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

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

Terms to NICK CARTER STORIES Mail Subscribers.

(Postage Free.)

Single Copies or Back Numbers, 5c. Each.

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No. 152. August 7, 1915. Price Five Cents.

THE FORCED CRIME;
Or, NICK CARTER’S BRAZEN CLEW.

Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.[Pg 2]

CHAPTER I.
A TALE OF BURGLARS.

“You say this burglar has got into your bedroom three times?”

“Yes, Carter. Three times that I know of. He may have got in oftener for aught I know.”

“Hardly likely, Mr. Bentham. If you woke up three times and saw him, it indicates that there is something in his presence which affects you even in your sleep. It is a psychological influence, evidently.”

Professor Matthew Bentham, one of the most learned scientists in Brooklyn, shook his head. He knew too much about psychology to believe it was an agent in his case.

“That explanation won’t do, Carter,” he declared. “On each occasion I have been awakened by a distinct noise in the room.”

“But you never got up to interfere with the man,” Nick Carter reminded him. “That isn’t your way. No one ever has insinuated that you lack in physical courage. You are an athlete, too. I have had the gloves on with you, remember, and I know how you handle yourself. There must have been something to make you lie still in bed while a stranger was ransacking your bedchamber.”

The famous detective was sitting comfortably in Professor Bentham’s well-appointed library on the ground floor of the latter’s home near Prospect Park, and both were smoking.

Carter had dropped in casually to see his friend, and the subject of the mysterious burglar had come up without any previous knowledge of it by the detective. They had been talking about other things, particularly about some important records of a Chinese secret organization which were in Matthew Bentham’s care, and which were soon to be sent to Washington.

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Suddenly, Bentham had confided to Carter that he was worried over certain midnight visits that had been forced upon him, and instantly the great criminologist was deeply interested.

“Did your burglar—or burglars—get away with anything?” he asked.

“There is only one of him. At least, I think so. I never have had a clear view of his face. He is a slim, active sort of man, dressed in an ordinary dark business suit, with a soft hat pulled down over his eyes. The hat has always prevented my seeing as much of his features as I should like.”

“There are many thousands of slim, active men, in dark business suits and soft hats, moving about Greater New York,” remarked Nick, between puffs at his cigar.

“True,” conceded Bentham. “But you know, as well as anybody, that every human being has certain peculiarities of movement, attitude, and poise, that are not exactly the same as those of anybody else. There is a sort of what I may call ‘atmosphere’ about each one of us—an aura—that distinguishes us from all our fellows. You know that, Carter?”

The detective nodded.

“Yes, professor. That is pretty well understood by most persons, I think. Well, we’ll say it is only one particular burglar who favors you with his company in this way. What I asked is whether he steals anything.”

“He never has yet. But I think that is because I never leave valuables lying about the room. I never carry much cash in my pockets—have no use for it unless I am going away somewhere—and my watch is always under my pillow.”

“And why have you never got up to argue matters with him?”

“Because I can’t. He seems to hypnotize me.”

“Then there is a psychological influence?” smiled Nick.

“To that extent, yes. But I do not believe it is that that awakens me.[Pg 4]”

Nick Carter took his cigar from his mouth, and, with a careless gesture, knocked off the ash into a silver tray on the table.

“Well, that is of not much consequence, after all,” he said. “What is the fellow after? He must have some purpose in coming three separate times, only a night or two apart. You say you don’t know how he gets in?”

“Haven’t an idea. The doors and windows are all locked at night before we retire, and we find them the same way in the morning.”

“What servants have you?”

“Only two maids, besides the boy who does odd jobs, such as polishing brasswork, sweeping the front steps, and waiting on the cook. He sleeps out of the house. My daughter lets him in early in the morning. There is an electric contrivance, operating from her bedroom, which opens the side gate, and also connects with the lock of the back door to the kitchen.”

Nick Carter stopped smoking and looked hard at the professor. He was interested in this mechanical device.

“I should like to see that electric connection,” he said. “Can you show it to me?”

“Certainly. Wait a moment.”

Bentham went out of the room. When he returned he smiled apologetically.

“My daughter is dressing to go out this afternoon. But I can tell you all about it. There is nothing remarkable about the apparatus. I had it put in by a regular electrician. It is a great deal like the electric door openers used in flat houses, by which tenants open the front door at the street without leaving their apartments.”

Nick Carter resumed his cigar and smoked for several minutes in silence. His host could see that he was thinking hard, and did not disturb him. Instead, he kept on gravely smoking himself.

“The last time this fellow came in was last night, eh?” asked Nick Carter, after a long pause.

“Yes.”

“And you have not told anybody about these visits?”

“No one. You see, my daughter Clarice and I are alone, except for the two maids. I would not worry Clarice, and there would be no use in telling the maids. They probably would take fright and leave. You know what a bother is to get good servants in New York.”

“Those records of the Yellow Tong, sent to you by Andrew Anderton on the night that he died—you have them?”

“Yes.”

“Who brought them? As I remember Mr. Anderton’s last letter to you, he said they would be sent by safe hands. What did he mean by that?”

“They were sent by express to a club I belong to, but which I seldom visit. Then I got a cipher telegram from the club, informing me that there was a package in the safe there for me. I went to the club and got the package.”

“I see. It was a wise precaution on the part of Anderton. He knew that you were likely to be shadowed by some members of the tong, and that if you brought anything direct from his house, in Fifth Avenue, it would be doubtful whether you ever would get it home.”

Nick Carter spoke in low tones, as if he were deep in thought, and were letting his tongue run on almost without guidance. At the same time, it need hardly[Pg 5] be said that this astute, long-experienced student of criminology was not the man to say anything without knowing exactly what he was saying.

“You have the package quite secure, I suppose?” he asked.

“Quite, I believe. Nobody knows where it is but myself—not even Clarice. It is not that I would not trust my daughter. But there would be nothing gained by her knowing, and it might worry her to think that she held an important secret.”

“Women like secrets generally, don’t they?” smiled Nick Carter.

“That is the tradition,” acknowledged Bentham, also with a smile. “But Clarice is a level-headed girl. Then she has had to take care of me for three years, since her mother died, and that has given her a sense of responsibility, I think, which is beyond her years. She does not know anything about the package, and would not be interested in it, anyhow.”

“Don’t you see any connection between the visits of this mysterious stranger and the package?” asked Nick slowly. “May it not be that the Yellow Tong—and you know how powerful and far-reaching it is—has set its agents to get from you the records that it is so important to the organization to keep from the government at Washington?”

Bentham smoked a few seconds before replying. The same suspicion had been in his own mind, but he had brushed it away. Now, here was this cool-headed, straight-seeing master detective suggesting the same thing.

“It is possible you are right, Carter,” admitted the professor. “I’ll take those records to Washington to-morrow night. I can’t go before, because I am going to a reception this evening given by the famous Indian savant from the Punjab, Ched Ramar. You have heard of him?”

“Yes. He has been in the newspapers a great deal the last few weeks. Who and what is he?”

“One of the most eminent scholars from that country,” answered Bentham enthusiastically. “He has traveled a great deal, especially in Tibet. He has a collection of idols from that country which are well worth seeing, I am told. I am delighted with the prospect of looking them over to-night.”

“I should think you would be. Is there a special invitation needed to get into his house this evening?”

“Well, I don’t know. I got a card addressed to me. But there is a line on the card to the effect that any friend of mine will be welcome. It is written in pencil. The remainder of the card is lithographed. If you would like to go, I should be pleased to take you in. My daughter is going, with her aunt, Mrs. Morrison. She is Clarice’s mother’s sister.”

“I accept your invitation with pleasure,” said Nick Carter. “But—here is a request I have to make. You won’t think it very strange, knowing my profession. I should like to go in disguise, and under another name than my own.”

“Don’t want to be recognized, eh?” smiled Bentham. “Why? You don’t think there will be anybody there who would be afraid of you as Nicholas Carter, the detective, do you? Ched Ramar is a man who moves in the highest circles and is known all over India. His house, in Brooklyn Heights, is one that questionable characters would find it hard to enter. He has two tall men[Pg 6] of his own race perpetually on guard at his door—besides many other servants engaged in this country.”

“It is merely a fancy of mine, perhaps,” returned Nick. “I will be Doctor Hodgson, if you don’t mind. Shall I come here to-night?”

“If you will. I’ll take you in our car. Mrs. Morrison and Clarice will be with us. Get here about half past eight. We don’t want to go too early. It will be ten o’clock or so before things get into full swing at Ched Ramar’s house.”

“All right! I’ll be here at eight-thirty,” replied Nick, as he got up to go. “I’ll have just about time to go home and dress, and get back again.”

“It takes you a long time to dress,” laughed Professor Bentham. “I can get ready in half an hour any time.”

“My dress will be rather more elaborate than yours, perhaps. I have to change my face, you know.”

CHAPTER II.
A HOUSE OF MYSTERY.

When a grave, bearded man, with gold-rimmed spectacles and hair brushed up straight from his forehead, presented himself in Matthew Bentham’s library at half past eight, the professor could not see anything in him to suggest the clean-cut, up-to-date American whom he knew as Nicholas Carter.

The big, blond beard and mustache completely changed the contour of his countenance, while the pompadour hair and the lines in the forehead were not those of the detective, although they seemed to be perfectly natural in Doctor Hodgson. The rather shabby cape overcoat which covered his evening clothes was not such a garment as he would wear in his own proper person, either.

It was only when the door of the library was closed, and Nick knew they were alone, that he dropped the deliberate speech he had used, and spoke in his own natural, quick tones.

“The package still all right, professor?” he asked.

“Yes. I looked a few minutes ago, to make sure. Somehow, I hate to leave it in the house when I am away. It is something I never have done before. Still, I am not afraid it will be found—even if my burglar should come while I am away. He may do that, if he is keeping as close a watch on me as I think he must. I have too much faith in my hiding place.”

Nothing more was said, for just then Clarice knocked at the library door, and, on her father telling her to come in, she stood before them.

Clarice was a beautiful girl, who looked enough like her father for any one to recognize the relationship. She had something of the intellectual gravity of the professor, and Nick set her down at once as a very bright young woman. He put her age at not more than twenty. Later her father told him she lacked two months of that age.

With Mrs. Morrison—a middle-aged, dignified matron, richly attired and bejeweled—on one side of him, and Clarice on the other, in the tonneau, Nick Carter kept up his character of a learned doctor by talking authoritatively on tuberculosis, typhus, and similar cheerful subjects brought up by Mrs. Morrison, but always with one eye on Clarice. He wanted to hear the girl talk, so[Pg 7] that he could judge whether she would be careful in guarding her father’s house against strangers.

But Mrs. Morrison—who was a good woman in her way, and devoted much time to the poor and sick of New York—would not let him off. They got to the house of Ched Ramar without Clarice getting an opportunity to throw in more than a few words here and there, and he did not see her again until they were in the handsomely furnished reception rooms of the Indian scholar, and were looking at the curiosities on all sides.

Nick Carter got an opportunity soon to stand back and look steadily at Ched Ramar. He saw a tall man, with the dark skin and black eyes of the East Indian, and wearing the white turban of his race, who talked good English and was the essence of suave courtesy.

“I don’t know how it is,” thought Nick Carter. “His face seems familiar and yet I know I never saw Ched Ramar before.”

As the detective moved about with the others, looking at the many curious idols of various metals that were disposed about the great rooms, and answering readily to his assumed name of Doctor Hodgson, he seemed not to have any interest outside of what he was inspecting with the other guests. But his gaze never left the swarthy face of Ched Ramar for more than a few seconds at a time.

“Where have I seen him before?”

This was the question that would not keep out of Nick Carter’s mind. It might have worried him, too, only that he had quite determined that he would answer it before he was many days older.

“Perhaps not to-night,” he told himself. “But when I get alone, in my own room. I’ll go through my portrait gallery of people I have met, and I’ll place him, or know the reason why.”

There were other rooms besides these two great double drawing-rooms to which the guests were invited. In all the apartments of the house were some strange things worth seeing, and Ched Ramar took pleasure in offering them to the inspection of those who had honored him by coming.

He said this himself, and he seemed sincere when he did so. He seemed inclined to pay particular attention to Matthew Bentham, Clarice, and Mrs. Morrison. He talked to them more than to any of the other guests, Nick Carter thought.

The two tall Indian guards, in glittering military uniforms, with curved swords at their sides, and gaudy turbans setting off their dark, solemn faces, were always at the wide door of the reception rooms, and the detective noted that they watched every move of the throng as it surged about the apartments.

Ched Ramar had the air of a man who trusted everybody, but his guards’ vigilance suggested that he had given them orders to be suspicious unceasingly.

“Hello! Where’s he taking that girl?” suddenly exclaimed the detective.

Ched Ramar had directed the general attention to a large glass case filled with magnificently jeweled weapons at one end of the drawing-room. Then he called one of the guards.

“Show and explain these, Keshub,” he ordered shortly.

Keshub, the guard, made a deep salaam and marched to the end of the case. He spoke as good English as his chief, and his sonorous tones rolled through the rooms[Pg 8] as he told the history of each dagger, sword, and gun to his open-mouthed listeners.

It was at this instant that Nick Carter made his inaudible remark, for Ched Ramar led the girl behind some heavy red velvet hangings, which dropped back into place, hiding them.

For a few moments Nick stood still, uncertain what to do. He had no idea of allowing this young girl to be taken into a secret part of this big, strange house by a man like this Indian, whom no one knew except as a famous man in his own country.

“I’ve got to see what is back of those portières,” muttered the detective. “I don’t see Matthew about, or I’d tell him. By George! This is New York—even if it is Brooklyn—and we don’t do things of this kind. He must think he is still in the Punjab.”

He saw that Keshub was busy with the people who were admiring the really wonderful display of weapons in the glass cases, and that the other guard was staring at the people over there. No one was taking any notice of himself.

“All the better,” he thought.

He edged around the wall till he stood in front of the red velvet curtains. Then he gently pulled them apart and looked behind. What he saw was the gilt railings of a door that evidently belonged to an elevator. The elevator car was above, on another floor.

“One of those automatic affairs,” he thought. “Well, all the better. I’m going up. If one of the guests is entitled to ride in the elevator, it ought to be all right for another. Anyhow, I can easily explain that I supposed we were all to go up here, if there is any question.”

He pressed an electric button, and the car slid noiselessly down. The coming down of the car released a latch on the railed door, and Nick pulled it open. Taking his place in the car, he pressed a button inside, and was wafted upward.

The elevator was so delicately adjusted that it made not the slightest noise, and it stopped at the next floor above without a jar. There were thick curtains outside, like those below. Also a railed door.

Gently, Nick opened the door and stood inside the curtains, listening. He caught a low murmur of voices, which told him that the speakers were at some distance.

He opened the curtains a little way, and then stepped between them. He was in a dimly lighted room, with a red lantern giving the only illumination. At one end were heavy portières draped back, so that he could look beyond, into another room.

In the farther room he saw that there were idols of all sizes and kinds. He remembered that Ched Ramar’s collection of idols was said to be the finest possessed by any private person in New York. Moreover, each idol had a history.

Standing, with their backs to him, were Clarice Bentham and Ched Ramar himself. The latter was pointing to one immense image of Buddha which faced the opening in the curtains. He was talking in a low earnest tone, and it seemed to Nick as if the girl were completely entranced by the great, golden figure and the words that poured from the grave lips of the Indian.

“I can’t hear what he is saying,” muttered the detective. “I suppose the way to find out is to step forward and show myself. And yet——”

At this instant the low tones of Ched Ramar changed[Pg 9] to loud, clear accents, delivered in a matter-of-fact way, as he waved his hand toward the Buddha.

“That Buddha and other things in this room will interest you for some time, Miss Bentham, I have no doubt,” he said. “But I can hardly remain away from my guests. I will leave you alone. When you are ready to come down, you know how to work the elevator. Although it is possible that some of the other ladies below will be up to see the idols before you have finished looking at them.”

“Oh, but I don’t know whether I dare be left here alone with these dreadful things,” she protested, with a shudder. “I’m rather afraid of them.”

Ched Ramar laughed good-naturedly as he shook his head at her.

“I beg your pardon for laughing, Miss Bentham,” he said. “But, really, I had never thought of my poor idols in that light before. These things that so many thousands of people in Asia believe can save them from all ill, and bring succor to them in distress—surely ought not to frighten any one, even an American young lady. But, if you are timid, why, I’ll take you down at once.”

This offer seemed to bring Clarice to herself. She was ashamed of her apprehensions, and Nick saw her shoulders stiffen as she declared, in a resolute voice:

“No, I’ll stay till I’ve looked at all of them. I hope you won’t think I’m a coward. When I said I was afraid I meant that I felt a sort of awe. I should think most persons would experience some such feeling on beholding all these strange figures for the first time. No doubt, if I lived in Tibet, or wherever these images come from, I should regard them only with reverence, and believe in them as sacred guardians, like the others who have been familiar with them from childhood.”

Nick Carter slipped behind a tall vase on a stand close to where he had been standing. He saw that Ched Ramar was about to go downstairs, and he did not want to be seen.

“I’ll stay up here till she has finished her examination,” he thought. “Then, if she should get frightened—as she may when she is alone—I’ll step forward and try to give her courage. She knows me only as Doctor Hodgson, and I flatter myself I took the part of a grave and reverend medico pretty nearly to perfection.”

Ched Ramar, with a low bow, turned away from the girl, strode to the red velvet curtains, and pulled open the railed door. That was the last Nick saw of him, for the curtains fell together before he had stepped into the elevator.

Clarice, her two delicate, white-gloved hands interlocked behind her, stood gazing thoughtfully at the gigantic Buddha.

CHAPTER III.
WHAT THE BUDDHA SAID.

The Buddha was a work that would have attracted special attention in any collection. If it had been in a public museum, there is no doubt there would have been a crowd in front of it most of the time.

It was on a dais of its own, a giant statue of a squatting Buddha, wrought in hammered brass, with an enormous sapphire in the middle of its great forehead. The sapphire alone must have been worth an immense sum, just as a jewel.[Pg 10]

The figure reached almost from floor to ceiling, so that the sapphire was very high. If one wished to look at the jewel at close range—and most persons who entered this room did want to do so—he had to climb a small stepladder which stood conveniently at one side. Nick saw the girl looking at this ladder, and he was about to make his presence known so that he could move it for her, when she carried it over herself to the front of the image and placed it firmly for use.

“No timidity about that girl,” thought the detective. “Ched Ramar needn’t get that idea into his head.”

Unlike most statues of Buddha, the eyes of this one were not closed. They were merely skillfully made openings, which, in the gloom of the room, might easily be imagined to have cruel, shifty eyes in their depths.

“I must go up and look at that sapphire,” the girl said aloud. “I never saw such a magnificent jewel in my life before. I have heard that they have precious stones in India that are never equaled anywhere else, and I can believe that now. What a heavenly blue! Yet I wish those eyes weren’t there. Pshaw! They are only holes! I believe I am a coward, after all.”

This thought seemed to put courage into her, for she had her foot on the bottom step of the ladder even as she spoke. She did not go up at once, however. Standing at the bottom of the ladder, with one foot on the step, she looked up at the face of the idol in a reverie that was half fascination and half repulsion.

“I’ve got to go up and look at that sapphire!” she breathed at last. “Besides, I want to look at its face close. I feel as if I must.”

With her hands out to steady herself, so that they touched the knees of the great figure, she went slowly upward, hesitating at each step. She could not have told why she went up so slowly and uncertainly. It seemed as if there were a power greater than her own controlling her movements.

It seemed to Nick as if the blue light of the sapphire changed to a horrible green as the girl drew her face level with the great brass visage of the statue.

“Pshaw!” he murmured. “It was only the shadow of her head. But in such a place as this one might imagine anything.”

Up a little higher she went, and, as one hand hung rigidly at her side, the other rested on the shoulder of the god. It was an incongruous picture they made—the beautiful young American girl seemingly exchanging confidences with this grotesque representation of a deity coming down through countless ages.

Suddenly a hollow voice seemed to fill the room. It came from the sneering, parted lips of the image. There could be no doubt of that. The detective involuntarily tried to get a little nearer, to catch what the words were.

Clarice was gazing intently into the eye sockets of the idol. She saw—what was not visible to Carter where he stood—two staring eyes that were alive!

“You will obey—obey—obey!”

The voice sounded like the distant murmur of rushing waters. It was rather that of some strange, unearthly being than of anything human.

“I will obey,” replied the girl, in a dull monotone.

To Nick it sounded as if she were talking in her sleep, but she never relaxed her hold on the brazen shoulder, and she stood perfectly upright on the stepladder.[Pg 11]

“It is well,” went on the mysterious voice. “You know what to do. Follow the instructions that will come to you later.”

“How am I to know?” she gasped.

“Listen! Bring your face close to my lips. What I have to tell is for you alone.”

Nick Carter thought he heard her utter a low cry of terror and protest. But immediately afterward she pressed her beautiful, warm cheek against the brazen mouth of the image, and Nick saw in her eyes that she was not cognizant of anything save the message that had already begun to come to her.

The detective made an impulsive step forward. Should he dash up the steps, drag the girl away, and see for himself what this strange scene meant?

He knew that the whole contrivance was some fiendish trick. But who had arranged it, and why, was beyond him. Ched Ramar was a man of high standing in the scientific world—even though he had not been long known in New York. It was inconceivable that he could have any evil purpose in all this. And yet—what was it all about?

If it was an experiment of some kind, to prove a scientific or psychic theory, then certainly this East Indian must not be allowed to work it out with the aid of this innocent young girl. Still, it was not for him, Nick Carter, to interfere, until he knew. All he could do was to watch, and be ready to give help if it should be needed. He kept still and waited.

For two or three minutes the girl stood there, while a low murmur reached Nick’s ears, telling him that the image—or somebody inside it—was talking to Clarice Bentham.

At last she moved back, and again came the distinct words: “You will obey!”

“I will obey,” she replied.

“It is well. Before you leave this house, a small gold image of myself will be placed in your hands. Each afternoon, at six o’clock, you will look into its eyes. As you do so, you will be subject to my will. It will be my eyes you will see there.”

“Bunk!” muttered Nick Carter.

“If I have any orders for you,” continued the voice, “you will hear my suggestions, for at that very moment I shall be sending mental messages. If I have none for you, you will put the image away—until the next afternoon. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“That is all. You will forget all about this—that you have looked into my eyes and heard my voice. You will not remember how long you have been standing up here, and you will not recall anything when the small image is given to you. Now! Awake!”

Clarice’s right hand passed over her eyes, and she stared at the idol curiously. Then she looked around, and Nick Carter saw that her gaze was normal. She seemed to be quite her usual self. He stepped forward and spoke to her.

“Taking a close view of that statue, Miss Bentham?”

“Yes, Doctor Hodgson! It is a wonderful piece of work, isn’t it? And no one can tell how old it is. That sapphire in its forehead attracted me, and I felt as if I must look at it from the ladder. You have to allow for feminine curiosity, you know,” she laughed.

“Masculine curiosity would impel me to go up there,[Pg 12]” returned Nick, with a smile. “Indeed, it was curiosity of that kind that brought me into this room just this moment. I found the elevator, and I was bold enough to make use of it. I am glad I was, for I should not like to have missed this room. Ched Ramar has a wonderful house.”

Nick made this remark about only just having come up because he did not know who might be listening. If a man could get inside that statue and pretend the statue itself was speaking, it was quite possible that he was now hiding somewhere else within hearing.

The girl came down the steps, and Carter had placed his foot on the bottom one, intending to go up, to look into the cavernous depths of the eye sockets himself, when the curtains in front of the elevator parted, and Ched Ramar came into the room. He brought with him Matthew Bentham and Mrs. Morrison.

The latter ran forward as she saw Clarice. Then she stopped abruptly, as her gaze fell upon the immense brass statue.

“Mercy! What an awful-looking thing! It’s an idol, isn’t it? I was wondering where you’d gone, Clarice. So was your father. How did you find your way up here alone?”

“She did not come alone,” broke in Ched Ramar, smiling gravely. “I led her up here. Then I left her for a moment to bring you and Mr. Bentham. I was going to ask Doctor Hodgson, too, but he anticipated me, I see,” he added, with a bow to Nick Carter.

“I have just come up,” responded Nick. “This Buddha is worth seeing, and I’m glad I found my way here.”

“Yes,” was Ched Ramar’s reply. “This is an extremely ancient image of the god. It was captured during a Tartar raid many centuries ago. It is reputed to possess marvelous occult powers. I would not dare to deny that that is untrue. The sapphire in its forehead is, I believe, one of the finest specimens in existence.”

“Aren’t you afraid the sapphire may be stolen?” asked Mrs. Morrison, fascinated by the blazing beauty of the jewel. “I should think a thief would risk a great deal to get it.”

Ched Ramar smiled significantly.

“Any thief who thinks he can get it, is welcome to try,” he said, with great confidence. “This Buddha is able to take care of itself and of everything it possesses. You remember what I said just now—that it is supposed to be endowed with strange powers. But let me show you something else. I am rather proud of this room. It contains the finest specimens in my collection of antiques.”

He went to a table in a distant corner, and came back, carrying a very small gold idol in his long fingers. The image was exquisitely wrought, and so much soul had the artist put into his work that, from certain angles, the diminutive god seemed actually to be alive.

“What a beautiful thing!” ejaculated Clarice, as she bent nearer to the idol. “And what wonderful eyes!”

There were eyes in the sockets, and they seemed to goggle and stare as one looked into the gold face. Everybody examined the image separately, as it was passed from hand to hand, but it was only Nick Carter who noted that the colored iris of each eye was an exact duplicate, in tone and shape, of those belonging to the grave East Indian student who called himself Ched Ramar.

Clarice, more than any of the others, seemed to be[Pg 13] taken with the beauty of the golden idol. She stood, holding it in her hands and gazing in silent admiration, as if she were fascinated.

“Miss Bentham seems to like my poor specimen. Will she honor me by accepting it?”

“Why, I—I—don’t think I should,” she protested, making as if she would put it down. “It is too valuable. It would be too much. I really couldn’t take such a priceless——”

“What’s that?” asked Mrs. Morrison, turning from some other images she had been looking at on a table near her. “What did you say, Clarice?”

“Professor Ched Ramar has asked me to accept this exquisite gold idol, aunt. I couldn’t—could I?”

“No, I think not, dear,” returned Mrs. Morrison. “It is such a wonderful and costly thing, that——”

“It pains me that you decline,” murmured Ched Ramar. “If I have offended, I am sorry—deeply sorry. But my excuse must be that it is a custom of my country to offer trifling gifts like this to ladies who seem to admire them. You understand, I hope?”

Mrs. Morrison looked from the tall, dark Indian to her niece, and seemed to make up her mind with a jerk.

“Yes, I think I understand,” she answered. “Of course, if it is the Indian custom, that makes a difference.” Then, turning to Clarice, she went on: “I think you may accept it, Clarice. And, I may add, that it is an opportunity which does not often come to a girl.”

Ched Ramar put the idol in Clarice’s hands, and she held it before her with an expression of rapturous delight in her fair face.

“How can I thank you?” she murmured.

“Oh, it is nothing,” declared Ched Ramar, putting up his hands with a protesting gesture. “Let us go down again. There are some pieces of jade—vases—that I don’t think I have shown you, and that I should feel honored if you and Mrs. Morrison would take with you as mementos of this evening.”

When, half an hour later, the party left the house, the two ladies had the magnificently carved jade vases to which Ched Ramar had referred. But Clarice held clasped to her bosom, as if she feared she might lose it, the gold idol that seemed to have been merely an uncontemplated gift, but which Nick Carter remembered had been promised to her by the strange voice from the lips of the gigantic Buddha.

“I wonder just how far thought transference and hypnotism really can go?” he said, as he entered his library and lighted a cigar, an hour or so afterward.

CHAPTER IV.
AN EARLY-MORNING CALL.

It was a custom of Nick Carter to take a brisk walk by himself in the early morning when he had been able to get to bed at a reasonable hour the night before. In accordance with this habit he was out of the house and on his way to Madison Square before seven the day after his visit, with the Benthams and Mrs. Morrison, to the home of Ched Ramar, in Brooklyn.

The grass looked and smelled fresh at that hour, for it was a bright morning, and there had been a light shower of rain during the night, which had freshened the verdure and flowers, and brought out their fragrance more than[Pg 14] usual. The detective enjoyed a stroll about the little park, and his thoughts were clearer than they would have been in a room. At least, he believed they were.

“Hypnotism!” he mused, half aloud. “That is the explanation, no doubt. But it doesn’t make everything clear. For instance, it doesn’t tell me who this Ched Ramar really is. I looked at him closely last night, and I couldn’t see anything in him that warranted my doubting him. Nevertheless, I do doubt him—from the top of his turban to the heels of his slippers.”

He took another turn up the path he had chosen for his stroll, in a rather retired part of the square, before he resumed his half-audible cogitations. Then he went on slowly:

“It is fortunate for society that the understanding of hypnotism rests chiefly in the hands of men who are to be trusted. Were its power to be wielded to any great extent by criminals, there would be many innocent tools of lawbreakers. It may be that Clarice Bentham is one of them. I hope not, but it looks suspicious.

“The greatest tragedy is that, while under the dominion of another’s will, the hypnotic subject has no realization of its doings, and, when consciousness returns, no remembrance. Well, if Ched Ramar is taking advantage of that young girl’s innocence of the ways of the world to make her do things she would shrink from under ordinary circumstances, I don’t think it will be well for Ched Ramar. In fact—— Hello! What’s the trouble now? Here comes Chick!”

Indeed, Chick came hurrying along the path at a pace that told he had something important to communicate—even if his face had not shown that he was excited.

“Telephone, chief!” cried Chick, as soon as he came within hearing. “It is Professor Matthew Bentham. Wanted to know if you could see him if he came. I told him you were out just then, but I believed I could find you.”

“Yes?”

“I also said that I had no doubt you would see him, and that he’d better come over from Brooklyn—that’s where he lives—and get to our house by the time you were there.”

“That was right. Did he say he would come?”

“Yes. He said he would come over in his motor car and be there in a few minutes.”

So well had Matthew Bentham timed himself that his car drew up in front of the Madison Avenue house just as Nick Carter and Chick walked up from Madison Square. The three entered the house together, while the chauffeur kept the car at the curb, to wait.

“It’s gone!” were Matthew Bentham’s first words, as soon as they were in the library. “I’ve just found it out.”

“You mean the package of papers sent by Andrew Anderton?”

“Yes. There are not many things would have made me trouble you at this time of the morning, so you can easily guess. I was tired when I got home last night, after that reception at Ched Ramar’s, or I would have looked then to see that the records were safe. But I went to the place where I had put them the first thing this morning, even before breakfast.”

“In a secret place?”

“Yes. The one I told you about yesterday afternoon.[Pg 15]”

“Did you say nobody knew where they were but yourself? Think hard, please. You are quite sure you have never let it out to your daughter, for instance?”

“I told you yesterday that I have been careful to keep it from her—for her own sake. She has not the slightest idea where I kept those papers.”

“What is the name of the boy who does odd jobs about your house—and sleeps away?” asked Nick, with seeming irrelevance.

“Swagara.”

“Curious name. What countryman is he?”

“Japanese.”

Nick Carter started and looked hard at the professor. Then he smiled grimly, as he asked:

“Where did the boy come from? How did you get him?”

“An employment agency in New York. He had been a valet for a theatrical man before he came to me. But he didn’t like traveling, and he was willing to do the menial work I require rather than go on the road again. He wanted to stay in New York, so that he could study more conveniently. He is a bright chap, and he speaks German and French, as well as English and his own native tongue.”

“He brought good references, I suppose?”

“Unimpeachable,” was Bentham’s prompt reply. “He has been in this country three years, and there are many persons in Brooklyn who knew him before he went with the theatrical man, Goddard. They all speak well of Swagara. He attended a college there, studying languages, and everybody says he was marvelously quick.”

“I don’t doubt it,” was Nick Carter’s dry response. “However, please tell me all the facts of this case. Then we will see what we can do.”

“There is nothing to tell, except that the records sent to me by my friend Andrew Anderton, just before his death, have been stolen from my home since yesterday afternoon, when I last looked at them. The theft may have been committed while we were at Ched Ramar’s, or afterward, when we were asleep.”

“Who was in the house while you were at Ched Ramar’s? This Japanese of yours, Swagara?”

“No. Only the two maids—the cook and the general servant. They would never touch anything. We’ve had them a long time. Besides, I’ve seen them proof against all kinds of accidental temptations. They could have robbed me hundreds of times if they had been criminally disposed. You may as well cut them out of the list of possible thieves, Carter.”

“I have cut them out,” replied Nick.

“And Swagara, too?”

“Not yet. I should like to know a little more about Swagara. You are sure he was not in the house while you were away?”

“Quite.”

“How do you know?”

“He has proved an alibi—without trying to do so. He mentioned that he was visiting a fellow countryman of his who is employed at Yonkers, and that he did not get home till two o’clock this morning. This friend of his is in the service of a friend of mine, and I had him on the telephone just before I came out this afternoon. Swagara did not leave the house in Yonkers till one o’clock. He and his chum sat in the kitchen, talking till that hour. My friend happened to have company, and[Pg 16] he did not go to bed till Swagara left. So he knows. I was home by one.”

“That settles that, then,” agreed Nick. “We must look elsewhere. By the way, have you ever heard exactly how Andrew Anderton died?”

“No. I was told that he died of heart failure. But from what I have heard about Sang Tu and the Yellow Tong, and of its hatred for Anderton, I am inclined to think that hideous Chinese organization was somehow responsible for his death.”

“It was responsible,” declared the detective. “Wait a moment. I want to show you something.”

He went to his iron safe, and, twisting the combination knob for a few seconds, opened the great door. Then, after using a key he carried on his key ring to open one drawer within another, he brought out a small tin box and placed it on the table.

“Don’t touch what I am about to show you, Mr. Bentham,” he warned. “It is dangerous.”

When he opened the box, he held it close to his visitor. Inside were two long, glittering needles, crossed and held together at the point of contact.

“Harmless-looking things, aren’t they?” asked Nick. “Yet it was these that killed Andrew Anderton. Well, not these exactly, but two needles of the same kind. They are poisoned, so that even a slight scratch with one of the points will cause instant unconsciousness, followed by death in a few seconds.”

“Who did it?”

“That has never been found out. Two men concerned in the murder have paid the penalty. But the one at the back of it all is still at large. We shall get him, but we haven’t done it yet. I only mentioned this to convince you that the power which put Andrew Anderton out of the world is not likely to hesitate at breaking into your house and stealing the records that were the cause of his assassination.”

“The crossed needles,” murmured Bentham musingly. “I have heard of them. But I did not really believe they were in use in New York. They are a cheerful feature of certain phases of life in China, I understand. I heard a guest of mine talking about them the other night. He was a Chinese professor from Peking, introduced by a member of the Oriental Association.”

“What was his name?” asked Nick casually.

“Upon my word, I forget. Something like Ning Po, though I don’t think that was it exactly.”

“Not Sang Tu?”

“No, indeed,” replied Bentham, with a slight smile, as he shook his head. “You don’t suppose I should receive the head of the Yellow Tong in my house without knowing who he was? This Professor Ning Po—or whatever his name was—did not look the kind of man to be connected with such an infamous organization. He was a very mild sort of man, blinking behind large spectacles, and a decidedly entertaining personage.”

“I should like to have seen him.”

“I think you would have found him worth while. He has made himself famous by his translations of ancient Chinese literature into English. I hope to see him again. I enjoyed his conversation very much.”

“Was Professor Ning Po, by any chance, alone in the room in which you have these records hidden, at any time, during that evening?” asked Nick, with one of those sudden changes of topic that he often indulged in when[Pg 17] working on a puzzling case. “I don’t ask which room that was.”

“It was the library,” replied Bentham. “I was about to tell you that. In fact, I should like to show you the secret place where I kept the package of papers, if you can spare time to come with me.”

“I shall spare the time, of course. I could not give you much help, I am afraid, unless I had your entire confidence. That means that I want to see the receptacle from which the thieves took the papers. You have not breakfasted, I think you said?”

“No, I was too anxious. I just hurried right out, to see you, without thinking about breakfast.”

“Nevertheless, it is not well to work seriously without proper meals. Will you honor me by taking breakfast here?”

“Thank you, I will,” answered Matthew Bentham. “Now that I have confided the case to your hands, I am not so worried, and my appetite seems to be returning.”

CHAPTER V.
THE HOLLOW TABLE LEG.

When Matthew Bentham’s motor car left Nick Carter’s house, it held, besides Bentham, the chauffeur, and Nick, the latter’s assistant, Chick.

The detective had explained that he often found Chick’s quick observation of inestimable benefit, and Bentham had been only too willing for him to accompany them.

“I confess the whole thing is such a puzzle to me that I cannot see how even you are to get to the bottom of it,” he remarked, as the car swept over the Manhattan Bridge. “Perhaps Mr. Chick will see into the problem. At all events, the more there are working on it, the better chance there seems to be of success.”

Once in the library in Matthew Bentham’s house, with the door locked, and only Bentham, Carter, and Chick in the room, the detective proceeded to make a close examination of the window. There was only one window, and it overlooked a garden at the back of the house.

Access to this garden could be obtained from the street through a narrow passageway at the side of the house, which was guarded by a high wooden gate, with a row of spikes on top. The gate had a spring lock, which could be opened from without only by a key.

“The window has an electric burglar alarm, Carter,” observed Bentham, as Nick began to look it over. “There was no indication that it had been tampered with when I examined it this morning. The catch was properly secured, too. I can’t think the thief got in that way.”

Nick Carter did not reply. Instead, he called to Chick, and throwing open the window, went through and dropped to the garden beneath.

“Come down here, Chick, and look around,” he directed.

The ground below the window had been newly sown with seed, and as yet was only sparsely covered with grass. Mr. Bentham intended to have a small patch of lawn there eventually. So soft was the soil that the footprints of sparrows who had been digging up the grass seed were plainly revealed.

“No footprints, so far as I can see, chief,” remarked Chick. “If any one had been here, his heels would sink in a couple of inches.”

“That’s true, Chick. I agree with you. But I guess we’ll make sure no one has been in the garden. Look[Pg 18] all over it on that side, and I’ll do the same on the other.”

In about ten minutes both of them were in the library again, with the window closed.

“Now will you show me the place in which you hid the papers?” asked Nick Carter, in a businesslike way. “But, if you don’t wish my assistant to know, he will step outside the room.”

“I don’t wish him to do so,” interrupted Bentham. “Why should I? This is a confidential affair, and certainly Mr. Chick is in my confidence when I know he has proved himself worthy of yours.”

He pulled down the window shade, and added to his precaution by closing a solid, wooden shutter inside. Then he hung a velvet jacket he generally wore in the library on the handle of the door, so that it covered the keyhole.

“I am not afraid of anybody eavesdropping,” he explained. “But I do not want you to feel that it is possible. We are quite sure nobody can peek in here now.”

He pulled out the drawer of his massive, mahogany library table and laid it on a chair. Then he thrust his hand into the opening and pressed in a certain spot. His next move was to replace the drawer, following this by clasping with fingers the thick, round leg on his right as he sat at the table.

It seemed to take considerable strength to accomplish his purpose, and it was several seconds before he slid the front of the leg around, disclosing an opening in it some ten inches long and three wide. This part of the table leg was hollow.

“There is the place, Carter. You see that it is empty.”

“Has anything about the table been forced?” asked the detective. “Or was the table leg opened in the same way that you did it just now, by pressing certain buttons and unscrewing part of the leg?”

“Nothing has been injured, so far as I can see,” returned Bentham. “Let me show you just how it works.”

He took out the table drawer again, and Nick Carter, flash light in hand, peered under the table. It did not take him a moment to understand the ingenious contrivance.

“You see, what adds to the security of this table-leg cupboard, is that the drawer must not only be taken out, but also put back, before the opening can be made,” said Bentham. “It is not the kind of thing that could be discovered accidentally.”

“That is apparent,” agreed Nick. “Whoever stole those papers knew just how to get at them. Would you mind asking Miss Bentham to come into the library for a few moments?”

“I will do so if you wish it,” was the reply. “But Clarice cannot help us. She did not know anything about the papers being gone till I told her, and she had no idea even then of their great importance.”

He rang the bell as he spoke, and in a minute a fresh-looking maid came in and looked inquiringly at Matthew Bentham.

Nick Carter decided that it would be hard to suspect this maid of being mixed up in the affair. Obviously, she was the sort of girl who would attend to her work conscientiously, and think of nothing else after it was done except her personal affairs—new clothes, and so forth.

“Mary, ask Miss Clarice to step here,” requested Bentham.[Pg 19]

Almost directly, Clarice Bentham came into the room, followed by her aunt, Mrs. Morrison.

“I took the liberty of coming with Clarice, Matthew,” explained Mrs. Morrison. “I have not gone home yet, and I am very anxious to know whether you have found out anything about your papers.”

Nick Carter bowed to Mrs. Morrison and Clarice. They returned his bow with smiles, for both of them knew that the famous detective, Nick Carter, was in the house. Neither had the slightest idea that this keen-faced man, with the brisk manner, was the rather slow-spoken Doctor Hodgson whom they had seen last night. It was not the detective’s intention that they should know it, either.

“I am sorry to trouble you, Miss Bentham,” he began. “But it occurred to me that it might be worth while hearing what Professor Ched Ramar said to you last night when you were examining the big statue of Buddha in his famous idol room. Everybody has heard of that wonderful image. Your father tells me you examined it closely.”

“I did,” she admitted readily. “Professor Ched Ramar showed it to me himself. He only told me that it was a fine specimen. Then he went away. When I was alone, I climbed up to look at the face of the idol, and Doctor Hodgson, who came into the room, spoke to me about it in a general way. Professor Ched Ramar also came in, with my aunt, Mrs. Morrison, and my father. Ched Ramar afterward gave me a small gold idol.”

“Yes? Was Doctor Hodgson there at the time?”

“I believe so. But I am quite sure Doctor Hodgson had nothing to do with the loss of these papers, any more than Ched Ramar had. You don’t think my visit last night had any connection with the burglary, do you?” she added, with a quizzical smile.

He passed over this query, as if it were too absurd to be taken seriously, and turned the conversation by hoping that the ladies were not fatigued by their examination of Ched Ramar’s antiques the night before.

“That sort of thing always tires me excessively,” he explained. “I am afraid I ought not to have come to you so early in the morning afterward.”

“This is not early, Mr. Carter,” protested Clarice, still smiling. “I am ashamed to be so late. We have only just finished breakfast. By the way, here is the gold idol that was given to me. I was looking at it just now when Mary told me I was wanted in the library, and I forgot to put it down.”

She passed the idol to Nick Carter, and he stared at it intently for a few seconds, as he tried to understand why the eyes looked so human, although he knew they were only of skillfully fashioned glass.

“I will not detain Miss Bentham any longer,” he said to Bentham. “It was hardly worth while to trouble her at all. But I thought possibly she might have heard something that would put us on the right track.”

“You surely don’t suspect Professor Ched Ramar of stealing papa’s papers, do you, Mr. Carter?” she asked, laughing. “I hope you’ll pardon me if I say that you seem to look suspiciously at everybody. That is the way it strikes me now. But I know it is the only way to find out things, and I do hope you will find papa’s valuable papers. I hate to see him so worried.”

With a playful wave of the hand to Nick Carter, as if she were asking his pardon again for speaking so bluntly,[Pg 20] the girl went out of the room, followed by her rather stately aunt, and Chick whistled softly to himself.

“She’s a mighty pretty girl,” he muttered. “But she’s rather too fresh in the way she talks to the chief. He never suspects anybody without very good reason.”

CHAPTER VI.
BROKEN THREADS.

For five minutes after Clarice and Mrs. Morrison had left the library, Nick Carter sat in front of the table in a brown study. He felt as if he had run against a brick wall, and that it would take some climbing to get over it.

“Chick,” he said, at last, “suppose you go down into the kitchen regions and interview the Japanese young man you’ll find down there. His name is Swagara. Find out if he has any Chinese friends, and whether he knows Ched Ramar. Don’t be rough with him. Lead him on gently. Understand?”

“Yes. That’s clear enough,” replied Chick.