This man was Nick Carter, the famous detective. Nick immediately realized the folly of attempting to follow the carriage, which had so great a lead, though he was satisfied that there had been a robbery of the house and that the carriage contained the booty as well as the thieves. He contented himself with sounding an alarm, in the hope that the attention of the policemen on the beats along which the carriage traveled might be directed toward it and their suspicion excited. But, so far as he was able to judge, the only result of his alarm was to call to him a policeman from another direction than that in which the carriage went. “What is it, Mr. Carter?” asked the officer, coming up on a run, and recognizing the famous detective. “Robbery, I fancy,” replied Nick; “and that carriage contains the thieves and what they’ve stolen.” “We’d have to be race horses,” said the officer, looking after the carriage now disappearing in the distance, “to overcome that lead.” “No; it is useless to attempt to follow it,” replied Nick. “Where was the job done?” asked the officer. “Up there in Thirty-fifth Street,” replied Nick. “Is that your beat?” “Yes, and I was over it half an hour ago.” “They waited for that,” replied Nick. “Come with me and let us look at the house.” They went back to the house, where Nick pointed out the open bay window and the short end of the rope dangling therefrom. The officer went inside the little yard and found the rope that had been cut off lying on the ground. He picked it up, and, looking at the end, said: “This rope has been cut with a sharp knife.” Nick joined him, and, looking at the end, agreed with the officer, while both wondered why it had been cut. “Do you know who lives here?” asked Nick. “Yes; the man’s name is Jacob Herron.” “What is he?” “A Wall Street man.” “A broker or banker?” “I don’t know what he is. A sort of speculator, I guess. Anyhow, he’s a pretty big man.” “Well,” said Nick, “we ought to arouse the family and make an investigation.” The two went to the front door, where the officer rang the bell several times without securing a response. Then he beat on the door with his night stick, sounding an alarm on the stoop as well. This finally aroused some one in the upper story, who raised a window to ask what all the row was about. “Come down and let us in,” replied the officer. “You have been robbed.” “Who are you?” asked the voice above. “A police officer, and Mr. Carter, the detective,” was the officer’s reply. The head was quickly withdrawn from the window, and, after the two on the stoop had waited what seemed to them a long time, a light flashed up in the hall and the door was immediately opened. The two stepped in to see a young man of possibly twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age standing there with neither coat nor vest and his bare feet thrust into slippers. “You say the house has been robbed?” asked the young man. “I see no indications of it.”