swam to shore. He may hang about San Juan. But most likely he will get away as soon as there is a ship sailing that suits him. We have the comfort of knowing that he failed to steal the Reed jewelry, and that is the main point, after all. Come on, Chick! We’ll go on deck.”

Hardly had they got there when they heard Captain Lawton raging profanely up and down.

“Six hundred dollars!” howled the skipper. “In good American money! Took it out of my locker, and had to break a lock that was strong enough for a jail door! But I’ll get the thief somehow. Mr. Cross!”

Van Cross, who had been enjoying a quiet cigar, looked down from the bridge, and, in a surly tone, asked what was wanted.

“Line up the whole crew and find out first who it was that went overboard,” growled Captain Lawton.

“I can tell you that,” put in Nick Carter, in his character of Sykes, the boatswain.

“Whoever he is, he got six hundred dollars out of my cabin!” roared the skipper. “I’ll skin him alive when I get my hands on him. Who is he?”

“The passenger you shut up for’ard for trying to steal the property of the passenger you call Mr. Miles,” replied Nick. “He has got out of the brig, and he is not on the ship.”

“What?” bellowed the wrathful skipper. “Do you mean to tell me that lubber has broken out? Who is he, anyhow? He says he is a business man, and he looks like it. Do you know anything about him?”

“I think I do,” replied the detective. “I believe he is an ex-convict named John Garrison Rayne.”

“John Garrison Rayne?” shouted Lawton. “I’ve heard of that fellow. He operates all over this continent.”

“And on others, too,” put in Chick.

“Come down to my cabin with me, Sykes, and help me go through my sea chest again. Bring your two men with you. Come on, Cross! I’ll rummage it from top to the very bottom.”

That is exactly what they did do. The locker belonging to Captain Lawton was an old-fashioned affair, such as seamen were more accustomed to use fifty years ago than in these days.

They had everything out and in again before the skipper was convinced that his money really was gone.

“Cross!” he bellowed.

The mate stepped to his side, looking at him questioningly.

“I’m going ashore!” announced Captain Lawton.

“When?”

“Now!” thundered the commander. “I’m going to find that lubber who dived overboard with my money. And, when I get him, I’ll turn him inside out. Then I’ll——”

“I wouldn’t,” advised Van Cross. “You have to look after the ship now we are in port.”

“You can do that,” interrupted Lawton savagely. “A captain can trust his first mate to do some things, can’t he?”

“Sure!” assented Van Cross. “But I don’t believe you’d ever find that man if you did go after him. Now, here’s this Sykes, who has just said he knows the man. Why don’t you let him go?”

“How do I know he’d ever come back?”

“He hasn’t got his wages, has he?” grinned Cross. “Don’t give him anything to spend, and he’s bound to come back. Besides, he’s got it in for that tall, gray-haired lubber himself. I know that from some words he let drop when he didn’t know I was near.”

Nick Carter overheard this confab, notwithstanding that it was conducted in hoarse whispers, and it coincided with his inclinations exactly.

He wanted to get ashore, for he was nervous over the way Rayne had left the ship.

He knew it was not like the Apache to give up a purpose he had nearly carried to fruition without fighting it to the end, and he believed something more would be heard of him before they were out of San Juan.

It would suit Nick exactly to go ashore, and, as he did not know just when he would be back, he resolved that he would take at least one of his assistants with him.

He was glad when he found that the master of the Cherokee was willing that he should go.

“Will you go into the town and see if you can get any trace of that lubber who jumped overboard, Sykes?” asked Captain Lawton, turning to him with as propitiatory an expression as his rocky face would permit. “Just loaf around in saloons and places where you’d be likely to pick up news.”

“And if I find the man?” asked Nick.

“Bring him aboard, and I’ll deal with him,” was the significant answer. “Once you find him, that will be enough.”

“How many men can I have with me?” asked Nick.

“How many do you want?”

“Two. Give me my two old shipmates. We’ve worked together before, and I’d rather have them than anybody else.”

The captain gave a growling consent, and Nick Carter went forward to get his two assistants.

“The suit case is all right,” announced Patsy. “I talked to Clayton, and he said he would not let it out of his hands until he had taken it to a bank in San Juan.”

“The wise course!” approved Nick. “We are going ashore—you and Chick—with me.”

“Bully! To get Rayne?” asked Patsy.

“If we can.”

“Well, you bet we can,” was the confident response, accompanied by a chuckle of delight at the prospect of some real action.

CHAPTER II.

A HEADQUARTERS DETECTIVE.

Nick Carter and his two assistants had been gone since the morning, and no report had come from them, nor had any one else gone ashore from the Cherokee, when, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, Captain Lawton told Van Cross he was going to see the agents to whom were consigned his miscellaneous cargo, so that he could begin to unload in the morning.

“Those fellows here would never come to me unless I went to them,” growled the commander. “They think a tramp steamer doesn’t need to be treated like a ship belonging to a regular line. Well, I’ll make them pay for that, too. You’ll see. Cross—you’ll see!”

He dressed himself in what he called his shore-going toggery, and gave orders for a boat to be brought around to the foot of the sea ladder, with four men.

Captain Bill Lawton had his own little vanities. One of them was to go ashore in a strange port in state, with four oarsmen to propel him from his ship to the landing stage.

As the captain prepared to descend to his boat, he turned to Van Cross and shook his fist at the town across the harbor.

“What are you going to do, cap?” asked Cross carelessly. “What have the people of San Juan done to you?”

“Done? Some of them have got my six hundred dollars.”

“You mean that high-toned passenger of ours has it?” grinned the mate. “You can’t blame the people of Porto Rico for that.”

“Can’t I?” yelled Lawton. “Well, I do. When I get ashore the police have got to get my wad back for me. If they don’t, by Cæsar, I’ll raise a revolution in politics in the town that will put half of ’em out of a job.”

It was at this moment that he saw a boat coming up to the Cherokee in a businesslike way, with a frowning, dignified man in some sort of uniform cap in the stern, while two fellows, who looked like ordinary dock wallopers, plied the oars.

The official in the stern was dark-haired, and wore a heavy black mustache. He had eyes that seemed to pierce anything at which they looked. It was not easy to say just what color they were. In some lights they seemed to be a yellowish green, like an angry cat’s.

“Hello!” he shouted, in a gruff voice, as he saw Lawton.

“Hello!” replied Lawton, equally gruff.

“This the Cherokee, from New York?”

“Yes.”

“Captain William Lawton in command?”

“That’s my name.”

The captain had had an occasional argument with the police of San Juan, as he had in many other ports, on account of doubtful cargoes. He did not care for the police on general principles, therefore.

As this man in the boat, who looked like a lieutenant in undress uniform, questioned him, he tried to think of anything he had done against the law in Porto Rico the last time he had been there.

The man in the boat did not give him much time to think, however. He told his men to row up to the ladder and make fast.

They hardly had had time to obey, when he stepped out of the boat, and with one hand touching the hand rope lightly, as if he did not need its help, mounted to the deck.

His eyes seemed to take in everything at a glance, including the crew and captain. He touched Lawton on the elbow in a peremptory way.

“Take me to your cabin. I want a word with you,” he snapped. “There is my card.”

He thrust the card into Lawton’s hand, and pointed, with an offhand gesture, to the companionway. The captain read the words on the card with anything but a comfortable feeling. They were:

“Detective Lieutenant Sawyer, New York City.”

That was all, but it was more than enough for the skipper of the Cherokee. He did not know that he ever had seen a detective’s card before, but he supposed this was the regular formula.

Only a few moments previously, Captain Lawton had been anxious to get to the police, to complain about the loss of his six hundred dollars. Now that there was a detective at his elbow—probably a good one—he felt nervous. His own record was not clean, and he feared that this stern-mannered Sawyer might know more than would be healthful for him.

When they reached the cabin, the detective shrugged his shoulders as he glanced about him.

“Lost anything?” he snapped. “Looks as if you’d been making a search down here.”

“I’ve lost six hundred dollars.”

“Stolen?”

“Yes.”

“Some of the crew?”

“One of ’em. A man I signed on in New York, just to help him out. He was flat broke. This is what he did to me in return. Came down here and looted the cabin. But I’ll get him! I’ll sure get him! If he’s anywhere in Porto Rico, I’ll get him.”

“Don’t you think he was drowned?”

“No. Some of the crew saw him swimming, and he was headed for shore. It was early morning, and not light. That gave him a chance to get away, and he made the shore all right, no doubt.”

“You only think that, don’t you? You are not sure?”

“Sure enough to satisfy me,” growled Lawton. “In fact——”

“Well, that’s no business of mine,” interrupted Sawyer. “I want you to answer a few questions.”

The imperative manner of this man from police headquarters, New York, awed Captain Bill Lawton, in spite of himself, and he prepared to tell anything that might be asked of him.

“All right, lieutenant,” he grunted.

“Have you a passenger on board named Miles?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“In his stateroom, I believe. He went in there a while ago, and I have not seen him on deck since.”

“Is he a young man, who looks as if he might be a sort of society darling—plenty of money and nothing to do but to blow it in?”

“That fits him.”

“Tall, rather light-brown hair, gray eyes, and straight nose?”

“That’s a photograph of him,” replied Lawton. “You’ve got his description all right. What about him?”

“Nothing much.”

As the detective lieutenant said this carelessly, he took a pair of handcuffs from the left-hand pocket of his coat and placed them in one on the right.

The captain started. This looked like serious business for somebody. So long as it was not for himself, however, he did not care. Excitement was pleasant to him, as a rule.

“What do you want him for?” he asked, in a low tone. “He has kept himself away from me and the other officers all through the trip. I didn’t think much about it, but I can see now why it was.”

“That was the reason,” remarked Sawyer dryly. “He’s charged with stealing about eighty thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds and other jewelry from Mr. Stephen Reed, of New York.”

“What, the multimillionaire?” exclaimed the captain.

Sawyer nodded.

“Holy smoke!” ejaculated Lawton. “I heard of that job before I left New York. But it never struck me that I had the man who did it right on my ship. Why, say!” he added eagerly, moved by a sudden thought.

“Well?”

“I’ll bet it was he who took my six hundred dollars! I’ll——”

Captain Lawton made a dive across the saloon toward the door of a stateroom. Sawyer grinned momentarily, straightening his face before the other could look around.

“Wait a minute, captain!” he ordered. “Don’t ask him anything about your six hundred. Leave that to me.”

“I’d like to take him by the throat and throttle the money out of him,” hissed Lawton.

“I dare say. But that wouldn’t be according to law. Let me handle him. If he has your money, I’ll guarantee that you’ll get it back.”

“All right!” answered the captain reluctantly. “If I have your word, why——”

“Well, you have my word,” was the quick assurance. “I’ll hide behind this curtain at the foot of the companionway until you bring him out of his stateroom. He’s a desperate man, for all that he looks so meek in general, and I don’t want to have a fight here. It isn’t necessary, and I always like to do my work in a quiet way—when I can.”

“What shall I say he is wanted for?” asked Lawton, hesitating.

“Tell him he has to sign a declaration for the customs department. Be sure you don’t give him a hint that there is anything wrong.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” snapped the captain.

“Of course you’re not. I don’t mean that he would hurt you—or me, either. But he might have a gun handy, and send a bullet through his own head. That’s all.”

“I’ll be careful,” promised Lawton, as he went to the door of the stateroom and knocked.

Sawyer was behind the sailcloth curtain that protected the saloon from the wind in bad weather, but he could see everything done from a narrow chink.

The door of the stateroom was flung open, and Paul Clayton stood in the opening, his figure silhouetted against the light that streamed through the porthole behind him.

“Custom officer on board, Mr. Miles,” announced the captain gruffly. “You’ll have to declare any baggage you have. They are particular here in San Juan.”

“I don’t see why,” objected Clayton. “We have come from one American port to another, and have not touched anywhere. It seems strange to me.”

“It’s the regular thing. That’s all I know. I’ll call the custom officer. He’ll come down to see you.”

Paul Clayton turned back into his little cabin, and cast a rather anxious glance at the suit case on a chair at the back.

“Very well!” he said, at last. “I’ll stay right here till he comes.”

Captain Bill Lawton went to the companionway, and, as he ascended, he whispered to the officer from police headquarters:

“There’s your man. I’m going on deck.”

“All right!”

For a minute—or a fraction of one—during which the still-puzzled skipper ascended to the deck, Sawyer stood behind the sailcloth portière. Then he swung out and strode down the saloon with an official step that no one could mistake.

He stopped opposite Clayton and looked him steadily in the eye. Placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder, he said coldly:

“Paul Clayton! That is your name?”

“Yes.”

“I am from police headquarters, New York. You are under arrest.”

CHAPTER III.

A POINT FOR THE ARCHCROOK.

For the merest part of a second Paul Clayton neither moved nor spoke. Then his hand shot down to a side pocket and came up with a heavy revolver.

The officer had been looking for some such move. He seized the young man’s wrist and gave it a wrench that caused the weapon to fall clattering to the floor.

“That won’t help you,” was the quiet warning. “Don’t resist, because you will be the person to suffer if you do.”

“What am I arrested for?” asked Clayton, composing himself with a tremendous effort.

“Stealing jewels estimated at about eighty thousand dollars from Mr. Stephen Reed, of New York City. He is said to be your uncle. We think we have the goods on you, too.”

Paul Clayton dropped his head despairingly. To think that, just when he had been so sure that he could return to his uncle the jewels he knew now he never had meant to keep, and begin life anew, with no stain on his name, he had to be arrested by this strange detective, who had followed him all this way, and seemed to have got to San Juan before him!

“Very well!” he sighed. “I’ll go with you quietly. There is nothing else I can do. I only want to say that Mr. Reed would have had all his property back as soon as it could reach him by express, and that there would have been no need for this arrest.”

“I guess so!” remarked the detective, with an incredulous shrug. “But I caution you that anything you say may be used against you at your trial. My advice to you is not to talk.”

“I have been a fool, I know,” went on Clayton, seemingly unable to keep his tongue quiet. “But I meant to make good.”

“Be careful.”

“I am careful. I have nothing to hide. The suit case holding the property is over on that chair, in my cabin. On the table is a letter I have written to Mr. Reed, and which would have been mailed as soon as I could get ashore. You can read it, and it will convince you that I have been telling the truth.”

“You’d better tell that to the judge,” interrupted the officer.

“I want to tell it to you. I wish you’d look at that letter.”

“It isn’t necessary. Hold out your hands.”

In another second the handcuffs were clapped on the wrists of Paul Clayton.

For the first time in his life he was a manacled prisoner. A dry sob broke from his throat.

It was then, as the officer stepped behind him and placed a hand on the precious suit case, that a curious change came over the face of the man from headquarters.

He bent over the suit case and a grin widened his mouth in so extraordinary a way that, if anybody who knew him had seen him at that instant, he would have declared that this detective lieutenant from New York was none other than John Garrison Rayne, the Apache!

“This is dead easy!” he muttered. “And it’s good that Nick Carter has gone off the ship. I’ll take these few things from my innocent young friend here, and he can get the handcuffs off when Carter comes back.”

How the scoundrel had contrived to get hold of the semiofficial uniform he wore in so short a time was his own secret.

It need only be said that when a man has six hundred dollars in cash in his pocket, he can get most things he wants, up to the value of his pile, in San Juan, just as he can in any other busy center.

At all events, here was John Garrison Rayne on the Cherokee, in the guise of a detective, seemingly carrying everything before him.

He had completely fooled Captain Bill Lawton, and Paul Clayton had not the least suspicion that he was anything but what he pretended to be.

“You will remain in this cabin a prisoner for the present,” he said shortly, turning to Clayton. “I shall have to go ashore and telegraph to New York for instructions. Ah, here’s Captain Lawton!”

The skipper was coming down the companionway. He raised his eyebrows as he saw that Paul Clayton was standing at the stateroom door, with handcuffs on his wrists.

“Nabbed him, eh?” he growled.

“I have him under arrest,” replied Rayne, with dignity. “If you will bring a couple of your men to guard the prisoner, I will stay till you come back.”

“All right! I’ll get my bos’n, Clegg, and another man,” replied the captain. “Clegg is the sort of fellow who won’t take any funny business from anybody. With him and another, your prisoner will be as safe as if he was in jail ashore.”

The captain hurried away to get Clegg—who, in the absence of Joe Sykes, was acting as bos’n. He was glad to do anything he could to help the officer from New York.

John Garrison Rayne watched the captain till he disappeared up the stairway. Then he stooped and picked up the revolver Clayton had dropped, putting it into his pocket.

The young man had fallen into a chair at the big table in the middle of the saloon, and was sitting there, his head resting upon his arms, the picture of despair.

The Apache strode deliberately into the stateroom—for he was afraid to hurry or show any eagerness, lest he should be suspected—and picked up the suit case.

As he brought it to the table, he was surprised to find that it was not locked.

He opened it and turned out its contents upon the table as if they had been a heap of pebbles. It was his way of showing that he regarded the booty from a purely official point of view.

Paul Clayton did not look up. He seemed to have lost interest in everything in the world just then.

Rayne had seen the jewels before. But he could not keep the glint out of his eyes as they fell upon the glittering stones and gold settings which would mean a fortune to him.

He had been at his last gasp financially when he had come on board the old tramp steamer. He had had enough to pay his fare and provide himself with cigars, and that was about all. He felt that he must make a killing now, no matter at what risk.

It was just as Rayne had the jewels spread out on the table that Captain Bill Lawton came down again. His eyes fell upon the display, and he could not get his breath.

The genial skipper did not know much about the value of gems and richly chased gold ornaments. But he felt sure this heap must be worth a great deal of money. He found himself regretting that he had not known what this young man had in his cabin.

How easy it would have been for the captain to get hold of the suit case, empty it into a bag of his own, and go ashore, saying good-by to the sea forever!

Captain Lawton might not have been guilty of this bit of villainy, even if he had had the opportunity. But certainly he allowed his thoughts to roam in this way, while a ruminative smile moved his hard lips.

John Garrison Rayne, familiar with the look of cupidity that steals over the faces of some men, divined pretty well what was passing in Captain Lawton’s mind. He brought the commander to himself sharply, by remarking, in a matter-of-fact tone:

“This stuff seems to be all right. I don’t see that anything is missing. But I’ll have to compare them with my list before I can be sure.”

He shoveled the jewelry back into the suit case as if he had no personal interest in the valuables, and shut the case with a snap.

“You will have two men to guard my prisoner, Captain Lawton,” he said shortly. “I shall have to hold you responsible for his safe-keeping. But I am not afraid that he will get away. I don’t see how he can, so long as he is kept down here. He couldn’t get out of any of the portholes.”

“He won’t get away!” grunted Captain Lawton. “I’ll answer for that.”

“All right! You’ll be paid for any trouble you have to take, of course. I’ll take this stuff ashore to my hotel, and keep it until I get instructions from New York.”

“I’ll be glad to see it off my ship,” declared Captain Lawton. “If you like, I’ll send a couple of men ashore with you, to help you guard the stuff till you put it away. I suppose you’ll stow it in the hotel safe.”

“Yes,” answered Rayne carelessly. “That will be the best place for it. Meantime, I can look after it myself. You will hear from me some time during the day.”

He took the suit case in his hand, and, with a grim smile under his heavy mustache, walked to the companionway and up to the deck.

His impulse was to make a rush for his boat. But the Apache had too much control of himself to yield to such an inclination. Instead, he sauntered over to the head of the sea ladder and shouted to his two oarsmen.

“Aye, aye, sir!” responded one of them, as they brought the craft up to the small platform at the foot of the ladder. “All right, sir!”

With a slow and dignified step, John Garrison Rayne went down the ladder. At the foot of it he stopped to wave a farewell to Captain Lawton, who, with his first mate, Van Cross, was at the top. Then he stepped into his boat and sat down in the stern, the valuable suit case between his knees.

No sooner had the men got the boat clear of the steamer than Rayne leaned forward and told them to hurry with all their might.

“It will be half a dollar extra for each of you if you put me ashore inside of fifteen minutes,” he told them. “I have to meet a gentleman who is going away on the train. Hurry!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” came in chorus from both of the oarsmen.

The promise of a tip has just as potent an effect in Porto Rico as it has in any other part of the world. They rowed with savage eagerness, and promised to get to shore in twelve minutes.

As the yawl cut its way through the heaving waters, John Garrison Rayne mused over his good luck. He hugged the suit case between his knees, and tried to decide on his next move.

“It was dead easy!” he muttered. “All I had to do was to get rid of that gray wig, put on the mustache, and buy the clothes I wanted out of the captain’s six hundred. Then I stepped into this boat, went up to the Cherokee, clapped handcuffs on Paul Clayton, picked up the suit case—after making sure it had the things in it—and quietly rowed away. Why, it was like taking candy from a baby.”

He chuckled so loudly that both of his oarsmen looked quickly at him in astonishment. He recovered himself immediately, and frowning severely at them, told them to pull harder.

It was just as he administered this rebuke to his men that he glanced over to the left, where a motor boat was chugging its way across the harbor.

There were three men in it.

At first they were too far away for him to make out who they were. Then, as the morning sun fell full upon their faces, he recognized them.

They were Nick Carter, Chick, and Patsy Garvan!

The motor boat swept past, causing the yawl to rock violently in its back wash.

Rayne bent over and appeared to be tying the lace of his shoe. His face was thus entirely concealed from the occupants of the motor boat.

When the danger of recognition was past, he hissed to his two perspiring oarsmen:

“Make it in eight minutes, and I’ll give you a dollar apiece!”

The little yawl fairly leaped through the water, as the men put in all the strength and activity they could muster.

“They’re going to the ship,” muttered Rayne. “I’ve got to be out of the way quickly. There may be a way of signaling shore. If there is anything like that to be done, that infernal Nick Carter will know how to do it.”

CHAPTER IV.

A PUZZLE FOR THE SKIPPER.

It was not without thoroughly understanding the situation that John Garrison Rayne told himself he would be in danger if he did not get away before Nick Carter could communicate with the shore.

Even if it should be impossible to telegraph, that motor boat was a swift-moving craft, and it would take very little time for it to get to the wharf from the Cherokee, if the famous detective should determine to go, instead of trying to signal.

It happened that Rayne was just stepping on the quay as the motor boat swirled alongside of the steamer.

Nick Carter, no longer dressed as a sailor, but in a neat, light, business suit, stepped upon the platform at the foot of the sea ladder, while his two assistants—who also had changed their attire—followed him closely.

Nick had removed the heavy beard he had worn as Joe Sykes, the boatswain, and there was little in his face to remind one of the sailor except his penetrating dark eyes.

Patsy and Chick, too, had changed their faces, so that no one on board the steamer would be likely to suspect that they ever had been members of the crew, taking the hard work, and the equally hard language of the bullying mate, all as part of the day’s work.

Captain Lawton was worried over the taking away of the suit case. He had begun to feel misgivings, and it had disturbed his nerves. So he scowled when he saw three strangers boarding his ship.

“What do you want?” was his inhospitable greeting, as Nick gained the top of the ladder.

“I am a detective, and I’ve come to see your passenger, Paul Clayton,” replied Nick Carter, as he looked the skipper up and down. “He took passage with you under the name of Miles. Where is he?”

“Search me,” grinned the captain.

“He’s on board your vessel, isn’t he?” demanded Nick sternly. “A passenger of yours?”

“No. He ain’t nothing of the kind. You say you’re a detective. Well, you’re a little late. Another detective, from New York, has been here and arrested him. So he isn’t a passenger. He’s a prisoner.”

“Impossible!” ejaculated Nick Carter.

“Nothing impossible about it,” sneered the captain. “He’s down in the cabin he’s had since we left New York. Only now it’s a cell, instead of a stateroom, and I have two of my men watching to see that he doesn’t get away. That’s all there is to it.”

“How do you know this man who arrested Paul Clayton—or Miles—is a detective?”

The captain held out a card, which Nick Carter took and scanned hastily.

“Detective Lieutenant Sawyer!” murmured Nick, reading from the card. “I don’t know of any New York detective by that name.”

“Well, anyhow, he was here, and he’s gone ashore with the stolen property, in a suit case. If you look over there, you can just make him out, landing on the wharf from a yawl.”

“Gee!” whispered Patsy. “I believe that’s right. Eh, Chick?”

“Looks like his walk,” returned Chick.

“I wish we could make out his face. What kind of clothes do you suppose he has on? We’re going to have a fine time running him down,” was Patsy’s low-toned remark—in which there was plenty of confidence, however.

Nick Carter was thinking quickly. He had seen the man getting out of the rowboat at the wharf. But it was too far to make him out for certain, and Nick had very little faith in Captain Lawton’s integrity.

“I’ll go down and see the prisoner, anyhow,” he said sharply.

“I don’t know whether you can,” hesitated Captain Lawton. “I have orders to keep the man safe, but nothing was said to me about allowing any one to see him.”

Nick Carter turned back the lapel of his waistcoat and showed a jeweled badge. It was very seldom that he exhibited this insignia. But there were occasionally times, like the present, when it was desirable that he should prove his identity.

Captain Lawton leaned forward to scan the badge. He saw that it bore the arms of New York State, and that in the center was a medallion portrait of the man who wore it.

But the skipper was naturally suspicious, and he did not accept even this proof immediately—or pretended he did not. As a matter of fact, he had seen Nick Carter before, in his proper person, and he was obliged to admit to himself that this calm, self-possessed man seemed to be the same.

“If that badge is straight, it is all right,” he growled. “Only I do not know that.”

“Here’s my card,” said Nick impatiently, as he took one of his cards from its case. “You may see my name and address there.”

“‘Nicholas Carter, Madison Avenue, New York City,’” read the captain. “It looks as if you might be the man you say you are.”

“You say that this other man, who pretended he was a detective, has taken the jewels stolen from Stephen Reed, and that it was he we just now saw climbing out of a small boat at the wharf?” demanded Nick, who was tired of arguing about his own identity.

“He took the jewelry,” replied, Lawton, more surly than ever. “I have not had proof that he was a fake detective any more than I know you’re a real one.”

“We’ll prove who I am by the chief of police of San Juan,” interrupted Nick sharply. “But there is no time to argue longer about that. I’ll send my men ashore, and I dare say they will round up this man. He seems to have fooled you completely.”

“There ain’t nobody can fool me!” grunted the captain indignantly.

“Chick!” called out Nick, turning his back on the wrathful Lawton. “You and Patsy go and see the chief of police, give him my compliments, and tell him to look out for this man. Most likely the rascal will try to get out of town right away.”

“Who are we to look for?” asked Chick.

“The Apache.”

“Who’s that?” asked the captain.

“Gee! You don’t want to get in his way. That’s all!” grinned Patsy. “He’d steal the ship from under you while you was giving orders to stop him.”

Patsy said this with so much earnestness, even though he grinned, that Captain Lawton was visibly impressed, while Nick Carter frowned at his irrepressible assistant.