Transcriber’s Notes:
The original spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation have been retained,
with the exception of apparent typographical errors which have been
corrected.
Text in Italics is indicated between _underscores_.
Text in Small Capitals has been replaced by regular uppercase text.
* * * * *
NICK CARTER STORIES
New Magnet Library
PRICE, FIFTEEN CENTS
_Not a Dull Book in This List_
Nick Carter stands for an interesting detective story. The fact that
the books in this line are so uniformly good is entirely due to the
work of a specialist. The man who wrote these stories produced no
other type of fiction. His mind was concentrated upon the creation of
new plots and situations in which his hero emerged triumphantly from
all sorts of trouble, and landed the criminal just where he should
be—behind the bars.
The author of these stories knew more about writing detective stories
than any other single person.
Following is a list of the best Nick Carter stories. They have been
selected with extreme care, and we unhesitatingly recommend each of
them as being fully as interesting as any detective story between cloth
covers which sells at ten times the price.
If you do not know Nick Carter, buy a copy of any of the New Magnet
Library books, and get acquainted. He will surprise and delight you.
_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_
850—Wanted: A Clew By Nicholas Carter
851—A Tangled Skein By Nicholas Carter
852—The Bullion Mystery By Nicholas Carter
853—The Man of Riddles By Nicholas Carter
854—A Miscarriage of Justice By Nicholas Carter
855—The Gloved Hand By Nicholas Carter
856—Spoilers and the Spoils By Nicholas Carter
857—The Deeper Game By Nicholas Carter
858—Bolts from Blue Skies By Nicholas Carter
859—Unseen Foes By Nicholas Carter
860—Knaves in High Places By Nicholas Carter
861—The Microbe of Crime By Nicholas Carter
862—In the Toils of Fear By Nicholas Carter
863—A Heritage of Trouble By Nicholas Carter
864—Called to Account By Nicholas Carter
865—The Just and the Unjust By Nicholas Carter
866—Instinct at Fault By Nicholas Carter
867—A Rogue Worth Trapping By Nicholas Carter
868—A Rope of Slender Threads By Nicholas Carter
869—The Last Call By Nicholas Carter
870—The Spoils of Chance By Nicholas Carter
871—A Struggle With Destiny By Nicholas Carter
872—The Slave of Crime By Nicholas Carter
873—The Crook’s Blind By Nicholas Carter
874—A Rascal of Quality By Nicholas Carter
875—With Shackles of Fire By Nicholas Carter
876—The Man Who Changed Faces By Nicholas Carter
877—The Fixed Alibi By Nicholas Carter
878—Out With the Tide By Nicholas Carter
879—The Soul Destroyers By Nicholas Carter
880—The Wages of Rascality By Nicholas Carter
881—Birds of Prey By Nicholas Carter
882—When Destruction Threatens By Nicholas Carter
883—The Keeper of Black Hounds By Nicholas Carter
884—The Door of Doubt By Nicholas Carter
885—The Wolf Within By Nicholas Carter
886—A Perilous Parole By Nicholas Carter
887—The Trail of the Fingerprints By Nicholas Carter
888—Dodging the Law By Nicholas Carter
889—A Crime in Paradise By Nicholas Carter
890—On the Ragged Edge By Nicholas Carter
891—The Red God of Tragedy By Nicholas Carter
892—The Man Who Paid By Nicholas Carter
893—The Blind Man’s Daughter By Nicholas Carter
894—One Object in Life By Nicholas Carter
895—As a Crook Sows By Nicholas Carter
896—In Record Time By Nicholas Carter
897—Held in Suspense By Nicholas Carter
898—The $100,000 Kiss By Nicholas Carter
899—Just One Slip By Nicholas Carter
900—On a Million-dollar Trail By Nicholas Carter
901—A Weird Treasure By Nicholas Carter
902—The Middle Link By Nicholas Carter
903—To the Ends of the Earth By Nicholas Carter
904—When Honors Pall By Nicholas Carter
905—The Yellow Brand By Nicholas Carter
906—A New Serpent in Eden By Nicholas Carter
907—When Brave Men Tremble By Nicholas Carter
908—A Test of Courage By Nicholas Carter
909—Where Peril Beckons By Nicholas Carter
910—The Gargoni Girdle By Nicholas Carter
911—Rascals & Co. By Nicholas Carter
912—Too Late to Talk By Nicholas Carter
913—Satan’s Apt Pupil By Nicholas Carter
914—The Girl Prisoner By Nicholas Carter
915—The Danger of Folly By Nicholas Carter
916—One Shipwreck Too Many By Nicholas Carter
917—Scourged by Fear By Nicholas Carter
A Battle for Right
OR,
A CLASH OF WITS
BY
NICHOLAS CARTER
Author of the celebrated stories of Nick Carter’s adventures, which
are published exclusively in the NEW MAGNET LIBRARY, conceded
to be among the best detective tales ever written.
[Illustration]
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York
Copyright, 1916
By STREET & SMITH
A Battle for Right
(Printed in the United States of America)
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.
A BATTLE FOR RIGHT
CHAPTER I.
AT A GAME OF POKER.
Five men were playing cards in a room in the Old Pike Inn.
It was a road house, on a well-traveled highway—a great favorite with
automobiles—in one of the picturesque valleys that alternate with
towering heights within easy motoring distance of New York City.
The Old Pike Inn had its spacious verandas, its big restaurant, its
smaller dining rooms for private parties, and its great reception hall,
with polished floor, in which dances, formal and informal, were in
progress every evening during most of the year.
It was a place to which wealthy New Yorkers often brought their wives
and daughters for luncheon or dinner, and its “tone” was regarded
as above criticism. Everything suggested refinement, the lavish
expenditure of money for the comfort and entertainment of guests, and
an artistic atmosphere that was both subtle and unmistakable. Captain
Brown, who managed the Old Pike Inn, knew his business.
Only a privileged number of his patrons were aware that they could play
a quiet game of “draw” in secluded rooms, with the assurance that there
could be no interference, and where their occupation would never be
suspected by anybody not in the secret.
The five men playing were all young, and every one showed in the
flushed countenance that something more than the excitement of the game
had heated his blood and rendered his speech at times somewhat thick.
Other evidence along this line was the fact that a glass stood near
each man, on a separate stand, while bottles of liquor on a table
within arm’s length of the players were frequently brought into use
by the two soft-footed waiters, who were the only persons in the room
besides the gamblers.
There was very little talking. Men who play poker are not apt to say
much. Their attention must be concentrated on the game, if they expect
to hold their own.
An occasional remark on some general topic was uttered, but as a
rule each player, holding his cards well concealed in the hollow of
his hand, watched the play of the others, and sought, by strained
vigilance, to get the better of the struggle. Silence is a good thing
in a poker game.
Suddenly, just as one of the waiters leaned over to pour some liquor
into one of the glasses, the person for whom it was intended jumped to
his feet and sent the light stand to the floor with a crash—bottle,
glass and all. At the same time he pointed an accusing finger at the
man opposite him.
“Cheat!” he shouted.
At the ominous word, the other four men were also on their feet.
“What’s that, Howard?” demanded one of them.
“He heard what I said, Jack!” thundered the other. “Look at him! He
knows he brought up an ace of clubs from under the table. I saw him do
it. He was so clumsy that I actually was able to make out what the card
was.”
“You’re a liar!” cried the man accused.
It was useless for the others to try to keep the two apart after that.
With a mighty sweep, he who had cried “Cheat!” pushed the rather heavy
table, with its green baize top and its stacks of chips and scattered
cards, to one side, and leaped upon the man he had denounced.
The two waiters were big fellows, notwithstanding their ability to
move noiselessly about the room. They hurled themselves between the
combatants.
Their interference was only just in time to prevent a straight left
from landing on the chin of the player who had been charged with
cheating, and at that, one of them got the fist himself in the back of
his neck.
“Don’t, Mr. Milmarsh!” begged the other waiter, as he wound his arms
around the waist of the infuriated owner of the fist. “Don’t make a
noise! They’ll hear it downstairs. It’s a mistake! It must be!”
But Howard Milmarsh cared only for vengeance just then.
“Get away, will you?” was all he replied. “If you don’t, I’ll break
your skull with a bottle. I’m going to make that scoundrel over there
confess, and then I’ll thrash him till he won’t know that he ever had a
face. It never _will_ be the same face again,” he added grimly.
But the waiter hung on to the young fellow, while his comrade tried
to push the other man back toward the door of an anteroom where hung
the coats and hats of the players, and which was also fitted up as a
lavatory.
“Come back here, you white-livered cur!” shouted Milmarsh. “You, I
mean—Richard Jarvis! The fellow who calls himself a cousin of mine!
Come back and let us look at what you have inside your cuff!”
The man he had called Richard Jarvis, who had been slinking behind the
others, as if he had changed his mind about fighting, and desired only
to get away, made a quick move toward the door leading to the other
part of the house.
“Stop him!” shouted Milmarsh. “If once he gets out of that door he’ll
destroy the evidence.”
“What do you mean by evidence?” asked Jack Denby. “Do you think Jarvis
is hiding cards about him now?”
“I know he is,” was the hot reply.
“Bring him back, then!” cried Denby. “Let’s look!”
The two waiters and the three other players, including Jack Denby,
surrounded Jarvis, keeping a wary eye on Howard Milmarsh, to see that
he did not take the cowering wretch by the throat.
“His left cuff!” cried Milmarsh. “Look inside!”
“By Jove!” broke out Jack Denby.
He had thrust his fingers inside the stiff shirt cuff of the accused
man and brought out three cards. They were the ace of hearts, the king
of diamonds, and the king of clubs.
He threw them upon the table, faces upward, with a grunt of disgust.
“There you are, boys!” exclaimed Howard Milmarsh. “He brought out the
other ace, as I told you—and I saw him do it. His idea was to ‘sweeten’
his hand, of course. He meant to do the same thing with these other
cards you’ve just taken from him. He may have others about him—in his
pockets, down the back of his neck, or anywhere. He seems to have the
trick of hiding cards down fine.”
“I haven’t any other cards,” protested Richard Jarvis.
“You had those,” Jack Denby reminded him.
“I don’t know how they got caught in my cuff.”
A burst of laughter from Denby and the three other men rang through the
room.
“You don’t know how they got ‘caught,’ eh?” sneered Denby. “Cards don’t
often get ‘caught’ inside a man’s shirt cuff without some help. I guess
you’d better give up all the money you have won to-night, and we’ll
divide it among the rest of us. I don’t know which has lost the most,
but it is quite sure that all you have is not your own—as an honest
man. Eh, Milmarsh?”
“I don’t care what is done with the money he cheated us out of,”
returned Howard Milmarsh coldly. “That is not of any importance to me.”
“It is to me,” declared Denby, laughing. “I was about broke. I should
have had to drop out before the next hand.”
“All right, Jack! You can have my share, and welcome,” said Howard
indifferently. “You have earned it by holding that rascal back when
he was going to sneak away. What he has to answer to me for are two
things.”
“That so? What are they?”
“In the first place, he is a cheat—a blackleg—and he insulted me by
presuming to sit in a poker game with me.”
“Well, he insulted us all in that respect, old man,” observed Denby.
“In the next place, he applied a word to me that he must answer for,
and which can be done only in one way,” continued Howard Milmarsh.
“That way is to stand up and take his thrashing. Or, if he prefers, to
take it lying down. It is immaterial to me.”
Milmarsh threw off his coat and continued to walk toward Jarvis, who
was hiding behind the two big serving men.
“Come out of that, Jarvis! Stand aside there, you two!” commanded
Milmarsh, addressing the waiters.
The men shrugged their shoulders. They were supposed to keep order if
any persons unknown to the management of the Old Pike Inn happened
to intrude. But these five young men were all members of wealthy and
prominent families, and were not to be treated like mere brawlers, of
no social standing.
Howard pushed past them, and they stepped out of his way. They did not
care much for Richard Jarvis, anyhow.
When Jarvis saw that he could not avoid an encounter with his cousin,
he tried to pull himself together, and made a show of putting up his
hands.
Hardly had he done so, when Milmarsh sent a crashing swing into
his chest. The blow was intended for the chin, but Jarvis, by quick
defense, diverted it, thus saving the vulnerable part of his person.
Jarvis knew something about boxing, and he retaliated to Milmarsh’s
onslaught with a glancing blow on the forehead that made his cousin
mad. The consequence was a feint to the chest, which Jarvis blocked,
and then a tremendous jab at the chin that stretched the latter across
the floor, senseless.
“By George, Milmarsh! He’s dead!” cried one of the other players, in
startled tones, as he knelt by the side of the prostrate Jarvis. “You
gave him a tap that settled him.”
The speaker was Budworth Clarke, a young doctor, who had lately taken
his diploma and hung out his shingle, and he delivered himself with
authority.
“It can’t be, Bud,” protested Milmarsh. “I only landed an ordinary
knock-out.”
“You thought you did,” was the reply. “But he must have had a weak
heart. Now, the thing for you to do is to get a lawyer, quick. We may
show that it was an accident, but we can’t get over the fact that he
has passed out.”
Howard Milmarsh did not wait for the end of this oration. He walked
deliberately to the outer door of the room, unlocked it with the key
that had never been removed from the keyhole, and went down the two
flights of stairs which led to the great reception room.
The usual nightly “hop” was in progress. But Milmarsh was in evening
dress, and, though a close observer might have noted his flushed face
and guessed the cause to be drink, he was able to pass around the
throng without particular regard from anybody.
“I’ll go right home,” he muttered. “It’s the only thing I can do. Then
I will see.”
It was just as he reached the outer door—where half a dozen
automobiles were drawn up on the great asphalt space where visitors to
the Old Pike Inn could park their machines when they did not care to
have them run into the garage—that he exchanged a cheerful good evening
with a handsome man, in evening clothes, whose keen eyes followed him
as he passed out.
“Young Milmarsh!” observed this gentleman to himself. “He’s been
drinking again! Great pity! A fine young fellow! And owner of more
property than any one in this part of the country. That is, he _will_
own it when his father dies. Well, I suppose he feels that he must have
his fling. But I’m sorry.”
The maker of these observations was a person known the world over as a
great detective. His name was Nick Carter.
He watched Howard Milmarsh go to a handsome car, in which the chauffeur
was sitting half asleep, and get in. The young man himself took the
wheel. Then, after one quick glance in the detective’s direction, he
drove hurriedly away up the winding road that led to the great Milmarsh
mansion on the hill.