[Pg 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.

Terms to NICK CARTER STORIES Mail Subscribers.

(Postage Free.)

Single Copies or Back Numbers, 5c. Each.

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No. 151. NEW YORK, July 31, 1915. Price Five Cents.

The Mystery of the Crossed Needles;
Or, NICK CARTER AND THE YELLOW TONG.

Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.[Pg 2]

CHAPTER I.
TWICE IN THE HEART.

The electric bell from Andrew Anderton’s study rang sharply. It was close to the ear of the butler dozing in his little room off the hall at the back of the main staircase, and he awoke with a start.

“Lord love ’im!” exclaimed that functionary, stalking to the door with as much haste as his dignity would permit. “Why doesn’t ’e stop ringing? I ’eard ’im the first time, without ’im keeping the blooming bell going all the time.” Then, as he reached the door and made for the stairs, he continued grumblingly: “All right, Mr. Anderton. I ’ear you. You certainly are a most impatient gentleman. I never seed anything like you for ’urrying a man, not even in the old country. Though the Marquis of Silsby—my last master before I left England—was a ’asty sort of gentleman, too. This was the way ’e always acted. Wanted me to be right on the spot as soon as he touched the bell, although ’e knew very well I was two floors below ’im. My word! That bell’s still ringing. I can ’ear it from up ’ere.”

The butler, by this time, was on the second floor of the handsome house in upper Fifth Avenue, where Andrew Anderton, the millionaire traveler and Oriental student, lived. He pushed open the door of the study.

“Did you ring, sir?”

He had these words out, from force of habit, before he even looked around the room. When he did, he gave utterance to a shout that brought a maid, who had been passing along the hallway, surging in, white-faced and round-eyed, to see what was the matter.

Andrew Anderton, in the handsome, velvet, embroidered dressing gown he generally wore when alone in his study, was lying across the floor, face down. His body, pressed on the electric foot button, kept the bell below ringing continuously.[Pg 3]

“What’s the matter with him, Ruggins?” whispered the maid.

The butler knelt by the side of the still figure and gently turned it over. The face of the student was white—the awful gray white of a corpse—and the eyes were closed. The expression was peaceful. There was nothing in it to suggest that he had died a violent death, or even that he had suffered as he passed away.

“Heart disease, I should say,” murmured Ruggins. “Telephone for Doctor Miles, Amelia.”

The girl took up the desk telephone on the large, heavy table that Andrew Anderton had been writing at when stricken, and called up Doctor Theophilus Miles, who had been a lifelong friend of the dead man, as well as his physician.

As she telephoned she pointed mutely to a pen that evidently had dropped from the fingers of the master at the moment of his collapse, for it was still wet with black ink, and there was a smudge of it on the white paper of the letter he had been inditing.

“Yes, I see,” nodded Ruggins. “It was awfully sudden. ’E must ’ave been took all at once. I wonder whether it was ’eart disease, after all.”

He opened the front of the velvet dressing gown—which was not fastened, but had fallen together—and gave vent to a mumbled ejaculation, as he saw that the waistcoat was open.

“And ’is shirt is the same way,” he went on. “You can see ’is bare flesh. ’Ello! What’s this?”

Something glittering had caught his eye. A closer look revealed two long needles, crossed and welded together in the center, where they were in contact with each other.

“Save us!” muttered the butler. “This is murder!”

The points of both needles were deeply embedded in the flesh on the left side, and Ruggins knew at once that they pierced the heart![Pg 4]

His first impulse was to pull the needles away. Then some vague recollection of something he had heard about the illegality of touching a body until it had been viewed by a coroner held his hand.

“I’ll wait till the doctor comes, anyhow. My poor master’s dead. It wouldn’t do ’im any good to take out the needles. ’Ave you got the doctor, Amelia?”

“Yes. He will be here in five minutes. His automobile is all ready at his door, and he will come right along.”

It was less than five minutes when Doctor Theophilus Miles—a rather gruff, although good-natured, man of sixty—came into the room, and, with a nod to Ruggins, knelt by the side of the stiffened form upon the floor. He opened one of the eyes with a calm, professional finger, felt for a pulse, and then pulled aside the dressing gown to put his hand over the heart.

He started as he saw the needles. Carefully he pulled them out, gazed at them in silence for nearly a minute. Then he told Ruggins and the maid to go out of the room.

“And don’t say anything about what has happened in this room to the other people in the house until I tell you. If they have found out anything, tell them Mr. Anderton is sick. Understand? And, whatever you do, don’t mention these needles.”

“Don’t you want any ’elp, sir?” asked Ruggins, who did not like to be thus dismissed.

“I’ll get all the help I want in a few minutes. I’m going to telephone for it. A gentleman will come here soon—probably in less than a quarter of an hour. If he says his name is Carter—Mr. Nicholas Carter—bring him up at once. That’s all.”

He waved them both from the room. Then he shut the door and took up the telephone. Soon he had a response to the number he had called, and he asked whether Mr. Carter was on the wire. A reply came, and he went on:

“Oh, all right, Carter! This is Andrew Anderton’s house. You know where it is. Can you come at once?... Yes, very important.... You will? Ten minutes? All right! I’ll wait for you.”

As he hung up the receiver, he soliloquized: “That’s one good thing about Carter. He doesn’t bother you with a lot of questions over the telephone. He knew that if I had anything to tell I would have said it. I wish everybody I have to deal with was like that. I’d have a much easier life. So they got him! The Yellow Tong! This is the second time I’ve seen their work. I believe some of those people on the Yellow Sea must get their devilish ingenuity from the Evil One himself.”

He had placed the crossed needles on the white letter paper, which had only the date line written upon it, and covered the face of Anderton with a newspaper. Now he sat down in the big swing chair from which the stricken man had fallen, to stare at the needles.

Soon he dropped into a doze, for he was a busy man, with a practice that kept him out a large part of his time, and his sleep was a thing he had to take when he could get it. He had acquired the ability to drop off anywhere so long as he could sit down, and a short nap always did him good.

He was brought to himself by the announcement of Ruggins, at the door, as he ushered in a visitor:

“Mr. Carter!”

The great detective looked at the doctor—who jumped[Pg 5] from his chair, wide awake, at the first sound of the butler’s voice—and then glanced at the figure stretched across the floor, with a newspaper over the face. A frown drew his heavy brows together. He stooped and removed the newspaper.

“Poor Anderton!” he murmured. “Ah, well! I’m not surprised. How was it, doctor?”

For answer, Doctor Miles pointed to the white paper on the table.

“The crossed needles!” whispered the detective, in an awed tone. Then, sternly: “The Yellow Tong is at it again. This is the second.”

“Yes, Carter. The other one was that poor hobo they got in a Bowery lodging house. It was the same thing, you remember. But I was coroner at that time, and I believed the ends of justice would be served by not letting any one know what I found inside his shirt. I have those crossed needles locked up in my laboratory now.”

“You’ve examined them, haven’t you?” asked Nick Carter.

“Of course. They are poisoned. Not that that is necessary,” replied the doctor. “When an inch of steel pierces the heart in two places, it is quite likely to prove fatal, without introducing poison. Still, the poison hurries the crime. Of course, when a victim dies on the instant, as he does with these needles, it may save the murderer some inconvenience. Poor Anderton! This is the penalty he pays for falling foul of the tong.”

“Will there be an inquest?” asked Nick quietly. “Or can you avoid it by certifying that he died of natural causes? I suppose you couldn’t do that—although, in one sense, he did die that way. It is quite natural for a human being to pass away when two poisoned needles are in his heart,” he added, in a thoughtful tone.

“That’s good logic, Nick,” admitted the doctor, with a slight smile. “But it wouldn’t do. In cases of sudden death, there must be an inquiry by the proper officer. But I can keep the crossed needles out of sight. I will cause the inquest to be entirely perfunctory, by certifying that poor Anderton came to his death at the hands of some person or persons unknown, without going too much into details. It will be passed up to the police, of course, and I shall have to show the weapon to the man in charge of the case from headquarters. But I can prevent its going any further.”

“That’s what I want,” answered Carter. “You know, as well as I, that this rascally gang from China, who call themselves the Yellow Tong, intend to fairly honeycomb this country with secret avenues for bringing in their people, if they can, and that, when they are ready, they will commence a series of crimes that will give the government, as well as the police of all the big cities, more trouble than the average citizen dreams of as possible.”

“Yes, I know that,” agreed Miles.

“Poor Anderton was a warm, personal friend of mine,” said Nick Carter, with a sobbing catch in his voice, “just as he was of yours. If I haven’t expressed much grief since coming into this room, it is because I feel that it is more important to avenge him than to mourn over his remains.”

Doctor Miles put out his hand and grasped the firm, strong fingers of the detective.

“I know you, Carter,” he returned. “You need not explain.[Pg 6]”

“There is more than that,” went on Nick. “This is the first serious blow they have struck. I don’t count the poor fellow in the Bowery so much, because he was an unimportant person. If he had never accidentally come across some of their secrets in China, when he was a seaman on board that tramp steamer, they never would have troubled to wipe him out. But Andrew Anderton is different.

“Yes, of course. He is a member of several scientific associations, a wealthy New Yorker, and he has the confidence of the United States government. He has done notable work in China for Washington, and I have no doubt he has submitted a valuable report to the department of state, with papers to verify it, that no other man could have given to it. It is because he is so well informed a man that he has been cut off by the Yellow Tong. There can be no doubt about that.”

“Not the slightest,” assented Nick Carter. “By the way, can you have this room fastened up, so that there is no danger of anybody disturbing it? I should like to go through it alone after the coroner has been here.”

“I’ll fix that, of course,” was the doctor’s ready promise. “The coroner is Doctor Farrell. I’ll call him up and get him to make his preliminary investigation right away. When do you want to come back?”

“Let me see,” answered Nick, consulting his watch. “It is now nearly nine. I’ll come back at ten. The coroner will be through by that time?”

“Long before,” replied Miles confidently. “I will be here with him, to tell him all he wants to know. He’ll bring a jury with him in the morning, and they’ll reach a verdict very soon. Do you want me here when you get back at ten?”

“Not unless it is convenient to you. I should like to have you present, of course. But, if you——”

“I’ve got half a dozen calls I ought to make to-night. I shall try to cover some by telephone. But, anyhow, I have enough to keep me out of bed till one in the morning, and I’m rather tired.”

“Don’t say a word,” interrupted Nick. “I’ll look through the room by myself. I shan’t even bring my assistant with me. Good night, if you are not here when I come back.”

They shook hands again—for each respected the ability and sterling qualities of the other—and Nick Carter went out.

The detective was sharp-eyed, and it was seldom that any detail escaped him. But he did not see an ugly yellow face, with black, oblique-set eyes, in the narrow slit between the heavy brocaded curtains that covered one of the windows. Yet that yellow face had been there from the first—even when Ruggins was involuntarily summoned by the murdered man when he fell from his chair with the crossed needles in his heart.

CHAPTER II.
THE MAN WITH THE SCARS.

When Nick Carter went out of the home of Andrew Anderton, he stood for a moment in the shadow of the front entrance, looking sharply about him. Particularly his gaze rested upon the blackness of the park on the opposite side of the avenue, and he tried to make out whether anybody might be lurking in the deep obscurity of the shade trees.[Pg 7]

It was his experience, as a detective, that where there had been an unusual crime committed, some of those concerned were pretty sure to linger in the vicinity. Always they were anxious to know what direction suspicion would take.

“I believe I see something moving over there,” muttered Nick.

With an abrupt turn to the left, as he walked off the stone steps of the mansion, it seemed as if he were going to make his way on foot down the avenue, notwithstanding that a taxicab was waiting for him half a block up the thoroughfare. But this was only a ruse. As he got to a dark spot, where big trees overshadowed the roadway, he suddenly darted across to the other side.

“I thought so,” he remarked, behind his closed teeth. “But he’s inside the park railings. By the time I got to a gate he’d be far away, and the fence is too high to climb over—unless there were an absolute necessity. Even if I were to climb, it would take me too long to get that fellow.”

Nick Carter continued his stroll toward downtown, in the hope of deceiving the watcher, whoever he might be. Then, swinging around, he ran back. So sudden was this move, that he actually got to the railings and found himself close to the eavesdropper before the latter had time to get away.

As the detective reached the spot, he turned on a strong white light from his electric flash lamp, full on the lurking figure inside the park.

He saw a man in the blue blouse, loose trousers, and felt-soled slippers of an ordinary Chinese laundryman. But he could not see the man’s face. It was obscured by the shrubbery, and the fellow was cunning enough to keep it there while the light was turned on him.

“Who are you?” demanded the detective sharply, in the Chinese tongue.

The man was taken aback at hearing a Caucasian address him in his own language, and he blurted out a Mongolian oath of dismay.

Nick Carter took no notice of this—although he understood its purport well enough. Instead, he asked the Chinaman if his name wasn’t Pon Gee. This was the first name that came to his tongue, and he merely wanted to get the fellow into conversation.

But the wiles of the Chinese coolie have been proverbial ever since—and before—Bret Harte wrote his famous poem. The man did not reply. He put up one arm, so that the long, hanging sleeve of his blouse completely covered his face, and ran away into the blackness.

Nick Carter could not follow him with the light, and he knew it would be waste of time to hunt in the park for such an elusive object as a Chinese laundryman. So he shut off his flash and walked thoughtfully across the road to his waiting taxi.

“I knew it was the work of the crossed-needles gang, anyhow,” he reflected. “That fellow was only a look-out. The Yellow Tong has hundreds of such men in New York—fellows who do not understand what they are doing for the organization, or why. He was told to watch Anderton’s house, of course, and to report if the murderers of my poor friend were interfered with. Poor Anderton! He was too good a man to be done to death in that ghastly fashion.”

Andrew Anderton was a bachelor. He never had had[Pg 8] time for marriage, he said. His explorations in foreign countries would not have fitted well into married life, either. So he had lived his own life in his own way, and, being a wealthy man, had been able to go where he would, and study with every advantage at his finger ends.

“I waited for you, Mr. Carter,” remarked the driver of the taxi, as the detective stepped in. “I knowed you’d want to go home some time. Where to, now?”

“Home!” replied the detective laconically.

This taxi driver was a man who often was employed by Nick Carter, and who never made any comment on what he might see or hear. The detective had many such assistants about New York. More than once this particular driver had helped him out of a tight place, by putting on speed, without asking questions, and without delay. Incidentally, it may be explained that he was always well paid for his services.

Once in his own comfortable library on the second floor of his Madison Avenue home, Carter told his principal assistant, Chick, to give him volume ten of the “International Records.”

“Anything on, chief?” asked Chick, as he brought out the book from the steel-lined, fireproof closet. “I heard what you said at this end of the telephone, you know.”

Chick was an alert young man, and was so thoroughly in the confidence of the great detective that he was privileged to ask this kind of question.

“I was called to Andrew Anderton’s house by Doctor Miles,” replied Nick, opening the book and turning to a certain page. “Mr. Anderton is dead.”

Chick started and an expression of mingled sorrow and horror came into his face. But he said nothing, and Nick Carter continued:

“He was killed by the Yellow Tong.”

“The crossed needles?” gasped Chick.

“Exactly. He was found dead just as that man was in the lodging house. What was his name? Brand—something or other.”

“Brand Jamieson,” supplied Chick. “He had been a deck hand on a tramp steamer in the China trade, and found out too much about the tong. But Mr. Anderton? How did they get at him? He never goes out without somebody with him, and he has enough people in his house to keep strangers away from him.”

“All that is true enough, Chick,” returned Carter. “But the men in the Yellow Tong are not ordinary rascals. They have some of the brightest minds in the world among them. You know something about the Chinese, Chick. You have been with me on more than one case among those people. They are not fools, whatever else may be said against some of them.”

“Fools?” ejaculated Chick. “I should say not! I’d back a chink—especially an educated one—against any other citizen on this round earth, when it comes to plain, natural smartness—and cussedness.”

“Here it is,” broke in Nick Carter, running his finger down the close typewriting on the page he had picked out in the large volume. “‘Yellow Tong. Death method—crossed needles. Poisoned. Poison a secret mineral, brought from the country bordering on the Yellow Sea. Very deadly. Object of tong—to establish gigantic criminal and political organization in United States, which may eventually even terrorize American government.’”

“Gee!” broke in another voice. “That’s great hokum.[Pg 9] As if chinks had any show to pull off such a scheme as that.”

“Never mind, Patsy!” said Nick. “We won’t question whether they can do it. We’ll only take care they don’t.”

It was Patsy Garvan, Nick Carter’s second assistant, whom he addressed. Patsy had been in the room all the time, but he had been busy at his particular desk, and the detective had not disturbed him. The young man was entirely in the confidence of his chief, however, and Nick was quite ready to answer any questions he might put.

“Andrew Anderton killed,” murmured Chick. “It seems impossible. Why, it was only two days ago that I went up there to see him about this Yellow Tong, and he laughed at the bare idea that he was in danger from the organization.”

“Anderton was a brave man,” commented Nick Carter.

“Three parts grit, and the rest of him nerve,” added Patsy.

“If we could only get our hands on Sang Tu,” mused Chick, half aloud. “That fellow is as slippery as a greased pigtail.”

“He is in New York, I know,” declared Nick. “I have no doubt he was close behind this murder of Anderton. But nobody has seen him here. The last glimpse of him I had was at Shanghai, and then only for a moment. He was coming to America then, I feel sure, but I never was able to trace him.”

“That’s proof enough that he’s a smooth guy,” interjected Patsy soberly. “If he hadn’t been slicker than most men, he wouldn’t have got away from you then.”

“Well, there’s nothing more to be said just now. “But I want you two to get to work on this case.”

“Good enough,” ejaculated Patsy, grinning his delight. “What am I to do, chief?”

“Find me a laundryman with a burned finger on his right hand and a white scar on his right ear. Looks as if he had been burned at some time. That is all the help I can give you, except that the man is middle size, and I should judge him to be about thirty years old, from his shape and movements. I did not see his face.”

“You’ve told me enough,” responded Patsy. “I reckon I’d better put on some clothes that will make the chinks think I’m all right. I don’t know whether I can make a good Chinaman of myself.”

“It isn’t necessary,” answered Nick Carter. “A Chinese disguise is always difficult, especially when you want to deceive Chinamen with it. They are very likely to see through it, unless you are in a rather dark place. You can put on a rather shabby suit of clothes of a sporting cut, and wear a soft hat pulled well down—the sort of hat most young men are wearing just now. The idea is that you are a gangster, and are used to going among Chinamen.”

“I get you,” interrupted Patsy. “I’ll show up some time in the morning, and I hope I’ll know where this chink is that you want. Got his name?”

“No. If I had, he would be easy to find, and I might not have to send you at all.”

“That’s so,” acknowledged Patsy, as he left the room.

“Now, Chick,” went on Nick, when the door had been closed, “I’m going to look through Andrew Anderton’s room. You come with me to the house, talk to the butler, and tell him he is to show you all about the[Pg 10] premises. At least—no, you needn’t do that. I’ll tell him. His name is Ruggins. He was the person who found Mr. Anderton dead. Come on.”

The taxicab in which Nick had come home was waiting in front of the house. In less than fifteen minutes it had carried Nick Carter and Chick to Andrew Anderton’s house, and both were inside. The taxicab went away.

“Is Doctor Miles here?” was the detective’s first question, when Ruggins met him at the door.

“No, sir. ’E waited till the coroner came, and then the doctor went, after showing ’im the body of Mr. Anderton.”

“You mean, after showing the coroner?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Anderton ’as been taken out of the study, sir, and ’e’s lying on his own bed. The coroner ’ad that done. The inquest will be ’eld in the morning, sir.”

“Very well. I’m going to the study. See that I’m not disturbed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, yes. Wait a moment. You know me, don’t you?”

“Certainly, sir. You’re Mr. Carter, the detective—one of those gentlemen from Scotland Yard. I mean, the New York Scotland Yard.”

“Well,” continued Nick, smiling slightly at Ruggins’ explanation. “This is Mr. Chickering Carter, my assistant. You will let him go where he wants to in the house, and you will show him anything he may ask to see. Also, answer his questions. We are trying to find the murderer of Mr. Anderton.”

“I ’opes you’ll do it, sir,” was Ruggins’ fervent response, as Nick Carter went upstairs to the study.

CHAPTER III.
TRACING THE CRIME.

When Nick Carter had closed and locked the door of the study, he went to the table and turned up the green-shaded student lamp on the table. There were electric-light fixtures in the room, but Anderton had always preferred the softer light of an oil lamp when he was at work, or to read by.

The green shade kept the room in gloom except for the round space on the table illuminated by the lamp, and Nick switched on one of the incandescent lights.

“I’m not surprised that nothing seems to have been disturbed,” he murmured. “The men who were smart enough to get in here and put Anderton to death by the crossed needles would not be likely to leave obvious traces of their presence. Well, I’ll look into that later. First of all, let’s see whom poor Anderton was writing to when he was killed.”

Passing over the blank sheet, with only the date line, which lay immediately in front of the chair, Nick picked up another letter, sealed, addressed, and stamped. Evidently it had been finished just before the deceased had begun the other.

“‘Matthew Bentham, esquire,’” read Carter, with the envelope in his hand. “Ah! That’s the scientist and Orientalist. I did not know that he was a friend of Anderton’s. But it is quite natural that men having the same interests should be acquainted. I see Bentham lives in Brooklyn. I’ll take down that address.[Pg 11]”

It was in an avenue near Prospect Park, and Nick carefully copied the superscription into his notebook. Then he opened the door of the study and called down the staircase to the butler Ruggins.

“Ask Mr. Chickering Carter to come here,” requested Nick.

In a moment Chick was bounding up the stairs. His chief handed him the letter addressed to Bentham.

“Mail this at once, Chick. You’d better take it to the nearest branch post office. I wouldn’t trust it to a mail box outside. I want to make sure it will be delivered in the morning.”

When Chick had departed with the letter, Nick again closed and locked the door and began his investigations in earnest. Turning on all the electric lights, and with his flash lamp in his hand, he examined the floor, in the hope of finding marks of feet on the polished floor or the costly rugs that would give him a clew.

“Ah, here is something!” he exclaimed, in a low tone. “But it only confirms what I already knew—that a Chinaman killed Anderton. Still, I did not know until now that the fellow wore the regular Chinese felt-soled slippers. This proves it, however.”

He was holding the light of his flash upon a certain spot on one of the dark-green rugs, and he could trace the shape of a broad foot—perfectly flat, without any gap for the instep that would be made by an ordinary heeled shoe—outlined in a gray dust. The dust was very indistinct, and if the detective had not had such a strong light to help him, he might have overlooked it altogether.

“Wood ash, I think.”

He wetted a finger, pressed it into the gray footprint, and put the finger into his mouth. It was salty.

“That’s what it is,” he muttered. “Ah, of course! From the fireplace. Anderton always would have a wood fire burning in his room, no matter what the weather might be.”

Indeed, there was a large, handsome fireplace, wide and high, with two great brass andirons, or firedogs, at one side of the spacious room. On the andirons were two logs of wood, half burned through, and the gray ash from them was scattered over the tiled hearth.

Nick Carter inspected the hearth carefully, and at last found a slight impression of a foot which was apparently that which had made the mark on the rug.

“He couldn’t have come down the chimney to get into the room,” he decided, after a glance upward. “It would be too hot. This fire is not as large as it was when Anderton was sitting here. No one could come down this way. But the foot? Why?”

He made a closer inspection, and then laughed at himself, as if ashamed of his own want of perspicuity.

“This foot is straight across the hearth, parallel with the fire. I see how it was. The man was walking past the fireplace, and accidentally one of his feet trod upon the ashes. Well, that is good, so far as it goes. It tells me where he was, and also the kind of footwear he had. But he didn’t come in by way of this flue, wide as it is.”

The room was at the back of the house, and heavy curtains were drawn over the windows. Nick Carter flung one of the curtains aside and peered out. He saw that there was a long balcony outside, which passed both windows, and he knew it had been arranged thus for a fire escape.[Pg 12]

It was not like the ordinary contrivance of that kind, such as is seen on apartment houses and some business buildings.

It had been built by the owner of the house, and was of an ornate description, with no ladder leading to the ground. Instead, there was a rope ladder, with steel crosspieces, which could be let down if desired. The ladder was out of reach of any burglar who might get to the back of the premises and seek to get in by way of the study window.

The windows were both fastened with spring catches. These fastenings were heavy and of modern pattern. But Nick Carter smiled sadly, as he reflected how easy it would be for a professional cracksman to negotiate them. A thin-bladed knife would be the only tool required. The fellow who had murdered Anderton may not have been a professional burglar, but assuredly he would be ingenious enough to get one of these windows open, and close it again when he had finished his work.

The detective, flash lamp in hand, stepped out on the balcony. The floor was of painted steel, and solid. Most fire escapes have a railed floor, but this had been put up under the eye of the dead man, and he wanted it like the floor of a room.

Directing the strong, white light of his lamp on the floor of the balcony, Nick Carter did not discover anything that would help him for the first few minutes. Suddenly a low ejaculation of satisfaction escaped him.

“By George! Here it is! But what does it mean?”

He had found a slight smudge of wood ash at the very end of the balcony. It was so small that it might easily have been overlooked by any but the sharpest eyes. Even the detective had passed it over several times.

He knelt down and put the light close to it. Beyond question, there was a gray-white mark, but it bore nothing of the shape of a human foot.

“Well, I’ll have to try something else.”

He took from his pocket a powerful magnifying glass, and, adjusting the light properly, again stared hard at the ash mark. This time he was rewarded for his patience by a discovery. Clearly defined, was the shape of a foot. In the one place where the smudge was pronounced, as well as around it, the detective made out the impress. It was very indistinct over most of its area, but certainly was there, now that he had the magnifier to help him.

“So far, good! But how did he get up here, and again, how did he get away. If he didn’t get up from the ground below the balcony, which way did he come?”

Nick Carter still held his magnifying glass and flash in his fingers, as he reflected, his gaze fell upon the top of the railing at the end of the balcony.

“I see now, I believe!” he murmured.

The flash had thrown its light upon the railing, and quickly he brought his glass into play at the same spot. A smile of satisfaction spread over his keen features, and he carefully looked all along the railing.

“He stood on this railing. But apparently with only one foot. What does that mean? Where did he go? How did he get here? Hello! What are these splinters of wood? There has been a plank laid on the railing. Yes, here is some of the paint scraped off.[Pg 13]”

He turned off his flash, and stood in the darkness, considering. The voice of Chick came from below:

“Hello, chief! Are you there?”

“Yes,” answered Nick guardedly. “What have you found?”

“Nothing much. But it may have something to do with the case that the next house to this is empty. The people who live here are away—gone to California for two months. Went a week ago. Ruggins told me.”

“Ruggins? Oh, yes—the butler. Well? Has anybody been seen in the house since the family went? I suppose there is a caretaker?”

“Yes. There is an old man who lives there by himself. But he hasn’t been seen for three days. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

“Any lights in the house?”

“Yes. The light in the room the old man uses, in the basement, has been going to-night. Before that it was dark. Now it is dark again.”

“Come up here, Chick, to the study. I’ll open the door.”

Nick Carter went through the window, carefully closing it and pulling the heavy curtains back into place. Then he opened the door, and, as soon as Chick was inside, closed it again.

“The servants are kind of scared,” said Chick. “But I think that is only because they know Mr. Anderton is lying dead in his bedroom. Only Ruggins and one of the maids know he was killed, and they are keeping their mouths shut.”

“I hope they are,” remarked Nick coldly.

“You can depend on that. Ruggins is a close-mouthed fellow, and he has the girl hypnotized, I think. She has an idea he is the greatest ever, and he can make her do anything. I heard some of the other maids talking about Ruggins and Amelia going to be married next spring.”

Nick Carter smiled at this story of romance, which he regarded as a lucky thing, if it would have the effect of keeping the maid from talking. But he made no comment. He only asked Chick how he had found out about the house next door.

“Ruggins told me,” replied Chick. “Oh, yes. And he said something else. There is a tall Japanese professor, who used to visit there sometimes.”

“How do you know he was Japanese?” interrupted Nick.

“Ruggins. He said so. I told him Japanese men were not generally tall. He came back at me by saying this one was, so there was nothing more to be said. The professor’s name is Tolo. That’s all Ruggins could tell me—Professor Tolo.”

There came a knock at the door at that moment, and Chick, at Nick Carter’s request, opened it. He confronted Ruggins, who had come up with a card in his hand.

“Gentleman would like to speak to Mr. Carter,” he announced.

Nick looked at the name on the card. Then he started, as he told Ruggins to send the gentleman up.

“Chick,” he whispered, when the butler had gone. “Who do you think this is, wants to see me?”

“I don’t know. Who?” asked Chick.

“Professor Tolo,” was Nick Carter’s unexpected reply.[Pg 14]

CHAPTER IV.
THE NEEDLES AGAIN.

The man who came into the room, bowing low and smiling with the suave courtesy of the Oriental, was more than six feet in height, but not stout. He looked as if he might have a great deal of strength in his wiry frame, and his high forehead, which showed extensively under the narrow-brimmed felt hat he wore far back on his head, was that of an intellectual man. The color of his skin suggested that he might be a Japanese. This was confirmed by his wiry black hair.

He appeared to have very sharp black eyes, but Nick Carter could not see them very well, because they were behind large, thick glasses, with heavy, tortoise-shell frames.

“I must ask your pardon for intruding, Mr. Carter,” began Professor Tolo. “But Mr. Anderton was a warm friend of mine, and I have just heard that he is seriously ill.”

“He is dead,” returned Nick simply.

Professor Tolo threw up both hands with a gesture of horror and sorrow. As he did so, Nick Carter noted the powerful sinews of his arms, which could be seen up his sleeves, moving like snakes under the yellow skin.

“Dead?” repeated Tolo. “Why, this is dreadful! How was it? Did you hear? Wasn’t it very sudden?”

“Very,” returned Nick. “It was an affection of the heart.”

“Heart failure! Well, I always thought my poor friend has something of the appearance of one who might be carried off in that way. Can I see him?”

“I am afraid not, professor. The coroner has his remains in charge. When did you see Mr. Anderton last?”

“About a week ago. We met at the home of a friend of both of us. I had never been in this house. You know, he only lately returned from China. He had gathered up there a mass of valuable information for this government, I understand.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” said Nick shortly.

“I have heard so. In fact, Mr. Anderton made no secret of it. He even told me where he kept the data he had gathered, and offered to let me look it over. Part of my reason for being in this neighborhood now was to see Mr. Anderton and ask him to show me those records.”

“It is eleven o’clock at night,” the detective reminded him. “Isn’t it rather late to come on such a mission?”

“It was the habit of Mr. Anderton to work at night, and I have often met him away from home at a later hour than this. Students pay little attention to the time of day or night when they are interested in any subject they may be discussing. Did Mr. Anderton leave those papers where they could be seen, I wonder. They deal only with scientific subjects, of course.”

“Did I not understand you to say that they were intended for the government?” asked Nick. “It would hardly be proper for anybody else to see them, I should say.”

“They were to be sent to the Smithsonian Institute, I believe. But I was told by Mr. Anderton himself that there was nothing secret about them. He intended the facts he had gathered to be given to the world at large. My understanding was that they were to be published simultaneously with their being sent to Washington.[Pg 15]”

“You’re a liar,” muttered Chick, under his breath. “And you know it.”

Chick had been gazing steadily at the tall professor without being observed, and the result of his inspection was that he did not like the look of the stranger. It occurred to Chick, too, that Professor Tolo was too sure of Nick Carter’s name after hearing it for the first time that night.

“I could not interfere with any of Mr. Anderton’s papers, professor,” said Nick. “I am sorry that you have been disappointed. I should think the best way for you to see these records you want would be to communicate with Washington.”

The professor bowed and shrugged his shoulders, while a smile spread over the yellow face beneath the large spectacles.

“Probably you are right, Mr. Carter. I thank you for the suggestion. Any suggestion from so able a detective as everybody knows you to be cannot but be valuable. I am right, am I not, in supposing that you are the Mr. Nicholas Carter whom all the world knows? Your home is in Madison Avenue, is it not?”

“Yes. That is where I live, and my name is Nicholas.”

Nick Carter said this in the cold tone in which he had conducted most of his part of the conversation. It was easy to be seen that he was not favorably impressed with the rather too smug Professor Tolo.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Ruggins, who announced that a man, who seemed much excited—a young man—wanted to see Mr. Carter on an important matter.

“Which Mr. Carter?” demanded Nick.

“Both, ’e said. ’E asked if you were both ’ere, and when I told him yes, ’e said that was what he wanted. So I came up and left ’im in the ’all till I could find out whether you would see ’im.”

“It might be Patsy,” whispered Chick to his chief.

The same idea had occurred to Nick Carter, and he hurried out of the room, followed by Chick and Ruggins, who closed the door behind him.

Instantly the Japanese professor became active. He carefully laid a heavy chair on its side against the door. Then he ran across the room, to where a tall bookcase stood against the wall in a corner, opposite the windows.

Professor Tolo had a remarkable knowledge of its arrangements. Throwing open one of the large glass doors of the case, he hastily removed four or five heavy books and placed them on a chair by the side of it. Then he fumbled inside, feeling the back wall.

“Curses!” he growled. “Where is that button? The chart I have gives it just about here. Let me see.”

He thrust his hand into the long black coat he wore, and felt in a pocket, from which he drew forth a peculiar-looking little volume, whose covers were made of some sort of shiny green substance, and which was held together by a metal clasp.

“If they will only stay away long enough,” he muttered, while the perspiration came out on his forehead in large drops. “The jade book will tell me. But I’ve got to have time to look it up.”

He stepped back from the bookcase, so that he could see better by the electric light just behind him, and opened the metal clasp of the green-covered book with a click.

He was still turning the leaves—which seemed to be of parchment—when he heard footsteps outside the door.[Pg 16]

“Too late this time,” he mumbled. “But I’ll get it yet. That infernal Nick Carter! Who would have thought he would mix himself up in this? And his man, too! I’ll have a reckoning with both of them in due time. They’ll find out that the crossed needles can reach anybody!”

Hurriedly he thrust the jade book, as he called it, back into his pocket, and opening one of the big volumes he had taken from the bookcase, seemed to be deeply absorbed in reading. In fact, he was so taken up with it that he did not heed a racket at the door, when somebody outside pushed it against the overturned chair.

It was not until Nick Carter had forced his way in, and Chick was picking up the chair, that he turned, with a far-away expression, and smiled.

“Ah, Mr. Carter! Back again? I took the liberty of looking at this book when I found myself alone. It is by my dear friend Anderton, written several years ago. I have heard of it, but never happened to get hold of it before. Do you know the work? It is called ‘The Orient and Orientalism.’ A splendid treatment of a great subject. Masterly, in fact. I have often thought——”

“Why did you barricade the door?” demanded Nick, his eyes blazing. “I don’t understand this, Professor Tolo.”

There was no chance to ignore the anger in the detective’s tones, and the professor came to himself with a jerk. He shut the book and put it on its shelf, while he looked from Nick Carter to Chick, and back again, in a most edifying bewilderment.

“I don’t understand,” he faltered.

“You placed a chair against that door, didn’t you?” insisted the detective.

“Did I?” asked the professor vacantly. “I—I don’t know. I was thinking about something else. Why, I—— Oh, yes, so I did. I remember. As I passed a chair, I accidentally knocked it over. I intended to pick it up, of course. But I saw the title of this volume in the bookcase——”

“Away across the room?” growled Chick.

The professor disregarded the query, and continued: “When I saw that this book was here, I forgot everything else. All I saw was this work, that I have longed for years, to hold in my hand, and I forgot all about the chair. How I wish my dear Anderton were alive! He would lend it to me, I know. As it is, I must try and get a copy somewhere else.”

“It would be advisable, I think,” said the detective, as he picked up the other volumes and replaced them in the bookcase. “Is there anything more I can do for you, professor? You will pardon me if I say that I am very busy, and that it is getting late.”

“My dear Mr. Carter, I am sorry I have disturbed you. I apologize most sincerely. Good night!”

He walked to the door, opened it, turned to bow and smile, and went down the stairs.

Nick Carter waited till he heard the front door close after the professor, and turned to Chick. But it was unnecessary for him to say anything. Chick nodded comprehendingly, and leaped down the stairs three or four at a time. Then he dashed along the hall and out to the street.

“I’ll go, too,” muttered Nick, as he also ran down the stairs and to the outer air.[Pg 17]

He had only just got off the stone steps and turned to the darkness on the left, when he heard a muffled cry from somebody, followed by a scraping on the sidewalk and the sound of something falling heavily.

“Chick!” he called.

There was no answer, and Nick Carter felt a strange premonition of evil. He ran down the avenue for perhaps a hundred feet. Then, as he stumbled over something soft that was lying across the sidewalk, he knew that his premonition was not without foundation.

Chick was stretched out, unconscious. The detective turned the light of his pocket flash upon him and gave vent to a shout of horror.

Sticking in the sleeve of his insensible assistant were two long needles, crossed!

“Great heavens!” cried Nick. “Is it possible they’ve got Chick? Is no one safe from these fiends?”

CHAPTER V.
IN AND OUT.

It would be hard to express in ordinary words the wave of relief that surged through Nick Carter as he knelt by the side of Chick, and, looking closely at the sleeve of his coat, saw that the crossed needles had not gone in far.

“They haven’t reached his flesh, I’m sure,” murmured Nick. “They only just catch in the cloth. The wretch who did this hadn’t time to finish the job. The needles got entangled in the cloth, and before he could drive them in, he heard, or saw, me coming.”

Cautiously, the detective withdrew the needles and laid them on the walk, by his side. Then, picking up the unconscious Chick, he threw him over one shoulder, and carried him into the Anderton mansion.

Nick Carter was blessed with extraordinary strength, and although Chick was solid and of good weight, the burden was nothing to the detective.

“Merciful ’eavens!” squeaked Ruggins, as Nick came up the stone steps. “What’s that, Mr. Carter?”

“Fainted, I think,” replied the detective briefly. “Let me put him on this sofa in the hall.”

When Chick was laid out on a long leather settee that had been encumbered with a raincoat and other garments untidily left there by Ruggins, and which Nick Carter unceremoniously swept to the floor, the detective hastily removed Chick’s coat, and pulled up his shirt sleeve on one side.

“This was the arm,” he muttered. “There is no mark of the needles in the sleeve, and I could not find any through the coat. I don’t think there’s any danger of his having been struck. But I want to find out.”

With his flash lamp and magnifying glass, he went slowly and minutely over the whole length of Chick’s arm. The skin was perfectly smooth, without a prick or abrasion of any kind on it from shoulder to wrist.

“Just what I hoped. The needles never went through. If the point of one of them had touched his flesh, he would be dead before this. A more powerful poison I never came across, judging by its effects on Brand Jamieson and poor Andrew Anderton.”

“Hello, chief! What’s the matter?” interposed a feeble voice.

“What, Chick? Are you all right again?” asked Nick, smiling, as Chick raised his head. “I was just going to[Pg 18] ask you what was the matter? Ah, I see! You’ve been rapped on the head.”

“Oh, yes,” was the response, as Chick sat up on the settee and let his feet fall to the floor. “I remember now. I was following the professor—a few yards behind him, so that he shouldn’t see me. Then I had a feeling as if a crowbar had come down on top of my head, and that was all I knew.”

“It was a sandbag,” declared Nick. “There is a little mark on your head, made by that metal initial you had put in the crown of your hat. The sandbag came down on top of your derby, crushed it in, and caused the brass letter to cut your scalp just a little. There is no mark on your hat, however. It was merely slammed in by something bulky and yielding, and the inference is that it was a sandbag.”

“’Oly ’eavens!” mumbled Ruggins, who had been listening. “’Ow easy it seems when you know.”

“I guess you’re right,” agreed Chick, speaking to Nick. “But it was so sudden and unexpected that I did not get a chance to see who did it, or how.”

“It wasn’t the professor?”

“No. He was some distance in front, and I don’t think he knew I was following him. He did not turn his head. He walked along as if he wasn’t thinking of anything except to get to where he was going. I believe he had a taxi. I saw one waiting about two blocks from the house.”

“There was none there when I went out,” observed Carter reflectively. “I guess you’re right. But wait a minute. I have something to look after outside. Go up to the study and wait for me.”

As Chick got up to obey, Nick Carter hurried out of the house and to the place where he had left the crossed needles. He had put them close to the iron fence of a house, so that there was no danger of their being trodden on—even if anybody should happen to pass that way.

“I don’t think there has been any one going by since I left them,” he muttered. “Anyhow, here are the needles.”

He put them carefully between the leaves of his notebook, which he carried in his hand back to the house, and up to the study. When he got there, he laid the book on the table and opened it.

“You see, Chick, the person who knocked you down belonged to the Yellow Tong. That is proved by the fact that he tried to kill you with the crossed needles.”

“What?” cried Chick, turning pale.

“Oh, it’s all right now, my boy!” laughed Nick Carter. “I wouldn’t have told you otherwise. The needles did not get to you. But that is no credit to the blackguard who knocked you down. They were sticking in your coat sleeve when I found you on the sidewalk. I satisfied myself that the points had not reached you, even before I picked you up. But I don’t understand what the object was in attacking you, unless——”

He paused and walked several times up and down the room before he spoke again.

“I have it,” he declared at last. “It is simple enough. Somebody saw you following Professor Tolo—somebody in his employ. To prevent your finding out where the professor was going—and perhaps in fear that you might hit on the professor’s real identity—this stranger knocked you down and tried to kill you with the needles.[Pg 19]”

“Then you believe Tolo is connected in some way with the Yellow Tong?”

“I certainly do.”

“If that is the case, it ought not to be hard to get at the secret of Mr. Anderton’s death.”

Nick Carter smiled slightly and shook his head.

“My dear Chick, don’t jump hastily to conclusions. What evidence have we got against Professor Tolo?”

“Plenty, I should think. Wasn’t he snooping about in this room when we came back to it, after going downstairs to see a man who had disappeared when we got there? Then, doesn’t he hide his face with those big spectacles? And wasn’t I following him when I was sandbagged and struck at with the crossed needles?”

“All that is suspicious, but not proof, Chick.”

“Do we know where he lives?”

“That is easily found out,” replied Carter. “But even then, we shall have to learn a great deal more before we can show that he is associated with the Yellow Tong.”

“But you believe he is, don’t you?”

“I do. Only we haven’t anything conclusive with which to back up that belief—yet. For the present, I want to find out how the person who killed Andrew Anderton got into this room. When I have reached that point, I shall have something from which to start on other inquiries. It would give us a base of operations.”

Nick Carter picked up a small pasteboard box from the table which had been filled with brass paper fasteners at one time, but was nearly empty now. He threw out the three or four fasteners that remained. Then he placed the crossed needles in the box and fitted on the lid. To make it still more secure, he put on two thick rubber bands. Then he dropped the box into his coat pocket.

“Going to examine those needles, I suppose, chief?” asked Chick.

“Yes, when I have leisure, at home. They are so dangerous that I don’t like to handle them until I can do so carefully. I would not even trust them in an envelope. The points could easily come through, and one touch might mean death.”

Chick shuddered, in spite of himself, as he thought how easily he might have been scratched when the ghastly instrument was thrust into his sleeve, as he lay on the sidewalk.

“What are we going to do now?” he asked.

“Come out on that balcony, and then we will see. But first we’ll turn out the lights in this room.”

This was done; then Nick went to the window he had gone out by before, and the next minute he and Chick were standing outside, in the pitch darkness. Just as they got out, a distant tower clock chimed twelve.

“Now, Chick, I have a theory. It isn’t anything more than that, but it is a strong one. I want you to climb into that next yard. You see there is a high wooden fence dividing it from this.”

“About fifteen feet, I should say,” put in Chick.

“Not quite that, I think,” returned Carter. “But high enough. Anyhow, I should like you to climb over, if you will. Then look about and see if there is a long plank over there, or a ladder. I will stay here, on the balcony, where I can look over, in case of any interference with you, and be ready to help. You will get over with this rope ladder.[Pg 20]”