THE CIGARETTE MACHINE.
Nick was about to speak on, but his eye caught a flash of something
among the papers on the desk.
He picked up the object and found that it was a small, nickel-plated
instrument used in manufacturing cigarettes.
“To whom does this belong?” he inquired.
“To uncle Horace. Do you know what it is, Mr. Jones?”
Nick ignored the question.
“How long has your uncle had it?”
“I do not know. I only remember seeing it here during the last two or
three days.”
“You would have seen it if it had been here before?”
“I think so.”
“Does your uncle smoke cigarettes?”
“What a curious question, Mr. Jones,” smiled the girl. “No, he does
not.”
“Does your brother John?”
“No.”
Nick laid the nickel-plated instrument back on the desk.
“Was your uncle home last night, Miss Lansing?”
“Yes.”
“All night?”
“He was at his club until midnight.”
“Ah! And at what time did he leave this morning?”
“About eight o’clock.”
Nick looked at his watch.
It was five minutes of ten.
“Did he say when he would return?”
“He said he would not return until late this afternoon. Two gentlemen
were to call here this morning, he said, and I was to give them this
letter.”
She picked up a sealed and addressed envelope that lay on a book on the
library table.
Nick apparently gave little attention to the letter.
“Has your uncle a profession?” he asked, casually, settling back in the
comfortable chair.
“Not now,” she answered.
“What did he do formerly?”
“He speculated.”
“On the stock market?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long since he quit speculating?”
“Are you asking me all these questions because----”
“Just because I am curious,” Nick smiled. “Detectives are always
curious, you know.”
“But has this anything to do with the Royal Ophir mine?”
“Indirectly.”
“Well, it was only a month ago that uncle stopped operating on the stock
market.”
“Was he generally successful?”
“I do not know, Mr. Jones. I think he was.”
“Your uncle is wealthy?”
“I do not think he is so very wealthy.”
“Then he could not have been a very successful operator, do you think?”
“I never stopped to think of the matter in that way. Uncle has enough to
keep him as long as he lives, I guess.”
The maid rapped at the door, just then, and summoned Miss Lansing away.
“You will excuse me, Mr. Jones?” she asked, before leaving.
“Certainly,” said Nick. “Gladly,” he added to himself.
The instant he was left alone, Nick picked up the letter that lay on the
library table.
“J. Edward Bingham, Esq.,” ran the address.
Pulling out a leaf of the desk, Nick picked up a pearl paper cutter and
ran the edge around under the flap.
Then he took out the folded sheet and read as follows:
“DEAR BINGHAM: Called away and cannot meet you and Cooper at ten
this morning. Yasmar found it impossible to come, but will meet you
at another place to-night, and deal will then be consummated. Bring
your certified checks to my house at eight this evening, and I will
take you to the place where Yasmar is to be waiting.
“MONTGOMERY.”
Picking up a blank sheet of paper, Nick took a pen and wrote another
letter.
It was slightly different from Montgomery’s.
He made no attempt to imitate Montgomery’s handwriting, nor did he sign
Montgomery’s name.
Experience assured him that receiving the communication from Miss
Lansing, and in Montgomery’s house, would make the letter plausible
enough for the purpose.
“DEAR BINGHAM: Called away and cannot meet you and Cooper at ten
this morning. Deal is off for to-day. Return by first train to
Boston and wait there until Yasmar and I come.”
Nick put this in the envelope, sealed it with mucilage found on the
desk, and laid the letter on the book on the library table, just as it
was before.
In looking for the mucilage he had to disturb the papers a little, and
he found something else which he considered of the utmost importance.
This something else was a cigarette box containing five cigarettes which
fitted the cigarette machine and also bore a perfect resemblance to the
cigarette Nick had smoked, the day before, in the assay office.
Nick sank back in the chair, his face extremely thoughtful.
“Well, well,” he muttered.
Just then Miss Lansing came hurriedly in.
“The two gentlemen whom uncle expected are downstairs at the door,” she
said, walking to the table and picking up the letter. “I will return
presently, Mr. Jones.”
“I am in no hurry, Miss Lansing.”
When again left alone, Nick picked a cigarette from the box and put it
in his pocket.
He was ready to leave when Miss Lansing returned.
“Must you go?” asked the girl.
“Yes, but I would like to leave some one here, if you have no
objections.”
“Who, Mr. Jones?”
“One of my assistants. If possible, I would be glad if his presence
here could remain a secret between us--even if your uncle should come.”
“It could be arranged, Mr. Jones.”
“Then I will summon my assistant. Will you conduct me to a rear window
on this floor?”
The girl was puzzled, but led Nick to a window in the rear, overlooking
the back yard between Forty-fourth and Forty-fifth Streets.
In one of the yards, in plain view of the rear of the Montgomery house,
a roughly dressed young man was working at a clothes pole.
Nick waved his hand.
The man nodded and started to slide down.
“Now,” said Nick, “if I can go down and admit him----”
“I will do that myself, Mr. Jones.”
In a few moments Patsy was with his chief and had received his
instructions.
Louise Lansing accompanied Nick to the door.
“If your uncle should return, Miss Lansing,” said Nick, in a low tone,
“please tell him nothing about my having been here.”
“Very good. When will my brother come?”
“To-night; but that must also be kept a secret, especially from your
uncle and the servants. Your brother will explain to you.”
When Nick departed he left behind him a very much bewildered young lady,
yet a very happy one, nevertheless.