[Pg 1]

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

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

Terms to NICK CARTER STORIES Mail Subscribers.

(Postage Free.)

Single Copies or Back Numbers, 5c. Each.

How to Send Money—By post-office or express money order, registered letter, bank check or draft, at our risk. At your own risk if sent by currency, coin, or postage stamps in ordinary letter.

Receipts—Receipt of your remittance is acknowledged by proper change of number on your label. If not correct you have not been properly credited, and should let us know at once.

No. 159. NEW YORK, September 25, 1915. Price Five Cents.

DRIVEN FROM COVER;
Or, NICK CARTER’S DOUBLE RUSE.

Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.

[Pg 2]

CHAPTER I.
CAUSE FOR SUSPICION

Nick Carter waited, listening intently, listening vainly, with his desk telephone in his hand and the receiver at his ear.

Chick Carter, the celebrated detective’s chief assistant, sat watching him, noting each changing expression on his strong, clean-cut face, and wondering what occasioned it.

It was about nine o’clock one evening in October, and both detectives were seated in the library of Nick Carter’s spacious residence in Madison Avenue.

“Hello!” Nick now called quite sharply. “Hello!”

No answer.

“What’s the trouble?” Chick inquired. “Don’t you get a reply?”

“No, Chick, and that’s not the worst of it,” Nick said quite gravely.

“Why so? What do you mean?”

“I heard my name called just as I removed the receiver from its hook,” Nick explained. “The voice sounded like that of a woman, though I am not positive about it. Then came a single sharp crack, like the report of a revolver, or as if the telephone had dropped from the speaker’s hand and crashed upon the floor. I suspect there is something wrong.”

“Can you hear anything now?”

“Not a sound.”

“Call central,” Chick suggested. “You may learn who rang you up.”

“Presently. I still am hoping to hear something of more definite significance.”

One minute passed. It brought no sound over the wire.

The silence then was broken by a voice which Nick knew must be that of the exchange operator addressing the person who had rung him up.[Pg 3]

“Did you get him?”

No answer.

Nick waited a moment longer, then cried abruptly:

“Hello, central!”

“Well?”

“This is Nick Carter talking. I can get no reply from the party who rang me up. What’s the trouble?”

“There should be none. The circuit is not broken.”

“Did you hear any unusual sound after making the connection, as if the telephone had been dropped, or as if something occurred?”

“I did not. I will try to get the party.”

“Do so.”

Nick waited and heard the operator cry repeatedly:

“Hello! Hello! Hello!”

No answer—still no answer.

No sound so much as suggesting what had occurred, what fateful deed had been done, or what horror might then be in progress, whence the mysterious telephone call had come.

The stillness over the wire was like that of death itself.

Had death, indeed, stilled the voice heard for a fleeting moment by the detective, the voice that had uttered his name, as if a cry of appeal had been cut short when it left the lips of the speaker?

The operator spoke again.

“Mr. Carter.”

“Well?”

“There is something wrong. The circuit still is complete, but I can get no reply. The person who called you up evidently has left the telephone, but has not hung up the receiver.”

“Were you asked to hold the wire?”

“No.”

“Can you find out who called, what number, or where the telephone is located?[Pg 4]”

“I will try.”

“Do so, please, and notify me immediately.”

“I will, sir.”

Nick replaced his telephone on the library desk, then turned quickly to Chick.

“Have Danny here with the touring car as soon as possible,” he directed, referring to his chauffeur. “You had better get ready to accompany me.”

“You are going——”

“To the residence, office, or whatever the quarters may be, of the party who telephoned,” Nick interrupted. “The circumstances are decidedly ominous. We’ll find out why the milk is in the coconut.”

“I’m with you,” Chick declared, hastening to carry out the instructions given him.

Ten minutes brought the report Nick was awaiting. He then hurried through the hall, seizing his hat and overcoat, and rejoined Chick in the touring car, which had arrived at the curbing only a moment before.

“Great guns!” Chick exclaimed, upon hearing the terse directions Nick had given to Danny. “The Clayton residence, eh? Not that of Chester Clayton, our old friend and former client?”

“Yes, the same,” said Nick, now looking ominously grim and determined. “He no longer is running the Hotel Westgate, however, as when we twice served him so successfully. He now is in the banking and brokerage business with his wealthy father-in-law. The firm was established soon after his marriage with Clara Langham.”

“I know about that,” Chick replied. “But can Clayton again be up against trouble? What more have you learned?”

“Only that the phone call came from his residence,” Nick rejoined. “It is one of the most costly in Riverside Drive. Something is wrong there. The exchange operator stated again that the receiver still is off the telephone hook.”

“By Jove, that does appear decidedly ominous, Nick, in view of what you heard—a sound like the crack of a revolver.”

“That is why I apprehend trouble. We soon shall know definitely. Ten minutes will take us to the house.”

It was a palatial residence, indeed, at which they arrived within the time mentioned, and at precisely half past nine o’clock.

The night was agreeably warm for October, with a starry sky and a half-filled moon running low in the west, lending a silvery luster to the placid Hudson.

“Wait here with the car, Danny,” Nick directed, alighting at the driveway entrance to the somewhat spacious grounds, which occupied a corner and also abutted on a less pretentious rear street.

“Come on, Chick, and we’ll very soon solve the mystery.”

“Do you know of whom the family consists, Nick, besides Chester Clayton and his wife?” inquired Chick, as they walked up the driveway.

“His mother, Mrs. Julia Clayton, and his wife’s father, Mr. Gustavus Langham,” said the detective. “They also have one child about four months old. There may be others for all I know, for I have seen but little of the Claytons, mother or son, since his marriage and that extraordinary case at Langham Manor more than a year ago.”

“When Clayton’s double, Dave Margate, was wiped[Pg 5] out of existence,” Chick observed. “He was an accomplished and vicious rat, Nick, if ever there was one.”

Nick Carter did not reply. He recalled for a moment the twin relationship of the two men mentioned. He was thinking, too, of the terrible secret known only to him and the mother of these two sons, whose extraordinary resemblance to one another had made possible the two strange cases in which they had figured; one a man of wealth, character, and social distinction, the other a notorious criminal, and both ignorant of their kinship and the circumstances under which they had been separated in infancy.

Nick’s mind had turned for a moment upon this distressing bit of family history confided to him by Mrs. Julia Clayton.

It still was the skeleton in her closet. Despite the death of that vicious son, who had followed the footsteps of his criminal father, or his supposed death under circumstances warranting hardly the shadow of a doubt, there had been no further disclosure of her terrible secret.

“Let it die with him, Mr. Carter, if David Margate is really dead,” she had said confidentially to Nick, after the sensational case at Langham Manor. “God grant that it is so. Not that I am an unnatural mother, however, who can deliberately wish for the death of her own son, but because his career has been one of persistent vice and crime, and his kinship with the loyal son who bears my maiden name has been the one black shadow that I have seen threatening the happiness and welfare of Chester Clayton. He does not know; must never know. It will be better far for all concerned. Let the dead bury the dead.”

Nick agreed with her to this extent, and he was again thinking of her when, after more than a year, he strode up the driveway toward the Clayton residence—instinctively feeling himself on the threshold of another mystery.

“There is a light in the front hall,” he remarked to Chick, when they came nearer the house. “There must be some one at home.”

“Surely.”

“Come this way. I think the library also is lighted. Instead of ringing, Chick, we’ll try to obtain a look from outside.”

Nick had observed a brighter beam of light from one of the side windows. He saw it through the gloom under the porte-cochère. It streamed out over the side driveway beyond, giving a faint glow to the hazy mist that hung just above the cold earth, and lending a waxy luster to the dew-damp greensward of the near lawn.

Nick led the way in that direction, passing under the porte-cochère and by the closed door of a dimly lighted side hall. He then could see more plainly the window from which the light was shed.

It was a broad French window, obviously that of the house library, and opening upon a spacious side veranda. The interior blinds were partly raised, and one section of the window was open several inches.

“For ventilation, perhaps,” Chick whispered, with a significant glance at his companion.

Nick did not reply. He crept noiselessly up the veranda steps, and stole toward the partly open window. Through it, at first, he caught sight of only one corner of the large, beautifully furnished room.

A telephone stand was overturned and lying on the[Pg 6] floor. The instrument was lying near by, with the receiver fallen from its hook.

Nick stepped nearer, and obtained a view of the entire room.

The corpse of an elderly man was lying on the floor between the telephone stand and the library table. His face was upturned in the light from the electric chandelier. His linen and garments were saturated with blood.

He had been shot through the heart.

Seated in an armchair near the opposite wall was a solitary woman. Her fine figure was clad in a handsome evening gown of black lace, the somber hue of which accentuated her ghastly paleness and the dreadful expression then on her white face—a face attractive even then with its refined, matronly features, its lofty brow, and abundance of wavy, gray hair.

She sat gazing vacantly at the corpse, obviously that of a murdered man, but not a sound came from her ashy-gray lips. One would have thought her dead, also, but for the feverish gleam and glitter of her eyes and the piteous wringing of her shapely, jewel-bedecked hands.

It was as if, in a dazed and abnormal mental condition, she strove to cleanse them of the terrible stain, of the blood-red smears that covered them from her finger tips to her wrists.

“Good heavens!” Chick gasped, at Nick’s elbow. “Here’s murder, Nick, hands down. That woman——”

“Is Mrs. Julia Clayton,” said Nick, more calmly. “Be quiet.”

He stepped into the room and approached her, followed by Chick, but though she gazed at them with her glittering eyes turned quickly upon them, she did not stir from her chair, nor appear disturbed by their unceremonious entrance.

Nick paused in front of her, saying impressively:

“You recognize me, Mrs. Clayton, of course. Speak to me. What’s the meaning of this?”

She appeared to struggle inwardly, as if to make an effort to reply and to answer his question, but only two words, twice repeated in husky, horrified whispers, came from her drawn, gray lips:

“The scar! The scar—the scar!”

CHAPTER II.
NICK TAKES A CONFIDANT.

Nick Carter now saw plainly that Mrs. Julia Clayton had suffered no bodily injury. That she was mentally affected, however, either crazed with horror, or in an abnormal condition resulting from other causes, and that any immediate attempt to evoke from her an intelligible explanation of the circumstances would prove utterly futile—these points were equally obvious to the detective.

Nick tried again, nevertheless, gently grasping her shoulder and saying even more impressively:

“The scar! What do you mean, Mrs. Clayton? Try to collect yourself. You surely recognize me—Nick Carter, the detective. Try to tell me what has occurred here. What do you mean? What scar?”

The face of the woman underwent no change. She stared vacantly at Nick, with no sign of recognition, though she again tried to make a vain effort to answer[Pg 7] his questions. But only the same two words, repeated as before, was the result:

“The scar! The scar—the scar!”

Both detectives had seen at a glance that the man on the floor was dead, that nothing could be done for him, and the attention of both naturally had turned upon the woman, whose mental distraction and bloodstained hands indicated that she had in some way figured in the shocking crime, if such it really was.

Chick drew back a little and gazed at Nick, whose grave face now reflected not only his perplexity as to the cause for such a fatality, but also his profound regard for this woman who months before had made him the confidant of her dreadful secret. He was asking himself whether in that could be found the motive for this murder—and he glanced instinctively at the upturned face of the lifeless man on the floor.

But it was a fleshy, smooth-shaved face, that of a man well into the sixties—a face that bore not even a remote resemblance to that of David Margate, this woman’s crime-cursed son.

Besides, was it not known beyond any reasonable doubt that David Margate was dead?

Who could have doubted that either the bullet from Chick Carter’s revolver had proved effective, when a gush of blood covered the face of the reeling crook, or that death had ensued in that swift-flowing stream in the Berkshire Hills, into which Margate had fallen and disappeared, nor so much as arisen for a moment to the surface?

These recollections, Nick’s hurried inspection of the tragic scene, together with his vain inquiries addressed to Mrs. Julia Clayton—all had occupied only a very few moments, which Chick turned and asked perplexedly:

“What do you make of it? What’s the trouble with her?”

“Temporarily insane,” Nick murmured. “She cannot explain. She does not even recognize me.”

“You don’t think she is feigning?” Chick whispered.

“No, no, not for a moment. She looked precisely the same, appeared to be in precisely the same condition, when we saw her before we entered. She has undergone no change since seeing us. She is mentally deranged. She is stricken with aphasia, amnesia, or some similar condition.”

“See her hands. She may have killed this man, or——”

“One moment,” Nick interrupted. “She will remain here. We’ll have a hurried look at the evidence.”

“But what can she mean by those two words, Nick, the scar, which appears to be all she can utter? They must have some vital significance. They may supply the key to the mystery.”

“There is more of a mystery here than she can explain, Chick, while in her present condition, or than we can solve without a thorough investigation,” Nick said. “We had better begin it at once, than waste time vainly interrogating her.”

Nick turned while speaking and replaced the telephone stand, also the instrument in their customary position, but he did not delay to communicate with the exchange operator.

“There must be something here that will give us a hint at the truth,” he added. “We’ll try to find it before others show up.[Pg 8]”

“Barring these two, Nick, there seems to be no one in the house,” replied Chick, after listening briefly at the open door of the adjoining hall. “That also appears extraordinary. Where are the Claytons? Where is Mr. Langham? What has become of the servants? Why are all of them absent? If for legitimate reasons, and others have not been here since their departure, it must be that the woman killed this man in a fit of madness, of which her present condition may be the result, or——”

Chick stopped short.

A key had been thrust into the lock of the front door. The sound had reached the ears of both detectives.

Nick moved quickly, with his forefinger laid on his lips.

“Be quiet,” he cautioned. “Wait!”

He stepped back of the open door, to a position enabling him to peer through the broad, brightly lighted hall.

Chick drew back against the wall.

Mrs. Julia Clayton had not stirred from her chair, had not spoken, nor ceased the piteous wringing of her bloodstained hands. She again was gazing with wide, vacant eyes at the gory form on the floor, still with no sign that she recognized the detectives, or had the slightest interest in, or understanding of, why they were there and what they were doing.

Less than three minutes had passed since they entered the house—and another now was entering.

Was that in any way significant?

Nick Carter was much too keen to overlook that possibility, though only a bare possibility it appeared to be. He saw the front door deliberately opened and the man who complacently entered.

He was of medium height and rather slender build, a man about forty years old, with thin features, a pallid complexion, and a mustache and beard of peculiar bronze hue and oily luster. His hair was of the same remarkable color, observable when he removed his hat. It was most carefully combed and brushed, being fairly plastered down with artistic skill over his skull and brow and above his ears, lending to that part of his head which it covered the glistening smoothness of a polished bronze globe.

He had entered with a latchkey. He paused in the hall and placed his cane in a stand, then removed his hat, overcoat, and gloves, all the while quietly humming a popular song.

Gloves off, he gazed into the hatrack mirror, and, with his palms, augmented the radiant smoothness of his remarkable hair, much as if that was the one personal adornment of which he was really proud.

He hesitated at the base of the stairs, toward which he had deliberately turned, and then gazed toward the library and listened, finally wheeling abruptly and walking in that direction.

Nick drew from behind the door, and in another moment the stranger appeared on the threshold—only to recoil with a startled cry, hands in the air, and with his face gone white with alarm.

“Don’t be frightened,” said Nick, sharply regarding him. “A crime has been committed here, and we are detectives. Who are you? I suppose you reside here.”

“Detectives—crime!” The man steadied himself, yet spoke with a gasp of augmented dismay. “You do[Pg 9]n’t mean a murder? Merciful Heaven! What’s wrong with Mrs. Clayton?”

His gaze had fallen upon her, but she had not so much as glanced in his direction, nor appeared to know him, or have more interest in him than in the others.

“There is more wrong here than can be told with a breath,” Nick replied. “Step in and answer my question. To begin with, sir, who are you?”

“I am Mr. Chester Clayton’s private secretary, Rollo Garside,” said he, with a manifest effort to pull himself together.

“Do you reside here?”

“Yes, yes, certainly. Who are you? How came you here? Why——”

“Patience, Mr. Garside, and answer my questions, that I may see how best to proceed with this case,” Nick interrupted. “I’m a detective, as I have stated, and my name is Nick Carter.”

“Oh, oh, that’s very different,” Garside quickly exclaimed, countenance lighting. “I have heard Mr. Clayton speak of you. I feared at first that you were deceiving me, that you were responsible for all this, and that I might suffer the same fate.”

“There is nothing for you to fear,” Nick replied. “Do you know where Mr. Clayton has gone this evening, and the rest of the household?”

“Yes, yes, to be sure. He has gone with his wife to spend the evening with the Burtons, in Claremont Avenue. They may return at any moment, Mr. Carter, or you may reach them by telephone. The name is Calvin R. Burton.”

“Get Clayton on the phone, Chick,” Nick quickly directed. “State only that I am here and wish to see him on important business. Ask him to return immediately.”

Chick hastened to obey.

“Now, Mr. Garside, where are Mr. Langham and the servants?”

“Mr. Langham is in Washington on business. The servants were given this evening to attend the wedding of the butler, who resigned his position to-day to be married in Manhattanville. It is too early for them to have returned. I have been visiting a friend since seven o’clock, Professor Abner Busby, who lives in the rear street.”

“Mrs. Julia Clayton, then, was left alone here?”

“Yes, sir, except the baby,” nodded Garside, glancing again at the woman mentioned. “Some one had to remain here, of course, and Mrs. Clayton said she would do so that the nurse might attend the wedding with the other servants. What is the matter with her, Mr. Carter?” he anxiously added. “She does not appear to know me. She looks dazed and unnatural. Her hands are smeared with blood. Has she gone crazy? Was it she who killed Doctor Thorpe?”

He turned with a shudder while speaking and gazed again at the lifeless man on the floor.

Chick arose from the telephone at the same moment.

“I got him, Nick, all right,” he remarked. “He will start for home immediately.”

“Did he ask any questions?”

“None of any importance. He said he would be here in about ten minutes.”

“Very good.”

Nick turned again to Clayton’s private secretary. Although he had readily answered the detective’s questions,[Pg 10] he still appeared quite overcome by the tragic circumstances. That he had told the truth concerning them, however, in so far as he was able to do so, appeared quite obvious, and Nick continued his inquiries.

“You know this man, then,” said he, approaching the lifeless form.

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Carter, though I hardly recognized him at first,” was the reply. “He is Mr. Clayton’s family physician, Doctor Joseph Thorpe. His home is about two blocks from here.”

“Were you well acquainted with him?”

“No. Only since I have been in Mr. Clayton’s employ.”

“How long is that?”

“About three months. I first met Doctor Thorpe when he came to attend Mr. Clayton. That was two months ago.”

“What is the matter with Mr. Clayton?” Nick questioned, a bit bluntly. “I did not know he was ill.”

“I cannot say of what his trouble consists,” Garside replied. “He has been losing flesh and feeling quite badly for several weeks.”

“Has he been going to his office?”

“Only part of the time, one or two days each week, and he then remained only during the morning. I think, Mr. Carter, that Doctor Thorpe has found his case a rather mystifying one,” Garside gravely added.

Nick glanced at the physician, then at the strangely afflicted woman who, so far as was known, had been his one companion at the time of the murder.

“Go to the front hall, Chick, and intercept the Claytons when they enter,” Nick abruptly directed. “Detain them in the parlor and break this matter to them as considerately as possible. Don’t let them interrupt me before I have finished my investigations and ended my talk with Mr. Garside.”

“Go ahead. I’ll look after them, Nick,” Chick replied, with a nod, while he withdrew to the hall.

“Now, Mr. Garside, I want you to be perfectly frank with me,” Nick said impressively. “You have been living here several weeks. You have had a chance to observe these people. Have you ever seen indications of special friendliness between this couple?”

“Doctor Thorpe and Mrs. Julia Clayton?”

“Yes.”

“Why, I cannot say that I have,” faltered Garside, with manifest reluctance. “They appeared to be friends, of course, but—well, nothing more than that.”

“Rack your brain,” Nick insisted. “Has Doctor Thorpe been in the habit of calling here in the evening?”

“No, he has not. I don’t remember that he has ever done so before.”

“It is quite significant that he called this evening, then, when Mrs. Clayton was alone here and when even the servants were absent from the house. Don’t you think so?”

“Well, yes,” Garside slowly admitted.

“Rack your brain,” Nick repeated. “Can’t you recall any little circumstances, however trivial, denoting that they were particularly friendly, or even secretly so?”

Garside’s brows knit perceptibly and a subtle gleam appeared in his dark eyes, now fixed with searching scrutiny on the face of the detective.

“Why, since you press me so insistently, Mr. Carter, I confess that I have seen them talking together in the hall at times,” he replied.[Pg 11]

“When others were not present?”

“Yes.”

“Anything more?”

“I have noticed covert glances, also significant smiles, but I really attached no importance to them.”

“What do you now think, Mr. Garside, in view of what has occurred?” questioned Nick. “Be perfectly frank with me.”

“Why, I see at what you are driving, of course, and you may be right.”

“It looks very much to me as if something occurred which led this woman to kill the physician,” Nick quietly explained. “I found the telephone stand overturned, as if she had attempted to call for aid. She may have shot the physician when he tried to prevent her from using the instrument. This seems to be confirmed by the position of the body between the table and the telephone stand.”

“I agree with you,” Garside nodded. “It certainly does.”

“Obviously, too, here is the weapon with which the crime was committed,” Nick continued, picking up a revolver from the floor near the telephone stand. “Notice where it is lying, as if she dropped it immediately after the shooting.”

“By Jove, I begin to think you are right,” Garside agreed, with a display of increasing interest. “The revolver would have been found nearer the body, Mr. Carter, if the physician had it and this were a case of suicide.”

“Exactly,” Nick nodded. “That’s the very point.”

“Besides, a suicide theory seems utterly improbable.”

“So it does.”

“Mrs. Clayton would not have lost her head in that case, nor have touched the body. She would have called for help, and would have stated what had occurred,” Garside forcibly argued.

“Certainly,” Nick coincided. “Any sane woman would have done so.”

“Instead, as her bloodstained hands denote, she felt of the body to learn whether the physician was dead. Upon finding that she had killed him, the shock evidently threw her into her present deranged condition.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Nick. “There is no getting around it. You are stating my own views, Garside, to the letter.”

“There seems to be nothing else to it,” Garside now declared. “Notice, too, Mr. Carter, that the drawer of the library table is partly open. The revolver was taken from the drawer.”

“Are you sure of it?”

“Positively. It belongs to Mr. Clayton. I have seen it there many times. You will find its leather case in the drawer, also a box of cartridges. See for yourself.”

Nick hastened to verify these statements. He found the articles mentioned in the back part of the table drawer. They appeared to clinch in his mind the theory already expressed by the private secretary. For Nick turned abruptly to him and said:

“There is, indeed, nothing else to it. Doctor Thorpe and this woman disagreed over something. There may have been an altercation, during which she stealthily took the weapon from the drawer. Obviously, of course, the physician would not have known it was there.[Pg 12]”

“Surely not,” Garside declared.

“Mrs. Clayton, then, must have been the one who had the weapon, and it appears evident that she had some serious cause to fear the physician,” Nick forcibly reasoned. “She evidently attempted to use the telephone, moreover, probably intending to call for help, and when Doctor Thorpe tried to prevent her, possibly in a fit of passion, she became so alarmed that she shot and killed him. As you say, Mr. Garside, there seems to be nothing else to it.”

Mr. Rollo Garside smoothed his neatly plastered hair with his palms and looked as if he thoroughly agreed with the famous detective.

“Nevertheless, it seems incredible, Mr. Carter, utterly incredible,” he said tentatively. “What earthly cause can Madame Clayton have had, as she is called, to distinguish her from Mr. Chester Clayton, for standing in fear of Doctor Thorpe, even to the extreme extent of taking his life?”

“That may appear later,” said Nick.

“Possibly.”

“Physicians sometimes discover secrets, you know, from which they try to derive pecuniary advantage. I refer to those unprincipled practitioners who are not above blackmail. Doctor Thorpe may have been one of that class.”

“Possibly,” Garside repeated.

“Be that as it may,” Nick added, “we know the Claytons were not expecting him this evening, or they would have remained at home. If they——”

He cut short his remark upon hearing the front door hurriedly opened, immediately followed by the familiar voices of Clayton and his wife, addressing Chick Carter in terms of hearty greeting.

Nick quietly closed the library door, then turned quickly to Garside, saying impressively:

“They have returned. Not one word to them, Garside, about our suspicions. Leave me to handle this matter and state what seems proper.”

Garside complied without a moment’s hesitation.

“What you say goes, Mr. Carter,” he replied. “You are better able than I to determine what will be for the best.”

Nick laid his hand on the secretary’s arm.

“Let me explain,” he said, even more earnestly. “I must look deeper into this matter before I can decide what will be for the best. In the meantime, Garside, I am averse to arresting Madame Clayton. If she was justified in killing this man, or was mentally irresponsible, as now appears quite possible, I wish to shield the Claytons from needless publicity. Until I have ferreted out the true facts, therefore, I will not arrest this woman.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” Garside quickly asserted. “I have admired her, Carter, and feel a very deep sympathy for her. There may be, as you say, a justification for the crime. It seems both needless and cruel, moreover, to arrest her while in her present condition.”

“It will be necessary, nevertheless, to temporarily hide our true suspicions and attribute this crime to some unknown assassin,” Nick pointed out impressively. “Otherwise, Garside, her arrest would become imperative. I will take all the responsibility for deferring it, pending further investigations, but you must agree to coöperate with me.[Pg 13]”

“Coöperate with you?” questioned Garside. “What do you mean? I don’t quite get you.”

“I mean that, having confided in you and informed you of my suspicions, you must agree not to disclose them,” Nick explained. “Otherwise, if I defer doing so, you would put me in wrong.”

“Ah, I see,” Garside exclaimed, eyes lighting. “In other words, Carter, you want me to keep my trap closed, or else agree with whatever views you see fit to explain.”

“Exactly,” Nick nodded.

“Enough said. You may depend on my doing so,” Garside hastened to assure him.

“Very good. Leave me to hand out statements consistent with the superficial circumstances, then, and to dig out the true facts from under the surface. That may take time, several days, possibly several weeks. In the meantime——”

“Mum’s the word, Carter, in so far as I am concerned,” Garside earnestly interrupted. “I understand you perfectly. I will be as dumb as an oyster. Take it from me, Carter, you can rely upon my secrecy and discretion.”

“Good enough,” Nick declared, extending his hand. “Shake. Sooner or later, Garside, I will repay you in some way for all this.”

CHAPTER III.
THE NEW BUTLER.

Nick Carter did not often confide in a stranger to the extent that he had confided in Mr. Chester Clayton’s private secretary.

One familiar with the habits and methods of the famous detective might reasonably infer that he had some covert motive in doing so, some ulterior object to be attained by secrecy and coöperation with Mr. Rollo Garside, though what it was would by no means appear obvious. Nor, if such was the case, did it immediately appear on the surface.

For, after three days, the mystery involving the killing of Doctor Joseph Thorpe seemed to be deeper and darker than ever, with the utmost efforts of the detectives failing to shed a ray of light on the case.

Nick Carter had, in fact, found no additional evidence beyond that discovered within an hour after the crime. A careful search later that evening and early the following morning proved utterly futile. None of the windows or doors appeared to have been tampered with, nor was there any evidence that the house had been stealthily entered.

Acting upon Nick’s advice, nevertheless, pending further investigations, the coroner found that Doctor Thorpe had been killed by an unknown assailant, under circumstances of which only Mrs. Julia Clayton was informed, and which she then was mentally unable to disclose.

Nick thus set the legal machine in operation, and the fact that he was at work on the case satisfied the authorities, the police, and the public that no stone would be left unturned to solve the mystery.

Three days, however, brought no observable results.

Madame Clayton remained in much the same condition as when the detectives had found her. Memory appeared to have deserted her. Her mind seemed to be a blank, and she was bereft of speech, not once having spoken since Nick first questioned her, despite the persuasive[Pg 14] endeavors of her grief-stricken family and professional efforts of the physicians who had been summoned.

In the care of a trained nurse, one Martha Dryden, who had had charge of the Clayton infant since its birth, she remained day after day in the same strange condition.

Doctor Thorpe was buried on the third day following the murder, the true motive for which none could conjecture, not even Nick Carter himself.

On the previous day a new butler, one John Peterson, was employed in the Clayton residence to fill the position of the one who had been married. It was this new butler who answered the bell and admitted Nick Carter about seven o’clock in the evening of the third day after the crime. It was not the first time that he had seen and admitted the detective in charge of the case.

“Good evening, Peterson,” said Nick, pausing in the hall to remove his gloves and overcoat. “Mr. Clayton is at home, I infer.”

“Yes, sir; he is, sir,” bowed Peterson. “He is alone in the library, sir.”

“I would prefer to see him alone, Peterson,” said Nick, a bit dryly.

“Very well, sir.”

“Is there any change in Madame Clayton’s condition?”

“I think not, sir. She is just the same, sir. This way, sir.”

He was a sedate, punctilious fellow, this Peterson, with a very florid face and mutton-chop whiskers, a man apparently of middle age and with an exalted appreciation of the functions of his position. One would have said with a glance, in fact, that Peterson had spent the best years of his life in the service of people of quality.

Nick followed him to the library, where Mr. Chester Clayton was awaiting him.

“Mr. Carter, sir,” said Peterson, on the threshold.

“You may close the door, Peterson,” said Clayton, waving the detective to a chair.

Peterson withdrew and the door closed upon his red face and rigid figure.

“Don’t rise, Clayton,” said Nick, while he shook hands with him. “You look pale this evening, more pale than when I saw you on the night of the crime. I venture to say you have lost thirty pounds since I lunched with you something like four months ago.”

“All of that, Nick,” said Clayton, smiling a bit wearily. “I have lost all I took on during the six months following my marriage. I seem to be slipping downhill on greased rollers. What more have you learned about this terrible business?”

“Nothing worthy of mention,” Nick replied. “I still am much in the dark. Peterson tells me there is no improvement in your mother’s condition.”

“No, none whatever,” Clayton said sadly. “She lies hour after hour like a woman in a trance. We have tried in vain to arouse her, or to evoke some sign of recognition. She——”

“We will talk of her a little later,” Nick interposed. “Tell me, instead, Clayton, how long you have been on the down grade. When did you first detect this change in your health?”

“About three months ago, Nick, as near as I can tell.”

“Did you consult a physician at that time?[Pg 15]”

“Yes. I have tried several since then, moreover, but without deriving any benefit. I have been running down and losing flesh in spite of all they can do.”

“Mr. Garside, your private secretary, tells me that you have not been going to your office for some little time.”

“Only occasionally. I have not felt able to do so. That is why I made Mr. Garside one of my household, or, rather, his predecessor, who resigned his position several weeks ago. I found it necessary to transact much of my business at home, and the aid of a private secretary was imperative.”

“I see,” Nick nodded. “Who, by the way, was Mr. Garside’s predecessor?”

“His name is John Dunbar. He was formerly a clerk in our office.”

“Previous to becoming your private secretary?”

“Yes.”

“Has he resumed his former position?”

“No. I don’t know what has become of him.”

“Why did he resign from your employ?”

“He said he intended to go West,” Clayton explained. “I think he may have done so, having seen him only once since he ended our relations.”

“When was that?”

“A day or two later. He called here to introduce Mr. Garside, whom he recommended very highly, and whom I had consented to employ on trial.”

“Just so,” Nick remarked. “I infer that Mr. Garside has proved satisfactory.”

“Yes. His position is not a difficult one, as far as that goes, and he has filled it capably. I rather like him, moreover, for he appears to be very much of a gentleman.”

“Did he have other recommendations except that of Dunbar, your former secretary?”

“No, he did not, nor did I require any.”

“As a matter of fact, then, all that you really know about Garside is what Dunbar told you,” Nick observed.

Clayton eyed him more sharply. Not only the remark, but also the detective’s voice, were tinged with a subtle, sinister significance that could not be overlooked.

“What do you mean, Nick?” he demanded. “What do you imply by that?”

“Oh, nothing of consequence, perhaps,” Nick now said carelessly.

“But you must have some reason for making that remark.”

“It merely occurred to me, Clayton, that you first noticed symptoms of illness about the time that Dunbar left and Garside came here to live,” Nick explained. “That may, of course, have been only a coincidence.”

“What else could it be?” Clayton quickly questioned. “Surely, Nick, you don’t suspect Mr. Garside of anything wrong?”

“No, no; certainly not,” Nick assured him. “He appears to be, as you say, very much of a gentleman.”

“He has my confidence, at least.”

“Of which he no doubt is entirely worthy,” Nick allowed. “Now, Clayton, a few words concerning your mother and her abnormal condition. It has, I think, com[Pg 16]pletely mystified the physicians who have been attending her.”

“Both mystified and baffled them,” bowed Clayton. “They seem to be all at sea.”

“No wonder. For, ordinarily, such a shock as Madame Clayton evidently suffered, while it might deprive one of speech and memory at the outset, soon seeks directly opposite avenues of relief. Memory returns full force, and speech really becomes the safety valve for the overwrought and disordered mind. There must, in my opinion, be some unsuspected cause for Madame Clayton’s remaining in this apathetic condition.”

“But what cause?” Clayton doubtfully questioned. “Surely, if you are right, the physicians ought to discover it.”

“Those who have been attending her may not have diagnosed her case from the standpoint I have in mind,” Nick replied, quite enigmatically. “I know of one thing, at least, that might have such an effect upon Madame Clayton.”