It goes without saying that one of the first to buy a paper that afternoon was Nick Carter. Eagerly he scanned the telegraphic columns until he found what he sought. Dated from Baltimore, the item read as follows: "Last night, at St. Luke's Hospital, a patient who had been under the care of the doctors for several weeks passed away. Upon his arrival he had given the name of William Jonas, but a few hours before he died he confessed that his true name was Arthur Mannion, and that the police wanted him for the murder of James Playfair, the Washington millionaire. He stoutly asserted his innocence, called upon God to hear his word, and died with the name of his wife on his lips." The great detective very coolly folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. He was not dumfounded over what he had read, though his brow was wrinkled as he walked toward his residence.
He was a passenger that evening on the B. & O. train for Baltimore, and the next morning was at St. Luke's Hospital. The superintendent received him rather coolly, but upon hearing his name became affable at once.
"Can I see the body of the man Mannion who died here night before last?" Nick inquired.
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"Unfortunately, no. The burial took place yesterday. It was an aggravated case of typhoid, and we got him underground as soon as possible."
"Did he leave any personal property behind?"
"Yes. Two hundred dollars in bank-notes, each of one hundred dollars, several letters from his wife, addressed to him under the name of Jonas, and a few other pocket articles."
"Will you allow me to read the letters?"
"Certainly. They are in my drawer here. I am waiting to hear from his wife. She was notified yesterday morning, and an answer signed by her father came back, which stated that the blow of her husband's death had prostrated her, and that she was threatened with brain-fever."
The letters were three in number, and all were written within the fortnight preceding the death.
The one bearing the earliest date Nick read with amused interest:
"My Dear Husband: Each day is more lonesome since your departure. I shall go mad if things do not turn out as you have planned. Get well quick. Make those nasty doctors take a special interest in your case. Offer them the highest inducement, and if you can't fulfil any agreement you make with them, let me know and I will help you, if I have to sell the gown off my back. That hateful Mr. Carter is here yet, but from what he told father the other day, I think he will leave for New York in a day or two. We've pulled the wool over his eyes so thoroughly that he is as harmless as a[180] dove. Chick, poor man, is about well. He is a good fellow, and I don't think he bears any grudge against me. But Patsy—you remember Patsy, don't you? He's the boy I told you about—he takes no stock in me. He told me so the other day. He had the impudence to say this to my face. 'Young woman,' said he, 'I wouldn't trust you farther than I can sling a cat.' I laughed at him. I could afford to. Now, do as I tell you. Get well and—you know what our plan is.
"Lovingly your own      Nellie."
The second and third letters showed the writer's anxiety over her husband's condition, which had become serious. In the last letter she said, if he was not better at the end of a week, she would take him to Philadelphia and place him under the care of a noted specialist.
Nick returned the letters to the superintendent, and then asked for the bank-notes. As he had expected, they belonged to the batch stolen from the body of Cora Reesey. "With what was Mannion afflicted when he came to the hospital?" was his next question.
"A complication of diseases, brought on by exposure. He looked like a tramp when he arrived, and said that for many days he had been sleeping in barns, sheds, and on the ground. Typhoid set in a week ago."
"Can you give me a description of his person, not omitting any physical peculiarity?"
"Yes. He was tall, thin, dark-featured, black-haired—he wore no mustache, had shaved it off, he said—and half of the forefinger of his left hand was missing."
Nick's brow clouded for a moment. Then from the[181] innermost corner of his brain crept an idea. "Doctor," said he, "have you given me a complete description of the dead man? Was there not some artificial mark on his left arm?"
"Yes; I had forgotten," replied the superintendent apologetically. "There was a castle tattooed on his arm."
"I thought so. One more question, and I am done. Did Mannion have any visitors, friends, while he was in the hospital?"
"One, his uncle, who came a few days before the typhoid symptoms appeared. Mannion said the uncle was the only blood relative he had."
"Did they hold long conversations?"
"On the first visit they had a long talk. After that they had not much to say to each other."
"Was the uncle an old man?"
"Sixty, at least, though he has no gray hairs. An old soldier, I should say, for he was as straight as an arrow, and had but one arm, taken off close to the shoulder."
"What name did he give?"
"Peter Mannion."
"Were you prepossessed in his favor?"
"Very much so. He was, or appeared to be, a perfect gentleman."
That evening Nick was in Washington. After a long talk with Chick, he retired to pass a restless night. The next morning Chick left the city, taking the Baltimore[182] train, but getting off at Beltzville. Patsy, by another route, left Washington in the afternoon.
A few days afterward, while Nick was at Prosper Craven's house, at which he had been a constant visitor, a tall, handsome, elderly man was ushered in by Nellie Mannion, who, the day before, had risen from a sickbed.
"Father," said she, "this is the uncle of Arthur. He lives near Baltimore, and has come to see me."
Nick Carter did not remain in the house but a few moments after the uncle's arrival. Excusing himself, he went out to give utterance to a soft whistle.
The uncle............