“There is only one way it can be done. That’s by producing the supposed suicide himself,” Nick decided, a bit grimly, after leaving her. “She was expecting my visit and had prepared herself for it. That was as plain as twice two. I scored one point on her, nevertheless, that she was not expecting, and which may prove to be her undoing. “She certainly was rattled for a moment when she learned that I knew of Dacey’s doings. It forced her to come across with a plausible explanation. Not having anticipated that contingency, however, there may be a weak spot in her arrangements with Sheldon, or Floyd. I’ll try to find it. I’ll hunt up Sheldon before she can communicate with him and put him on his guard. I’ll see whether he will tell precisely the same story. Rear corridor, suite number ninety-four, eh? This must be the way.” Hastening through several diverging corridors, Nick had entered one leading to the rear of the house. He would not delay to hunt up Chick and Patsy, being anxious to find the subject as quickly as possible, and it was less than five minutes after his parting from Kate Crandall, when Nick arrived at the door of Ralph Sheldon’s apartments. He listened vainly, then knocked. It brought an immediate response. “Come in!” Nick entered the parlor of an attractively furnished suite. A table covered with books and newspapers occupied the middle of the room. Amid them stood a library lamp with a large, drooping silk shade of nile-green color, which deflected the light upon, and immediately around the table, leaving other parts of the room in semi-obscurity, causing Nick to think at first sight that it was only dimly lighted. In the bright glow close to the table, however, sat the solitary occupant of the room. He was lounging in a large armchair, with his slippered feet in another, and his tall figure wrapped in a long house robe. He seemed to be a man of fifty, of refined appearance, with hair and beard slightly shot with gray. He wore black-rimmed glasses and was reading a book, over which he gazed inquiringly when the detective entered. “Sheldon himself,” thought Nick, recalling Nancy Nordeck’s description of the man. “Alone and absorbed in a book. It’s odds, then, I’m ahead of any warning from Kate Crandall. She certainly has not been here since I left her.” These conclusions flashed through Nick’s mind while he bowed and said: “I am looking for Mr. Floyd, or Mr. Sheldon. You are one or the other, I infer.” “My name is Sheldon,” he replied, drawing up in his chair. “Mr. Floyd is out just now, but he may return at any moment. What is your business?” “I want a little information which I think you, or Mr. Floyd, can give me.” “Certainly. Sit down, Mr.----” “Carter,” put in Nick. “I am a detective.” “Not--not Nick Carter?” faltered Sheldon inquiringly, with a look of surprise. “Yes. I see that you have heard of me.”