A FAMILIAR FACE.
“Bring him up,” said Nick, to the servant.
When the servant had gone, the detective opened the door of an adjoining
apartment.
“You will have to step in here for a few minutes, Mr. Lansing,” said he.
“Your man Yasmar has come to see me.”
“Yasmar!” exclaimed Lansing.
“Yes. Step in, quick. Be quiet, and do not come back until I open the
door.”
“But what can he want?” murmured the astounded youth, passing into the
other room.
“I shall find out very soon.”
Nick closed the door, and was seated at his desk, writing, when his
second caller entered the study.
“Mr. Carter?”
Nick dropped his pen, whirled around in his chair, and got up.
He saw before him a man of forty, or thereabouts, tall, muscular, smooth
shaven and wearing a long frock coat, dark trousers, patent leather
shoes and a flowing necktie.
In his left hand he held a black “slouch” hat. His right hand was
extended and an amiable smile wreathed his face.
Nick took the extended hand, and was surprised to find the palm hard, as
though roughened with manual labor.
For a “promoter,” dressed as this man was, the fact might have been
significant.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Yasmar?” asked Nick, when they were both
seated.
“I have a case, and there is no one in the city, except yourself, whom I
desire to handle it.”
“Excuse me a moment while I finish this letter, and then I will give you
my attention.”
Yasmar nodded, picked up the paper Nick had recently laid down, and the
detective touched a bell.
“Send Patsy to me,” he said to the servant.
He scribbled away for a few seconds, folded the sheet and put it in an
envelope, sealed the envelope and wrote the following:
“Look at this man well. He may be Ramsay, but I’m not sure. Shadow
him.”
Patsy stood beside the desk when Nick faced around, the letter in his
hand.
“Here’s a letter, Patsy, which I wish you to deliver immediately. You
know the party, I think?”
The assistant studied the writing on the envelope.
“No, Nick,” he answered, “I don’t know him; but I know the address.”
“You’ll attend to it?”
“Sure.”
Patsy left.
“Now, Mr. Yasmar,” said Nick, “I’m at leisure for a few minutes.”
“I only read this morning that you were expected back from your trip
West, and I hate to trouble you, but the matter is very important. Have
you seen to-day’s paper?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you recall my name in connection with the disappearance of
young John Lansing.”
“Oh! Are you the Adolphus Yasmar mentioned in that account?”
“I am. And it is in relation to John Lansing that I have called on you
this morning.”
“You want me to find the young man?”
“Yes. I want you to go to Boston by first train and begin a search for
him. Lansing’s sister and uncle are very much worked up over the young
man’s disappearance, and I told them I would call here and put you on
the case--providing I could get you.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Nick, “but I could not take the case for two or
three days. As you say, I have just returned from the West, and you can
easily understand how work has accumulated during my absence.”
“You will be well paid----”
“That is a minor consideration. In two or three days, if you like, I
will----”
“That will be too late. In cases of this kind, as you perhaps know,
little time should be lost.”
“Exactly. For that reason it is strange that you allowed Tuesday to pass
without coming to me.”
“I knew you had not returned home, sir; and, besides, I was in Boston
Tuesday, Mr. Carter.”
“There are detectives in Boston--good ones.”
“But Nick Carter doesn’t live in Boston,” said Yasmar, with a flattering
smile. “The police there are doing their best. Still, the young man’s
relatives would feel better to know that you had taken the case.”
“That is out of the question, unless you wait for two or three days.”
“Would not a large retainer tempt you to lay aside your other work and
give your immediate attention to this matter?”
“No, sir.”
Yasmar got up.
“Then I suppose there is nothing else for it but for me to wait.”
“Or get some one else,” added Nick.
“Who shall I go to?”
“The New York chief of police.”
“I’ll think about it. Good-morning, Mr. Carter.”
He left.
When the front door had closed, the detective admitted John Lansing from
the other room.
“The infernal scoundrel!” cried Lansing. “He dared to come here to you
to get you to look for me--a man whom he believes he murdered.”
“He’s a pretty smooth rascal,” said the detective.
“Will you help me out in the mine matter, Mr. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“Good! My sister’s money and mine is as good as saved. I thank you very
much, and your bill will be met as soon as presented.”
“That will come later. For the present, carry out your present
policy--keep in the background, and don’t go about the city very much.
Do not even communicate with your sister. Leave that part of it to me,
and I will see that she does not worry about you. Where will I be able
to communicate with you?”
Lansing wrote his address on a card.
Then, after thanking Nick again, he left the house.
The detective lighted a cigar and threw himself into a chair.
“He certainly had his nerve with him, to call on me as he has done,”
thought Nick.
“It’s plain that he wants to get me out of town, and at once.
“I wonder if he knows Nick Carter never forgets a face?
“I have seen his face before--but whether that is the face of the
tough-looking Westerner called Ramsay, who is ‘wanted’ in Montana, I
can’t say for certain.”