“Don’t try, Lord Waldmere,” Nick replied, pressing his hand. “Merely do only what I have directed. Keep a stiff upper lip and leave this matter to me. I’ll call the turn, all right, as sure as you’re a foot high.” CHAPTER III. HOW NICK SIZED IT UP. Nick Carter came out from dinner in his Madison Avenue residence after eight o’clock, two hours later than usual. Instead of going to his business office, he entered his private library, saying to Joseph, his butler, as he passed him in the deep, attractively furnished hall: “Send Chick and Patsy to me. They’re in the office.” Nick had waited only a few moments, when he was joined by his chief assistant, Chick Carter, who was presently followed by Patsy Garvan. Both knew that something of importance was in the wind, and Nick at once proceeded to tell them of what it consisted, covering all of the essential points of the case. “Gee, that’s some puzzle, chief, for fair!” commented Patsy, after listening attentively. “What’s the game? His royal nob from England must be a decent sort of a chap, after all, don’t you know. He sure has been dead square with the chorus girl.” “So he is, Patsy, and less shallow than he appears,” Nick replied. “But he don’t know enough about business to last him overnight. Evidently, however, his wife is a keen and clever girl, as well as handsome.” “Why not? She’s an American girl,” said Patsy. “That’s one reason why I took on the case,” smiled Nick. “The Imperial Loan Company,” put in Chick. “Why, I know that concern. It’s nothing else but a high-grade pawnshop. It was established by Isaac Meyer several years ago. I knew him when he had a shop in the Bowery. But he’s nearly down and out, now with creeping paralysis. He never leaves home.” “Where is that?” Nick inquired. “Over in Columbus Avenue.” “Who runs his business?” “His manager,” said Chick. “A man named Morris Garland. He has been with Meyer since he opened the Fifth Avenue place. It’s only a few blocks from where you met the Englishman.” “I know the place very well, Chick, but none of the inmates,” said Nick. “What do you know about Garland?” “He’s all aboveboard, Nick, as far as I know,” Chick replied. “There is only one out about him, if that really cuts any ice.” “What is that?” “I have seen him quite frequently with Stuart Floyd. They appear to be very friendly. You know Floyd, of course. He’s about as keen and slick a fellow as can be found in this old town.” “Do you think so?” “Don’t you?” “I don’t know much about him, Chick, save that he is a well-known man about town. The police have nothing on him, have they?” “No, nothing that I know of,” Chick admitted. “Floyd has no record, to be sure, barring a record that makes him a mystery to me, at least.” “Why a mystery?” “Because he has no visible means of support, yet he always has plenty of money, or appears to have,” said Chick. “He inherited nothing, nevertheless, for I knew his people, as I have known him for years.” “I see.”