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No. 136. NEW YORK, April 17, 1915. Price Five Cents.

THE MAN THEY HELD BACK;
Or, NICK CARTER’S OTHER SELF.

Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.

CHAPTER I.
A MAN IN A MASK.

“You’ll pass for a Mexican in those togs, chief.”

“The ‘togs,’ as you call them, Chick, don’t necessarily make any character. But there is nothing about a Mexican to distinguish him from other men except his costume, so I dare say I shall be a good-enough Mexican for the purpose.”

Nick Carter, the famous detective, regarded his reflection in the mirror rather disgustedly, and his speech came in angry jerks, unlike his usual calm, even tones.

“You’ll be masked, of course?” observed his assistant, Chickering.

“Certainly. It is a masked ball. If it were not, I should have very little chance of catching my men. They would know me at once.”

“I hope they will be there.”

“They will, in all probability—unless they suspect that I may be on the lookout for them. But I wish the costumer hadn’t made this mistake about my dress. I told him distinctly I wanted the uniform of a Spanish officer—a colonel, if he had it. Evidently he considered this rig—with the trousers split at the bottoms, and this big sombrero—was near enough, when he found he had not just what I ordered.”

“Pity we hadn’t got the costumes in our own wardrobe.”

“Yes. We have all kinds of disguises,” returned Nick. “But we seem to have overlooked both a Spanish officer and a Mexican of this particular type. I could have gone as a vaquero without bothering anybody outside. But I have been seen in that dress, and this gang of counterfeiters we are after are as cunning as any set of men I have ever met. They’d smell me out, as a vaquero, as soon as I went into the ballroom.”

“I’d like to be going with you,” said Chick, with a shade of envy in his voice. “Those big balls at the Hotel Supremacy are always worth seeing. I dare say I could have got an invitation.”

“I am going on business, Chick,” returned his chief coldly.

“I know that. Still, some business is pleasanter than others,” persisted Chick. “You are going to do the tango, I suppose?”

“I shall not dance,” was the answer. “I intend to go up in the balcony to look on. I’ll get into a private box if I can.”

The telephone bell rang, and Chick answered. Then he turned to Nick.

“It’s Corliston, the costumer.”

“Find out what he’s after. I suppose he wants to apologize for sending me the wrong costume.”

That was exactly what Corliston did want. There had been a Spanish officer and a Mexican both ordered, and through an error on the part of some of his men, the Spanish officer had gone to somebody else. He hoped Mr. Carter would not be much inconvenienced. If there was anything he could do, et cetera, et cetera.

“Tell him it is all right,” directed Nick shortly.

He put a light overcoat over his Mexican rig, and went down to the taxi waiting for him at the front door.

There had been some counterfeits of big bills worrying the treasury department of late, and Nick Carter had been asked to help in gathering in the persons who were making and “shoving” the bad bills.

Information had reached Nick that some of the guests at the mask ball at the big hotel might be the men he was after.

The hint had come to him anonymously, and he did not like it. Ordinarily he would have hesitated about giving such a message serious attention. He had the contempt of all decent people for unsigned communications of this kind.

But he surmised, from the general appearance of the letter, as well as its wording, that it had been written by somebody who had been in the gang, and had left it with a feeling of being illtreated. So he felt that he could not afford to throw it aside without investigation.

When he reached the hotel, and, with his heavy, bullion-trimmed sombrero in his hand, went up in the elevator to the ballroom floor, he found that the gathering was likely to be a large and gay one.

One of the features of the main ballroom of the Hotel Supremacy is the ring of private boxes overlooking the large floor. The boxes are immediately below the open balcony, so that they are shadowed and give plenty of privacy to guests who may desire to see without being observed.

Nick was standing just inside the ballroom, looking over the floor through the eyeholes of his black mask, and trying to determine whether any of the disguised men promenading or dancing were likely to be his counterfeiters, when an attendant touched him on the elbow, and whispered:

“This way, sir!”

It was one of the rules of Nick Carter to follow any lead that might be thrown out to him, just to see where it would take him. Also, he never permitted himself to show surprise.

He turned to the uniformed attaché and calmly surveyed him, ere he answered quietly, and in a tone very much unlike that of his natural voice:

“All right! Go ahead!”

Without a word, the attendant preceded him to the wide, carpeted staircase leading to the corridor at the back of the private boxes. He stopped at number thirty-six, which was painted on the box door in gilt figures.

Nick Carter took his seat in the box, and leaning his strong chin on his hand, watched with interest the moving throng on the floor below.

“I don’t believe Martin or any of the gang are here,” muttered Nick, after half an hour’s steady contemplation of the promenaders and dancers. “He’s heard that I’ll be here, and he’s keeping dark still. Well, I’ll get him yet. I shall stay for a couple of hours, anyhow. He and Lawton, or some of the gang, may come later. They’re going to get rid of some of those hundreds to-night, unless that informant of mine is a liar or very badly mistaken.”

There was a little disappointment in Nick Carter’s bosom. This man, Shoreham Martin, was a man who had always covered his tracks successfully. At the same time, there was little doubt on the part of Nick Carter that he was the prime mover in one of the most audacious and successful counterfeiting organizations in America.

“If I don’t get Martin to-night, it will only be putting off the happy day,” continued Nick, to himself. “I have that comfort for my soul.”

A soft tap-tap at the door made him swing around and look into the gloom at the back of the box.

The tapping was repeated, and Nick got up and opened the door.

A slender girl, in the black-spangled robes of a “Queen of Night,” stepped inside and closed the door.

She was masked, but Nick could see a beautiful chin and white temples, which satisfied him the “Queen” was young. Probably, also, attractive of face.

“I beg pardon——” he began.

“Hush!”

She held up a finger for silence and motioned toward the curtains at the front of the box.

“Draw them together, quick!” she whispered.

Nick Carter had not the slightest idea what this was all about. But the mystery of it appealed to his love of adventure, and he closed the curtains at once.

“Be careful, Marcos,” went on the girl, in a tense, hushed voice. “They know you are here.”

“The deuce they do!” thought the detective.

“I have had a warning,” she continued. “They are going to send you up something to drink. But you must not take any of it.”

Nick Carter stared down at the masked face, and noted the general poise of the slight figure with admiration. Mingled with it was perplexity.

“I am sure you are making a mistake,” he told her. “Who do you think I am?”

“Don’t be foolish!” she rejoined impatiently. “I tell you there is danger. I told you not to come here. But you insisted. Now see what has happened. Don Solado and Miguel have recognized you already.”

A loud knock came at the door. The girl leaped away, and her eyes shone through the slits in her mask like half-hidden incandescent lights.

“There! I told you!” she gasped. “Where can I hide?”

In a corner of the dark box Nick Carter’s voluminous light overcoat hung on a peg. The girl slipped behind the coat and was completely hidden. Unless some one should come and make a thorough search, there was no fear of her being discovered.

“I don’t know who Marcos is,” thought Nick. “But it seems as if I am to assume his name for the present. So here goes. I need a little excitement, to make up for my disappointment over Martin.”

When he swung open the door, all he saw was a liveried attendant, with a silver salver. On it was a small coffeepot, with sugar, cream, and a cup and saucer.

“Who ordered that?” demanded Nick.

“I have been sent to ask if you would like a cup of coffee, your highness,” said the man imperturbably.

The attachés of the Hotel Supremacy are used to meeting highnesses, kings, lords, tycoons, viceroys, effendis, and so forth. There is nothing in the way of a title that can disturb them. If the Ahkoond of Swat came along, they might wonder to find that historical personage still alive, but they would announce him as coolly as they would “Mr. Jones, of Penn Yan.”

“I’m a ‘highness,’ am I?” thought Nick. “Marcos must be somebody worth representing, anyhow.”

He made a sign for the man to put the tray on the small table that was part of the furniture of the box.

When he had gone out and the door had closed, the girl came out from behind the overcoat, and put her hand on Nick’s arm just as he was reaching for the coffeepot.

“You don’t believe me?” she protested, with a catch in her voice that showed she was hurt. “I tell you I saw Solado whispering to that man who brought in the coffee, and Solado gave him a yellowback bill. That coffee is drugged. They are going to prevent your getting out of New York somehow.”

“Even if they have to dope me?” smiled Nick Carter. “Well, I assure you I had no intention of drinking that coffee. It is not my habit to eat or drink anything that comes to me with so much mystery.”

“There is no mystery in it to me,” she rejoined. “I know those men, and so ought you, Marcos—I mean, your highness.”

Nick Carter laughed softly, as he put his hand to his mask.

“You will insist that I am somebody else,” he said. “The best thing I can do is to let you see my face.”

The black satin mask was off with one twitch, and the girl gazed at him steadily for several moments. It seemed as if she could hardly believe the evidence of her own vision.

“Well?” queried Nick.

“You are not Prince Marcos. But you are wonderfully like him. You might be twin brothers, except that your eyes are a little darker than his, and your mouth is firmer. But the shape of your face, your expression, and even your voice are almost identical. It’s marvelous!”

She said this in a low voice, as she inspected Nick Carter’s countenance in a way that might have been embarrassing to a less self-possessed person. To him it was only amusing.

“What I can’t understand,” she continued, “is how you come to be in this box, number thirty-six, and why you are in the costume that the other gentleman ordered this afternoon. I know he asked for a Mexican dress, and that the clerk showed him this one—or one like it, for I was with him at the store.”

“I believe I can explain part of the mystery,” returned Nick. “As a matter of fact, this is not my costume. I ordered an entirely different one from Corliston’s——”

“Corliston!” repeated the girl. “Yes, that was the firm we went to.”

“The usher who put me into this box judged me by my dress, I suppose,” smiled Nick. “He had been told to put a Mexican into thirty-six, and he did as he had been instructed. So we can’t blame the man.”

Nick Carter could see that the cheeks of the girl were gradually losing their pallor, as if she had been relieved of some great anxiety.

“Are you sure this coffee is drugged?” he asked.

“There is no doubt about that,” she answered quickly. “There are two men below who have mistaken you for the—for the other gentleman, and they are going to do him injury if they can.”

“Why?”

“That I can’t tell you. But the men are very dangerous. Moreover, if they find out that I have come here to warn you, they will kill me.”

“I hardly think that,” answered Nick Carter. “This is New York. It is not safe to kill people here. Still, some men will take chances. Especially foreigners, and the names you have mentioned have that sort of sound. Did you say Solado and Miguel were watching this box?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. If you will permit me to walk with you, we’ll make a tour of the ballroom and see what we can find out. I give you my word they shan’t kill you while I am with you,” he added, with one of those confident smiles which had given courage to so many persons with whom he had had dealings in the past.

She hesitated, but the detective knew she would do as he had suggested.

CHAPTER II.
WHAT NICK FOUND IN HIS SLEEVE.

“Do you realize that, if Solado and Miguel believe you to be Prince Marcos, your own life may be in danger—even in this ballroom?” asked the girl.

“I don’t think it will.”

“Why should you trouble yourself about something in which you have no interest?” she persisted.

“Who says I have no interest in it?” was his rejoinder. “Since I find myself in this affair, I should like to see it through. You do not know me, but I assure you it will give me pleasure to help you, if I can. There is one thing I can tell you, and that is that Prince Marcos is probably in the uniform of a Spanish colonel. That was what I ordered, and if I have his dress, most likely he has mine. Corliston’s have mixed it up, that’s all.”

“It seems likely,” she murmured.

“More than likely. Will you come?”

“Yes. I must tell Marcos that Solado is here. But you must not go in that costume.”

Nick Carter had already readjusted the black mask over his face, but the girl could tell, from the set of the firm chin, that this man, a stranger to her, was determined to have his way.

“I have never yet seen the man of whom I was afraid,” he returned. “There will be no danger, I assure you.”

She could not resist his masterful manner. He held out his hand. She took it, and he led her out of the box.

They walked along the corridor, the girl leaning on his arm, and so down the staircase to the ballroom.

As they entered, a dance was just over, and the dancers, chatting and laughing, were leaving the floor.

“All the better,” he whispered, behind his mask. “We shall have plenty of room to walk, and a good opportunity to look at everybody as we go along.”

Nick Carter, a gallant figure in his gay Mexican dress, and with the sombrero pulled well down over his forehead, strode around the ballroom, the “Queen of Night” by his side.

They had almost entirely encircled the great hall without seeing anything of a Spanish officer, either on the floor, in the balcony, or in any of the boxes.

“It seems as if he isn’t here,” remarked Nick to his companion.

She did not answer, but her fingers suddenly tightened on his arm.

“Don’t look into that alcove on the right,” she whispered. “Solado and the other man I mentioned are in there, watching us.”

They walked on a few paces. Then Nick Carter, in a natural manner, looked around him, as if taking a general view of the scene.

He saw two men, in the rich garb of Indian princes, with jewels blazing all over them, moving away from the alcove in the direction of the wide doorway at the other end of the ballroom.

It was the only way by which any one could enter or leave. There were several emergency fire exits, but all were fastened shut. They would open automatically in case of need, but were not used otherwise.

This was an invitation affair, and the famous society leader, Mr. van Raikes, was the hostess.

“You see?” she murmured. “Do be careful, sir. They are desperate and dangerous men.”

“Desperate and dangerous men are the kind one often has to meet in this world,” he replied lightly. “What do you suppose they are going to do now?”

“They will try to prevent your getting away,” was her response. “I feel sure of that. They have seen me with you, and they will know I have told you about them. Of course, they think you are Prince Marcos.”

“That means that you are in danger,” returned Nick, rather more thoughtfully than he had spoken heretofore. “We shall have to——”

“It makes no difference about me,” she answered, drawing a quick breath.

“I beg your pardon. It matters a great deal. I don’t know what this is all about, nor who Prince Marcos and these other men are. But it looks as if there is something that puts you in an awkward situation. Therefore, I must ask you to depend on me.”

“I do depend on you,” she declared gratefully. “But what are we to do?”

“I am going out of this room, and you are coming with me,” returned the detective promptly.

They went out of the ballroom just as another dance began, passing through several of the carpeted corridors, which were generally used by ballroom guests for promenade.

Nothing was to be seen of the two Indian princes until they reached the end of one corridor and turned a corner into a narrower one.

As they did this, the two men stepped out of a doorway directly in their path.

With a half scream the girl stepped behind Nick Carter, still holding his arm for protection.

“Pardon me!” said the shorter man of the pair, in a somewhat truculent tone. “I should like to have a word with you.”

“With me? Why, my dear sir, I don’t believe I know you,” responded Nick carelessly.

“We have no time for joking, your highness,” retorted the man, in a thick, angry voice. “Prince Miguel and I have been trying to get to you for several days. We found out, at a costumer’s, this afternoon, that you would be at this ball to-night.”

“Once more, let me ask, who are you?” was Nick Carter’s rejoinder. “I don’t know that you have any reason to be interested in my doings or whereabouts.”

With a strange oath, the taller man interposed, jumping forward and pushing his companion aside.

“What is the use of this pretense?” he growled. “I know you are my cousin, and I want to know what you intend to do when you get back home to Joyalita.”

Nick Carter permitted himself a laugh of intense amusement—a laugh that evidently grated on the other person’s nerves, for he broke out with another oath—in Spanish, or something like it.

“Either you have mistaken me for somebody else, or you are crazy,” declared Nick. “This lady and I want to pass on.”

Nick Carter pushed his way forward, regardless of the gesticulating stranger.

Together, and with a lightninglike movement, the two men flung themselves upon him.

Nick had anticipated something of the kind, however, and as the shorter man came to the proper distance, the detective shot out his hard American fist straight from the shoulder.

There was a loud splat, as the blow landed on the masked face, and down went Don Solado—for it turned out to be he—flat on his back, evidently knocked out.

“What?” bellowed the taller man, Prince Miguel. “Is that your game? Well, we’ll see!”

He flung his arms around the detective, trying to force him backward.

It was a sharp tussle, but there were few men who could overcome Nick Carter in a wrestling match, either impromptu or otherwise.

While the trembling girl watched the fierce, but almost silent, combat, her escort gradually made his adversary give way. At last Nick got the other man where he wanted him.

“Had enough?” asked the detective.

“No! Curse you! I’ll——”

The tall stranger never finished the sentence. With a sudden heave, Nick Carter swung him clear off his feet and threw him high in the air, helpless and kicking.

“Oh!” cried the girl, half in terror and half in admiration of the strength and activity of her champion.

Nick Carter’s blood was up now, and he determined to finish the job in a thorough manner.

Exerting all his strength, he flung Prince Miguel bodily to the floor. The prince fell like a bag of sawdust, and with no more animation.

His head struck against the wall, and as he fell sprawling across the body of the unconscious Don Solado, there were the two of them dead to the world.

The girl covered her face with her hands. For a few moments she saw nothing. When she looked up again, Nick Carter was calmly adjusting his mask, which had slipped slightly to one side.

His eyes were on her, and he beckoned. When she went over to him, he said, in a cool voice, without any symptom of disturbance:

“The corridor seems to be clear. We can do nothing more here. Let us go.”

Drawing her hand through his arm with the courtly ease that came naturally to him, the detective stalked down the side hallway in which the encounter had taken place, until they were in the main corridor.

“I think I will go home now, if you will have somebody call a taxicab for me,” she said. “I wish I could thank you, as I ought. But—but, you see, I do not even know your name.”

“My name is Carter—Nicholas Carter.”

“Carter!” she repeated. “I shall not forget that name.”

He took a cardcase from his pocket and from it drew a card, on which was his address, as well as his name.

It did not strike him as peculiar that she did not seem to have heard of him—or, if she had, did not connect him with the detective of international renown.

He knew that such a girl as this, who, presumably, lived a sheltered life, in a home where police matters were very much detached from her existence, was quite likely never to have heard of Nick Carter. It pleased him just as well to think that she never had.

“My services are small enough,” he answered, with a smile. “Should you desire them at any time, I shall always be pleased to aid you. I cannot help thinking there may be a sequel to this adventure of to-night. If there is, I should like to be in it.”

“You mean that?”

“I most certainly do.”

Nick Carter turned his head as he heard a scuffling and loud talking behind him.

What he saw was the shorter and thicker of the two figures in the dress of Indian princes at the other end of the corridor, supported by two of the hallboys of the Supremacy. He seemed unable to walk.

The detective did not wait to see whether Don Solado would recognize him or not.

As a taxicab drew up under the porte-cochère, in response to his call, Nick handed his fair companion into the vehicle.

She told the chauffeur to go to Riverside Drive. Then, waving her hand to Nick, as the taxi glided away, she sank back in the seat and seemed to give herself up to her own thoughts.

Another taxi drove up for the detective, and he told the man to take him to his home in Madison Avenue. On the way, he glanced at his bruised knuckles and smiled calmly.

“Rather jarred my fist,” he muttered. “But I think I jarred that fellow’s jawbone worse. I don’t know who Prince Marcos is. But I think he was in luck when Corliston got our costumes mixed. Those two fellows meant mischief to-night if they had caught the real Marcos.”

When he got home and was in his library, he threw off the Mexican jacket, glad to get rid of it. Something glittering fell from one of the sleeves and dropped upon the floor.

“Hello! What have I won?” he exclaimed, as he stooped to pick up the object. “A jeweled watch! It must be worth three or four thousand dollars, I should say. That certainly was a swell crowd at the Supremacy to-night. These diamonds and rubies on the watch are magnificent, and the watch alone is a fine one in itself.”

It was indeed a splendid thing. It was incrusted with diamonds and rubies. All were large, and three of the diamonds were of exceptional size. Attached to the watch was a fob of black ribbon, with a jeweled cross attached.

Nick Carter remembered his scuffle with the taller man, and he had no doubt that the watch had become entangled in his sleeve at that time.

“Well, when I see him again, I’ll give it back. But I am not inclined to run after him.”

He dropped the watch and fob into the drawer of his big table and locked the drawer. Then he went to bed.

Looking into Chick’s room on his way, he saw that his assistant was snoring away, in utter unconsciousness that anybody had opened the door.

CHAPTER III.
SUSPECTS AND SUSPECTS.

“I am sorry to trouble you, Mr. Carter. But the loss of this watch at the ball really becomes a personal matter with me.”

Nick Carter, sitting in the luxurious boudoir of Mrs. Clement van Raikes, two mornings after the great ball at the Hotel Supremacy, bowed, without speaking.

“It was my ball,” went on the lady. “As one of the acknowledged leaders in New York society, I was anxious that it should be perfect in every way. It was the first fancy-dress affair I ever had given, and I had spared no pains to make it everything it should be.”

“It was a brilliant ball, Mrs. van Raikes,” put in the detective. “I can testify to that personally, for I dropped in for a few minutes.”

“Indeed? I am glad to hear that, because it may help you in tracing this valuable watch. Of course, intrinsically it would not be of sufficient importance for me to engage the services of the most famous detective in America, nor would you consider it on those grounds.”

She paused for Nick Carter to make some remark. He merely bowed gravely. Mrs. van Raikes had spoken the truth, so there was nothing to be added. He certainly was not the man to be sent after a stolen watch, unless there where extraordinary circumstances surrounding the theft.

“The watch is worth four or five thousand dollars, I understand,” continued the lady. “But that is not the point. It was the property of a very distinguished man, who was one of my most honored guests.”

“Yes?”

“The watch was a present to him from his father, who was a monarch——”

“A king, do you mean?” asked Nick, with a sudden accession of interest.

“Well, I believe they called him a prince. He was a ruler of a small country on the Caribbean Sea—a place called Joyalita. It was settled by some Spanish grandees several centuries ago, and it has always been nominally a monarchy ever since.”

“Nominally?” asked Nick. “Do you mean that it is not one in reality?”

“I don’t know. I have heard people say that the South American and Central American republics would not permit it to exist so near to them if it really were what it calls itself. It has a constitutional government, and is more nearly a republic than some other countries that call themselves such.”

“I see,” interposed Nick Carter, anxious to help the lady out of the morass in which she was floundering. “At all events, the prince is the head of the government, and, as I understand it, he takes his position by right of heredity, instead of election?”

“Yes, Mr. Carter, that is it,” assented Mrs. van Raikes, with a sigh of relief. “You have explained it exactly.”

“Who did you say it was who lost it?”

She had not said anybody, but the detective was curious to know who was the owner of the watch that had come so strangely into his hands, and which watch was put away securely in the safe in his library at that very moment.

“It was Prince Miguel, a cousin of the reigning prince, Marcos——”

“Marcos?” interrupted Nick involuntarily.

“Yes. Do you know him, Mr. Carter?”

“I can’t say I know him. In fact, I doubt whether I ever saw him. But I have heard his name.”

“That’s quite likely,” smiled the lady. “You detectives know everybody, of course.”

“It is our business. Was it Prince Miguel who told you of his loss?”

“No. The prime minister of Joyalita, Don Solado. He came here less than an hour ago. As soon as he had gone, I telephoned you. And, by the way, I must thank you again for coming so quickly. I know what a favor I was asking in suggesting that you touch this case at all.”

“Why didn’t he complain to the hotel management?” asked Nick. “You tell me Prince Miguel discovered his loss soon after midnight on the night of the ball. Why did he wait so long before announcing his loss?”

“I can’t say, Mr. Carter,” returned Mrs. van Raikes, shrugging her shoulders. “These princes and their advisers are not like us. They have their own ways.”

“He does not suspect anybody, you say?”

The lady did not answer for a moment, but stared out of a window across Central Park without seeing anything, apparently.

“The fact is, Mr. Carter, Don Solado does suspect one person—a man with whom he had a few angry words outside the ballroom.”

Nick Carter looked up quickly. He was going to hear something interesting now, he thought.

“What was his name? Does Don Solado know?”

“That is a question I cannot answer. Don Solado did not say so. He only told me the man was dressed as a Mexican. I happen to know that one of my guests, a very important man in his own country, intended to come to the ball in a Mexican costume.”

“And you will not let me know who he was?”

She shook her head with a little, apologetic smile.

“I am afraid I cannot, Mr. Carter. It would not be proper to reveal a secret that is not my own.”

“A secret?”

“Well, it may be a secret. I do not know much about foreign politics, especially those of a place like Joyalita, which seems to be different from most other countries, large or small. That is why I am careful not to say more than I can help.”

“Then that is all?” asked Nick Carter, rising. “If I hear anything about this jeweled watch, I will report to you. I think you told me there is an ‘M’ in diamonds as part of its ornamentation?”

“Yes. I know this is a very small case, Mr. Carter. But my husband persuaded me to call you up. He thought the fact of its being the property of a very important personage, and because there is a value attached to the article entirely distinct from what it would bring if offered for sale, could weigh with you.”

“It does,” replied the detective. “I should like to have known the name of that man they think might have stolen the watch, however.”

“Perhaps you will find out yourself,” smiled Mrs. van Raikes. “I am sorry I cannot tell you.”

CHAPTER IV.
CLAUDIA COMES FOR HELP.

It was with an amused smile that Nick Carter leaned back in his taxi after leaving Mrs. van Raikes’ home in Millionaires’ Row, Fifth Avenue, on his way down to his home in Madison Avenue.

He would restore the watch to its owner when he found out who was supposed to have stolen it.

His busy brain had enabled him to see that there was an intrigue of some kind in which the three men and this girl who had interested himself so much were concerned, and he felt that the watch was perhaps the key to it.

At all events, he would not give it up until he knew what the attack upon the Mexican at the ball really meant.

When he stepped into his own house he was met in the hall by his assistant, Chick.

“Say, chief, there’s a girl in the library.”

“A girl? What kind?”

“A peach,” replied Chick enthusiastically. “She wants to see you.”

“Did she give her name?”

“No. She said you would know her when you saw her. But she was determined to wait till you got back.”

“Must be something important,” remarked Nick, as he went upstairs.

“Oh, Mr. Carter, I am so glad you have come! I want your advice about something.”

This was the greeting of the girl who had been waiting as Nick opened the door of his library.

It was the “Queen of Night,” whom he had met at the ball at the Hotel Supremacy, and in whose company he had had so queer an adventure.

He bowed and pointed to the chair from which she had arisen.

“Sit down, and we’ll talk it over, whatever it is,” he answered, with a smile. “I hope you are not in any trouble.”

“I am very much perplexed about something, and I feel that if something is not done quickly, there may be a tragedy that I ought to prevent.”

This was all mysterious enough to make Nick Carter glance inquiringly at his fair visitor.

She was dressed in the plain but expensive garments of a wealthy woman, and everything about her appearance, as well as her speech, proclaimed one who had always been used to the refinements of life.

There was a slight foreign tinge to her accent, but her English was flawless in its choice of words, as well as in the pronunciation.

“You did not ask my name when you met me at the Hotel Supremacy on the night of the ball, notwithstanding that you gave me protection when it was much needed.”

“Unless you volunteered the information, I could hardly ask for it,” smiled the detective.

“I am Claudia Solado, and——”

“Solado was the name of one of the Indian princes whom I found myself treating rather roughly, I am afraid, and——”

“You did right,” she interrupted. “Don Solado is my—my uncle. I am sorry to say that he is a scoundrel.”

She made this statement coolly, as if it were an incontrovertible fact, although regrettable.

“If I had known he was a relative of yours, I might have been a little more gentle, nevertheless,” declared Nick.

“I am glad you were not. He cares nothing for anybody else, and he would sacrifice anybody or anything to further his own schemes. But I need not trouble you about that. What is worrying me is that I am afraid the enemies of Prince Marcos——”

“The person you think I resemble?” asked Nick, with a smile.

“The same,” she answered. “You are very much alike. You will see it yourself if ever you meet Marcos. I know he was all right on the night of the ball.”

“Afterward or before?” asked the detective.

“Afterward. I went to his home and saw him in the taxicab you were kind enough to get for me.”

“Yes?”

“I did not give the cabman the address at the time, because I did not know who might be standing around the hotel to overhear me. So I directed the man to take me to Riverside Drive. Afterward I gave him the prince’s New York address. It is a house called Crownledge. It looks over the Hudson and faces the Palisades.”

“I know the place,” remarked Nick. “Stands in its own rather extensive grounds, and runs right down to the river bank.”

“That describes it,” she smiled. “About Marcos, I was going to say that, although he is strikingly like you in the face, he is not so strong, nor so—so——”

“Impetuous?” laughed Nick Carter. “I’m afraid I did seem so that night. But——”

“I was going to say brave,” interrupted Claudia Solado. “I live on the other side of the river, a few miles above Crownledge. When I found Marcos was safe, I had the taxi man take me to the ferry at One Hundred and Twenty-ninth Street, and I went home.”

“There is something more, is there not?” asked Nick.

“Yes,” she confessed, after some hesitation. “I was satisfied when I found Marcos had not been followed on the night of the ball, and I did not go to see if he was at home until this morning.”

“Yes?”

“He and I have always been playfellows—like brother and sister, in fact—and it was natural for me to go and see him. Besides, his mother is living with him in New York, and I may say, without conceit, that I am a favorite of hers.”

“I can quite believe it.”

Nick had not meant to say this. But it slipped out as he looked at her beautiful, animated face.

She only smiled in acknowledgment of the involuntary tribute, and went on calmly:

“When I went to Crownledge this morning, I could not get in. I rang the electric bell several times, and thumped on the door. There was no response.”

“Where were the servants?”

“They were not in the house. Neither was the princess, Marcos’ mother. I always call her Aunt Laura. But I remembered that she had talked of going to Newport to visit some friends for a few days, so, when I came to think, I was not surprised that she was absent. That did not explain the absence of Marcos and the servants, however.”

“Hardly!” threw in Nick, as she paused.

“The house is not a large one, but there are two maid-servants there, as a rule, besides Prince Marcos’ own man. The maids were brought by Aunt Laura from Joyalita. She travels a great deal, and always likes to be as comfortable as possible when away from home. She looks after Marcos, too, when she is with him. Her own maid had gone with her to Newport.”

“Didn’t you find out anything that would explain the house being untenanted?”

“I can only surmise. My uncle, Don Solado, and Prince Miguel, are in New York for the sole purpose of keeping Marcos away from Joyalita for the present.”

“Why?”

“It is one of those political arguments that come up in small countries now and then—and perhaps in big ones, too,” she answered simply. “Joyalita has always been an independent State, ruled by the same family for generations.”

“I have heard that,” commented Nick. “It has seemed a peaceful and prosperous community, too.”

“Yes. That is the reason Marcos is opposed to any change. In that he has the backing of most of his advisers. But there is another party that is not satisfied. It is made up of men who think they would get more for themselves if there were a different form of government.”

“You find such men in every country,” observed the detective slowly.

“In a few words, here is the state of things,” continued Claudia: “Joyalita has been asked to join an alliance with some of the smaller States in South America—for mutual protection and advantage. That is the way it is put by the agitators. Marcos is bitterly opposed to the change, but unless he can get home before the eighteenth of this month, there is every fear that it will go through.”

“And these two gentlemen who jumped on me at the ball are doing their best to keep him here?” suggested Nick.

“That’s it exactly. A big vote will be taken at a council meeting in Joyalita on the eighteenth, but if Prince Marcos is there, he will sign a negative resolution, and the whole scheme will fall through. This is the tenth, so there are eight days in which Marcos could get back home. He could get there in very much less time than that, but he meant to go at once, so that there should be no danger of his arriving too late.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Marcos has been taken away from Crownledge, I am convinced. He will be held somewhere until too late to get to Joyalita by the eighteenth. If you could suggest some way of finding out where Marcos is——”

“The enemy has taken away the servants, too,” mused Nick, half aloud. “They did their work thoroughly, while they were about it.”

“That is what will make it so hard to trace Marcos,” she murmured, shaking her head. “We can’t even get into the house.”

“But that is just what we will do,” corrected Nick. “And as for our tracing Prince Marcos; well, I have an assistant who will be a great help, unless I am much mistaken.”

He touched a bell, and Chick came in from the other room, glad of an opportunity to gaze again upon the lovely Claudia Solado.

“Where’s Captain?” asked Nick.

“Downstairs,” was Chick’s answer, as his glance wandered to the fair face of the visitor.

“All right! We’ll use him this afternoon,” announced the detective.

“May I go with you with this gentleman—Captain—Captain—what is his name?” asked the girl. “Is he a soldier?”

Nick Carter and Chick both laughed. The former answered, with considerable emphasis: