NICK CARTER STORIES _Issued Weekly. Entered as Second-class Matter at the New York Post Office, by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Ave., New York_. _Copyright, 1915, by_ STREET & SMITH. _O. G. Smith and G. C. Smith, Proprietors._ Terms to NICK CARTER STORIES Mail Subscribers. (_Postage Free._) Single Copies or Back Numbers, 5c. Each. 3 months 65c. 4 months 85c. 6 months $1.25 One year 2.50 2 copies one year 4.00 1 copy two years 4.00 =How to Send Money=--By post-office or express money order, registered letter, bank check or draft, at our risk. At your own risk if sent by currency, coin, or postage stamps in ordinary letter. =Receipts=--Receipt of your remittance is acknowledged by proper change of number on your label. If not correct you have not been properly credited, and should let us know at once. No. 133. NEW YORK, March 27, 1915. Price Five Cents. * * * * * WON BY MAGIC; Or, NICK CARTER’S MYSTERIOUS EAR. Edited by CHICKERING CARTER. CHAPTER I. THE COMING OF JAI SINGH. “Message for Mr. Carter!” The wireless operator of the steamship _Marathon_, in the linen clothes and pith helmet ordinarily worn by white people in the tropics, came along the steamer deck with a slip of paper in his hand and stopped in front of a row of steamer chairs under an awning. “Where’s it from?” asked the occupant of one of the chairs, springing to his feet. “From shore, sir--Calcutta.” Nick Carter, who was holding out his hand even as he got up from his chair, took the paper quickly and glanced at the few words it contained: “Get up to Nepal quickly.” That was all. There was no signature, and the operator could not say who had sent it. “It came from the main office of the telegraph company in Calcutta,” he explained. “The operator told me a native man brought it in and paid for it. He said there would be no answer, and his own name did not matter.” “It is many years since I was in Calcutta last,” observed Nick Carter, to his companions, as the operator went back to the wireless room. “Then it was only for a few days, and I did not make many acquaintances.” A tall, middle-aged man, whose square face and straight-seeing dark eyes, as well as his decided manner of speech, were all suggestive of the successful American business man, got up from one of the chairs and looked over Nick Carter’s shoulder at the telegram he still held open in one hand. “Get up to Nepal quickly,” he read. “Does that mean that my boy is there, do you think, Carter?” “We don’t know that the telegram has anything to do with what has brought us to India,” replied the detective. “What else could it be?” demanded the other sharply.