It was early evening when Nick Carter arrived home after his interview with Kate Crandall. He found Chick awaiting him. On the office table lay a small plaster cast, not there when Nick departed with Harriet Farley that morning, concerning whose mission and what since had occurred, Chick was, of course, entirely ignorant. “Well, by Jove, you’ve had a long outing,” he remarked, when Nick entered and removed his coat and hat. “Have you been equally busy?” “You know me,” replied Nick pointedly. “None better. What’s doing?” “A case for the young lady who prevented me from going with Mallory this morning.” “Who is she?” “Her name is Harriet Farley. She is the only child of the late Archibald Farley. She is worth four or five millions--and then some.” “That ought to keep the wolf from the door, at least,” said Chick, smiling. “What’s the case?” Nick briefly informed him, covering all of the essential points and immediately adding: “Have you heard from Patsy?” “Not a word.” “There must be something doing, then, or he would have found time to telephone a message of some kind. How long have you been here? What’s this?” Nick had caught sight of the plaster cast on the table. He took it up and examined it. “One result of my trip with Mallory,” said Chick. “It’s mighty strange, Nick, how circumstances sometimes dovetail together in this big and busy world.” “What do you mean?” “You have not forgotten Mallory’s letter about a dead man up in Harlem?” “Certainly not.” “We went up there,” Chick said, more earnestly. “The address proved to be a miserable house in one of the outskirts. It appeared to be unoccupied, so we forced an entrance, though very little force was necessary, as far as that goes.” “You found?” “A miserably furnished place, Nick, with indications of poverty on all sides. There was evidence that a man and woman have been living there, and so some of the neighbors informed us; but the woman has removed all of her belongings and left only the body of the man. We found the body in a dismal back room on the second floor. He has been dead about two days.” “Murdered?” “Not exactly.” “What do you mean by not exactly?” “Violence, but not murder,” said Chick. “The cause of his death was obvious. It resulted from a bullet wound in his left shoulder. It had not been properly treated. Blood poison had ensued and sent him over the dark river.” “H’m, that’s strange!” Nick remarked. “There must be something back of it. Could you identify him?” “Easily.” “Who?” “The very man, Nick, of whom we were talking with Mallory when Vallon arrived with that letter--Jim Nordeck, the yegg cracksman, the crook suspected of having been one of the gang that robbed that Westchester savings bank.” “The devil you say!” “There was nothing to it,” Chick added. “There was no mistaking him.” “You probably are right,” Nick replied, with a nod. “One of the gang is known to have been wounded during their hurried get-away.” “The man was Nordeck.”