NICK CARTER
STORIES

Issued Weekly. Entered as Second-class Matter at the New York Post Office, by Street & Smith, 79-89 Seventh Ave., New York.
Copyright, 1915, by Street & Smith. O. G. Smith and G. C. Smith, Proprietors.

THE SEAL OF GIJON;
Or, NICK CARTER’S ICE-HOUSE FIGHT.

Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.

Contents

[The Seal of Gijon]
[Dared for Los Angeles]
[A Pet for the Children]
[A Cat That Saved a Man's Life]
[Student Life in Russia]
[A Beautiful Swiss Custom]
[Undesirable Room]
[The News of All Nations]
[Advertisement: Tobacco Redeemer]

CHAPTER I.
SLIPPED AWAY.

“Look out! You’ll run us down!”

The response was a growling oath, as the heavy launch came on, full speed, straight across the river.

Nick Carter, sitting at the wheel of another craft of the same type, saw the danger, even before his assistant shouted this warning.

“Keep quiet, Chick!” he ordered, in his calm tones. “I’ll make it!”

The famous detective had handled motor boats before, and he knew he could dodge the erratic craft cutting across his bows, unless the other man changed his course at the crucial moment.

They were abreast of Yonkers, and at that point the lordly Hudson is swift, as well as wide.

The launch coming across the river had suddenly appeared from the shadow of the Palisades, apparently bound straight for the busy city on the opposite shore.

In it were three men.

The one at the wheel, who appeared to be in general command, had a square, bulldog sort of face, with heavy jaw, outstanding ears, and other features that make more for physical determination than beauty.

Another man, who scowled at Nick Carter and Chick with an evil intentness that made the latter long to jump on him and have it out there and then, sat in the stern and whispered something in the ear of the engineer.

This second man was lean of face and evidently long of body. He had deep-set, unwinking eyes, and a square face at the bottom which suggested that he was at enmity with most of his kind.

With it all, there was a restless cunning in the far-buried eyes which made him even more unpleasant to contemplate than the man to whom he was whispering.

As if to counterbalance to some extent the preponderance of brutal humanity in the launch, the third passenger was a rather small, slight young man, who looked hardly old enough to vote. His face was pale and his eyes had a gentle, appealing expression, almost like that of a very innocent, unsophisticated girl.

Appearances are deceitful very often. So let it be stated at once that this gentle young fellow, barely out of his teens, and whose voice was as mild as his looks, was none other than Pet Carlin, one of the cruelest, most unscrupulous gangsters in New York City.

Carlin’s name was supposed to be Peter. That had been shortened by his associates to “Pete.” Afterward the final “e” had been clipped off, because of his inoffensive appearance and manner, and he was known as “Pet.”

Nick Carter shut off his power, and manipulated the wheel carefully, as he saw that the man in the other boat was recklessly driving straight toward him.

There was only a narrow margin for the two launches to pass each other, but it would have been done successfully had not the stranger deliberately turned his wheel just as Nick Carter was gliding past in safety by the most skillful management of his helm.

“Larry!” exclaimed Pet, in a startled tone.

He was staring hard at the two passengers in Nick Carter’s boat—two men who wore handcuffs on their wrists—and a quick look of recognition had passed back to him.

“What?” growled the man at the wheel, Larry Dugan. “What’s biting yer, Pet?”

“Look!”

All three of the men in the launch gazed at the two handcuffed men, and all three expressed their astonishment in low grunts.

“Get ’em!” whispered the man behind the steersman—he of the deep-set, cunning eyes. “We’ve got to do it!”

It was just as this was said that the collision came.

The launch coming across the river headed straight for the middle of the other. Only because Nick Carter swung his wheel around, thus receiving a glancing blow, instead of one head-on, was his boat saved from being cut in two.

As it was, the two launches hung motionless for a moment, as two men might before they fell after receiving a mortal blow.

Then, as Nick gave another quick turn to his wheel, and at the same time opened the throttle, he slid past the other launch and was free, in the open water.

It was only for a moment, however.

The detective had seen, at the first glance, that the launch occupied by the three forbidding-looking men was superior to his own in the case with which it could be manipulated.

It was narrower in the beam, and the engine was more powerful. Besides, it answered to its helm more smoothly and promptly than his own.

Nevertheless, as Nick Carter, in that short instant, managed to get a full view of the faces of the men, he recognized them all. Also, he saw that they knew his two handcuffed passengers.

Further proof of this came at once, when, as Nick swung his launch clear, the man at the wheel of the other boat, with a snarl, twisted his wheel and again brought the two launches against each other, parallel, with a crash.

“Look out, Chick! Hold the gunwale of that other boat!” shouted Nick Carter. “Don’t let them get away!”

“I should say not!” was Chick’s response. “Don’t you see who they are?”

“Of course I do!” shouted back Nick Carter. “That fellow at the wheel is Larry Dugan.”

The detective had seen that three of the worst ruffians in New York—men who could be hired to beat, or even kill, a man, for pay—were in the launch, and he could not keep a horrible suspicion out of his mind which implicated Don Solado and Prince Miguel, his two handcuffed prisoners.

It was Nick Carter’s determination now to catch the three thugs. He had little doubt that they had been hired by Solado and Miguel to make away with a man they wanted to keep out of sight, for a time at least.

The man’s name was Prince Marcos.

In this supposition he was right. But he did not give the rascals credit for quite so much audacity as they possessed.

As Nick reached over the sides of the two launches which were rubbing against each other, and grabbed the man nearest to him, who happened to be Pet Carlin, there was a loud shout from Chick.

“Look out, chief! They’re getting our men!”

The launches sprang violently apart, and Nick was obliged to let go of Pet to save himself from going overboard.

With his throttle wide open, sending the boat along at full speed, Nick swung around in pursuit of the other craft.

He had special reason to do this now, for, as Chick had warned him, the trio of ruffians had actually snatched away Don Solado and Prince Miguel, his handcuffed prisoners, under his very nose.

Only the fact that Nick had been hampered by his position at the wheel and the levers of the engine had enabled the rascals to be successful.

It was impossible for the detectives to move quickly—even if it had been safe to leave the launch to its own devices. He was obliged to keep his hand on the steering wheel, and to see that the engine was not running wild.

Larry Dugan, Foxey, and Pet all understood this, and they had taken instant advantage of the odds in their favor.

Pulling the two prisoners from one boat to the other, they had allowed them to lie down in the bottom, while Dugan, with a skill equal to Nick Carter’s own, had sent his launch full speed toward the wharves and tangle of shipping that one always sees on the water front of Yonkers.

It was the multitude of craft of all kinds hiding the wharves that gave the three thugs their advantage.

Larry Dugan was unusually skillful in handling the launch, and he had a long start of Nick Carter before the latter could get his launch around, headed for shore.

It was broad daylight, but there was a bone-racking fog on the river, and it hid the escaping boat even as it plunged in among the anchored shipping and big lumber barges that stretched for a quarter of a mile, at least.

“They can’t be far away,” said Nick, as he pushed his launch along. “Keep a bright lookout, Chick!”

“All right!”

But the rascals knew this part of the river and the peculiarities of the water front of Yonkers as well as did Nick Carter, and they got clear away.

The fog helped them materially. They might never have dodged the pursuing boat otherwise.

The detective also knew Yonkers. But, because he did know it, he was quite aware that it would not be so very difficult for Larry Dugan to elude him, especially with the fog to help.

“They’ve beaten us, chief!” grumbled Chick, a quarter of an hour later. “They’ve gone along inside this line of barges and shot out at the end. While we have been poking about here, they’ve headed down the river.”

“I think you’re right, Chick,” conceded Nick. “They’d hardly go up the river, of course. Well, we’ll go down, too. We’ve lost our prisoners, but I don’t care so much for that if they don’t get hold of Prince Marcos.”

“What is all this about Prince Marcos?” asked Chick. “I don’t think I have ever got the story straight, in spite of all I’ve heard.”

“It can be told in a few words,” answered Nick. “Prince Marcos is the hereditary ruler of Joyalita, a small monarchy near the Caribbean Sea. He is a decent fellow, from all I’ve seen of him.”

“Yes, I understand that,” was Chick’s quiet comment.

“Well, there is a party of grafters in Joyalita who would like the country, such as it is, to be annexed to another one adjoining. That would probably throw Prince Marcos out, and his Cousin Miguel who has just got away from us on that boat, would be made provisional ruler.”

“I see. Miguel would get Marcos’ job. But what is this about Marcos wanting to get home by the eighteenth?”

“If he gets to Joyalita on or before that date, he will be able to use his power to prevent the annexation.”

“By a casting vote?” asked Chick.

“No. As head of the country and government, he won’t have to vote. His word controls the situation.”

“What they call a royal prerogative in Europe, eh?”

“Yes.”

“And this other citizen in the handcuffs, Don Solado—where does he come in?”

“He is prime minister, and he is on the side of Miguel.”

“It’s all clear enough to me now,” remarked Chick. “Don Solado and Miguel are trying to hold Marcos here till it will be too late for him to stop this big grafting annexation?”

“Exactly! We shall have to work like Trojans now to enable Marcos to win. I’ve pledged myself to do it, however, and we shall have to manage it, somehow,” was Nick Carter’s steady conclusion, as he turned the launch downstream. “We have Larry Dugan and his crowd against us, as well as Solado and Miguel. That will make it harder. But we can beat the gang if we stick to it.”

“We’ll stick to it, all right!” responded Chick, with that determined note in his voice which his chief knew meant business.

“That’s what I like to hear, Chick. It won’t be an easy task, but we have simply got to get Prince Marcos to Joyalita by the eighteenth of this month.”

“You bet!” added Chick.

CHAPTER II.
SECRET FOES AT WORK.

In spite of the sharp lookout maintained by Nick Carter and his assistant for the launch with the five rascals in it all the way down to that upper part of Manhattan Island where New York City has reached only to give certain favored persons semirural homes, they saw nothing of the evil-faced Larry Dugan and his companions.

“There’s Crownledge,” pointed out Chick, as they came opposite the handsome house, in its own grounds, which Marcos and his mother had taken for a temporary residence.

The launch ran up to the landing, and Nick Carter, leaving his assistant to take care of the boat, went into the house.

He was met at the door by Claudia Solado, Marcos’ cousin. The girl was delighted to see the detective.

“Mr. Carter, I am so glad you have come,” she said, as she put her soft hand into his. “Marcos wants to start for Joyalita at once, and, really, he is not well enough. After all he passed through in escaping from Prince Miguel and my uncle, and being so nearly drowned, he is weak and feverish. I am sure that if he will stay in the house until to-morrow morning, he will be so much better that there will be no danger.”

“You have not seen Don Solado, your uncle, or Prince Miguel, near Crownledge this morning, have you?” he asked.

“No. The last I saw of them was when you saved Marcos from drowning and allowed those two men to capture you to save him.”

“That didn’t hurt me much, you see,” laughed Nick Carter. “They seemed to think they could hold me on that hired yacht of theirs up the river. But I got the better of them. If I had not, probably I should not be here now.”

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know. But so long as they are not bothering Marcos, I don’t think we need care. Where is the prince?”

“In the library.”

“May I see him?”

“Of course. He is anxious for you to go in. He saw you through the window, coming up from the river.”

Marcos was a well-built, robust young man at ordinary times. But he did not look robust just now. His face was pale and his movements lacked their usual resiliency.

Notwithstanding all this, his resemblance to Nick Carter was startling. The features were alike, and even the poise of the head, the set of the shoulders, and the general attitude, were identical.

“This is a pleasure, Mr. Carter!”

As Prince Marcos said this, the girl actually looked closely at her cousin to make sure that he was speaking, and not the detective.

“Glad to see you are all right, sir,” returned Carter. “You’ll pardon my not calling you ‘your highness,’ will you not? In the first place, I do not think it would be wise for you to use your title while in New York, and then again I must confess it is much easier to me to speak as if you were an ordinary American or Englishman.”

“Quite right, my dear Carter!” returned Marcos heartily. “I wish you would address me as plain Mr. Joyal. That will suggest my country to me, and the name does not smell of royalty, does it?”

He asked this with a naïveté that pleased the detective. There was no nonsense about Marcos.

“Very well, Mr. Joyal. That shall be your name hereafter. Where is your valet?”

“He is here. In the adjoining room. Phillips!”

As he called this name, Phillips came in, a tall, quiet-mannered young man in a plain business suit. He did not look like a valet. It was part of his latest instructions from his employer that he should not appear to be what he was. Marcos had wisely come to the conclusion that there must not be any suggestion of royalty about him or his entourage if he meant to get back in safety to his own realm within the time limit.

“You were hurt by those men who stole Prince Marcos—I mean, Mr. Joyal—from Crownledge, the night before last, were you not?” asked Nick Carter.

“Yes. But I am quite well now,” answered Phillips composedly.

“I am glad to hear it. Mr. Joyal may need your help. He will be starting for Joyalita to-night.”

“Very good, sir.”

Phillips would have said “Very good!” if he had been told that he was to be led to execution that night, or if it had been decided to make him Prince of Joyalita. Which is by way of saying that he was a perfectly trained man-servant of the European type. Impassiveness was his trade-mark.

He withdrew now, without another word.

“My mother is at Newport, visiting friends, and desires to stay there for a month,” remarked Marcos. “After that she will spend another month or two in this country. I am glad of it.”

“So am I,” said Nick Carter quietly. “It is better for the party that goes to Joyalita to be as small and unobtrusive as possible.”

“Is it necessary to wait until to-night before Marcos goes?” asked Claudia. “Don’t you think it will be dangerous for him to remain in New York all day?”

“I don’t think so. But there would be some likelihood of the enemy spying out our doings in the daylight. We must get away without any brass-band accompaniment.”

“Do you know where my Uncle Solado is now?” asked the girl.

“I do not,” replied the detective.

This was the absolute truth. He did not know. He could have told how Solado and Miguel had been dragged away by Larry Dugan and his two fellow ruffians and carried off in a power launch. But that would only have led to more questioning, which he did not want.

“What time should we start?” asked Marcos.

“Not before nine o’clock,” replied the detective decidedly. “It will be quite dark by that time, and we shall have a chance to slip away without being noticed.”

“I suppose that is the better plan,” assented Marcos. “It will seem like a long day, however.”

“All the better,” rejoined Nick. “You need a rest. These four hours may do you a world of good.”

“You will not remain with me, I suppose?”

“I want to go down to my home to look after my mail and so on. But I will come back early in the afternoon.”

“You have not had breakfast yet, have you?”

“I shall breakfast at home, with my assistant. And, by the way, he is waiting for me down by the river. Before I go, there is one thing I want to speak about. The other night, at the ball in the Hotel Supremacy, there came into my possession, in a curious way, a valuable jewel-incrusted watch, on which was the letter ‘M’ in diamonds, and——”

“Mr. Carter!” interrupted Marcos eagerly. “Have you that watch still? Can you get it?”

“The watch is in my safe. I intend to bring it to you to-day.”

“Can you? Can you?” cried Marcos excitedly. “That watch means so much to me. It is more than a mere timekeeper or ornament. It is bound up in the destinies of the ruling house of Joyalita. I cannot tell you how important it is. The watch, with the fob attached, is known as the Seal of Gijon.”

“The watch shall be restored to you when I come back this afternoon.”

“You found it, you say?”

“At the Hotel Supremacy. It is claimed by Prince Miguel, your cousin,” returned Nick Carter. “Mrs. van Raikes, who gave the ball at the hotel that night, enlisted my services to find the watch. I had it then, but I did not say so. I was sure that there was a significance attached to it which required that it should not be lightly passed along without my being sure that it did not get into improper hands.”

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Carter, I may as well tell you that that watch is the insignia of the ruler of Joyalita. It has the character of the great seal used in most monarchies. I did not take it to the Hotel Supremacy that night. In fact, I never have been in the hotel at any time. It could have been taken there only by my cousin, Prince Miguel.”

“How did he get it?”

“It disappeared from my desk, where I had it in a secret drawer.”

“Who knew of that secret drawer besides yourself?”

“No one that I know of.”

“Phillips?”

“Phillips is above suspicion,” returned Marcos coldly.

“No doubt. But did he know of the secret drawer?” persisted Nick.

“He did not. I am sure of it.”

“What other servants have had access to your room?”

“Only the maid who attended to the room, and she never was long enough there to get at the drawer. Phillips always makes it a point to go in and out of my apartment at short intervals when any one is there doing work of any kind.”

“Hum!” was all Nick Carter replied to this. Adding: “Don’t speak of what I have told you to anybody.”

He went away, giving the assurance that he would return in the afternoon, and, after telling Chick to come home as soon as he had returned the boat to the man from whom it had been hired, Joe Travers, he hustled downtown as fast as a subway express could take him.

After breakfast and a change of clothing, Nick Carter’s first action was to look in his safe to make sure that the jewel watch was safe.

He took it out and looked at it. When he had examined it for a few moments, he saw that there was a spring, evidently intended to be secret, hidden beneath the catch that opened the outer case.

“I should like to know what that spring controls,” he muttered, as he looked at the watch under a strong light on his large library table. “But it is not my secret. If it has any bearing on the attack of Solado and Miguel upon Marcos, or if it was the principal inducement to Miguel to steal the article, I may learn something about it later. At all events, if there is anything more to interfere with the departure of Marcos from New York, I will keep this secret spring in mind.”

The detective was accustomed to take clews wherever he found them, and it was his experience that trifles like this spring in the valuable watch often led to discoveries very much worth while.

He was still musing over the watch when his telephone bell rang.

Something seemed to tell him that there was a communication of importance trembling on the wire, and he responded with a sharp “Hello!”

“This is Claudia,” was the response. “That you, Mr. Carter?”

“Yes. What is it, Miss Solado?”

“Your assistant, Mr. Chickering Carter——”

“Yes, yes?” cried the detective, as the girl paused.

“He has gone!”

“Gone? Where?”

“I can’t tell you everything on the telephone,” rejoined the girl. “But if you will hurry up to Crownledge, you will know what to do.”

“I’ll come right away,” answered Nick. “But I wish you’d tell me where my assistant was when he disappeared.”

“There was a scuffle in the house, and when Phillips and Jason went to see what it was all about, Mr. Chickering had gone. Please hurry!”

“I’ll come at once, of course—be with you in about twenty minutes. But one more question. Who is Jason?”

“Phillips’ assistant. The ‘second man,’ as they call him. He is a chauffeur in Joyalita, but has not acted in that capacity in New York.”

“Mr. Marcos’—I mean Mr. Joyal’s—servant, eh?”

“Yes. Under Phillips.”

“I understand,” replied Nick. “Good-by! I’ll soon be with you.”

“You will find me waiting for you,” was the girl’s agitated answer.

CHAPTER III.
NICK CARTER TASTES SALT.

When Nick Carter dashed up to the front entrance of Crownledge in his own big touring car, with Danny Maloney at the wheel, he found Claudia Solado on the porch, looking for him.

“Oh, Mr. Carter! I’m so glad you have come. He’s gone!”

“Who? My assistant?”

“Marcos, my cousin.”

“What do you mean? That there have been two disappearances?”

“Yes. Did they go together?”

“We don’t know.”

“Where was Marcos when he vanished?”

“The last seen of him was when he went into his bedroom to lie down for a nap. He is not strong, and Phillips advised him to take a sleep. He thought that a good idea, and Phillips went with him. My cousin leaned on his arm, and I noticed how pale and weak he seemed as he left the library, where he had been sitting.”

“What does Phillips say about the disappearance? How long did he stay in the bedroom?”

“Only while my cousin lay down on the outside of the bed, with a quilt over him. Phillips put the quilt on, saw that he was comfortable, and that the electric-bell button, hanging loosely to a wire, was within reach of his hand on the pillow, so that he could call any one he might want without getting up. He told Jason to look in now and then, without disturbing my cousin.”

“Who is this Jason? Was he born in Joyalita?”

“No. I think he came from New York about a year ago,” replied the girl. “I am not sure. You know, English is the tongue generally spoken in Joyalita, although there is some little Spanish. Jason speaks English, but I fancy I detect a certain twang that you hear from many people in New York, especially those who were born there.”

“We’ll have Jason into the library and hear what he has to say,” announced Nick, as he went into that room with Claudia.

“Jason has gone!”

It was the cool voice of Phillips. He had heard the conversation between Claudia and the detective, and had followed them into the library.

“Where’s he gone?” demanded Nick Carter.

“I don’t know, sir. I might say, if you please, that I have not been quite satisfied with Jason since we have been here,” ventured Phillips.

“Why?”

“He has twice, to my knowledge, been away all night, without any one knowing it but me. He seemed very tired when he returned on both occasions. He told me he had been sitting up with a friend of his who was sick, and who lived downtown somewhere.”

“Did you prove that to be untrue?” asked the detective.

“No, sir. But I took the liberty of examining his trunk one day when I had sent him on an errand that would keep him away for two hours. In the trunk I found two valuable watch movements——”

“Watch movements?”

“Yes, sir. The cases were not there. Just the movements. I was a watchmaker once, and I know the value of such things, although they are not easily disposed of, except to a watchmaker who might happen to want them.”

“I understand,” interrupted Nick. “What else did you find in his trunk? Anything suspicious?”

“Yes. There were two chisels, a pointed crowbar, or ‘jimmy,’ a pair of fine steel pliers, and an automatic revolver.”

“I wonder whether they are in his trunk now?”

“No, sir. I have looked in it, and there is nothing but the ordinary clothing, and not much of that.”

“He is in his regular livery, is he?”

“No, sir. He never wears that when he goes out on his private business. Even the trousers he changes, although there is nothing distinctive about them except a blue stripe down the outside of each leg, which would hardly be seen at night, anyhow.”

“How did you open the trunk? Wasn’t it locked?”

“No. And that is where I look upon Jason as a man of particular cunning,” replied Phillips. “He must have found out that I had been examining his belongings—or suspected it. So he had shut down the trunk, without locking it, and put some of his clothes on top. That would enable him to see if I disturbed anything.”

“Not if you put them back the same way,” suggested Nick. “You could do that, couldn’t you?”

“I tried. But Jason is a cunning rascal, I’m afraid, and he would be pretty sure to see that some one had been at his trunk.”

“If you think he is dishonest, why do you keep him here? Mr. Joyal—the prince—would allow you to discharge him if you thought it well to do so, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes. But I want to keep Jason till I can catch him in the act. Then I may find out several things that are distressing me. Mr.—er—Joyal has missed some valuable property, and we think Jason is the man who took it.”

“What kind of property?”

Phillips looked from side to side, as if to make sure no one should overhear. Then he whispered:

“The Seal of Gijon is gone.”

“I have heard of it,” answered the detective. “It is a jeweled watch, with a diamond-mounted fob.”

“That’s it, sir,” nodded Phillips. “The prince—I mean, Mr. Joyal—lost it several days ago. He is very anxious about it.”

“Does he suspect Jason?”

“No, sir. There would have been no use in telling him that Jason was acting peculiarly until I had proof.”

“What theory have you of the disappearance of Mr. Joyal?” asked the detective, changing the subject abruptly.

“None at all, sir. I can’t account for it.”

“Well, you keep a close watch around Crownledge. I may be back here this evening.”

“I hope you will find Mr. Joyal.”

“I will try,” returned Nick, as he went out of the room, with Claudia by his side.

They walked to the front porch together. When Nick Carter had thrown a glance around, to make sure they were not followed, and that no one could overhear, he said to the girl, in a low tone:

“I wish you would stay at Crownledge for the remainder of the day, if you can. Keep a watchful eye on everything. It may be that Marcos has gone out for something that he thinks he should attend to promptly in his own person, and that my assistant has gone with him as a sort of bodyguard.”

Claudia shook her head incredulously.

“I can hardly think that. My cousin would most likely have told me or Phillips, or both of us, if he had intended to be away even for half an hour. Besides, he was lying down when last seen by Phillips.”

“Well, at all events, if you can stay here for the remainder of the day, it may help us materially. I still intend to leave here to-night with Marcos for Joyalita, if possible. If not, we will go not later than to-morrow.”

“Do you know where Marcos is, then?”

“I know where he may be,” answered Nick. “I am going to see.”

His touring car was still at the front steps. With a smiling farewell and lifting of his hat to the girl, the detective took his place in the car and directed Maloney to take him home.

When Nick Carter told Claudia that he knew where Marcos might be, he was not speaking without reason. Nor was his guess so wild as to be almost uncertainty.

True, as he had come to his conclusion by a process of induction only. But it was a process that had served him well at every stage of his career, and he had the faith in it that is based on proven tests.

When he reached the porch of Crownledge with Claudia Solado, and glanced around him, his eye lighted on a trifle which his quick brain told him might not be such a trifle, after all.

Without the girl observing him, he stopped suddenly and picked up a small cake of mud and grass that evidently had dropped from somebody’s shoe. From the shape of it, Nick knew that it had been wedged into the instep of a rather large shoe which must have belonged to a man.

The mass of soil, with half a dozen clipped-off blades of grass embedded in it, had filled all the space in the instep between the heel and the beginning of the sole.

When the detective picked it up, he held it carefully in the fingers of his left hand, so that it should preserve its shape until he was ready to examine it at his leisure. He held his hand at his side, and the girl took no notice of it.

Until the car reached Madison Avenue, and he had told Danny Maloney, the chauffeur, that he might want him again at night, but that he need not stay any longer then, Nick Carter contented himself with surveying his prize casually as it lay flat on the palm of his hand.

No sooner was he locked in his library, however, than he closed the blinds, and, having lighted a cigar, turned his strong incandescent light down upon his table.

On a sheet of white paper he laid the mass of mud and grass.

It was nearly dry. Therefore, it was possible to handle it without its losing its shape.

“I don’t think I can be mistaken,” muttered Nick. “I think I know this wiry grass too well, and this sandy mud is of a kind that is not found in many places hereabouts. However, I’ll look at it through my glass.”

He took a very strong magnifying glass from his table drawer and studied the mixture for nearly half a minute.

As he put the glass down, a satisfied smile flickered across his strong face.

“There is just one more test,” he muttered. “Although I believe it is superfluous. However, here goes.”

He put the tuft of grass to his tongue.

“I knew it,” was his soft exclamation. “Salt! It could not be anything else.”

He pressed a push button at the side of his table, and then unfastened the door of the room. As he returned to his seat, he puffed contentedly at his cigar, still regarding the mud and tuft of grass on the white paper.

“Want me, chief?”

A young fellow, with the bright, alert expression on his rather thin features that tells of an active brain, stood in the doorway.

“Yes, Patsy! Close the door and come over here.”

The young man obeyed, and Nick Carter pointed to the stuff on the paper on his table.

“What’s that, Patsy?”

Patsy Garvan—for it was the trusted young assistant of that name who had come in—bent closely over the paper and studied the grass for a moment.

“I should say it is salt meadow grass,” he answered.

“Why do you think so?”

“It is coarse, and there is a color to it you don’t see in any other kind. If you’ll let me taste it, I can tell you.”

Nick Carter laughed and drew several whiffs of smoke from his cigar before he spoke again.

“That’s just what I did, Patsy,” he said, at last. “Put your tongue to it and let me know what you think.”

Patsy lifted the paper and put out his tongue.

“I should say so,” was his remark, as he replaced the paper and its contents on the table. “Gee! You couldn’t fool me on that. Where did you get it?”

“Never mind about that, Patsy. Where do you suppose this grass and mud came from?”

“Hackensack meadows, of course! Have you been over there?”

“No. But the man from whose shoe this came must have been. Look here Patsy! Chick has been taken away against his will——”

“What?” blurted out Patsy Garvan. “Chick? Say! Let me——”

“And one of the men who took him dropped this mud and grass from his shoe.”

“He did? Say, chief! We’re going after Chick right away, ain’t we?”

Patsy was on his feet, his fists clenched, and anger blazing all over his face.

He had a regard for Chick only second to that he felt for Nick Carter himself. The thought of his chum being held anywhere made him frantic.

“Keep cool, Patsy! We’ll go, of course! But we’ll have to be careful.”

“How do you mean careful?”

“This is the open season for duck hunting, and there are any number of ducks over there, in the meadows.”

“Sure! But I don’t quite get you? What do I care for the darned ducks?”

“Put on that leather coat you have,” directed Nick calmly. “And your high boots, as well as your big corduroy cap. Get your double-barreled gun and that string of wooden decoy ducks we used down on the Chesapeake two years ago. You have them, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Don’t be more than ten minutes. Then come down to the library again. I’m going to put on my duck-hunting rig, too.”

CHAPTER IV.
THE ICE HOUSE IN THE SWAMP.

It was hardly ten minutes later when Patsy came again into the library. But, rapid as he had been in his movements, he had not been able to beat his chief.

Nick Carter was already in the room, dressed in about the same kind of clothes as he had told his assistant to put on. That is, he wore a heavy leather coat, with pockets of various sizes all over it, a cap that hid most of his face, and rubber boots which came up to his hips.

He carried a handsome repeating shotgun—light, but deadly, in the hands of a sure shot like the detective.

Glancing at himself in a mirror, Nick was satisfied that he would not be easily recognized. To make sure, he put on a heavy beard and mustache, with the result that he did not look any more like the real Nick Carter, than he did like Mrs. Pankhurst.

“Keep your cap well down, Patsy,” he directed. “Your face is not well known to these people we are going after. But some of them may have seen you.”

“What’s the plan of campaign?” asked Patsy, as they crossed in a ferryboat to Hoboken.

“That will develop as we go on,” replied Nick. “Here’s a street car that will take us across the meadows—or as far as we want to go.”

The Hackensack meadows cover a very wide expanse in New Jersey, a little way back from the bay and Hudson River. They are called “meadows.” Really, they are marshes over most of their extent, and duck shooting and fishing are the uses most people make of them.

There are solid spreads of ground here and there, and several lines of railroad cross and recross them.

As a rule, however, the meadows are decidedly sloppy, and as the water that floods them comes from the sea, everything is salt about them. The grass cut from these meadows is used mainly for bedding for cattle. As fodder it is useless.

It was at a dreary, desolate spot in the middle of the marshes that Nick Carter got off the car, with Patsy Garvan, and waited in the road as the car went spinning away farther into the back country.

“We’ll get a boat here, Patsy,” said Nick.

This was soon arranged. There was a boathouse close by, and from it any one could hire a flat-bottomed rowboat, warranted not to capsize easily, in which the occupant could penetrate the high grass, and thus lie in wait for ducks as long as suited him.

He could fish, too, if he liked. There is a great deal of fish in the waters of the meadows, and it is a favorite resort for anglers, as well as duck hunters.

It was a dull day, and there was a heavy fog. But that was not enough to discourage an enthusiastic duck hunter, as Nick remarked to the boat owner before they started.

He did not tell that smiling individual that fog was just what he wanted, although, if he had, he would have been telling the exact truth.

“Do you see that barn over there, Patsy?” he asked, when they were well among the reeds and rushes. “It’s a big one, over to the right.”

“An ice house, isn’t it?” was Patsy’s response.

“It was at one time, but it hasn’t been used for that purpose lately. Do you see some smoke coming from the chimney at this end?”

“By jing! I do! Is there somebody living in there!”

“I should say so, if there is a fire in the place. If I am not much mistaken, we shall find certain gentlemen in that building who know me. They may know you, too. That I am not so sure about.”

“Do you mean that you think Chick is in there?” asked Patsy, who had been turning things over in his mind. “Is that the idea?”

“I don’t know about that. But I do think there may be somebody in the place that I want to find. Of course, I want to find Chick. But I do not fear that he is in trouble. The person I am after is called Prince Marcos——”

“What? Is it that Marcos case we’re on?” broke in Patsy. “I thought he’d gone back to his own country, wherever it is. You said so a few days ago. At least, you said he was going.”

“That was a week ago,” Nick Carter reminded him. “Before I had anything to do with the case. Now I know better. He is in New York, somewhere, and I have to find him.”