THE BANKER’S DAUGHTER.
Nick Carter was found by one of the hotel employees, who notified the
clerk.
Upon opening the dude’s coat they saw the detective’s badge.
A doctor was sent for, who, after carefully examining the wound,
declared it but a trivial one.
Louise Calhoun had stabbed the officer in the neck, within half an inch
of the artery; had her knife penetrated that, Nick’s race would have
been run.
The wounded man was very weak from loss of blood, but when he had been
given a stimulant he insisted upon leaving.
This the doctor refused to permit; ordering him to remain quiet for a
few days, until the wound had completely closed, lest he should get
cold in it.
Nick determined therefore to stop at the hotel.
Early next morning a porter came to the detective’s room to tell him a
lady wished to see him.
“Did she send up her card?” Nick asked, and he received a reply in the
negative.
“She said,” volunteered the servant, “that you would not know her by
her name, but that it was a matter of importance both to you and to
herself that she should see you.”
“I suppose I must see her,” said Nick. “Show her up.”
A few moments after a lady, young and handsomely attired, entered the
apartment.
Her face was covered with a veil, but when she had closed the door
behind her, she threw it aside.
A vision of surpassing loveliness burst upon the wounded man’s vision.
She saw the effect and smiled.
“I do not recognize you, madam,” said Nick Carter. “If ever I met you
before I have certainly forgotten it, and it is hardly possible that
one would forget such a face as yours.”
“For the present call me Mignon.”
“Well, Mignon, what can I do for you?” The officer smiled. “I can’t do
much for myself just at present.”
“What’s this?” exclaimed the woman, starting forward and snatching a
phial from a small table at the side of the bed.
“Medicine; the doctor sent it here but a few minutes ago,” answered
the detective. “I was just about to take a spoonful, when you were
announced.”
“You have not taken any of it; you are sure?”
Such was the intensity of her manner and her nervousness that the
detective started.
“No,” he replied; “but why do you ask? The physician attending me
would not send me anything wrong; he is one of the foremost in his
profession.”
“Thank God you did not take it!” Mignon cried. “Your physician did not
send you that. A few drops of it would cause your death in the most
horrible agony. No antidote would save you.”
She held the phial between her eyes and the light, saying:
“There can be no doubt about it. It is corrosive sublimate.”
“My enemies are still at work.”
The doctor entered now and the lady placed the phial in his hand.
“Did you send me that?” asked the detective, eagerly.
“I did not send you anything,” was the reply, and spilling some of
the stuff on a piece of paper, the physician pronounced it corrosive
sublimate.
“Look!” he said, holding the paper up for the wounded man’s inspection.
The poison had eaten through it, and the exhibition of the paper caused
Nick Carter, brave as he was, to shudder. He would not hesitate to
meet in the performance of his duties any man living, but how was he
to fight those secret means now used, and which would probably be used
again to kill him?
The surgeon examined his patient’s wound and, after dressing it, told
Nick that it was healing rapidly.
“When will I be able to get out?” the detective asked. “I must be up
and doing as soon as possible, doctor.”
“If you bundle your neck up well, and the weather is no more severe
than to-day, you can go out to-morrow.”
The doctor took his leave, but not before the detective exacted a
promise from him not to say anything about this fresh attempt upon his
life.
When the door closed upon the physician, the detective stretched his
hand to his visitor.
“Oh, how can I thank you?” he said, as Mignon placed her small, soft
hand in his. “Had you not come I would have drunk the poison, and now I
would be a corpse. You have, indeed, saved my life. But how was it that
you recognized the stuff?”
“At Vassar College I took the full medical course,” she replied, “and
besides, that is a poison easily recognizable.”
“Won’t you be seated?” Nick said, “and tell me what I can do for you.
First of all, tell me how you knew I was here.”
“The story of your stabbing is in the morning papers.”
“Those reporters seem to get hold of everything.”
“I was very glad to learn where I could find you,” said Mignon,
smiling sweetly, “because I wished to thank you.”
“Thank me,” ejaculated the detective; “for what?”
“Before answering your question,” she said, “I wish to put one to you.
It is this: Do you think it improper for a lady to visit a gentleman’s
sick chamber alone, when she has that to say which she does not care to
have overheard?”
She had not long to wait for an answer.
“Most assuredly not; but you talk in enigmas to me.”
“I am Hilton Field’s daughter.”
Nick Carter almost lost his breath in astonishment.
“Hilton Field’s daughter!” he muttered.
“Yes,” Mignon replied; “and I would not have anyone else come and thank
you for the message you sent to us yesterday afternoon but myself.”
“Message?” repeated Nick, amazed. “Why, I sent no message.”
“You forget, perhaps,” she said, and again that kind, sweet smile
overspread her features. “Don’t you remember you sent to say that
the body found in the river was not father’s, although it had on his
clothing?”
“I did not know myself yesterday afternoon,” said the detective, “of
the imposture. I only learned it last night, and I have not spoken of
the discovery to a living soul. There must be some other friend at work
for you. Was my name signed to the message?”
“No, it was a verbal one,” she replied; “the messenger said he was sent
by you.”
“What kind of looking person brought it?” Nick asked.
“One of the queerest little fellows I ever saw,” answered Mignon. “He
had a yellow dog with him, and when asked inside he insisted upon the
dog coming in, too.”
“Did he call the dog Crackers?”
“Yes, and he informed us that he was to be entered for a prize at the
dog show.”
Nick Carter burst into a fit of laughter, which he suddenly checked,
fearing his visitor might be offended at his unseemly mirth.
“I know the little fellow,” he said; “he is called Tambourine Jack.”
“He lifted a weight off our hearts, God bless him! I could have kissed
him in the excess of my joy, ugly as he is.”
The thought of this beautiful girl bestowing osculatory favors upon
Tambourine Jack almost upset the detective’s gravity.
“I have not seen the fellow in several days,” said the detective, “and,
indeed, I would like to see him, to discover how he learned of the
imposture tried by the villains who carried your father off.”
“How could he have known of it, then?” the girl asked.
“He is one of the gang,” answered Nick. “Oh! if I could but get out.”
“You know our address?”
“Yes.”
“Will you inform me from time to time of the progress you make in your
quest for father?” Mignon asked.
“I shall be delighted to do anything to please you,” answered the
detective.
“Then I will say good-by.”
Next day Nick went to headquarters and there found news which aroused
his ire.
Skip Brodie had found some means of communicating with a lawyer, and
the latter had sworn out a writ of _habeas corpus_, by means of
which Skip was released.
“I didn’t know what we were going to hold this fellow on,” said the
chief. “We could not prove that he had any hand in carrying off the
banker, although we are sure he did. When we were asked for proofs we
should have none to show.”
Nick said nothing, but left headquarters. He was disgusted, but he was
still determined to find the banker.
He sauntered up Sixth Avenue and saw a lady whom he thought he
recognized enter a dry-goods store on the corner of Fourteenth Street.
Nick followed.
She was for a moment lost sight of in the throng, but he again found
her.
It was the woman who had attempted his life, Louise Calhoun!