THROWING THE GAUNTLET.
“The Birches,” one of the summer residences of Theodore Remsen,
multimillionaire, financier, Wall Street wizard, and one of the
recognized powers in the moneyed world, stood, and still stands, a
prominent landmark at the location already described.
It stands upon a high bluff overlooking the Hudson, and is approached
from the main highway by a winding, macadamized road, which, from the
lodge gate to the mansion, is more than a mile in length, and shaded on
either side by a double row of white birches; hence its name.
The lawn, directly in front of the house, is laid out in tennis courts,
and there Nick Carter and Chick discovered nearly all the guests of
the house assembled, when they drove beneath the porte-cochère at four
o’clock that Monday afternoon.
Nancy Nightingale had evidently been watching for their arrival, for as
Nick stepped down from the car and gave Danny a few directions, he saw
her approaching. He went forward to meet her, followed by Chick.
As the detective moved toward her he cast his eyes rapidly over the
assembled people—there was a score of them, all told—and thought he
saw Jimmy Duryea among them, engaged in an animated conversation with
a group of which he appeared to be the centre. But the man’s back was
turned, and Nick could not be certain.
Nan, in an outing gown and coat of white flannel, with her black hair
and sparkling eyes, looked more beautiful than ever as she approached
the two detectives, and her smile of greeting was warmth itself.
She conducted them directly toward the place where Mrs. Remsen was
seated, and presented them. She added, after she had done so:
“I told Mrs. Remsen that I had invited you to stop here to call upon
us, and now she insists that you shall join our party for as long a
time as you can remain.”
After that, with Nan on his arm, Nick passed from group to group on
the lawn, acknowledging introductions here and there as he went along.
Chick remained with the group that had formed around the hostess.
Presently Nick and his companion approached that particular group
of which the man who called himself Ledger Dinwiddie, and whom Nan
believed to be Jimmy Duryea, formed one part.
Nan purposely left the introduction to him, for the last of that
particular group; and then she said:
“Mr. Dinwiddie, this is an old friend of mine—Mr. Carter;” and Duryea
turned about lazily, as if he had not noticed the arrival of a stranger
till that moment.
“Glad to know you, Mr. Carter,” he said imperturbably, and with just
the faintest trace of a smile on his handsome features; and then he
turned back again to the companion with whom he had been talking, and
who happened to be the daughter of the house, Miss Lenore Remsen, who
was not more than two years younger than her beautiful stepmother.
There was not the slightest trace of recognition in the eyes of Jimmy
Duryea when he acknowledged that introduction, although he must have
known Nick Carter at once—and he could not have prepared for the sudden
appearance of the detective there, unless he had guessed that Nan might
communicate with the detective while she was in the city.
Nick was equally reticent. It was no part of his present purpose to
force matters; at least he did not intend to do so until the proper
moment should arrive; but he did desire to get the gentleman cracksman
into conversation, to see how far the assurance of the man would carry
him.
Presently he found an opportunity.
It was when Duryea turned to make some general remark to those near
him, and Nick chose to reply directly to it.
“I quite agree with you, Mr. Dinwiddie,” he said. “Stolen jewels are
difficult things to trace. That is the subject you were discussing, I
believe?”
“Yes,” said Nan, before Duryea could reply. “A most remarkable thing
happened here, during the night of last Thursday. A necklace, and other
jewels, disappeared most mysteriously from the rooms of the owners.
But—shhh—we have all agreed to keep very still about it, for the
present.”
Duryea laughed softly.
“Perhaps, Miss Nightingale,” he said, “this gentleman will be able to
make some valuable suggestions in regard to those missing jewels. He
has a namesake in New York who is said to be one of the smartest of
living detectives. Isn’t that so, Carter? Eh?”
“Quite so,” replied Nick, looking him directly in the eye. “Only the
gentleman to whom you refer is not a namesake. I happen to be the
person mentioned myself.”
Duryea’s brows went upward in well-feigned surprise; a chorus of
exclamations arose from every side; Nan bit her lips, for she had not
intended that Nick should announce himself quite in that manner.
Lenore Remsen turned at once to the detective, and exclaimed:
“Really, Mr. Carter, are you the detective?”
“Yes, Miss Remsen, I really am.”
“Oh, I am so glad. Then you can assist us to recover our jewels.”
“I can try, if it is your wish that I should do so,” replied Nick
calmly. “Were you a victim of the robberies, Miss Remsen?”
“Yes, indeed. It was my diamond necklace that was the most valuable
thing taken. I must admit that I was very careless about it that night.
Instead of putting it away, as usual, I merely dropped it into my jewel
box. In the morning it was gone. Don’t you think, Mr. Carter, that it
is remarkable how a burglar could get into the house, and go through
the rooms as that one did, without leaving a trace of any sort behind
him?”
“It does seem so; yes.”
“There wasn’t a trace. Not one; anywhere.”
“Was no one in the house suspected?” asked Nick quietly.
“No one in the——Oh, you mean one of the servants, of course. No;
really. The staff of servants that we have in this house are, all of
them, old retainers; every one of them has been a long time with us.
You know this is the one place which we really call home. We always
speak of ‘coming home,’ when we come here. Oh, no, indeed, we could not
suspect one of the servants.”
“What is your opinion on the subject, Mr. Dinwiddie?” asked the
detective, turning fairly toward Duryea.
The latter smiled, showing his white and even teeth; he twirled his
mustache for a moment before he replied, and when he did so it was with
deliberation.
“Really,” he said, “you know I am not an authority, Mr. Carter—such
as yourself, for example. Still—er—I think I have an opinion,
nevertheless. We are all apt to form opinions in such cases, don’t you
think, Mr. Carter?”
“Yes. What is yours? You interest me.”
“Do I? Really! You confess yourself to be the great and only Nick
Carter, and then do me the honor to care for my opinion!”
“In the hope that it might prove to be an expert one—yes,” replied the
detective.
“Expert? Oh, dear, no; not at all expert. Just an opinion.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I shall shock all the ladies present—and some who are not immediately
present in this group—when I mention it.”
“Nevertheless——”
“Oh, nevertheless, I shall not hesitate—even at the risk of giving
offense. I should venture it as my opinion that the thief in this
instance is a woman, whether she happens to be a servant—or one of the
guests. There! Have I shocked all of you?”
He laughed easily when he asked the question, as if to take away the
sting of it, and he turned his speaking eyes from one to another of the
group until he had gone the rounds—and, somehow, he managed to create
the impression that he was merely indulging in a joke at their expense.
But there was an uneasy laugh around him, nevertheless.
Lenore Remsen started to her feet, and exclaimed:
“I think that was horrid of you, Ledger! Horrid! The idea of saying
such a thing! We shall all be looking askance at each other, from now
on. What do you think about it, Miss Nightingale?”
“I should sooner incline to the opinion that the thief was a man, and
a guest,” was the deliberate reply; and she added, not without intent,
for she was angry, seeing exactly what Duryea had intended to convey to
her: “One of the lately arrived guests, at that.”
Lenore clapped her hands.
“That is where you get it back, Ledger,” she exclaimed. “But, really,
that was horrid of you, to say such a thing.”
“Who are the lately arrived guests, Miss Nightingale?” asked the
detective, without turning his head; and she replied, without
hesitation:
“Mr. Dinwiddie is himself the most lately arrived one.”
Duryea laughed aloud.
“Good!” he said. “That is right, too. I arrived that very evening.
Now, I wonder if it could have been me? I used to walk in my sleep
when I was a child, although I don’t remember that I had the habit of
purloining necklaces when I did so. But, then, one never can tell.”
“Indeed one cannot,” retorted Nan. And then, assuming the air of one
who was joking, she added: “I should advise a close inspection into
your past record, Mr. Dinwiddie, if it is true that you formerly were
in the habit of prowling about houses in the night.”
“Gladly!” he exclaimed, joining in the general laugh that followed.
“Will you give us the benefit of searching yours, also, Miss
Nightingale?”
A slow flush stole into the cheeks and brow of Nan Nightingale, but she
was equal to the occasion. She replied:
“It will not be necessary that you should search. Fortunately there is
one who has known me many years. Mr. Carter can supply all particulars
that may be required.”
“I am afraid,” said Duryea, “that what was intended as a joke all
around has taken a serious turn. Let us drop it before we begin to
indulge in personalities. Nevertheless, Miss Nightingale, it is well to
have a person so renowned as Nick Carter to vouch for one. I only wish
that he could perform the same service for me.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Dinwiddie, I might be able to do that, also,” replied
Nick quietly. “It is my profession to know something about a great many
people who do not suppose that I know them at all. However, as you say,
the conversation is taking too serious a turn. I will propose a game of
tennis with you, Mr. Dinwiddie; what do you say?”
“Gladly. Come along. Singles?”
“Yes. Singles. There is a vacant court.”
“All right. You’re on. But I warn you, Mr. Carter, I am considered an
expert.”
“So much the better. I think I just suggested that about you in quite
another line, did I not?”