“Don’t let’s argue the point,” Nick again interrupted. “Let me have my way, Waldmere, that we may get after the crooks as quickly as possible.” “Very well. It’s up to you.” “Now, to proceed, how many servants do you employ?” “Six,” said Mrs. Waldmere. “Picard, our French chef. A woman in the kitchen, named Maggie Coyle.” “Young, or well along in years?” “About fifty.” “Not likely, then, to be in such a job,” said Nick. “Besides, her position in the house, as well as that of the chef, would have made it difficult for them to have learned all of the necessary details. They are out of it.” “We employ a butler, John Patterson,” continued Mrs. Waldmere. “Also my maid, Della Martin, and a maid for general work, named Minerva Grand. All came well recommended. I have known our chauffeur, Frank Gilbert, for years, as I have said.” “They comprise your list of servants?” “Yes.” “Has Gilbert returned from the railway yard?” “He has and is waiting in the basement. He met the truckman sent by Macklin & Dale, and we directed him to bring him here, also, thinking you might wish to question both.” “I will do so,” said Nick. “Have the truckman sent up here. I want both of you to wait in another room while I am talking with him, also with Gilbert, whom I will send for a little later. Do not ask my reasons, but kindly comply.” Waldmere looked a bit surprised, but he made no objection. He arose at once and left the room with his wife. “Well, what do you make of it?” Chick inquired, while they waited for the truckman. “It looks to me like a bit of remarkably clever work.” Nick nodded and added: “With inside help.” “You feel sure of that?” “Reasonably sure,” said Nick. “The circumstances point to absolutely definite information on the part of the crooks, much more so than if there had been only three cases shipped and all three stolen.” “That’s true,” Chick allowed. “They must have known the numbers of the three cases containing the gold plate. They must have known that the location of those three particular cases in the freight car was such that they could quickly remove them, or they could not have figured so fine as to time. They got away with them, mind you, only twenty minutes before Gilbert arrived in the yard.” “That’s right, too, by Jove.” “Furthermore--but here comes our man,” Nick broke off abruptly. “We will size it up later.” The truckman had entered while the detective was speaking. CHAPTER III. NICK CARTER’S CRAFT. Nick Carter needed only to glance at the face of the man who had entered to feel assured of his honesty. He was a rugged, red-cheeked Scotchman of nearly fifty years, clad in a checked blouse and overalls and carrying in one of his begrimed and calloused hands a faded woolen cap. “Come nearer, my man,” said Nick pleasantly. “What is your name?” “Tom McLauren, sir,” he replied, complying. “How long have you been in the employ of Macklin & Dale?” “Ten years, sir.”