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Other documents randomly have
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his partner. By the way," he added, addressing Nick, "how do you
account for Goloff's possession of those will copies?"
"By discounting the old saw, 'There is honor among thieves,'
Mannion, of course, gave Goloff his confidence, told him all about
the forged will and showed him his first imitative attempts. Naturally
there was a pecuniary understanding between them. It is reasonable
to conclude that Mannion promised the Russian a goodly share of
Playfair's fortune. But Goloff was distrustful. He did not bank on his
partner's word; he wanted surety, and he found it when he filched
those will copies.
"In his possession they would serve as a club to make Mannion
come to terms, in the possible event of a disposition on Mannion's
part to play the hog. It is possible, though not probable, that
Mannion, in a fit of generosity, gave the copies himself to Goloff as
security for the performance of the agreement he had made. It
matters not, however, how Goloff procured them. The plain
deduction is that they were held for the purpose I have indicated.
"And now," continued the detective, with his eyes on the coroner,
"my suggestion is that the public be left in ignorance, until we have
caught Mannion, both of the identity of the man killed by my fall
from the scaffolding and of the discovery of the will copies. Goloff
came here a stranger; it is doubtful if his name is known to any one
except myself and my assistants. It will, therefore, be an easy
matter to manage the inquest so that a verdict of accidental death of
an unknown man may be rendered."
The coroner, whose eyes had been opened by Nick's latest
explanation and exposition, promptly fell in with the suggestion.
The chief of detectives saw no objection to the plan, and it was
carried out.
"The time to look for the next move of Mannion's," were the
detective's words as the assembly was about to break up, "is at the
time or shortly alter the will is offered for probate. It must be
offered," answering Feversham's shake of the head, "for not to offer
it would amount to a declaration that its spurious character has been
discovered. The offer will be merely a formal matter; its admission to
probate, of course, is not to be thought of. Before the day set for
such action arrives I will be prepared, I hope, to produce Mr.
Mannion and expose the fraud."
Shortly afterward Nick went to his rooms, hoping to find either
Chick or Patsy there. Both rose to greet him as he entered.
"Lost him, did you?" he asked, looking at Patsy, whose face wore
a black, angry expression.
"It wasn't my fault, sir," was his reply, "I was bested by a
woman."
 CHAPTER XV.
CRAVEN SPEAKS AND NICK ACTS.

"Bested by a woman?" repeated Nick, in surprise. "How was that,

Patsy?"
"You have read of tiger cats, haven't you? Well, this woman was
one. She is a little beauty, black-haired, black-eyed, slender, supple,
and sinuous, and, oh, my! but her muscles are steel! I am no
jellyfish myself, but she waltzed away with me, all right.
"This is how it happened, Mr. Carter: After I'd made sure that you
wouldn't croak from that tumble I rushed around the corner of the
house after Mr. Mannion. He was going through the garden—a
regular tangle of all kinds of bushes—and I skinned after him. As he
went over the fence into the next street this woman—she's a young
thing, not over eighteen—hailed him and he stopped. But not for
long, for, catching sight of me, he left the woman and made a
lightning sprint toward the woods. Over the fence I went, to fall into
the arms of the woman. She was very affectionate, must have
thought I was her long-lost brother, for she caught me around the
neck and gave me a hug and a squeeze that would have made a
young grizzly bear fall down with envy. Naturally I objected, but I
couldn't be as forcible in my objection as I might have been under
other circumstances, for I was dealing with a woman."
Nick smiled and Chick winked.
"First thing I knew she tripped me up. I wasn't looking for that
sort of thing, you know, and it was only when my block bumped the
ground that I realized that I was really up against a tough
proposition. What did I do? Well, I had to throw her off, but tiger
cats are hard customers to deal with. They are like rubber balls. You
chuck them away and back they come. I am ashamed to say it, Mr.
Carter, but I wasted ten minutes with that woman and only got away
from her when she was quite willing that I should do so."
"Who is she?" inquired Nick.
"Give it up. She knows Mannion, though, and I'll bet a Swiss
cheese against a plate of boarding-house hash that she knows
where Mannion has gone."
"Did you follow her?"
"I couldn't."
"Couldn't? Why not?"
"Because she did not give me a chance. She's standing there by
the fence now, for all I know to the contrary. I wanted to follow her,
but she knew what was in my mind, of course, and so she never
moved."
"Did she say anything?"
"Oh, yes," said Patsy, rather sheepishly. "She said: 'Run home,
little boy. Your mother must be anxious about you.'"
Chick burst into a laugh. Nick looked at him in mock severity.
Patsy frowned and repressed an inclination to say something
forcible.
"And so you lost track of your man, Patsy?" said the great
detective.
"Yes, sir. I went into the woods, that is, the wooded grounds of
the War College, but could neither get sight of him nor find anybody
who had seen him. I told my story to the officer in charge, and men
were instantly detailed to make a search."
"And that's all, eh?"
"That's all."
"And it is well, Patsy. You have done all that could have been
expected." Nick patted the boy on the back. "You have not made a
winning, it is true, but it was not on account of any fault of your
own. Now," turning to Chick, "have you anything to report?"
"Only this: I know where the woman who attacked Patsy holds
out."
"At Craven's, on L Street, isn't it?" suggested Nick quietly.
"Sure. But how did you discover the fact?"
"By a process of reasoning beautiful in its simplicity. The girl was
seen near Craven's house. Craven knows Mannion and had a
conversation with him the day of the murder. Craven will neither tell
what that conversation had reference to, nor what his relationship
with Mannion is. It is not a criminal relationship. I assured myself of
that when I talked with Craven yesterday. The advent of the girl
near Craven's house, her acquaintance with Mannion suggest a story
which is probably true. She lives at Craven's because she is Craven's
daughter, and both she and Craven are interested in Mannion,
because she is Mannion's wife."
"You've hit it," said Chick, with admiration in his eyes.
"If she is Mannion's wife," remarked Patsy, "he caught a Tartar
when he married her. But maybe she is only his sweetheart."
"No," said Nick, "for that relation would not explain Craven's
conduct. Craven might consent to shield a villainous son-in-law, but
he would take the opposite course if there were only an engagement
to be married. I think I'll make another trip to the Craven
establishment. I have a desire to see the girl as well as to have a
second talk with Craven." The detective looked at his watch. It was
five o'clock. "I'll start now," he announced, "and have dinner after
my return. Chick, you and Patsy may as well come along. Not to go
inside the house with me, but to stay outside on watch. The girl may
take a notion to run out to Mannion's hiding-place. If she does,
Chick, you will follow her."
Prosper Craven, pale, yet composed, opened the door of his
house in response to Nick Carter's knock. "I have been expecting
you," he said, when the detective had entered the living-room and
had taken a seat. "I knew you would not be satisfied until you had
learned what my attorney had advised."
"You have seen him, then?" said Nick.
"No, I have not seen him. I came to the conclusion, after you left
yesterday, that I would hide nothing from you. I think the telling of
the truth may be the best thing for my daughter, after all."
"Your daughter is Mannion's wife, is she not?"
Craven, showing surprise at this question, quietly answered: "Yes,
she is married to that scoundrel."
"When did the marriage take place?"
"In San Francisco, two months ago. My daughter was then on a
visit to her aunt. She and Mannion met at a Mission Club dance one
night and took a shine to each other. Perhaps the discovery that they
were both natives of Washington may have hastened the intimacy."
"Did she accompany her husband to this city?"
"No, she came as far as St. Louis with him. He had some business
to transact in that city, he said, which would occupy his time for a
few weeks. It was at his suggestion that she made the remainder of
the journey alone. Now I am ready to answer any question which
you may desire to ask."
"Very well. To begin, what was your business with Mannion on the
day of the murder?"
"He wanted me to take a message to a friend of his, a Russian."
"What was the message?"
"'Nine-thirty o'clock to-night, at place agreed upon.'"
"Did you take it?"
"Yes."
"Without understanding what it meant?"
 "Without understanding it at all. I asked Mannion what it meant,
and he said it was an appointment about which I could possibly have
no concern."
"Did you see Mannion that night?"
"Certainly. He stayed in this house."
"At what time did he come in?"
"About midnight."
"Did you expect him?"
"No, for he had told my daughter that he was going away for a
few days and would leave on the evening train. He changed his
mind; but for what reason, I do not know."
"You do know, I presume, that he is suspected of the murder of
James Playfair?"
"What you said to me yesterday put the idea into my head. And if
he did murder Playfair I want to see him punished. Better that he
should die a felon's death, even though the disgrace of his crime and
punishment should fall upon me and mine, than that my daughter
should hereafter link her life with his."
"Do you think your daughter would cleave to him if she knew
what he had done?"
"Yes; she is a strange girl. She has a good heart, but she is set in
her ways. She loves Mannion with all her heart and soul, and she will
love him and stay by him under any and all circumstances."
"In a way," said Nick, "her character is to be admired. Heroines
have been made out of poorer stuff. But I think as you do, Mr.
Craven, that it is better that she should suffer while she is young
than live a life of wretchedness. Mannion dead or out of the way
would be a blessing which she would appreciate in later days. The
man is a deadly incubus to her. Not only on her account, but
because society demands it, he must be caught and punished."
 "If I can help you in any way I am ready and willing to do so,"
said Craven eagerly. He had been impressed by the detective's
words. Nick felt that he could now be trusted.
Since entering the house he had not asked Craven as to the
whereabouts of Mrs. Mannion, neither had he lowered his voice
while speaking of Mannion and the murder. As a matter of fact, he
had spoken in a louder tone than was usual with him, in the hope
that the daughter would be a listener. It was very probable that she
was somewhere about the house; and, if so, her anxiety over her
husband's flight and the pursuit would cause her to view with
suspicion the appearance of a stranger at the door. That she would
eavesdrop was to be expected. Nick, as has been stated, hoped that
she would overhear what he might say to her father, for from the
description of her character he believed that the eavesdropping
would likely be followed by an attempt to reach her husband and
warn him that he must seek the safest quarters possible.
"Let her leave the house," thought the detective, "and Chick will
shadow her wherever she may go."
For the purpose of adding interest to what he had said about
Mannion, Nick answered Craven's last question by saying:
"I shall be glad to have your assistance, as I shall also be glad to
bring about that which will in time make your daughter a happier
woman than she would be if she knew what a dastardly scoundrel
her husband is. As for her marriage, it may be annulled at any time,
if, as I believe, she was unaware, at the time she became his wife,
that he had served a term in prison."
There was a slight, a very slight movement behind the door
opening into one of the rear apartments. The detective's sharp ears
detected it, and he smiled inwardly.
"She knew nothing of it, I am sure," said Craven.
Dismissing the Mannion matter, Nick talked on general matters for
about ten minutes. Then having, as he thought, given Mrs. Mannion
a chance to escape, he arose to take his departure. It was close
upon six o'clock, but the sun had not set. It would not be dark for
over an hour.
"By the way," said the detective, as he stood at the door, "I would
like to speak with your daughter a moment."
"Very well. I will call her."
Craven went to the rear, and was gone a few minutes. He
returned with the announcement that his daughter was not at home.
"She was here when you came, for I left her in the kitchen to
answer your knock. Gone to a neighbor's, probably."
"It was a small matter," returned Nick. "I can see her at another
time."
Outside, a block from the house, he was joined by Patsy.
"Chick's after her, Mr. Carter," he said. "They've been gone five
minutes."
"Which way?"
"South."
South might mean a great many places. As it was likely that
Mannion would leave Washington as soon as possible to seek a place
of shelter where he might remain until he got the correct lay of the
land in Washington—and this he must count upon securing through
the intelligence and shrewdness of his wife—the most available
section was on the Maryland side, beyond Twining. That would mean
the crossing of either the Anacosta or Pennsylvania Avenue bridge,
unless a boat could be secured before the first-named point could be
reached. From there a quick landing might be made near Poplar
Point. Mannion, with his knowledge of the river, would steal a boat,
if one were to be found, and Mrs. Mannion would not scruple to do
the same, if opportunity presented itself.
"I am afraid Chick has a big job on his hands, Patsy," was the
detective's comment.
 At that moment, down on Anacosta's shore, Chick and Nellie
Mannion were looking into each other's eyes and smiling. They stood
by a small punt, and Chick had just engaged to row Mrs. Mannion
across the stream.
 CHAPTER XVI.
STARTLING NEWS FROM BALTIMORE.

Chick, in the rôle of a street laborer, had accompanied Nick Carter

to the house on L Street. From a monster elm he had seen Mrs.
Mannion emerge from the back door of Craven's house with a small
bundle under her arm, which, he rightly judged, contained eatables.
Looking neither to right nor left, she hurried to the first corner,
turned south, and almost flew along the sidewalk. Chick followed,
using all the precautions of an expert shadower. Going through lanes
and private grounds, she at last reached the river shore.
Chick, by a detour and making lightning time, arrived at a point
near the water several hundred yards in advance of his beautiful
quarry. Looking up-and down-stream without showing himself to the
woman, he saw that there was but one boat between her and the
first bridge, and that was not far beyond the point where he stood,
and within a short distance of the river approaches to the navy-yard.
Intuitively Chick knew that Mannion's wife was looking for a boat,
and this one he had no sooner discovered than he made a run for it,
using the bushes along the shore as a screen for his body.
Reaching it, he saw it was a punt, and that it was half-filled with
water. With an old tin can found on the shore he was busily engaged
in bailing out the punt, when Mrs. Mannion, flushed and anxious-
eyed, came up to him. Chick did not turn his head at her approach,
though out of the corner of his eye he saw her coming.
She stopped and spoke.
"Is this your punt?"
"Sure, miss," was the response, in a rough voice, but with a kindly
intonation.
 "I wish to get across the river. I live beyond the point, and some
one has stolen my own boat. Can I engage you to paddle me over? I
will pay you half a dollar."
"That's like finding money, miss," said Chick, looking into her face
with a broad smile. "But, as I need some coin of the realm, I'll close
with your offer, and thank you kindly for making it. Get right in, and
away we'll go."
Nick's assistant was no novice at boat-work. He was as much at
home on the water as on land. Swiftly and dexterously he paddled
across the Potomac's east branch, landing, as directed by his fair
employer, a quarter of a mile below the point in the direction of
Uniontown.
On the way Chick asked a question:
"What kind of a boat is the stolen one?"
"Something odd for these parts. It's a batteau which my father
brought from Vermont."
"Isn't that it over there?" pointing to a flat, sharpnosed, square-
sterned boat on the shore toward which they were proceeding.
She looked, and, without showing any surprise, said: "Yes, that is
the one."
And now Chick was convinced that Mannion had used the
batteau, and that his wife was on the way to find him.
When she found herself on the other side Nellie Mannion paid the
counterfeit boatman, and then turned and went rapidly up the bank.
Chick saw her disappear among the trees, and cautiously followed
her. For half an hour he was able to keep her in sight. Then, all at
once, she disappeared in the thickly wooded grounds of an old
residence long deserted. The gate was gone, the fence was broken
in many places, the grass grew thick in the walks, and there was
neglect everywhere.
 Chick was hurrying through the wild tangle of weeds and bushes
in the garden near the house, when a scream, fraught with direst
agony, reached his ears. It came from a spot near at hand, not many
yards away, and in a moment he stood by the mouth of an old well
and by the side of Nellie Mannion, who, on her knees and sobbing as
if her heart would break, was gazing down into the black depths of
the hole.
"What is it?" Chick asked, in real concern.
Mrs. Mannion looked up, partially checked her sobbing, and said,
in a despairing voice:
"He's down there."
"Who is he, and how did he get there?"
Chick had not explained his presence in the grounds, nor had the
woman expressed any surprise at his coming. It now occurred to the
young detective, while Mrs. Mannion hesitated in her answer, that he
might as well try to square himself.
"I live near here," he said unblushingly, "and I was going past the
place when I heard your scream."
She seemed to pay no attention to this explanation, but said, with
a renewal of her agitation: "He's down there, and he may be dead.
Can you not get him out?"
"How do you know any one is down in the well?" the detective
asked, as a dim suspicion crossed his mind.
"I heard his groans as I came toward the well," she replied, with
every appearance of earnestness and sincerity; "and the groans
stopped just before you came up."
Chick was but half-satisfied with this statement. Kneeling down,
he looked and listened intently. There was not a sound from below.
He struck a match and was in the act of using the light thus afforded
to ascertain what, if anything, the well contained, when a shove
given with all the force Nellie Mannion was capable of exerting—and
she was anything but a weak woman—tumbled the brave detective
into the well. There was a heavy thud, one groan, and then silence.
On her feet, her heart beating like a trip-hammer and her face,
lighted up but a moment before with murderous fire, now pale with
the first touches of remorse, Nellie Mannion listened for a few
moments; then, taking up her bundle from the ground, hastened,
with shaking limbs, from the scene of her crime.
Nick Carter waited until midnight for the return of his assistant.
Then, in no equable frame of mind, he sought his couch.
The morning came, and no Chick. Noon arrived, and still Chick
had not made his appearance. During the forenoon Patsy had been
on a hunt for the missing detective, and Nick had made a search on
his own account, beginning with Craven's house. There he learned,
somewhat to his alarm, that Mrs. Mannion had been away since the
preceding afternoon. Her father showed anxiety, though it was his
opinion that his daughter had gone to join her husband, of whose
hiding-place she must be cognizant.
At noon Patsy reported the presence of two boats on the
Uniontown side of the Anacosta, and the tracks of a man and a
woman on the shore and bank. He had followed the tracks until they
were lost in the grass.
In the afternoon Nick and Patsy made an attempt to pursue the
clue which Patsy had discovered. The grounds of the deserted house
attracted the great detective's attention, and he was proceeding in
the direction of the well, when he came face to face with Nellie
Mannion.
"Are you Nick Carter?" she asked eagerly.
Under other circumstances, the identity might have been denied.
Nick now saw fit to give an affirmative answer.
"Then you will find your friend a few paces beyond."
Turning, she walked to the mouth of the well. Beside it lay Chick,
with a broken leg, and a face covered with blood.
 "He's not dead; he's not badly hurt," explained the woman
quickly. "His skull is not injured. Bruises and cuts have caused the
blood."
"She's right, all right," spoke Chick faintly; "but I'll feel better if
some one will wash my face and put my leg straight."
The great detective bent over his disabled and suffering assistant,
pressed his hand affectionately, and breathed consoling words into
his ear. Then he lifted the body in his strong arms and started for
the river. "Patsy," he said, "try to induce Mrs. Mannion to accompany
us."
"I will go without compulsion," she said meekly. "I have done all
the evil that I intend to do."
Nick frowned. Perhaps she had done all that was necessary. In
crossing the river Nick and Chick used the batteau. Patsy and Mrs.
Mannion took the punt.
Chick was taken to Craven's house, and a surgeon was
telephoned for. An hour after the surgeon's arrival Chick was resting
quietly, with his limb set and the wounds on his face and head
washed and dressed.
"He will be all right in a few weeks," said the surgeon. "Nursing is
all he requires."
In the evening Nellie Mannion, composed and quiet, sat before
Nick Carter as a person might sit before a prosecuting attorney.
"I have nothing to conceal," she said, "except the place where my
husband is hidden. You will never find it, and you will never see him
again."
Her tone was so positive that Nick felt a cold chill run down his
spine; but he quickly recovered his spirits, and met her look with a
smile of disbelief.
"I am sorry I threw your friend down the well," she continued,
"but I had to do it. I suspected him on the boat, and the scream was
given to test that suspicion. If he were a detective, he would follow
me, and my scream would bring him to my side. It did. The well
offered the only opportunity to rid myself of his pursuit. Rather
would I myself have died than have permitted him to follow me to
my husband's place of concealment."
Her face flushed, and Nick could not but admire as well as pity
her.
"You came back to rescue him," he said, "and that action must go
to your credit."
"I did not desire his death," she replied; "and when I had
accomplished the purpose for which I had set out, I returned with a
rope and assisted him in getting out."
"You say that your husband is beyond my reach. Do you mean by
that that he will never return to Washington?"
"That is what I mean, Mr. Carter. I will say, however, that it was
not his intention to leave these parts, until I told him yesterday what
I heard you say to father. If I had not come to him with the news
you were kind enough"—here she smiled—"to furnish me, he would
have made his appearance in town within a week."
"If he was not afraid of arrest, why did he run away?" queried the
detective.
"On account of a temporary scare. After considering the matter,
he concluded that you had no hold on him that would stand in court,
and he would have chanced arrest, if I had not given him to
understand that you knew more about him than he had given you
credit for knowing."
Nick scanned her face, lovely in its heightened color, saw undying
resolve in her eyes, and sighed.
"And you—you have done all that for a red-handed murderer," he
said, with severity.
 "He is my husband," she said simply, her eyes meeting his without
a quiver.
"Arguments, then, would be thrown away."
"Entirely so. You look at the case from one side, I from the other.
You do not know all the facts."
"And you are in possession of them, eh? Would it be presumption
to ask you to give your side, or rather your husband's side, of the
story?"
"No, it would not be presumption, but I cannot give you any
information. My story, or his, you would laugh at, so what is the use
of telling it?"
Nick made up his mind that Mannion had, in vulgar parlance,
given her a "fill," and that she, in her love and faith, had swallowed
what had been given her as gospel truth. Therefore, he did not
pursue the subject.
For several weeks after the rescue of Chick, Nick Carter used
every means within his power to discover the hiding-place of Arthur
Mannion, but without avail. Nellie Mannion never left her father's
house during all that time, except to visit a neighbor, or make
necessary purchases at near-by stores. Court action on the will had
been indefinitely postponed, Nick believing that at some time, near
or far, the will would furnish the clue that would unearth the
murderer.
Chick made rapid recovery, and in less than a month was on the
street. Nick was then in New York, having been called to his home
by business demanding his attention. One afternoon, about two
months after the escape of Mannion, as he sat in his office a
telegraph boy handed him this message from Washington:

"See afternoon papers to-day. Despatch just come Baltimore

saying Mannion dead in hospital.
"Chick."
 CHAPTER XVII.
PETER MANNION COMES ON DECK.

It goes without saying that one of the first to buy a paper that
afternoon was Nick Carter. Eagerly he scanned the telegraphic
columns until he found what he sought. Dated from Baltimore, the
item read as follows: "Last night, at St. Luke's Hospital, a patient
who had been under the care of the doctors for several weeks
passed away. Upon his arrival he had given the name of William
Jonas, but a few hours before he died he confessed that his true
name was Arthur Mannion, and that the police wanted him for the
murder of James Playfair, the Washington millionaire. He stoutly
asserted his innocence, called upon God to hear his word, and died
with the name of his wife on his lips."
The great detective very coolly folded the paper and placed it in
his pocket. He was not dumfounded over what he had read, though
his brow was wrinkled as he walked toward his residence.
He was a passenger that evening on the B. & O. train for
Baltimore, and the next morning was at St. Luke's Hospital. The
superintendent received him rather coolly, but upon hearing his
name became affable at once.
"Can I see the body of the man Mannion who died here night
before last?" Nick inquired.
"Unfortunately, no. The burial took place yesterday. It was an
aggravated case of typhoid, and we got him underground as soon as
possible."
"Did he leave any personal property behind?"
"Yes. Two hundred dollars in bank-notes, each of one hundred
dollars, several letters from his wife, addressed to him under the
name of Jonas, and a few other pocket articles."
"Will you allow me to read the letters?"
"Certainly. They are in my drawer here. I am waiting to hear from
his wife. She was notified yesterday morning, and an answer signed
by her father came back, which stated that the blow of her
husband's death had prostrated her, and that she was threatened
with brain-fever."
The letters were three in number, and all were written within the
fortnight preceding the death.
The one bearing the earliest date Nick read with amused interest:

"My Dear Husband: Each day is more lonesome since your

departure. I shall go mad if things do not turn out as you have
planned. Get well quick. Make those nasty doctors take a special
interest in your case. Offer them the highest inducement, and if
you can't fulfil any agreement you make with them, let me know
and I will help you, if I have to sell the gown off my back. That
hateful Mr. Carter is here yet, but from what he told father the
other day, I think he will leave for New York in a day or two.
We've pulled the wool over his eyes so thoroughly that he is as
harmless as a dove. Chick, poor man, is about well. He is a
good fellow, and I don't think he bears any grudge against me.
But Patsy—you remember Patsy, don't you? He's the boy I told
you about—he takes no stock in me. He told me so the other
day. He had the impudence to say this to my face. 'Young
woman,' said he, 'I wouldn't trust you farther than I can sling a
cat.' I laughed at him. I could afford to. Now, do as I tell you.
Get well and—you know what our plan is.
"Lovingly your own Nellie."

The second and third letters showed the writer's anxiety over her
husband's condition, which had become serious. In the last letter
she said, if he was not better at the end of a week, she would take
him to Philadelphia and place him under the care of a noted
specialist.
Nick returned the letters to the superintendent, and then asked
for the bank-notes. As he had expected, they belonged to the batch
stolen from the body of Cora Reesey. "With what was Mannion
afflicted when he came to the hospital?" was his next question.
"A complication of diseases, brought on by exposure. He looked
like a tramp when he arrived, and said that for many days he had
been sleeping in barns, sheds, and on the ground. Typhoid set in a
week ago."
"Can you give me a description of his person, not omitting any
physical peculiarity?"
"Yes. He was tall, thin, dark-featured, black-haired—he wore no
mustache, had shaved it off, he said—and half of the forefinger of
his left hand was missing."
Nick's brow clouded for a moment. Then from the innermost
corner of his brain crept an idea. "Doctor," said he, "have you given
me a complete description of the dead man? Was there not some
artificial mark on his left arm?"
"Yes; I had forgotten," replied the superintendent apologetically.
"There was a castle tattooed on his arm."
"I thought so. One more question, and I am done. Did Mannion
have any visitors, friends, while he was in the hospital?"
"One, his uncle, who came a few days before the typhoid
symptoms appeared. Mannion said the uncle was the only blood
relative he had."
"Did they hold long conversations?"
"On the first visit they had a long talk. After that they had not
much to say to each other."
"Was the uncle an old man?"
 "Sixty, at least, though he has no gray hairs. An old soldier, I
should say, for he was as straight as an arrow, and had but one arm,
taken off close to the shoulder."
"What name did he give?"
"Peter Mannion."
"Were you prepossessed in his favor?"
"Very much so. He was, or appeared to be, a perfect gentleman."
That evening Nick was in Washington. After a long talk with
Chick, he retired to pass a restless night. The next morning Chick
left the city, taking the Baltimore train, but getting off at Beltzville.
Patsy, by another route, left Washington in the afternoon.
A few days afterward, while Nick was at Prosper Craven's house,
at which he had been a constant visitor, a tall, handsome, elderly
man was ushered in by Nellie Mannion, who, the day before, had
risen from a sickbed.
"Father," said she, "this is the uncle of Arthur. He lives near
Baltimore, and has come to see me."
Nick Carter did not remain in the house but a few moments after
the uncle's arrival. Excusing himself, he went out to give utterance to
a soft whistle.
The uncle bore no resemblance to Arthur Mannion outside of his
eyes. There was some similarity in shape, position, and expression.
But Mannion's hair was black. This man's was light-brown. Mannion
had full, red lips. This man's were thin and bloodless. Mannion had a
sharp nose; this man's was broad and full. This man's voice was
heavy and harsh. Mannion's was a light, musical one. There were
other points of dissimilarity, but still the relationship might exist. Nick
noticed that the uncle wore no sleeve to hide the loss of his arm.
From appearances, the arm had been amputated at the shoulder-
joint. "And yet, and yet," muttered the detective, under his breath,
but without going further.
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