“Yes. They can well afford to pay that for it.” “And then some,” put in Chick pointedly. “I doubt that any of the gang who did that job will squeal, however, for it smacks of crooks who keep their traps closed under any and all circumstances. If they----” “Stop a moment!” Nick interposed. “What is wanted, Joseph?” The office door had been opened by Nick’s manservant, who then paused respectfully on the threshold. “Detective Vallon is here, sir,” he replied. “He wants to see Inspector Mallory.” “Vallon here!” exclaimed Mallory surprisedly. “Let him come in, Nick. I’ll see what he wants.” “Show him in, Joseph,” Nick directed. He entered a moment later, a plain-clothes man, from police headquarters, with whom both Nick and Chick shook hands cordially, while he was briefly stating his mission. “I’ve got a special delivery for you, inspector,” said he. “It is marked private and rush, and I reckoned it might be very important. The lieutenant said I’d be likely to find you here, so here I am--and here’s the letter.” Inspector Mallory took it and glanced at the superscription. It was addressed with a lead pencil, in a somewhat coarse, irregular hand, which, with the misspelling of several words, plainly evinced the writer’s lack of education. Prominent in the lower corners of the envelope were the two words--rush and private. “Humph!” Mallory grunted, with a puzzled expression. “Mailed this morning in Harlem. I don’t know the hand. Never saw one quite so scrawly. It may be important, nevertheless, Vallon, as you say.” Chief Mallory broke the seal while speaking, then drew out the inclosed sheet of paper. A folded bank note slipped from it and fell to the floor. “By Jove, chief, that’s a good beginning!” said Chick, laughing. “I believe your story,” Mallory replied, bending to pick up the bank note. “Hello! Fifty bucks, too, and a brand-new bill. I could stand a gift of this kind every day in the year.” It was, indeed, a crisp, brand-new bank note for fifty dollars. Nick Carter eyed the inspector more narrowly when he opened and read the letter, noting his gradual change of expression. “By thunder, here’s a curious case!” Mallory exclaimed, looking up. “It cannot be a hoax, not with fifty simoleons backing up the story. Have a look, Nick. Read it aloud.” Nick took the letter and read it aloud, as directed, a penciled, illiterate scrawl, as follows: “MR. INSPECTOR MALLORY: There be a ded man up in number aity to P---- Street, Harlem. I want him planted rite, but I ain’t got no time to tend to it. I know you are ded square when it comes to a show-down, so I send you the coin to foot the bills with, and I ax you to tend to him. Git him a good box with black cloth on the outside of it and silver grips. I would ax you to git a silver plait, to, only I can’t tell you his monaker. I thank you beforehand, knowing you will tend to him. Please have a praer sed for him.”