“Frankly, then, Mr. Carrington, it looks bad, quite bad,” said Nick. “Knaves do not take such risks, nor go to so much trouble, unless with some strong incentive. I cannot conjecture what lies back of it, of course, but I am going to find out.” “Will you communicate with me later?” “Surely by to-morrow morning. Keep quiet in the meantime and leave me to do the rest.” Nick remained only to talk briefly with Chick, telling him what he had learned, and he then departed hurriedly, heading for home in a taxicab. CHAPTER III. NICK CONFIRMS HIS THEORY. Nick Carter stopped at his Madison Avenue residence on his way to Brooklyn only to pick up his junior assistant, Patsy Garvan, whom he aroused from bed and with whom he soon was seated in the waiting taxicab. “I thought I might need you,” Nick remarked, as they sped away. “There’s no telling what we may learn, and it’s always well to be on the safe side.” “Sure thing, chief,” Patsy readily agreed. “But what’s up?” Nick then told him what had occurred in the Carrington mansion, carefully covering all of the essential points, as was his custom when discussing a case with any of his assistants. “Gee whiz! it don’t look good to me,” said Patsy, after listening attentively. “Some one has it in for Waldmere good and strong, chief, or such chances would not have been taken.” “That is what I told Mr. Carrington,” Nick nodded. “But why did they take that way to get him?” Patsy doubtfully questioned. “They could have nailed him much more easily by----” “But it is not easy to get away with a man like Waldmere,” Nick interrupted. “He is interested almost solely in his home, his business, and his social enjoyments. Any covert attempt to lure him from either would at once be regarded with suspicion. Besides, there may be much more to this affair than appears on the surface.” “Have you any suspicions?” “None whatever, Patsy, at present,” said Nick. “We must dig up evidence that will supply us with a definite clew. I think the Ringolds may be able to aid us.” “Are you acquainted with them?” “With Mr. Ringold, but not with his wife,” said Nick. “We will ring them up, however, in spite of the hour.” It was two o’clock when they sprang from the taxicab in front of the fine Ringold residence in a fashionable quarter of Brooklyn. With Patsy following, Nick hastened up the walk leading to the house and rang the bell. The summons brought a response from one of the front windows on the second floor. It was hurriedly opened and the head and shoulders of Mr. Ringold himself appeared. “Who’s there?” he called, gazing down. “Nick Carter,” replied the detective. “Slip on your bath robe, Ringold, and come down to the door. I want to talk with you.” “Great Scott!” Mr. Ringold exclaimed audibly. “You here, Nick, at this hour? What’s wrong?” “Come down and admit me. I then will tell you.” “I’ll be with you in half a minute.”