The boat deck of the Cortez was of wide expanse, shaded by gleaming canvas.  
The South American liner had just passed Sandy Hook, bound inward, and was making its stately way toward New York harbor. It was late in the evening, and in a couple of deck chairs two figures were seated. The men were chatting together quietly. The taller of the two, clean-shaven and keen-faced, was puffing contentedly on a fragrant Havana.
 
They were Nick Carter, the distinguished New York detective, and his leading assistant, Chick Carter, who were returning from a couple of weeks’ holiday spent in Jamaica. The Cortez had touched at Kingston on its way north from South American ports, and it was there that the detective and his assistant had come on board.
 
“Evidently we won’t be home until to-morrow morning,” Chick Carter said quietly. “It will be too late for disembarking to-night. Of course we could get a special dispensation, if necessary, but I don’t believe in pulling wires unless there’s need for it. All the same, I’ll be glad to get back into harness again.”
 
Chick grinned in the darkness. He had enjoyed their short stay in beautiful Jamaica, but he had noted that his chief had chafed at the idleness, especially during the last few days.
 
“Let’s hope there’s something waiting for us that will let us sit up and take notice,” he said. “I feel fit to tackle anything.”
 
They were both in evening dress and awaiting the sound of the dinner gong, which soon called them to the saloon.
 
There were over fifty first-class passengers on board, and at the detective’s table were two men who had interested him. They sat side by side opposite to him, and their broad shoulders and tanned features told plainly that they were men who had spent the greater part of their years out of doors in some hot country.
 
Their manners and dress were curiously alike, but their faces differed greatly. The man who sat on the right, and who Nick had found out was Winthrop Crawford, had an open, kindly countenance. The trim gray beard did not quite hide the friendly lines about the mouth; and the eyes, although set in a network of wrinkles—such as one always notices on the faces of those who have peered long over sun-drenched stretches of plain or mountain—were wide and blue and looked out on the world in a genial fashion.
 
His companion, however, was almost the opposite, so far as looks were concerned. There was nothing repellent about his features, to be sure, but his expression was far from agreeable. His eyes were hard and suspicious, his lips usually wore either a snarl or a sneer, and his brows were drawn together with a surly frown most of the time.
 
It was the head steward who had told Nick the names of the two men, and had also added the information that they had been until recently joint owners of a big silver mine in South America.
 
The second man, James Stone, was the older of the two, and it was his peculiar manner that had interested the detective first of all. During the four or five days since Carter and his assistant had boarded the Cortez, they had never heard Stone say more than half a dozen words at a time to any one, even to his companion, Crawford. At the table Nick noted that Crawford often tried to engage his partner in conversation, but his efforts were always doomed to failure. Moreover, the detective had observed the perplexed, anxious look which had come into Crawford’s eyes many times after these rebuffs.
 
The two mining men were in their places when Carter and Chick dropped into their seats. Once or twice in the course of the meal the detective caught Crawford glancing across at him with a look of interest, and wondered what it meant. He was not surprised, therefore, when, after the meal was over and he had entered the smoking room, he heard a voice at his elbow, and, turning round, saw the bearded face of Winthrop Crawford at his side.
 
“I hope you’ll excuse me, Mr. Carter,” the man said in a deep, melodious voice, “but I’ve just heard from the steward who you are, and I’d like to make your acquaintance.”
 
As a judge of character Nick Carter had no superior, and he saw that the man in front of him was of the sterling, honest type; therefore, he had no hesitation in holding out his hand.
 
“It’s only another case of diamond cut diamond, Mr. Crawford,” he answered, with a smile, “for I must also plead guilty to having made inquiries about you.”
 
Crawford pulled out a cigar case, and Nick accepted the “weed,” after which they strolled across the big room and seated themselves on a comfortable settee.
 
“I’m returning to New York after an absence of a quarter of a century,” Crawford explained, “and I don’t believe I know a single soul there.”
 
“You are taking a well-earned vacation, I suppose?” the detective remarked.
 
“Something of the sort,” was the answer. “As a matter of fact, I have no occupation now, since my partner and I have sold out our mining interests in South America. I have nothing definite in view, but I’m sure I shan’t be content to remain idle for long.”
 
He leaned back and puffed at his cigar.
 
“I’ve had a pretty tough time of it,” he went on. “The usual experience of those who knock about the world seeking their fortunes; but I think I can safely say that I’m secure now for the rest of my life—unless I make a fool of myself.”
 
“I’m very glad to hear of it,” Nick declared heartily. “I understood that you and Mr. Stone had been fortunate.”
 
Crawford nodded his head, but a shadow passed over his face.
 
“It isn’t necessary to go into details, Mr. Carter,” he replied, “but your informant was quite correct. Stone and I discovered and developed the Condor Mine in Brazil. We worked it ourselves for over a year, and then decided to sell out and come back home. It netted us about half a million apiece. That’s very little, of course, as you count wealth up here, but it’s enough for us to live on in comfort for the rest of our lives. We have no one dependent on us—unfortunately.”
 
 
“I’m sure you deserve it all,” the detective told him warmly.
 
Crawford’s eyes grew misty with a host of memories of hard days and lean ones—days when the nearest approach to a meal had been another notch in the belt and the hope of something more substantial on the morrow.
 
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve earned it; and that brings me to something I wanted to say. I’m a little afraid of your New York, Mr. Carter. I know much more about prospecting than I do about finance. As I’ve told you, there’s nothing to occupy my mind, and I suppose I’ll soon be looking about for investments. If I’m not very careful, I’m likely to fall among thieves.”
 
He leaned across and placed his hand on Nick’s arm.
 
“Even in South America we hear of Nick Carter,” he said, with a quiet nod of his grizzled head, “and I count it a very fortunate chance that I should have run across you here on this vessel. I have engaged rooms at the Hotel Windermere, and I’ll be very glad if you’ll give me your address. I should like to have some one to go to for advice if I find that the sharks begin to gather.”
 
Then, as the detective remained silent, Crawford went on:
 
“It must be a strictly business undertaking, you understand. If I’m doubtful about any concern or individual, I would like to call on you and have you give me a report. I should expect you to make the usual charge for such work—in fact, I would be willing to pay more than that, because, as a friendless man who doesn’t understand the game, I would profit more than usual by such invaluable assistance.”
 
There was something curiously winning about Crawford’s voice, and the man appealed strongly to Nick. The sort of assistance he asked for was hardly in the detective’s line, but the simple, direct appeal gained the day.
 
“Very well,” he said, taking out his case and handing a card to Crawford. “Let’s hope for your sake that you won’t have any very urgent need of me, but here’s my address, and you can ring me up at any time. I shall be very glad to do anything I can.”
 
Crawford had just placed the card in his pocket when the door of the smoking room opened and James Stone appeared. There was a little bar at one end of the room, and it was toward this that Crawford’s partner was headed. Stone’s eyes traveled across to Crawford, and the latter made a move as though to rise to his feet, but his partner turned his head away quickly and went on his way. There was more than a suggestion of surliness, if not of enmity, in the way he ignored Crawford, and the latter leaned back again with an involuntary sigh.
 
Nick caught his eye.
 
“I can’t make it out,” Crawford said at last, the troubled expression deepening on his face. “I suppose you’ve noted that Stone and I hardly exchange a word.”