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A Whisper of Cardamom 80 Sweetly Spiced Recipes to
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 CHAPTER V.
NICK HAS AN ADVENTURE.

The chief of police looked at Nick Carter, as if he could not believe

the evidence of his ears. "Leonard did not kill Dashwood?" he
exclaimed, in surprise and incredulity. "Then, in the name of wonder,
who did?"
"I don't know," said Nick simply.
"Madame Ree?"
"Perhaps."
The chief shook his head. "That was no woman's work, Nick. The
murderer was a man, and a strong man. But I'd like to hear what
has induced you to come to the conclusion that Gabriel Leonard is
innocent."
"I believe him to be innocent of the murder of Dashwood, but
guilty of other crimes. Your assumption, chief, that circumstances
may have arisen sufficiently strong to make Leonard murder the
husband of his daughter does not appeal to me. I believe that
Leonard would have defied Madame Ree, no matter what her hold
on him may be, rather than commit a murder, particularly the
murder of a man whom he respected, and who was dearly loved by
Leonard's daughter, for whom Leonard would sacrifice much. But,
however much he might sacrifice, whatever he might do within the
law or without the law, he would never commit an act that would
plunge her into the depths of sorrow. It is—I hope you will pardon
me, chief—preposterous to suppose it.
"We have evidence that he held in his hands the instrument with
which murder was probably done. But that is not proof that he did
the deed. He may have wrested it from the real murderer. Madame
Ree was there, on the evidence of the brooch. She is a strong
woman, a regular Amazon. I believe she would commit murder to
obtain even a much less sum than twenty thousand dollars. She may
have murderously assaulted Dashwood. She may have dealt the fatal
blow, have prepared to deal another, to find her hand arrested by
Leonard, just come upon the scene. Then what would likely follow? I
am not maintaining that I am giving you a theory which I look upon
as convincing; I am only putting a case that seems to me more
reasonable than the one you have outlined.
"Let me assume for the moment that Madame Ree did kill John
Dashwood, and that Gabriel Leonard witnessed the deed. Would he
feel like giving her into custody? I don't think so. There was not only
the chance that he would be deeply involved—perhaps the woman
might prefer a countercharge, accuse him, in fact, of the murder—
but there was also the fact that Dashwood was dead, and that no
proceedings could bring him to life. Let us suppose, further, that
Leonard, accepting the situation thus forced upon him, allowed the
woman to keep fifteen out of the twenty thousand dollars taken
from the dead man's person, on the promise of immediately leaving
town never to return.
"Now let us suppose that, although the locality was out of the
way and is not patrolled by the police, they feared, in their
excitement, to return to town in the usual way. The boat was in plain
sight. They took it, rowed down the river some distance, went
ashore, and turned the boat adrift. The murder must have been
committed not far from ten o'clock, probably an hour before I
arrived on the wharf and half an hour before Filbon got there.
Leonard reached home after three o'clock, so he must have had a
three or four hours' walk. He could have covered ten or twelve miles
in that time.
"As to Leonard's absence, or flight, that may be explained in this
way: This morning he arose, after a few hours' sleep, if he slept at
all, with his daughter occupying all his thoughts. She must come
home, and to have her arrive by the first train leaving Chicago he
must wire her at once. Filled with this idea, he hurried down-town,
not thinking of the evidence he had left behind. If he thought of it
while in town, he may have considered it wholly unlikely that he
would be suspected, for who could possibly know of his dealings
with Madame Ree? But the conversation I had with him in his office
this forenoon may have excited his fears. Just before I left him he
said he was going home for lunch. He did not do so. I think he was
afraid to go home. But he stayed for the inquest.
"He may have feared that he was running desperate chances in
remaining, but, at the same time, he must have felt that his absence
would arouse suspicion, if no suspicion existed before, and that the
start in daylight which he would have to make would not be
sufficient to insure his escape. But as soon as he had given his
testimony he left town. I know that this action of his, this fear of the
result of possible discoveries at his house, leaves a presumption that
he is deeper in the mire than I would have you believe him to be,
yet I still stick to my belief that he did not kill John Dashwood. He
has disappeared under very suspicious circumstances, but the cause
is something unconnected with the death of his son-in-law."
"Have you formed an opinion as to what the cause is?" asked the
chief.
"Not a decided opinion, but I have some ideas, which are not yet
in shape for explanation. Probably by to-morrow I may speak of
them. But we must find Leonard, if possible. There is a double secret
in this case, and he holds the key."
Nick Carter had given a theory for the chief to ponder over, but,
as he intimated, it was not one in which, as a whole, he fully
believed. Strange ideas had come into his head during the afternoon
and evening, and he longed for the presence of Chick, in order that
he might have assistance in working them out.
The morning came, and Gabriel Leonard did not appear. A police
officer had been stationed near the manufacturer's house, with
instructions to make the arrest should Leonard come home during
the day.
The noon train of the B. & O. brought Chick. He was met at the
depot by Nick, and together they proceeded to the great detective's
rooms on Jefferson Avenue.
Once there and seated, Nick went over the case which involved
the disappearance of John Dashwood, and the connection with it of
Gabriel Leonard and Madame Ree.
Chick listened with eager attention.
"It seems a clear case against Leonard," he said.
"Yes, at first blush it does. It is too plain to suit me."
After giving the reasons, as stated to the chief of police, for
disbelieving that Leonard had murdered John Dashwood, Nick said:
"Outside of the improbability, on account of relationship by
marriage, and so forth, of Leonard's killing Dashwood, there is the
further circumstance that he did not, upon his arrival home in the
early morning, attempt to conceal the evidences of his crime. A man
guilty of the murder of John Dashwood, no matter how satisfied he
may have been in respect of his security from suspicion, would not
have allowed the clay-stains to remain on the trousers, nor the
telltale handkerchief to remain in his closet. And he would never
have permitted these incriminating letters and notes to stay in his
desk. No, my boy, Leonard is not the man. He had not upon his head
the guilt of his son-in-law's death when he went up-town early
yesterday morning."
"But, Nick, ought he not to have feared, from what he knew of
the night's happenings, that, though innocent, he might be
suspected? And would not that suspicion have caused him to take
the precaution to put out of the way evidence that would associate
him with the crime?"
"Not at the time. He arose early to send off that telegram to his
daughter. His conscience was clear of the guilt of Dashwood's
murder, and when he left the house he had not arrived at a sober
idea of the situation. And I can imagine another reason which could
explain why he acted as he did, and we will immediately proceed to
test the theory which it raises. Have you had your breakfast?"
"Yes."
"Then you must begin work at once. You must go down the river."
"In a boat?"
"No. Get a rig. I'll explain on our way to the livery-stable."
Nick saw Chick off, and then went to the chief's office. No trace of
the missing boat had been found, and the chief was now of opinion
that it had been scuttled and sunk. Nick coincided with this view.
"Oh," said the chief, "here is something for you, a letter. It came
this morning, in my care. Looks like a woman's handwriting."
Nick tore open the envelope, which bore the East St. Louis
postmark, and found a note which contained these words:

"Nick Carter: You are on a wrong scent. Give up the pursuit of

Gabriel Leonard, wait two days, and the truth will come out. You
well know I have no love for you, but in this case I am willing to
act fairly. You are making a mountain out of a mole-hill. This is
all. I have made arrangements to leave, and will be hundreds of
miles away when you receive this. Be guided by my advice, and
you will live to thank me. C. R."

Having read the note, Nick handed it to the chief.

"H'm. She is very mysterious, whoever she is, Nick. 'C. R.' Do you
know what the initials mean?"
"Yes. They stand for Cora Reesey, alias Madame Ree."
"Then she is mixed up in this affair, sure enough. But do you
believe what she says in the note?"
 "I'll answer you in a moment. First, I would like to look at that
blackmailing letter which she wrote to Leonard."
The chief opened a drawer, found the letter and gave it to Nick,
who compared the writing with the writing on the note.
"A very good imitation," he said, after a few minutes, "and likely
to deceive any one except an expert."
"Then Madame Ree did not write it?"
"No. It was written by Gabriel Leonard. Just what I might have
expected."
"What is his little game? I confess I am puzzled."
"It is a waiting game, chief. There is more in this case than has
appeared on the surface. By the way, have you heard from Mrs.
Dashwood to-day?"
"No."
"Call up the house and ask her if she has heard either from her
father or her husband. It is not likely that she has heard from her
husband, but her father may have written."
Mrs. Dashwood responded to the call, and, in answer to
questions, said that her father had written from Madison, and had
stated that Mr. Dashwood would return home in a few days. Leonard
himself might not be able, on account of pressing business, to return
before his son-in-law arrived.
The chief passed his hand slowly over his forehead. "What are we
up against?" he said, with a puzzled look at Nick. "I have it," he
continued, as a thought struck him. "Leonard is keeping his daughter
in the dark out of regard for her feelings. She will stay fooled until
her father has either been arrested or has left the country."
Nick was toying with the note purporting to have come from
Madame Ree, and did not reply.
 When he did speak, it was not in relation to anything the chief
had said. "Who among the business men of St. Louis would be likely
to know the names and addresses of Leonard's closest friends?"
"Jasper Swayne, the insurance-broker. He was once associated
with Leonard in business, and has been intimate with him ever since
Leonard came to town. His office is in Pine Street."
Nick got the number from the directory, and in a short time was
seated in Swayne's office, talking with that gentleman. What he
learned made him anxious to see Chick, who, however, would not
probably report before evening.
At Olive and Broadway, Nick took a car. As there was a crowd
inside, he rode on the platform. While the car was passing Twentieth
Street he saw a man standing at the edge of the sidewalk, who, at
sight of the detective, wheeled quickly and walked rapidly down
Twentieth Street. The man was Carroll Slack, who had been a
deputy in the San Francisco county jail at the time of the escape of
James Dorrant. He had been in love with Madame Reesey before the
events which had culminated in the death of Dorrant, and his
presence in St. Louis at this time was, to Nick's mind, a suspicious
circumstance. Although he had not been criminally implicated in the
crimes which the great detective had unearthed while he was in the
Pacific-coast metropolis, Nick had looked upon him as of weak moral
fiber, one who could be easily led astray by a beautiful, designing
woman.
The detective motioned to the conductor, the car stopped, and
pursuit at once began. Slack kept up his rapid walk to Chestnut
Street, then turned into it and went north. Nick reached the corner
just in time to see Slack disappear through a small opening at the
farther end of a high board fence enclosing a large vacant lot, back
of some business buildings fronting on Market Street, opposite the
Union Depot.
There might be a trap in store, but Nick, in view of the
importance of the pursuit, determined to risk the danger. He came to
the opening just as Slack was entering the door of a wooden lean-to
of one of the brick buildings. From his observation of the locality
taken while passing the block many times, either on his way to the
depot or the court buildings, Nick was satisfied that his quarry had
gone into an unoccupied section of the block. The rooms,
sandwiched between a cheap hotel and a ticket-scalper's office, had
been the headquarters of a band of fakers, whose operations, not
coming within the limits of the law, had been summarily
discountenanced by the police.
There was the possibility, which, on account of the former deputy
jailer's good record, had in it strong elements of reason, that Slack
was really trying to evade Nick Carter, and that he hoped by darting
through the vacant rooms to slip through to Market Street, and on
into one of the near-by hotels or saloons, where backway exit to
safety might be found.
Nick opened the door of the lean-to, and entered what had been
intended for a kitchen. Probably the rooms had last been put to
legitimate use by a restaurateur. There was no one in the room, and
Nick, without a moment's pause, hurried toward another, the middle
room beyond, the door of which was partly open. At the threshold
he stopped and struck the door a resounding blow, which caused it
to fly backward against the wall. Nothing of a suspicious nature met
his gaze. The room, as far as he could see, was bare. While walking
slowly in, so as to guard against possible surprise from some
unexpected quarter, a heavy body struck him on the shoulders and
back, and he was borne violently to the floor. Over the door was a
wide shelf, and from that shelf a man had leaped. The suddenness,
as well as the force of the assault, caught Nick without that tension
of mind and muscle which is of such efficacy at critical times.
For a moment he lay flat upon his stomach, the while his
adversary was reaching to grasp his windpipe. Then, with a mighty
effort, Nick Carter called all his wonderful strength into play. With
one hand planted on the floor, he turned sidewise, made a sudden
twist, and flung Slack off. But the former deputy jailer was as quick
in movements as a cat, and he rolled over and clutched Nick about
the waist before the detective could make an offensive move. The
two instantly became locked in a deadly embrace. Nick was the more
powerful and scientific, but Slack was a strong man, and he fought
as if for his life.
He soon gained an advantage, but it was not lasting. Nick, upon
Slack's initial onslaught, had sprained his ankle, and the San
Franciscan, in exerting all his energies to bring the detective's back
to the floor, unintentionally pressed his legs against the injured
member, twisting it so that Nick, in the intensity of his pain, slightly
relaxed his hold, and was rolled over in consequence.
The detective fell face upward, and upon the instant that he
reached that position his hands went up and grasped Slack by the
throat. As the grip tightened, Slack struck out blindly, but his hands
soon grew nerveless, while his eyes began to start from their
sockets. At the right moment Nick, with a supreme effort, raised
himself and threw his enemy backward, and the next instant was
sitting on the man's chest.
"Give up?" he asked.
"Yes," came in a labored, husky voice. "I'm a quitter, all right."
 CHAPTER VI.
THE MYSTERY OF ROOM M.

Not until the detective had tied Slack's hands, removed his
weapons, a pistol and knife, and propped him against the wall, did
he move away. After he had bathed his ankle with water found in
the kitchen and satisfied himself that the sprain was not a bad one,
Nick opened his batteries on his prisoner.
"Slack," he said, more in sorrow than in anger, "this is a strange
part for you to play. What has come over you? In San Francisco you
were an honest man, a defender of law and order."
"Every man for himself! that's my motto," replied Slack sullenly.
"That is dodging the question. What have I ever done to you, that
you should jump me?"
"You have stuck your nose into my concerns, that's what you have
done," was Slack's savage outburst.
Nick looked at the man curiously.
"I think I understand," he said quietly. "You are under the thumb
of Cora Reesey, otherwise Madame Ree. She has taken you into her
good graces again. You came here to meet her. You find her gone,
and you get the notion into your head that I am responsible for her
disappearance. Well, you are wrong. I have had no dealings of any
kind with Madame Ree since her arrival in St. Louis. I had no hand in
sending her away, and I don't know where she is. It is very evident,
though, that she has given you the icy mitt."
Slack's face was a study while Nick was speaking.
"Do you mean to say that you have neither driven her, nor given a
tip to the chief of police which has caused her to be driven from St.
Louis?"
"I am not a liar," returned Nick coldly. "What I say goes with those
who know me."
"I beg your pardon," said Slack humbly. "I have been a fool. I
thought you had mixed up in my affairs—for I'm going to marry
Madame Ree—and I made up my mind to get even."
"When did you arrive in town?"
"Yesterday. Cora was expecting me; had written me to come. I
found her gone. I learned from a police officer of my acquaintance
that you were here, and I at once connected Cora's disappearance
with your presence."
"You saw me quite by accident, didn't you?"
"Yes. I have been laying for you all day. I hired these rooms, and
my plan was to lure you here, jump you, and keep you a prisoner
until I had found Cora, who might deal with you as she liked."
"You were not holding out an alluring prospect for me, Slack,"
said Nick dryly.
"I was mad, crazy," said Slack penitently. His manner since his
fight with the great detective had undergone a complete change. He
was no longer aggressive, vindictive. The good in his disposition was
coming uppermost. Nick saw that he was in condition for full
confession, but to obtain it he took the least offensive way.
"See here, Slack," said he, in a friendly tone, "you will have
reason to congratulate yourself over this affair of to-day. And it is
due to your good luck that you did not meet Madame Ree on your
arrival. She wrote to you to come, not because she loves you, but
for the reason that she wanted help in an unlawful undertaking.
Money is her passion. You ought to know that."
Slack winced slightly. Nick went on: "She may have revealed to
you what her plans were, and she may have held out a bait which
you swallowed. Now, without having seen her, without having
interfered with her in the slightest degree, I know what her plans
were, and my knowledge has come through events associated with
the disappearance of John Dashwood and the suicide of Luke Filbon.
If you have read the newspapers, you know something concerning
these matters."
"I have read the papers, and I know what the public knows."
"Very well. Now I'll tell you something which the public does not
know." Then Nick proceeded to lay bare the blackmailing scheme
which Cora Reesey, alias Madame Ree, had concocted with Gabriel
Leonard as the victim.
"If she got fifteen thousand dollars from Leonard," said Slack,
with a black frown, "she has skipped the country."
"She got it, all right. I am entirely satisfied on that point."
"Then I'm sure in the soup," was Slack's desponding utterance.
"She wanted me to come and help her out, but she has corralled the
money without my assistance, and now she has no use for me."
"It looks that way, doesn't it? If she really meant to deal squarely
with you, she would have written a letter after she had closed the
deal with Leonard."
"That's right. I see it all now. I'm a double-distilled jackass." Then
his face hardened and his eyes gleamed cruelly. "I may meet her
some day," he said, "and if I do, I'll"—he clenched his hands—"I'll
make her wish she had never been born."
After a pause, he added: "I know enough now to send her to
prison."
Nick, taking counsel with himself, stepped forward and cut the
cords which bound Slack's hand. "Now you may talk with more
ease," he said.
"Thank you." Slack opened and shut his hands several times to
get the blood in proper circulation, and then resumed his story: "I
know what her hold on Leonard is, and it's partly sham."
 Nick's eyes glistened.
"You assisted her in preparing it, didn't you?"
"Yes; and if you'll go easy with me on the bughouse break I made
to-day, I'll tell you all about it."
"It's a whack," said Nick instantly.
"Then here goes: The claim she pretends to have on Leonard
embraces bigamy and embezzlement. She well knew, if Leonard
refused to come to her terms and she published what she held in
her hand as alleged facts, that, though Leonard's reputation might
suffer, he could never be proceeded against criminally."
The word "bigamy" brought a shadow to Nick Carter's face, for his
mind reverted instantly to the fair, gentle daughter of Leonard, Mrs.
John Dashwood. The shadow lifted before Slack had finished his
narrative.
"Leonard, whose real name is Reesey, went to California in the
early fifties," said Slack, "and while there married an Italian woman,
a widow with one child. Her name was Massona. Shortly after her
marriage with Reesey, and before the birth of her daughter, her
husband embezzled the funds of a mining company, of which he was
secretary, and skipped the State. Instead of returning to his former
home in Ohio, he went to St. Louis, assumed the name of Leonard,
and engaged in business.
"Years passed, and, perhaps believing his Italian wife to be dead,
he married again. When Cora Reesey, his daughter by the Italian
wife, reached womanhood, she discovered by secret inquiry that her
father was alive and in St. Louis. But she died before she could make
practical use of her knowledge. While on her sickbed she confided
what she had discovered to her cousin and intimate friend, Lucia
Massona. This cousin is an adventuress, a woman of surpassing
beauty and an evil heart. She resolved to profit by what she had
learned, and when she left the up-country mining town where her
cousin had lived and died she took the name of the dead one, and,
as Cora Reesey, appeared in San Francisco.
 "In that city she laid her plans for blackmailing Gabriel Leonard. I,
in my senseless infatuation for her, promised and gave assistance in
preparing the proofs. I soon discovered that she had no criminal
case against Leonard, for her aunt, Mrs. Reesey, had died three days
prior to her husband's second marriage. This fact did not disconcert
her, for she believed that Leonard did not know whether his Italian
wife was alive or dead when he contracted his St. Louis marriage,
and that the spurious documents which she had prepared would be
accepted as genuine. The embezzlement matter, of course, was
outlawed. But the threat to publish the facts would be sufficient, she
thought, to bring him to terms.
"Cora went on to St. Louis after correspondence with Leonard,
with the understanding that I was to follow on receipt of a letter
which she promised to write soon after arrival here. The letter
reached me five days ago, and I came on without an instant's loss of
time. That is the story, Mr. Carter."
Nick looked at his watch.
"Time I was going," he said, and moved toward the door.
"Am I free to go, too?" asked Slack, in a respectful tone.
"Certainly you are. Take care of yourself, keep out of mischief, is
all the advice I have to give."
"But," looking at the detective shyly, "I may meet Cora; she may
throw her grappling-hooks on me again, and I may put her wise
about you and what you know."
"I'll trust you," said Nick, with a smile.
"Sure you are not afraid I may fall down?"
"Not in the least, Slack. Good-by."
Nick limped out of the building, and half an hour later was in his
room on Jefferson Avenue. Chick, to his satisfaction, was there to
meet him. His face shone with excitement and pleasure. "Great
news, Nick," he said. "I've located Leonard."
 "Where is he?" Nick's face was now as bright as Chick's.
"In a big brick building used as a private sanatorium, beyond the
southern limits of the city."
"Doctor Holcomb runs this sanatorium, doesn't he?"
"Yes," regarding the great detective in astonishment. "How did
you know?"
"I obtained a list of Leonard's friends to-day, and among them, as
the closest and most intimate of all, is the name of Doctor Holcomb.
He was a mining partner of Leonard in California many years ago. I
have been anxious to see you, Chick, so that I might put you on, but
you have already done the trick. You are a wonder, Chick."
The young detective blushed with pleasure.
"The building is set in the middle of spacious grounds, and is well
guarded. Its appearance excited my curiosity, and I made a few
cautious inquiries before venturing near the main gate. I was made
up as a hobo, as you know, and I was giving the guard outside the
gate a fill about experiences on the road, when a closed carriage
drove up and two men alighted. One I took to be Doctor Holcomb;
the other, from your description, I identified as Gabriel Leonard.
They did not notice me, and I slipped out of sight while the guard
was opening the gate."
"I wonder where Leonard and the doctor had been?" said Nick
thoughtfully. "Perhaps Leonard had been hiding out of the city, and
had got a note to his friend, the doctor, and the doctor went to bring
him to safer quarters."
"That's it, Nick, I'll bet."
"Is this sanatorium near the river?"
"Yes; the grounds extend to the levee. And now, what's the
program? Shall we notify the chief, get a force of men, go out there,
surround the place, and catch our man?"
 "No. Such a move might spoil all. Leonard at bay might commit
suicide. I want his confession. And I want something else. I have in
mind a plan which, I think, will bring us victory. About this outside
man at the sanatorium, is he an American?"
"No, a Swede, with long, fair hair, and whiskers to match."
"Are his duties confined to the outside?"
"It's turn about with the attendants. I learned this when I struck
the Swede for a dime. He refused, and told me to tackle the man
whose turn for outside duty would come to-morrow."
"'I tank he ban easy,' he said."
"Then the Swede is not easy. Therefore, he cares for money. But
how to reach him? We don't even know his name."
"I know it," said Chick. "Doctor Holcomb called him Detson."
"Ah! now I see daylight. Go down-stairs and borrow a directory,
Chick."
When the directory was before him, Nick turned to the D's and
found two Detsons, one a spinster dressmaker, called Hannah, the
other a hospital attendant, called Christian.
"Hannah is probably the sister, and lives on Locust Street. My
ankle troubles me, or I would go over there myself."
"I'll go; it's only a few blocks," said Chick. "What shall I say to
her?"
"If she proves to be Christian's sister, ask her how often she sees
her brother, and when. Christian may have regular hours for visiting
his sister. Perhaps he comes every day. I hope he does. In
explanation of your questions, say a friend of yours wishes to see
her brother on important business."
Chick was gone an hour. When he returned he was whistling.
"Christian is the brother, all right," he said to Nick, "and he will be
at his sister's this evening. Hours from eight to ten o'clock."
 "Good. And did you learn anything about Christian's affairs, and
family history, and so forth? I did not ask you to go into any such
matters, for I knew you would take advantage of circumstances and
get all there was coming to you."
"Say, she is a peach, Nick," returned Chick, enthusiastically. "A
pretty, plump, flaxen-haired angel. Her brother is the apple of her
eye. He is saving up money to send for the old mother in Sweden,
and she is helping all she can. I hadn't been with her ten minutes
before she was telling me the story of her life."
"Then the way is easy, Chick. Christian will jump at the chance of
securing a neat sum in a lump. But he must first be assured that he
will be doing a creditable thing. If he is on the square, as he
probably is, from your account, I think I can convince him that in
assisting me he is not only benefiting himself, but is also doing a
commendable act."
The two detectives then put their heads together, conversing
together earnestly until dinner-time came. That evening Nick had a
long and satisfactory talk with Christian Detson.
"Dey ban some man ho would yump at dat chance," he said, at
the end of the conversation, "but ay look bayfore ay do any yumpin'.
Ay tank ay see where ay ban land vurst."
Late in the afternoon of the next day Doctor Holcomb received a
new patient, a young man of powerful physique, who gave no
trouble, for his mania was not a violent one. The certificate which
his conductors, two well-known business men of St. Louis, presented
set forth that he was suffering from acute dementia. His face was
drawn, his eyes were lusterless, and his mouth gave a clicking
sound, but no words came, whenever he was spoken to.
"I don't think there is any hope for him," said Doctor Holcomb to
the men who had brought the subject, "for dementia such as he is
afflicted with is generally the last stage before death. He may live a
year, he may die in a month."
 "I would ask," said one of the men, Major Haines, a lawyer, "that
you do not confine him. He is of good family, and we are willing to
pay well for his care. As you must know, from your experience with
such cases, he is perfectly harmless. But he cannot take care of
himself. He needs the attention that is given to a child. You need not
give him the run of the grounds, though you might do so with entire
safety, but I shall be pleased if he is given the run of the building,
locking him up, of course, every night."
"There is no objection to such an arrangement," said the doctor.
"The attendants about will see that he does not get into trouble."
And so the matter was arranged which installed James Winters as
an inmate of Doctor Holcomb's sanatorium.
For an hour after his entrance the demented patient sat upon the
floor of one of the corridors and played with his hands. Attendants
passed him without a glance, for they were used to such sights. At
noon he was taken into a small room intended for his future use and
given some soup and potatoes. Apparently, he did not know how to
put the food into his mouth, and had to be assisted, as a babe newly
weaned would have been.
About the middle of the afternoon, while he was in a small
corridor, which, opening out of a larger one, terminated at the side
wall, an attendant marvelously like the Swede Chick had accosted
outside the gate the day before came up and spoke to him in a low
voice.
"How does it go, Chick? Have you made any discoveries?"
"I know where Leonard's room is, Nick. He has been out of it
twice to-day; once to see the doctor, and once to enter Room M, a
few doors beyond his own. And how are you making out?"
"My task is harder than yours, Chick. My disguise is good. I have
got the lay of the wards and rooms, and my duties are understood,
thanks to Detson; but I have to dodge the other attendants
whenever I can, for there is the possibility that some sharp eyes
may spot the imposture. We must, if possible, finish our work here
within twenty-four hours. I'd like to have the round-up take place to-
day."
"Do you anticipate any trouble?"
"No; Doctor Holcomb enjoys a good reputation, and I am satisfied
that he will not interfere with the course of justice. Leonard is an
old-time friend of his, and he has, without doubt, been imposed
upon. He does not know, of course, that Leonard is suspected of
murder. He is harboring his friend, but with the idea, I believe, that
Leonard is simply dodging his creditors."
The sound of steps along the long, wide corridor stopped Nick
Carter's talk with his assistant. Leaving Chick, the detective went
forward, and saw Doctor Holcomb in the act of ascending the stairs
to the second story. Half-way up he stopped, frowned, and then
turned back. At the foot of the stairs his eyes fell on the person of
the bogus Swede.
"Detson," he called out sharply, "I wish you would keep in sight. I
have forgotten my instrument-case. Go to the office, tell my
assistant to give it to you, and when you get it bring it to Room M."
"Ay tank ay ban go queeck," said Nick, and away he hurried to
the office. Soon, with the case in his hand, he went up the stairs,
found the room, knocked at the door with an impatience which he
had much difficulty in repressing. Doctor Holcomb opened the door,
and the detective tried to peer into the room. To his disappointment,
he was unable to see more than the foot of a bed, upon which some
person was lying. The doctor received the instrument-case, uttered a
curt "Thank you," and quickly closed the door.
Nick would have remained by the door, but a moment after it
closed Gabriel Leonard opened the door of a room opposite the head
of the stairs and came toward him. His eyes were bloodshot, and
there were marks of suffering on his face. The detective passed him
half-way to the stairs, but Leonard did not look at the pseudo
Detson. With his head bent, he walked quickly to Room M, and
entered without knocking.
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