“Telegram? I have only sent one since I have been here, and that was to a person in New York.” The colonel smiled. “Exactly. You sent it to a person who was supposed to be in New York. But it happens that he was much nearer.” “I don’t understand,” faltered Savage. “I don’t, either,” added Mallory, who had been sitting behind his desk, listening in bewilderment. “Do you know anything about that person, Colonel Pearson?” “If you will permit me to close the door,” was the response, “I will tell you.” He shut the door and slipped the bolt into place. Then, as he approached the desk to which Paul Savage had retreated, as if seeking the moral support of his partner, he said quietly: “You telegraphed Nicholas Carter, at his home in Madison Avenue, New York, to come here quickly, on an important case. That is how this telegram reads,” he adds, as he smoothed out the yellow paper and looked at it. “I have only to say that, though I chose to be known here as Colonel Pearson, since I came to enjoy a short vacation, my real name is Nicholas Carter, and I live in Madison Avenue, New York.” “You Nicholas Carter?” gasped Savage. “Why, I thought Carter was an altogether different sort of man.” “I understand,” laughed Nick. “You did not bargain for my being here, in light clothes and white canvas shoes, with a golf club in my hand. It did not occur to you that I might be an everyday man. You thought that, as a detective, I should wear a lowering look and salute you with a mysterious ‘Hist!’ when you opened the door just now.” “Not exactly, but----” “Yet a detective must be allowed his play time, like any other man,” continued Nick. “I have just been playing golf with the Baroness Latour. She is an early riser, as I am, and when I chanced to meet her on the links, we agreed to play together, instead of singly. So we have done nine holes. It was a drawn game. Here is your telegram. It was redirected to me, in my assumed name of Colonel Pearson, to this hotel, as you see, by my assistant.” Paul Savage continued to look steadily at the calm face of the detective, as if not quite satisfied. But Mallory broke in, with an impatient grunt: “Of course, you have no idea what induced us to send for you, Mr. Carter?” “It has to do with the disappearance of Mrs. de Puyster van Dietrich, has it not?” “Why, how did you know?” demanded Savage. “Not a word has been said about it outside of this office and the housekeeper’s room. We have been very careful to keep any inkling of the affair from our guests.” The detective glanced at him quickly, and there was a narrowing of the dark eyes which told of swift thinking. “Indeed? Are you sure nothing has got out about it?” he asked.