This was rendered all the more feasible because of the fact that Murdock was one of the old railway hands, discharged for evil habits, and he was thoroughly familiar with all of the details essential to such a plot. “It will teach Cady a lesson,” Nick remarked to Chick and Patsy that evening, as they sat smoking in their suite in the hotel. “He’ll select his companions more carefully in the future. As for Murdock and the gang—well, it now is up to them to pay the price.” THE END. “Broken Bars; or, Nick Carter’s Speedy Service,” is the title of the story that you will find in the next issue of this weekly, No. 132, out March 20th. The great detective and his assistants have more dealings with the desperate criminals that they thought they had so safely jailed. A SUDDEN THING. It is generally the easiest thing in the world to drive a horse without spirit, but there is one recorded instance where a coach driver covered himself with glory by doing so. One afternoon he and his coach and four came rattling up to the hotel like an avalanche. As the coach stopped, one of the horses dropped dead. “That was a very sudden death,” remarked a bystander “That sudden?” coolly responded the driver; “that ’os died at the top of the hill two miles back, sir, but I wasn’t going to let him down till I got to the reg’lar stoppin’ place.” ON A DARK STAGE. By ROLAND ASHFORD PHILLIPS. (This interesting story was commenced in No. 127 of Nick Carter Stories. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the publishers.) CHAPTER XX. THE SECOND ACT. Klein went on with the business of his part, poking at the property fire—a bunch of red globes buried in a grate of coke. Other characters made their appearance, and the dialogue opened briskly. Miss Lindner, first to pick up the silver frame, frowned as she delivered her lines. In an undertone, aside to Klein, who was busily engaged in dusting an already spotless piece of china, she said: “According to the property man, I’ve got a new lover to-day. Did you notice the change?” She laughed—her back was to the audience—and as Dodge, the character man, entered noisily, she made a face at him. Dodge took his art seriously, and would not “clown” on a scene. Others of the cast, aware of it, “kidded” him at every possible opportunity. When Dodge stood in front of the picture, addressing it in thunderous rage—as the play demanded he should—Klein watched him narrowly. Nothing happened, and Klein decided mentally that the character man had not noticed the difference between to-day’s photograph and the one used in the previous performances.