[{1}]

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.

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No. 146. NEW YORK, June 26, 1915. Price Five Cents.

PAYING THE PRICE;
Or, NICK CARTER’S PERILOUS VENTURE.

Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.
[{2}]

CHAPTER I.
THE RECTORY MURDER.

Nick Carter paused only a moment before replying. He took that one moment to consider the other strange matter that had brought him to Washington, and whether compliance with the request just made by the chief of police would seriously interfere with it. He decided that it would not, and he then said quite gravely:

“Why, yes, I will go with Detective Fallon, since you both press me so earnestly. It is barely possible, chief, as you say, that I may detect something that would escape his notice. Who is the victim of the crime, if such it proves to be?”

“There is no question about that, Nick,” said the chief. “The murdered man is the Reverend Father Cleary, of the St. Lawrence Church. He was found dead on the floor of his library in the rectory, which adjoins the church, about half an hour ago.”

“A Roman Catholic priest, eh?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Very little. I was notified by telephone. I directed that nothing should be touched, nor anything said about the crime before I began an investigation. I sent two policemen to take charge in the rectory until I could get word to Detective Fallon. He is the best man on my force for such a job.”

“But I am not in your class, Nick; far from it,” put in Fallon, who was an erect, dark man of forty, with a rather grave and resolute type of face. “You are in a class of your own, Carter, as far as that goes.”

“Cut it!” said the chief tersely. “Chucking violets is a waste of time. Fallon will tell you all that is known, Nick, while you are on the road. My car and chauffeur are outside. Take it, Fallon, and let me hear from [{3}]you. You have carte blanche, Nick. Dig into the matter in your own peculiar way.”

“I will see what I make of it,” Nick replied, turning to accompany Fallon from the police headquarters.

It then was about half past eight on the first day of November, and the famous New York detective was in Washington on other business, the nature of which will presently appear. He knew it could wait, however, and he was not averse to complying with the urgent request of the local police chief, who, in as serious a case as had been reported to him, was more than eager to secure the aid and advice of the celebrated detective.

Nick took a seat with Fallon in the tonneau of the touring car, the latter having hurriedly given the chauffeur his instructions.

“We can run out there in ten minutes, Nick,” he added, when the detective banged the door and sat down.

“The St. Lawrence Church, eh?” queried Nick, gazing at him. “I don’t recall having seen it.”

“It is a new one,” said Fallon. “It was built only a year ago. It is pretty well out and not in a wealthy and fashionable section of the city. Father Cleary is a comparatively young priest, not over forty, and is known for the good work he has done in the slums. He will be sadly missed in the low districts.”

“Were you acquainted with him?” Nick inquired.

“Yes, slightly.”

“How long has he been in Washington?”

“About three years,” said Fallon. “You were here about a month ago, by the way, on that government case against several foreign spies. I heard of it after you left. I was sorry not to have seen you.”

“I was here only a couple of days with two of my assistants,” Nick replied. “We were fortunate in speedily rounding up the miscreants, barring one.”

“You refer to Andy Margate, I suppose.”

“Yes. The net still is spread for him, however, and the[{4}] others now are doing time. Margate was not one of the spies. With the help of two local crooks, he turned a trick on the foreigners that proved to be much to my advantage.”

“You refer to Larry Trent and Tom Carney?”

“Yes.”

“Both are bad eggs,” said Fallon. “I have known them from ’way back. Trent is the worse of the two, for he is better educated and came from decent people.”

“So I have heard.”

“He has a sister, Lottie Trent, who is an honest and industrious girl. She’s employed as a stenographer in an office in the war department. I knew her parents, also, who have been dead for several years. By the way, Nick, there was mighty little published about the true inwardness of that foreign-spy case. They went up without a legal fight, even.”

“There was no fight coming to them,” said Nick dryly. “They had no defense. I clinched the case against them, including Captain Casper Dillon.”

“But the bottom facts were nearly all suppressed.”

“Yes, all of the bottom facts,” Nick allowed, smiling significantly.

“It is hinted, nevertheless, that Senator Barclay and a young government engineer in the war department, one Harold Garland, were somewhat involved in the matter,” said Fallon. “Is that true?”

“Really, Fallon, I cannot say,” said Nick, still smiling.

Detective Fallon laughed lightly, knowing well enough that Nick could have informed him concerning every part of the case, if so inclined. He took no exceptions to his reticence, however, and inquired, after a moment:

“Is there any clew to Margate’s whereabouts?”

“Not that I know of,” Nick admitted. “The police throughout the country are on the watch for him. He is a very keen, crafty, and elusive fellow, however, and is better known in Europe, where he has done most of his knavish work. But we shall get him, Fallon, sooner or later. If——”

“Here we are,” Fallon interrupted. “There is the church.”

The touring car had turned a corner, bringing the sacred edifice into view. It occupied the corner beyond and stood somewhat back from the street, both front and side. In the rear, fronting on the side street, was the dwelling occupied by Father Cleary, whose only servant was an elderly housekeeper, one Honora Kane, who had been a widow many years.

The church, the rectory, and the surrounding grounds extended back to the next street, from which they were divided by a stone wall, the rear grounds being adorned with several old shade trees, the wide-spreading branches of which mingled with those in the side grounds of the adjoining estate.

Nick took in all these features of the scene while approaching the rectory, on the sidewalk in front of which a policeman was pacing to and fro. He touched his helmet when Fallon sprang from the car, but evidently he did not know the face of the more famous detective.

“What has been done, Bagley?” asked Fallon, pausing briefly.

“Nothing, sir, except to keep it quiet,” said the policeman. “We have been waiting for you. Grady is inside.”

“We’ll go in,” said Fallon.[{5}]

“One moment,” Nick interposed, detaining him. “The murder has not leaked out, Bagley, I take it?”

“No, sir.”

“I see that there are no inquisitive people hanging around here. Have you seen any one, by the way, who appeared to have an interest in the place?”

“No, sir; I have not.”

“That’s all, Bagley; thank you.”

“I see the point, Nick,” Fallon remarked, as they entered the grounds fronting the rectory.

“Holy smoke!” Bagley muttered, starting after them. “That must be Nick Carter. Great guns! there’ll be nothing to the case, if he is on it.”

The two detectives were admitted to the hall by a pale young woman in a calico wrapper and a long gingham apron. Her tear-filled eyes, together with the low moans and sobs of a corpulent woman in an adjoining room, evinced the grief and distress of both.

“Let me take the ribbons, Fallon,” Nick said quietly. “We may go over the traces if we drive too fast.”

Fallon readily acquiesced, and Nick paused and questioned the woman who had admitted them.

He learned that her name was Margaret Dawson; that she was the nearest neighbor to the rectory, and that she had hurried to assist Mrs. Kane, the housekeeper, upon learning her cries when she discovered the terrible crime.

“Nora was nearly out of her bed, sir, and didn’t know what to do,” she explained. “So I telephoned to the police station, sir, and was told to let things alone till the officers came. That was not long, sir, and nothing has been touched, not even Father Cleary’s body. An officer is in the library, sir, where it’s lying.”

“Mrs. Kane is the only servant?” questioned Nick, glancing at the sobbing woman in the adjoining room.

“Yes, sir. She is quite deaf, sir, and heard no disturbance during the night. She went to bed before nine o’clock last evening, leaving Father Cleary alone in the library.”

“She has told you this?”

“Yes, sir. The library door was closed when she came down this morning to get breakfast, but she did not think of anything wrong on that account. When the meal was nearly ready, however, she went up to call Father Cleary and found his room had not been used. Then she came down to the library, sir, and discovered what had been done.”

Seeing the housekeeper gazing anxiously at him, Nick entered the room and briefly questioned her. She could tell him only that Father Cleary had had no visitors early in the evening, and that he expected none, as far as she knew, and that he had not lately appeared at all troubled, or in any way apprehensive.

That was about all that the elderly housekeeper could tell him, and Nick turned to the waiting detective.

“She is too deaf to have heard any disturbance in the library, Fallon, after having gone to her bedroom,” he said quietly, with a gesture directing the two women to remain in the front room.

“Yes, surely,” Fallon agreed.

“Come. We will go into the library.”

Nick led the way through the dim, simply furnished hall. He passed a passageway leading to a side door. Beyond it was the library, in the east side of the house, with a dining room nearly opposite across the hall, and a kitchen and porch in the rear.[{6}]

The door of the library was then open. A policeman who had heard them enter had stepped into the hall and was waiting for them.

“One moment, Fallon,” said Nick. “What has been done in this room, Grady, since the crime was discovered.”

“Nothing, sir,” said the policeman, gazing curiously at him. “Both women say they have not entered the room, though the housekeeper opened this door. I have disturbed nothing. Things are just as I found them.”

“Very good.”

Nick paused on the threshold of the open door and studied with searching scrutiny the tragic scene that met his gaze.

CHAPTER II.
CONFLICTING EVIDENCE.

The library was a square room of moderate size, comfortably, though simply furnished. An open desk stood against one of the walls, with a rise of shelves on each side, partly filled with books. In the middle of the room was a square, cloth-topped table, on which were several books and newspapers, also an oil lamp with a green porcelain shade.

A large leather-covered armchair stood near the table, between it and a swivel chair in front of the desk. A smaller chair near a window, the roller shade of which was partly drawn down, was overturned on the floor.

To the right of the window hung a portière consisting of two heavy tapestry curtains, suspended from a black walnut rod. They were drawn nearly together, but between them could be seen a double door with small, leaded glass windows. It opened upon a side veranda overlooking the tree-shaded grounds east of and to the rear of the dwelling.

Nick noticed that one of the curtains was awry, and, glancing up, he saw that it had been torn from one of the pins that fastened it to the transverse rod above the door.

On the floor between this door and the table lay the body of the murdered priest. He was a man of middle size, wearing the conventional black garments of his calling. He was lying on his back, with his arms extended, his head nearly touching a leg of the table, and with his smooth-shaved face upturned in plain view of the detectives, a face on which the pallor and peace of death long since had fallen.

Father Cleary had been stabbed twice in the breast, nearly in a line with his heart, and his garments and the rug on which he was lying were saturated with blood, then dark and congealed.

Nick Carter saw at a glance that the priest had been dead for several hours.

“The scene is suggestive, Fallon; very suggestive,” he said, after a few moments. “We will proceed deliberately, however, since nothing can be done for this man. It’s a case of murder, pure and simple, if that can be. Let Grady wait in the hall. I will study the evidence in detail.”

Fallon nodded and glanced significantly at the policeman.

Nick crossed the room and raised the window curtain. In the brighter light that entered, the scene was even more vividly tragic and gruesome.

“No weapon is here,” said he, with searching gaze while he crouched to examine the corpse. “The assassin took[{7}] care not to leave it. It evidently was a dagger, or a knife with a broad blade. Note the two gashes in the garments. Either thrust would have been fatal. This man has been dead since last evening, probably as early as nine o’clock.”

Nick had lifted one stiffened arm while speaking and dropped it to the floor.

“Surely,” Fallon said simply.

“Here are stains of ink on his middle finger. He evidently was writing when——”

Nick did not finish the remark. He arose and turned to the open desk, then approached it. A sheet of paper was lying on it, also a pen that evidently had been abruptly dropped.

“Ah, here is proof of it,” said Nick.

He bent forward and read from the sheet of paper merely the following lines:

“To the Right Reverend Bishop Cassidy, Washington, D. C.

“My Dear Bishop: I feel compelled to ask your consideration of a matter of which I have just become informed. Though the sacred secrecy of the confessional forbids——”

That was all, written with a firm and flowing hand, and Nick straightened up and turned to his companion.

“Yes, this settles it, Fallon,” said he. “Father Cleary was writing when his assassin entered. Observe that he quickly dropped his pen, instead of placing it in this tray with the others.”

“Yes, obviously,” Fallon agreed.

“Plainly, then, he was startled, or even alarmed by some unexpected noise. That would not have been the case, Fallon, if his bell had rung, either that of the front or the side door.”

“But he may not have been alone at that time,” suggested Fallon. “The person by whom he was killed may have been here.”

“That is not probable,” Nick quickly objected. “This letter which he began to write denotes that he was alone, also that some person had just left him, or only a short time before, and by whom serious information of some kind had been imparted to him, so serious that he felt compelled to write about it to Bishop Cassidy.”

“It must in that case have been something relating to the church.”

“Not necessarily. I do not, in fact, think that it was.”

“Why so?”

“Notice the next line: ‘Though the sacred secrecy of the confessional forbids,’” Nick pointed out. “There he stopped and dropped his pen. Forbids what? We know that it forbids his revealing what is imparted in confession. That seems to have been the source of the information about which he intended to write, judging from the beginning of the letter. It may not, of course, have been part of a penitent’s confession. It may have been something indirectly related with it, or referring to a confession.”

“I see,” Fallon nodded. “There seems to be no way to definitely determine.”

“Not at present,” Nick replied, folding the sheet of paper and putting it in his pocket. “Let’s go a step farther.”

Nick turned and took up the lamp on the table, shaking it gently and peering into the chimney.

“Empty,” said he tersely. “The wick is turned up and charred. The lamp burned until the oil was exhausted.[{8}] The assassin did not extinguish the light. He left in a hurry, no doubt.”

“He remained long enough to close the door leading into the hall,” said Fallon. “The housekeeper found it closed this morning.”

“Father Cleary may have closed it when he received his first visitor.”

“You think there were two?”

“I do,” said Nick.

“Here together?”

“No. One came after the other had departed.”

“But why did he close the hall door after letting them out?” questioned Fallon, a bit doubtfully. “Mrs. Kane’s statements imply that she usually found it open in the morning.”

“I don’t think that he let them out, not both of them at least,” said Nick. “Here is another door.”

“Ah, I see.”

Nick pointed to the portière hanging across it.

“He may have let the first visitor out this way, instead of by the front or side door,” said he. “This door leading into the hall, in that case, still would have been closed.”

“I see the point.”

“He may have admitted his second visitor through this curtained door, or perhaps have left it open a little for ventilation after letting out the other,” Nick continued to reason. “It may have been violently forced from outside, on the other hand, alarming him while he was writing.”

“I follow you,” nodded Fallon.

“Notice that one side of the curtain is awry and torn from one of the pins supporting it. The location of the body, too, between the window and this table, shows that Father Cleary probably was approaching the window when he was assaulted and stabbed. There is no evidence of a struggle. His assailant evidently flung aside those curtains so violently that one was partly torn from its fastening, and he then sprang at the priest and stabbed him before he could defend himself.”

“That certainly seems, Nick, to be a reasonable reconstruction of the murder itself,” said Fallon, noting the points mentioned.

“Let’s see what more we can find in support of it,” said Nick.

He now approached the portière and examined it. On the edge of one of the curtains, where a hand evidently had grasped it, was a plainly discernible red stain, obviously a bloodstain.

Nick called Fallon’s attention to it, then gazed at it with a puzzled expression on his earnest face.

“The miscreant’s hand was soiled with blood after the stabbing,” said Fallon. “He tore the curtain from the pin when leaving, instead of when he entered, as you were led to infer. What are you thinking about?” he added, noting Nick’s look of perplexity.

Nick parted the curtains before replying. He then found that the door was set in a narrow casement, just wide enough to permit the two sections of the door to open inward.

Nick opened both and found on the woodwork of the right-hand section, or that to the right of a person standing on the veranda and looking into the room, four stains of blood, evidently from parts of the fingers of a man’s hand that had grasped that section of the door. Though they were too smeared to be of value as finger prints, in[{9}] so far as revealing the tissues of the skin was concerned, they showed plainly the size and shape of the fingers, which could only have been those of a man.

“By Jove, I don’t quite fathom this,” Nick remarked, after a moment.

“Fathom what, Nick?” questioned Fallon.

“These bloodstains.”

“Why do they mystify you? I see nothing strange in them. The murderer evidently drew the portière and closed this door with a bloodstained hand.”

“I am not so sure of it.”

“How can you reason otherwise?”

“You overlook something,” said Nick. “It may be a very important point.”

“What is that? Explain.”

“Notice that it was the man’s right hand that grasped this section of the window,” said Nick. “The relative size and position of the finger marks show that, also that he must have been facing toward the room, not coming out of it.”

“By gracious, that’s so!” said Fallon, gazing.

“That part of the portière which is stained and torn from the pin, moreover, is on the same side of the window.”

“True.”

“To have grasped them with his right hand, therefore, the man must have been backing out of the room, if leaving it.”

“True again.”

“There is one alternative,” said Nick.

“Namely?”

“That instead of backing out of the room—he was entering it.”

“But that is hardly tenable, Carter.”

“Why?”

“Because his hand was stained with blood. He must have been leaving the room after the murder,” Fallon argued.

“Unless——”

“Unless what?”

“Unless his hand was soiled with blood before he entered and killed the priest.”

“But——”

“Stop a moment,” Nick interrupted. “I now am convinced that this murder was committed in just the manner that I have described. Father Cleary heard some one back of the portière, or forcing the window, and he sprang up to see who was here. The intruder flung aside the portière and stabbed him.”

“Well?”

“Notice this point,” said Nick. “The murderer evidently did not remain to accomplish anything more. He did not go to the desk to see what the priest had been writing, or he would, if my previous reasoning is correct, have taken away the letter Father Cleary had begun.”

“Surely,” Fallon quickly allowed.

“We can safely assume, then, that the assassin got out as quickly as possible,” Nick proceeded. “Surely, then, he would not have backed out. He would have hurried straight out, drawing the portière and closing the double door.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“The side of the curtain which is stained, also the same section of the door, would have been to his left, there[{10}]fore, and naturally would have been grasped with his left hand.”

“Certainly.”

“That gives rise to a very pertinent question,” said Nick. “Why was his left hand stained with blood?”

“You mean?”

“Most men wield a knife with the right hand,” Nick went on. “That is the hand that should have been covered with blood from the knife used, not the left, which naturally would have been raised to seize his victim by the throat or shoulder to prevent resistance.”

“By Jove, there’s no getting around that, Nick, as far as it goes,” Fallon thoughtfully admitted, more deeply impressed and now more mystified. “But these prints on the door show plainly enough that it was the right hand that was soiled.”

“They also show that he must have been facing the room,” said Nick. “In other words, Fallon, that he was backing out of it, which you admit is improbable—or that he was entering it with blood on his hand, which you also think is untenable.”

Fallon shook his head and frowned.

“Hang it, Nick, you’re mixing me all up,” he declared. “I won’t know in another minute whether I’m afoot or horseback. You tell me what you think. Never mind what I think. Your head is worth two of mine—yes, half a dozen.”

“No, I think not,” said Nick, smiling faintly. “Plainly, nevertheless, these bloodstains present inconsistencies not easily explained at this moment.”

“They do so, for fair.”

“We will look a little farther. You saw that I found this door unlocked?”

“Yes, I noticed that.”

“It was secured only by the latch, which can be lifted from either side. It is safe to assume, since the lock is not damaged, that the assassin found the door unlocked. Either that, or, as I have said, it was opened a little for ventilation.”

“The latter seems quite probable,” said Fallon. “It was unseasonably warm last evening.”

Nick stepped out on the veranda, instead of replying, Fallon following.

It extended from the side door, where two low steps led down to a gravel walk running out to the street. The veranda was about twelve feet in length, with a vine-covered trellis at the rear end of it, and with the outer side protected with a scroll railing.

Near the trellis stood a large willow armchair, in which Father Cleary had been accustomed to sit and read at times on warm, pleasant days.

Nick glanced in that direction and made another strange discovery.

CHAPTER III.
THE MYSTERIOUS BANDAGE.

The first thing to catch Nick Carter’s eye after stepping out on the veranda was a strip of white cotton cloth, also a piece of common white string, both lying on the veranda floor near the willow chair mentioned.

The strip of cloth was somewhat soiled and wrinkled, also creased and curled in a way, and Nick picked it up and examined it.

He found that it was about two feet in length and five[{11}] inches wide, also that it had been carefully folded lengthwise. On one soiled end of it were stains of blood.

“By Jove, here’s another bit of curious evidence,” said he, after a careful examination.

“It looks like a bandage,” said Fallon.

“That’s just what it is.”

“But why curious?”

“Note the wrinkles and creases and the way it curls,” said Nick. “Plainly enough, Fallon, it has been bound around a man’s hand, or it would not have retained these several turns and creases.”

“I see.”

“Hold out your hands, both of them. We can find out by readjusting these quirks and turns on which hand it was worn.”

“Certainly. That’s a simple problem.”

Nick proceeded to fit the bandage, so to speak, to Fallon’s hands. It would not fit the right hand, though turned in either direction, without altering the original turns and wrinkles. It could be perfectly bound around the left hand, however, and the result of Nick’s experiment was convincing.

“This is as plain as twice two,” said he. “It was worn by some man on his left hand.”

“Surely,” Fallon agreed. “He probably had a sore hand, or a cut.”

“You are wrong,” said Nick. “That’s the curious part of it.”

“Wrong?” questioned Fallon, puzzled. “Why so?”

Nick still had the bandage twined around his companion’s left hand.

“Notice these bloodstains,” he replied. “They are not on the inside of the bandage, which would come next to a cut, or sore. They are on the outside of it.”

“By Jove, that is a bit strange,” Fallon now declared.

“The blood did not soak from a wound, moreover, for the layer of cloth beneath this outside one is perfectly clean, as you see.”

“True.”

“So, as you now can see, is the inside of the bandage, which came next to the hand,” Nick continued, removing it and displaying the inner side. “There is not a sign of blood, pus, salve, or liniment, as if it had been bound around a wounded hand. It is perfectly clean, in fact.”

“Humph!” Fallon ejaculated, gazing at it with increasing perplexity. “There is no question as to your being right. It speaks for itself. But what in thunder do you make of it?”

“The hand was not injured,” said Nick.

“It may have been lame, or sprained.”

“The bandage would not have been removed in that case, Fallon,” Nick replied. “If sufficiently lame to require a bandage, it would not have been removed when the man arrived here. No man about to attempt a desperate job with a lame hand would first weaken the hand by removing a bandage with which it had been protected, or strengthened.”

“That’s true, also,” Fallon nodded. “You think it was worn by the assassin?”

“I do.”

“When he entered?”

“No. Before he entered,” said Nick. “In order to have free use of his hand, he evidently tore off the bandage and string and threw them aside before he entered. Here are stains of blood on the string, also, proving that those[{12}] on the bandage were on the outside of it, as I have already demonstrated.”

“You’re right, Nick,” agreed Fallon. “There is no denying it.”

“Take it from me, too, the man’s hand was not injured.”

“But why that bandage, then?”

“For some other reason,” Nick said dryly. “What that reason was, Fallon, remains to be learned. It would be a waste of time for us to try to guess it.”

“I agree with you.”

“The blood on the outside of the bandage evidently came from the man’s right hand, moreover, which I already have pointed out was stained, not after, but before he entered this door. This mysterious bandage confirms my previous deductions.”

“By Jove, it’s a perplexing mess,” said Fallon, brows knitted. “I cannot fathom why the scoundrel’s right hand was soiled with blood before he entered this house. Why it afterward may have been is simple enough.”

“Let’s go a step farther,” said Nick, thrusting the string and bandage into his pocket.

He then began a careful examination of the veranda floor, but he could find no tracks, nor evidence of any description.

Leaving the veranda, Nick then inspected the walk leading out to the street, also the neatly trimmed lawn adjoining it. The gravel walk retained no footprints, but Nick had taken only a few steps when, abruptly halting, he pointed to the greensward.

The grass was slightly bent and bruised. Faint though it was, the track of a small shoe was discernible, showing its size and the direction in which it was turned.

“I see,” Fallon nodded, crouching with Nick to examine it. “Some one recently stepped here, not longer ago than last evening.”

“That some one was a child, a girl, or a woman with a small foot,” Nick replied. “It most likely was the last, a young woman.”

“Why so?”

“Notice the prints of the heel, which sank a little into the sod. It was small and quite high. The deduction is a simple one. Only young women wear shoes with French heels. They are seldom found on girls, or on elderly women.”

“By Jove, you overlook nothing, Nick.”

“Not this, surely, for it stares me in the face,” Nick replied. “Here’s another. Notice that the first points nearly toward the street. This points toward the rear grounds. Plainly, then, the woman was going toward the street when she first stepped from the gravel walk, and she then turned in the opposite direction.”

“That’s plain, too,” Fallon agreed. “But what do you make of it?”

Nick glanced back at the veranda for a moment.

“The woman came from the side door, or from that opening on the veranda,” said he. “She walked as far as here, as if about to go to the street, then she turned toward the rear grounds. Take it from me, Fallon, she was Father Cleary’s first visitor last evening. He let her out, probably through the door opening upon the veranda, and she started for the street. After hearing him close the door, however, and knowing he was not watching her, she turned in the other direction.”

“By Jove, I think you are right.[{13}]”

“Come. We’ll try to follow the tracks.”

Nick traced them with no great difficulty. The trail led him for a short distance diagonally across the grounds toward the back street. Then it diverged abruptly in the direction of the low wall dividing the church property from an adjoining estate.

Gazing over the wall, Nick discovered other tracks in the next yard, where the grass was not as closely trimmed and was considerably trampled down. It was in the side yard of a wooden dwelling somewhat back from the street and about thirty feet from the wall.

Leaping over the low wall, Nick examined the sod and grass. He found numerous intermingled tracks and indentations, including that of a slender heel and others much broader and deeper. Passing his hand over the grass and glancing at the palm, he found it slightly stained with blood.

“Here we have it, Fallon,” he said, rising and displaying his hand. “Here is the key to the mystery, or to a part of it.”

“Good heavens!” Fallon exclaimed, gazing at it and then at the trampled grass. “There was a fight here.”

“A very one-sided fight, Fallon, unless I am much mistaken,” Nick replied.

“You mean?”

“It’s as plain as twice two, Fallon, as far as it goes,” said Nick, confidently. “Father Cleary had a woman visitor last evening. She confided something to him, or revealed it in a confession, about which he then sat down to write to Bishop Cassidy.”

“As the unfinished letter indicates.”

“Exactly. After leaving him and pretending to start for the street, the woman came this way and got over the wall into this yard. Here are her heel prints in the sod. Why she came here and where she intended going is an open question.”

“Plainly.”

“Be that as it may, she went no farther voluntarily,” Nick continued. “She was intercepted by two men, at least; possibly three. I can find at least two different heel tracks in the sod. The depth of them, also the trampled condition of the grass, show plainly that there was a brief struggle. The woman was overcome, though not without bloodshed, as also appears on the grass.”

“Considerable blood, too, Nick, judging from your hand.”

“Enough to tell this part of the story,” Nick replied. “Probably, too, here is where Father Cleary’s assailant got the blood on his right hand, as well as on the outside of the bandage, before entering the rectory.”

“Yes, surely.”

“He tore off the bandage and cast it aside before undertaking the more desperate game,” Nick added. “My opinion is, at present, that the scoundrel knew that the woman had revealed something to the priest, whom he then killed to prevent further exposure, while confederates who were with him got away with the woman. That is my theory. Whether it is correct, or not, remains to be discovered, as well as the identity of the knaves and the whereabouts or fate of the woman.”

“I agree with you,” said Fallon gravely. “That seems to be the most reasonable theory, if not the only one. What’s next to be done. Can we trace these tracks any farther?”

“Not beyond the street, I fear, though I will try to do so,” said Nick. “I will also question the people living[{14}] in this house. They may have heard some disturbance last evening. In the meantime, Fallon, you return to the rectory and notify the coroner and a physician.”

“The coroner is a physician, Doctor Hadley.”

“He will be sufficient, then, for the present,” said Nick. “You had better talk with the chief, also, and tell him what I make of the case. I saw a telephone on a stand in the hall.”

“I saw it, too.”

“Go ahead, then. I will rejoin you there a little later.”

Fallon readily acquiesced, turning and quickly retracing his steps to the rectory.

Nick glanced again at the trampled grass, then traced the several faint tracks as far as the sidewalk, where, as he had expected, the trail ended abruptly.

He then rang at the door of the house, in the side yard of which he had made his latest discoveries. The summons brought a middle-aged woman to the door, who stated in reply to his questions that no disturbance had been heard the previous evening, and that she knew nothing of what had transpired outside of the house.

Nick saw plainly that she was telling the truth, and he did not long detain her. Returning to the sidewalk, he noted that there were no dwellings opposite, only several vacant lots, none of which was inclosed with a fence.

“The rascals may have gone in that direction,” he said to himself, after vainly searching the street for tracks of a carriage or a motor car. “They must, if they got away with the woman, have had a conveyance of some kind. They may have crossed those lots, however, to the next street.”

Bent upon confirming this, if possible, Nick walked in that direction. He had only just entered the nearest of the several lots, however, when he saw some pieces of white paper scattered over the dry ground. They appeared to be fragments of a torn letter, and were so fresh and clean that they must have been recently dropped.

Nick picked up a few of the fragments and examined them. They were written on only one side, in a dainty, feminine hand; but the few words on each piece, none of which was more than an inch square, gave him only a vague idea as to the character of the entire letter.

That was so suggestive, however, that Nick carefully searched the ground for the remaining fragments, which had been somewhat scattered by the wind, or designedly done by the person who had destroyed the letter. He succeeded in finding enough of the fragments to feel reasonably sure that they would nearly complete the torn sheet, and he inclosed them in his notebook.

Nick then crossed the vacant lots to the next street, noting that the locality was one in which such a crime as he now suspected could have been committed without much danger of detection; but he could discover no further clew to the movements of the woman and her assailants, and then retraced his steps to the rectory.

The coroner had arrived during his absence and was viewing the remains of the murdered priest. Nick did not remain to talk with him, however, but beckoned for Fallon to join him on the veranda.

“I must be going, now, for I have an appointment this morning,” he explained. “You can tell Doctor Hadley, also the chief, what I make of the case. Here is Father Cleary’s unfinished letter, which you had better hand to[{15}] the coroner. I will try to see you later and give you further assistance.”

Detective Fallon thanked him, and Nick then departed.

CHAPTER IV.
A CONNECTING LINK.

Nick Carter had spent much less time at the St. Lawrence rectory than one might infer from the nature and extent of his investigations. He had covered the ground rapidly, despite the numerous deductions and explanations with which he had assisted Detective Fallon, from whom he parted shortly before ten o’clock.

Something like twenty minutes later, Nick alighted from a taxicab at a handsome stone residence in Massachusetts Avenue. It was that of Senator Ambrose Barclay, one of the leading statesmen then in the higher house, and the man directly responsible for Nick Carter’s arrival in Washington late the previous night.

A butler admitted the detective and at once ushered him into a richly furnished library, where Nick was almost immediately joined by both Senator Barclay and his daughter Estella, a beautiful brunette in the twenties. The great service already done them by the detective was fresh in their minds, only a month having elapsed, and their greeting was extremely cordial.

“I got your wire saying you would see me this morning,” Senator Barclay then said, while Stella quietly closed the door. “I’m very glad you could make it convenient to comply with my request. I have not forgotten how deeply I am indebted to you, Carter, for having saved my reputation in that foreign-spy affair. I will not say my honor, of course, for I was in no degree culpable, though malicious persons, or an uninformed public, might have thought differently.”

“I was very well aware of it, Senator Barclay, and I made sure that your name did not appear in the matter,” Nick replied. “But let the dead bury the dead. What’s the trouble, now, that you again need my aid?”

“I am in a quandary, possibly in an equally bad mess,” said the statesman. “It concerns, to begin with, the same young man who was robbed of the government coast-defense plans by those infernal foreigners, aided by that traitor, Dillon, all of whom woolly-eyed me into friendly relations with them for more than a year. I cringe with chagrin when I think of it.”

“But how is Harold Garland involved in your present trouble?” questioned Nick, keeping him to the point.

“Involved in it!” blurted Senator Barclay. “Damn it—excuse me, Stella; I forgot you were here. How is Garland involved in my present trouble? Hang it, Carter, he is something more than involved in it. He is the trouble.”

Nick laughed, while Stella Barclay blushed profusely.

“Suppose you explain, senator, without any expletives,” Nick suggested.

“Yes, dad, dear, do,” pleaded Stella. “Tell Mr. Carter the whole business. Don’t mind me, I shall survive it.”

“It can be told in a nutshell, Carter,” said Senator Barclay familiarly. “Since you opened his eyes to the devilish treachery of that jade, Madame Irma Valaska, Garland has transferred his affection to my daughter. He always was fond of her, mind you, and he now declares that he loves her. I am glad that he does, and she him.[{16}] I am fond of Garland myself, as far as that goes, for he’s a clean-cut, manly, and wonderfully capable fellow. I know of no man whom I would rather have for a son-in-law.”

“Permit me to extend my best wishes,” said Nick, with a sort of droll pleasantry, glancing at the crimson face of the smiling girl. “I think, like your father, that Harold Garland is a remarkably fine fellow.”

“I think so, too, Mr. Carter,” Stella said simply.

“But what is the trouble?” Nick inquired, turning again to her father. “What is wrong with Garland?”

“That is what I want you to learn,” Senator Barclay said gravely. “Garland is not himself. He is frightfully worried about something.”

“You don’t know about what?”

“No; I only suspect. Although he firmly denies it, Nick, he is in serious trouble of some kind. It is something that came up about a week ago, when Stella and I first noticed his changed manner and appearance.”

“Changed in what way?” Nick inquired.

“He has become indescribably moody and depressed. I have watched him covertly at times and seen him wearing an expression of utterly indescribable anxiety. He has lost twenty pounds in a week and looks as pale as a corpse. Something must be done, Carter, and you are the man who must do it.”

“We are dreadfully anxious,” put in Stella, with an appealing glance at the detective. “Do, Mr. Carter, see what you can learn about him, or from him.”

“You have questioned him, of course,” said Nick.

“Yes, vainly.”