For five minutes after Clarice and Mrs. Morrison had left the library, Nick Carter sat in front of the table in a brown study. He felt as if he had run against a brick wall, and that it would take some climbing to get over it.
“Chick,” he said, at last, “suppose you go down into the kitchen regions and interview the Japanese young man you’ll find down there. His name is Swagara. Find out if he has any Chinese friends, and whether he knows Ched Ramar. Don’t be rough with him. Lead him on gently. Understand?”
“Yes. That’s clear enough,” replied Chick.
“You are wasting your time with Swagara, I’m sure,” put in Bentham. “I’ll answer for him.”
“It is from apparently unlikely sources that valuable information often is obtained,” answered Nick Carter quietly. “Oh, and by the way, Chick.”
He walked over to the door, where Chick already had his hand on the knob, and spoke quietly to him for a few moments. Then Chick nodded comprehendingly and went out.
“While Chick is talking to Swagara, will you have the cook and Mary up here? I should like to question them in the presence of each other. No,” continued Nick, with a smile, as he saw a peculiar expression in Matthew Bentham’s face, “it isn’t that I want them to contradict each other, and so prove that they are not telling the truth. In their nervousness they are likely to tell different stories. My object is to get at the exact truth by letting one remind the other of details she may have forgotten. I believe both those young women are honest.”
The cook was a woman of thirty-five or so, while Mary was ten years younger. When they came into the library, Nick Carter politely gave them chairs side by side. Then he took a seat at the table and looked them over judicially.
“I am sorry to say,” he opened, “that Mr. Bentham has lost something of value, and he has permitted me to ask you a few questions. Of course, not a shadow of suspicion attaches to anybody in the house, but we have asked everybody to help. Miss Bentham and Mrs. Morrison have just told me all they know—which is nothing at all. It may be the same with you, but you won’t mind my asking you a few things, I am sure.”
This diplomatic way of putting it disarmed the two young women at once. The cook, in particular, would have fiercely resented the slightest intimation that she could touch anything which was not her own, and Mary would not have been far behind.
“We shall be glad to tell anything that will help,” replied the cook, who answered to the name of Maggie, and whose surname was Quinn. “But I do not think either me or Mary can be of much help. What was it you were wanting to know, sir?”
“Will you both cast your minds back to last night? Begin at ten o’clock, after Mr. Bentham, Miss Clarice, and Mrs. Morrison had gone out, and think carefully. Did anything whatsoever happen which was at all out of the ordinary? Remember that what may seem of no moment to you may be of importance to us. Please go over every moment.”
“I can’t think of anything out of the ordinary,” replied the cook. “I went around, with Mary, to see that all the doors and windows were fastened. Then we went to bed.”
“That’s so,” confirmed Mary. “We both went to bed.”
“And slept soundly all night?”
“Yes,” replied Mary. “Except——” she stopped.
“Yes?” prompted Nick. “Except what?”
“Well, we generally get up at seven o’clock. But something woke me at six this morning, and I looked out of our window, which is in the front of the house, on the top floor.”
“What did you see?”
“Nothing much, except Miss Clarice walking away from the front door, and going fast down the avenue, to where the street cars pass. It wasn’t anything remarkable, except that she doesn’t often go out so early as that.”
“I never knowed her to do it before,” put in the cook.
“Especially after being out so late the night before,” added Mary.
“You’d think she’d be tired,” remarked Maggie.
“Too tired to get up before six in the morning,” supplemented Mary.
“Where did she go when she went down the avenue?” asked Nick. “Did you see whether she got on a car?”
“I didn’t see, sir,” was Mary’s reply. “But it would have been easy to do, if she wanted to.”
“Look here, Carter!” interrupted Bentham impatiently. “This is sheer waste of time. What if my daughter did take an early-morning walk? There is nothing remarkable in that. She is a healthy young girl, with a love of nature. When can you enjoy nature better than in the beginning of a fine day? But it has nothing to do with this loss of my papers. How could it have any bearing on such a matter?”
“Still, I should like to know,” insisted Nick. “This is all I want to ask of these two young women, but I should like a few more words with Miss Bentham. Perhaps Mary will tell her so when she goes out?”
Mary looked inquiringly at her employer. He nodded savagely, and Mary and Maggie left the room.
When Clarice came in, a few moments later, she appeared to be slightly surprised, but she took the chair her father pointed to without remark.
“Mr. Carter desires to ask you one or two more questions, my dear,” blurted out her father angrily. “I don’t see the necessity, but perhaps I shall understand later.”
His accent and manner said, plainly enough, that he did not expect to be convinced, but he meant to give Nick Carter all the opportunity he sought.
“I shall be only too pleased to tell you anything I can, Mr. Carter,” she said. “But I feel as if I have given you all the information I have—which is simply nothing at all.”
“We can’t always tell at the beginning,” returned Nick. “I will not take up much time, but there are one or two things I wanted to discuss with you, if you don’t mind. You went for a walk this morning earlier than is your custom, I believe?”
“Yes. But why do you ask?”
She smiled as she put this query, in the manner of one who feels something like pity for a puerile question. The detective was not disturbed, however. He continued his questioning in an even tone:
“Did you go for any special purpose, or merely for the benefit of the exercise?”
She pondered for a few moments, as if this was something that had not occurred to her. A slightly troubled look clouded her pretty face.
“I really cannot say exactly, Mr. Carter. But I think it was only because the beautiful morning tempted me. I went to bed late last night—or, rather, this morning. But it is often the case with me that, when I retire much later than my usual time, I am awake several hours earlier in the morning. When I wake, I always want to get up.”
“H’m!” muttered Nick Carter. “There is reason in that. I am often the same way.” Then, in a more brisk tone: “Do you mind telling me where you went?”
“I don’t mind at all. I went down this avenue till I got to where the trolley cars pass. It had been my intention to go into the park for ten minutes or so. But I thought it would be pleasanter to ride in one of the open cars for a few blocks, and come back in the same manner. So I stepped on a car.”
“A Brooklyn Heights car?”
“Yes. It was going in that direction.”
“Do you remember where you got off the car, and what you did then?”
The girl shook her head, with a smile, and held out her two hands protestingly.
“Actually, Mr. Carter, I cannot tell. I must have been so absorbed in my own thoughts that I didn’t notice how far the car went, or where I left it. All I know is that I found myself at home again after a while, and that I got off the car that brought me here at the corner, two blocks down our avenue. I had been thinking about various things the whole time, and I had performed my whole journey mechanically. It is not often I do that, but it has happened before, and if you had not asked me about it, I should not have given it any further thought.”
The sincerity of the girl was beyond question, and Nick Carter knew he could not expect to find out anything more from her. His manner was easy and courteous, as he told her he was sorry to have troubled her, and begged her not to think any more about him or his questions, either.
“I don’t mind the questions at all,” she declared. “If I could have told you anything that would be of assistance to my father, I should have been only too glad.”
“I am sure of that,” Nick assured her warmly.
When Clarice had gone out of the library, with a graceful bow and smile for the detective, Matthew Bentham heaved a sigh of relief.
“I knew Clarice could not tell you anything that would have a bearing on this case. I hope you will not consider it necessary to ask her anything more. She is of a nervous temperament, and I am always careful not to do or say anything to distress her when it can be avoided.”
“Naturally,” said Nick. “But, as you saw, the few innocent questions I put did not agitate her. As for the case as a whole, I confess it is very baffling. I shall have to go home and think it over.”
“You think you will be able to recover the papers eventually, do you not? I suppose that is a foolish question, but I am so anxious that I cannot help saying what completely fills my mind.”
“I shall not rest until I have satisfied myself on several points that have a direct bearing on the mystery. I am in hopes that when I have done that, I shall have a report for you that will be valuable. I cannot say any more than that at this stage. I will call you up as soon as I have something to communicate. Meanwhile, I should advise you not to walk about the streets or go into public places much.”
“I never do, for that matter,” replied Bentham. “You think some of the Yellow Tong might get after me personally then, do you?”
“Have you a gun?”
“Yes. I got a permit to keep one in the house and to carry it, some time ago, when these burglaries began. Look!”
He showed a serviceable-looking automatic pistol in the table drawer, in a chamois bag. Nick saw that it was well supplied with cartridges and ready for instant use.
“That’s well,” said the detective. “If any of the tong should find their way to you and ask insolent questions, or if you should see any suspicious movements on the part of any burglar, I should advise that you shoot first and ask questions afterward.”
Before Matthew Bentham could comment on this emphatic advice, Chick came into the room and showed, in a way that Nick Carter understood—although it meant nothing to Bentham—that he had something weighty to communicate.
The detective arose and nodded carelessly to Chick.
“Ready to go, eh, Chick? I was just saying ‘good morning’ to Mr. Bentham.”
“Did you find anything from Swagara?” asked Bentham, in a tone that told plainly enough how surprised he would have been if the answer had been in the affirmative.
“Swagara hadn’t anything to say of any consequence,” replied Chick, as he and Nick Carter left the room and the house.