THE LETTER.
Although this was the first time Nick Carter had ever visited Professor
Matthew Bentham in his home, he had met him several times, at meetings
of scientific societies and at public dinners.
The detective was a student, and whenever he could take time away from
his main calling, that of investigator into strange crimes and seemingly
unsolvable mysteries, he was pretty sure to be actively interested in
the progress of the world from a scientific standpoint.
So, when he was ushered into the library of Matthew Bentham, in a quiet
avenue in the shadow of Prospect Park, Brooklyn, the two met as old and
valued friends.
Matthew Bentham had been sitting at his large table, an open letter in
one hand and a crumpled newspaper in the other, as Nick entered. That he
was deeply shocked was evident at the first glance. His hand shook as he
gave it to the detective, and it was in a shaky voice that he requested
his old friend to take a chair.
“I see you have read the awful news of Andrew Anderton’s death at the
moment you got his letter, professor,” remarked Nick. “I thought it
might happen in that way.”
“Why, how did you know?” asked Bentham, in surprise. “It seems to me
sometimes as if you know things that you could get only by some
supernatural intuition. How did you know I have a letter from
Anderton?”
Matthew Bentham was a tall, well-built man, whose ruddy face indicated
that he was fond of outdoor life, in spite of his being a close student.
The truth was that he learned many things about nature at first hand. He
had traveled in many lands, besides knowing a great deal about his own,
and his knowledge was extensive and peculiar. He had been lucky enough
to conserve health and wisdom all in one operation.
“My explanation of how I know about the letter is very simple,” replied
the detective. “I had that letter mailed myself. It was written only a
few minutes before his death last night.”
“To think that Anderton should die of heart failure,” exclaimed Bentham.
“Why, I can hardly believe it. Think of the altitudes to which he
climbed in the Himalayas, Carter. No man with a weak heart could stand
such a cold and rare atmosphere as you get up there. Well, I’m glad I
have probably the last words he ever wrote.”
“Yes, there is no doubt of that, I think. The fact was, I had that
letter mailed for certain reasons.”
Matthew Bentham looked puzzled. Then he shook his head, as if he did not
care to pursue the subject.
“Those reasons are sufficiently weighty,” went on Nick, “for me to
desire to know what he wrote. I realize that my request is distinctly
out of the ordinary. But I think you know me well enough to be sure that
I must have a very strong motive.”
The professor was silent for a few moments. The detective knew he was
turning the request over in his mind, and that it had not struck him at
all favorably. Then he seemed to decide the other way, for he broke out
impulsively:
“Well, it is rather irregular, but I don’t know why you shouldn’t see
the letter. Of course, I have your promise that you will not let it go
any further.”
“Of course,” replied Nick. “I think it is hardly necessary for me to say
that, but I do promise.”
Professor Bentham handed the letter to Nick Carter, who read as follows:
“MY DEAR BENTHAM: Am seizing the first opportunity since my return
from China to tell you I have succeeded in getting hold of the
secret records of the organization known as the ‘Yellow Tong.’ That
the tong means mischief you will see by the papers that I am
sending you by safe hands. You will not get them for a day or two,
perhaps, because I am fairly certain there are agents of the Yellow
Tong in New York now who are ready to go to any extreme to get
those records. In fact, I have been told that Sang Tu himself is in
the city--doubtless in disguise. As you know, he is the head of the
tong, and as unscrupulous as he is able. When these records come to
you, keep them safely until you see me. No one knows that I intend
to transfer them to your custody, and because of that I feel they
will be safe with you until it shall come time to transfer them to
Washington. Until I see you, for a long talk, I remain, as ever,
your faithful friend,
ANDREW ANDERTON.”
That was all. It was evident to Nick Carter that the writer feared to
trust too much to paper and ink, and that he had a great deal more to
tell which he meant to communicate by word of mouth.
“The records have not come, I suppose?” asked Nick.
“Not yet. Moreover, I don’t know how he is sending them. I shall be glad
to get them, for he has told me just enough in this letter to assure me
that the records will be full of important information, both to the
government and to science. As for Sang Tu, I never saw that individual.
I am told he belongs to a powerful Manchu family, and that, before China
became a republic, he exercised great influence at Peking. Now that my
friend Anderton is dead, I suppose I shall have to take the
responsibility of handling these records.”
“And the danger,” said Nick gravely.
“You mean from the Yellow Tong?”
“Yes, and particularly from Sang Tu. By the way, do you happen to know a
certain Professor Tolo, a Japanese?”
“I never met him, but I have heard of him. He has not been in New York
long. I hear that he is a very able man, and that his knowledge of the
whole Orient is regarded as wonderful. Do you know anything about him?”
“I have seen him,” replied Nick carelessly. “Well, I won’t stay any
longer, professor. I knew that these records were not to be found in Mr.
Anderton’s library, and I also had heard that he brought them with him.”
“Oh, did you?” asked the professor, rather surprised. “I don’t see how
it was that you----”
“My dear Mr. Bentham,” responded Nick, with a smile. “You know that I am
employed to make many secret investigations. It came in my way to find
out about these records, and when I heard that Mr. Anderton was dead, I
looked through his study for these valuable papers. I was worried
because they were not there. Now that I know you have them, I feel
safer. Would you permit me to use your telephone? Then I won’t trouble
you any longer.”
“Trouble me?” protested Bentham. “That’s a nice thing for you to say,
Carter. I haven’t ever had you in my house before, and now you are
apologizing for being here. I’ll get even with you by never coming to
your place,” he added, smiling. “There’s the phone. Go ahead!”
Nick took up the instrument, and soon had Patsy Garvan on the wire. He
had listened not more than a few seconds, when he suddenly shouted back
into the transmitter, in an agitated tone:
“All right, Patsy! I’ll come over there at once. Keep quiet till I
come.”
He put the receiver on the hook, and, with a hasty “Good-by, professor.
I’ll see you later,” dashed for the door.
“Wait a moment,” cried Bentham. “What’s the trouble?”
“No trouble at all!” shouted back Nick. “But I believe I’m going to find
out something about the Yellow Tong.”
Half an hour later he was flying up the stairs to the study of Andrew
Anderton. He found Patsy Garvan striding up and down the room in a state
of intense excitement.
“Where is he?” asked Nick, as he ran into the room.
“In that tool house, or whatever the place is, in the back yard,” was
Patsy Garvan’s answer, as he ran to one of the windows and flung it wide
open.