“Can I have your head porter for an hour or two this evening, Mr. Mallory?” asked the detective, in a low tone. “I’ve noticed him around here. He’s the kind of husky chap I may need.” “Why, what----” “Never mind about talking it over, Mr. Mallory,” interrupted the detective, with a protesting smile. “Can I have the man?” “Certainly! His name is Mike Corrigan. He is a good, dependable fellow, and strong enough for anything you are likely to ask of him. Moreover, he is not afraid of anything. If you will come to my office, I will have him come there.” Mike Corrigan was quite willing to accompany Colonel Pearson anywhere, and after a few minutes’ conversation, it was arranged that Mike was to meet the detective in the lobby in fifteen minutes. “Put a coat on,” directed Nick. “Have you such a thing as a revolver?” “Never owned a gun in my life,” was Mike’s reply. “Never mind. I’ll bring one down for you. You can fire it off, I suppose, if it should become necessary?” “I can that,” laughed Mike. “And swing a club, too.” At this moment two telegrams were handed to Nick Carter. One was from his assistant, Chick, saying he was on his way to Delaware, with the bloodhound, Captain, and the other came from Joseph, Nick Carter’s head man-servant in his Madison Avenue home. This latter message read: “According your instructions, have sent black steel box labeled number four on third shelf to left of door in laboratory.” The detective went up to his room and put on a serviceable business suit in place of his evening clothes, with a warm cap that he could pull well down over his eyes. He kicked off his light patent-leather pumps and substituted a pair of heavy waterproof shoes. Finally he covered himself up in a long overcoat, in the pockets of which he dropped two automatic pistols, fully charged. Before leaving his room he compared the wax matches he had got from the baroness in the restaurant with the burned match he had picked up in Mrs. van Dietrich’s room. They were the same kind exactly. “I see you’re there, all right, Mike,” he remarked cheerily, as the head porter walked up to him in the lobby. “Wait a moment, while I go in to see Mr. Mallory and Mr. Savage.” He found both partners in their office, and bringing out the burned wax match, he said, in a businesslike, brief manner: “I should like you, please, to examine the baggage of Mrs. van Dietrich and find out whether there are in it any wax matches like this. Also ask her maid, Mary Cook, if she or Mrs. van D. ever used such matches.” “Very well,” answered Savage, picking up the burned match. “We will do it, of course. But I don’t see the point.” “That makes no difference,” retorted Nick. “The point is important. Did you find out anything at the railroad station this afternoon--whether anybody from the hotel went away?”