It would be hard to express in ordinary words the wave of relief that surged through Nick Carter as he knelt by the side of Chick, and, looking closely at the sleeve of his coat, saw that the crossed needles had not gone in far.
“They haven’t reached his flesh, I’m sure,” murmured Nick. “They only just catch in the cloth. The wretch who did this hadn’t time to finish the job. The needles got entangled in the cloth, and before he could drive them in, he heard, or saw, me coming.”
Cautiously, the detective withdrew the needles and laid them on the walk, by his side. Then, picking up the unconscious Chick, he threw him over one shoulder, and carried him into the Anderton mansion.
Nick Carter was blessed with extraordinary strength, and although Chick was solid and of good weight, the burden was nothing to the detective.
“Merciful ’eavens!” squeaked Ruggins, as Nick came up the stone steps. “What’s that, Mr. Carter?”
“Fainted, I think,” replied the detective briefly. “Let me put him on this sofa in the hall.”
When Chick was laid out on a long leather settee that had been encumbered with a raincoat and other garments untidily left there by Ruggins, and which Nick Carter unceremoniously swept to the floor, the detective hastily removed Chick’s coat, and pulled up his shirt sleeve on one side.
“This was the arm,” he muttered. “There is no mark of the needles in the sleeve, and I could not find any through the coat. I don’t think there’s any danger of his having been struck. But I want to find out.”
With his flash lamp and magnifying glass, he went slowly and minutely over the whole length of Chick’s arm. The skin was perfectly smooth, without a prick or abrasion of any kind on it from shoulder to wrist.
“Just what I hoped. The needles never went through. If the point of one of them had touched his flesh, he would be dead before this. A more powerful poison I never came across, judging by its effects on Brand Jamieson and poor Andrew Anderton.”
“Hello, chief! What’s the matter?” interposed a feeble voice.
“What, Chick? Are you all right again?” asked Nick, smiling, as Chick raised his head. “I was just going to ask you what was the matter? Ah, I see! You’ve been rapped on the head.”
“Oh, yes,” was the response, as Chick sat up on the settee and let his feet fall to the floor. “I remember now. I was following the professor—a few yards behind him, so that he shouldn’t see me. Then I had a feeling as if a crowbar had come down on top of my head, and that was all I knew.”
“It was a sandbag,” declared Nick. “There is a little mark on your head, made by that metal initial you had put in the crown of your hat. The sandbag came down on top of your derby, crushed it in, and caused the brass letter to cut your scalp just a little. There is no mark on your hat, however. It was merely slammed in by something bulky and yielding, and the inference is that it was a sandbag.”
“’Oly ’eavens!” mumbled Ruggins, who had been listening. “’Ow easy it seems when you know.”
“I guess you’re right,” agreed Chick, speaking to Nick. “But it was so sudden and unexpected that I did not get a chance to see who did it, or how.”
“It wasn’t the professor?”
“No. He was some distance in front, and I don’t think he knew I was following him. He did not turn his head. He walked along as if he wasn’t thinking of anything except to get to where he was going. I believe he had a taxi. I saw one waiting about two blocks from the house.”
“There was none there when I went out,” observed Carter reflectively. “I guess you’re right. But wait a minute. I have something to look after outside. Go up to the study and wait for me.”
As Chick got up to obey, Nick Carter hurried out of the house and to the place where he had left the crossed needles. He had put them close to the iron fence of a house, so that there was no danger of their being trodden on—even if anybody should happen to pass that way.
“I don’t think there has been any one going by since I left them,” he muttered. “Anyhow, here are the needles.”
He put them carefully between the leaves of his notebook, which he carried in his hand back to the house, and up to the study. When he got there, he laid the book on the table and opened it.
“You see, Chick, the person who knocked you down belonged to the Yellow Tong. That is proved by the fact that he tried to kill you with the crossed needles.”
“What?” cried Chick, turning pale.
“Oh, it’s all right now, my boy!” laughed Nick Carter. “I wouldn’t have told you otherwise. The needles did not get to you. But that is no credit to the blackguard who knocked you down. They were sticking in your coat sleeve when I found you on the sidewalk. I satisfied myself that the points had not reached you, even before I picked you up. But I don’t understand what the object was in attacking you, unless——”
He paused and walked several times up and down the room before he spoke again.
“I have it,” he declared at last. “It is simple enough. Somebody saw you following Professor Tolo—somebody in his employ. To prevent your finding out where the professor was going—and perhaps in fear that you might hit on the professor’s real identity—this stranger knocked you down and tried to kill you with the needles.”
“Then you believe Tolo is connected in some way with the Yellow Tong?”
“I certainly do.”
“If that is the case, it ought not to be hard to get at the secret of Mr. Anderton’s death.”
Nick Carter smiled slightly and shook his head.
“My dear Chick, don’t jump hastily to conclusions. What evidence have we got against Professor Tolo?”
“Plenty, I should think. Wasn’t he snooping about in this room when we came back to it, after going downstairs to see a man who had disappeared when we got there? Then, doesn’t he hide his face with those big spectacles? And wasn’t I following him when I was sandbagged and struck at with the crossed needles?”
“All that is suspicious, but not proof, Chick.”
“Do we know where he lives?”
“That is easily found out,” replied Carter. “But even then, we shall have to learn a great deal more before we can show that he is associated with the Yellow Tong.”
“But you believe he is, don’t you?”
“I do. Only we haven’t anything conclusive with which to back up that belief—yet. For the present, I want to find out how the person who killed Andrew Anderton got into this room. When I have reached that point, I shall have something from which to start on other inquiries. It would give us a base of operations.”
Nick Carter picked up a small pasteboard box from the table which had been filled with brass paper fasteners at one time, but was nearly empty now. He threw out the three or four fasteners that remained. Then he placed the crossed needles in the box and fitted on the lid. To make it still more secure, he put on two thick rubber bands. Then he dropped the box into his coat pocket.
“Going to examine those needles, I suppose, chief?” asked Chick.
“Yes, when I have leisure, at home. They are so dangerous that I don’t like to handle them until I can do so carefully. I would not even trust them in an envelope. The points could easily come through, and one touch might mean death.”
Chick shuddered, in spite of himself, as he thought how easily he might have been scratched when the ghastly instrument was thrust into his sleeve, as he lay on the sidewalk.
“What are we going to do now?” he asked.
“Come out on that balcony, and then we will see. But first we’ll turn out the lights in this room.”
This was done; then Nick went to the window he had gone out by before, and the next minute he and Chick were standing outside, in the pitch darkness. Just as they got out, a distant tower clock chimed twelve.
“Now, Chick, I have a theory. It isn’t anything more than that, but it is a strong one. I want you to climb into that next yard. You see there is a high wooden fence dividing it from this.”
“About fifteen feet, I should say,” put in Chick.
“Not quite that, I think,” returned Carter. “But high enough. Anyhow, I should like you to climb over, if you will. Then look about and see if there is a long plank over there, or a ladder. I will stay here, on the balcony, where I can look over, in case of any interference with you, and be ready to help. You will get over with this rope ladder.”
He turned the flash on the ladder already referred to, which was intended by Andrew Anderton for use as a fire escape, if necessary, and showed that it had two powerful and large steel hooks at the end.
“I see,” said Chick. “I’ll climb down to our yard by this. Then you’ll drop it to me, and I’ll throw up the end to the top of the fence and hook it on. Is that the idea?”
“You have it exactly. Now, are you ready?”
“Sure! Let her go!”
It did not take Chick long to carry out his instructions. In a very short space of time he was astride of the high fence. This brought him almost level with Nick, standing on the balcony, and not more than ten feet away, for the window was almost at the corner of the Anderton house.
“Careful, Chick!” whispered Nick. “Better drop your ladder into the other yard and go down that way.”
“All right! Then what am I to do?”
There was a short pause, while Nick Carter considered his next move. Then he said quietly:
“If there is a ladder, or plank, push it up to the top of the fence. I want to see whether it could have been used as a bridge to get to this balcony from the yard. Do you begin to see what I’m driving at?”
“I’d be a bonehead if I didn’t,” replied Chick, as he went to work.
For perhaps a minute there was silence. Then a gruff voice broke out, demanding to know who was there. This was followed by a sound of fighting, with Chick’s voice mingling with the gruff tones heard before.
“You’re a burglar. That’s what you are!” roared the gruff person. “I’ll have you pinched as soon as I can get you to the front door! Come on! You can’t get away! Lend me a hand here, Bill!”
“I’m here,” responded a voice that was strangely squeaky, and might have been that of a Chinaman, except that it had not the Mongolian accent. “And the others will help.”
“The durned, sneaking thief! Out with him!”
There was a little more noise. Then a door banged, and—silence!
Nick Carter hurriedly went through the window to the study, and, without taking the time to close it, rushed to the door, down the stairs, past the mystified Ruggins, and out to the street.
There he met Chick, very much ruffled, and with his battered hat in his hand, coming along from the next house, and occasionally looking over his shoulder, as if he expected to see somebody come out.
“Well, chief, they bounced me!” he said, in a rueful tone. “Chucked me out on my head.”
“Who?” asked Nick Carter.
“I don’t know. I didn’t see anybody. I only felt that there were at least three men, and they were all huskies, too. We were in the dark. They shoved me clean through the house and out of the front door before I had any chance to fight back. It was the quickest bounce I ever had—or ever gave any one else. What shall we do? Break down the door and go in?”
“No. We’ll leave them for the present. The caretaker had a right to throw you out if he thought you were a burglar, and, naturally, if he had any friends with him, they would help. We can’t break in, unless we want to bring the police. I am glad he didn’t call the police, as it was.”
“Do you think he would dare do that?” asked Chick significantly.
“No,” was Nick Carter’s slow reply. “I don’t think he wants the police to get into that house. That is where, I think, we have them.”
“You mean——”
“I mean that I am convinced the murderer of Andrew Anderton came in from that house. But we can’t do anything more now. We’d better go in and close that study. Then we’ll go to bed. Do you feel like walking?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. We’ll walk home.”