Chick then spread the blank sheet of paper on a table and covered it with a thin layer of the fine black dust, which he then blew gently from its surface. Particles of it remained, however, in the indentations caused by the pressure of the pencil through the sheet on which Bart Bailey had been writing, and it brought out quite legibly nearly every word of the transcription hurriedly made by the crook. Chick read it carefully, quick to readily interpret the condensed phrases transcribed from the code book, and he found that it fully confirmed his suspicions. It told him that Bart Bailey had been warned that a detective was following him; that he must watch out for him and lure him to New York, if possible, and to some place designated only as a cobweb. The communication bore no signature whatever. Chick Carter smiled a bit grimly, now knocking the particles of dust from the sheet and returning it to his pocket. The circumstances, nevertheless, puzzled him somewhat. “Who the dickens could have learned of my doings and warned this rascal?” he said to himself. “Not Helen Bailey, surely, nor the boarding-house landlady. Neither of them would have done so. I’ll be hanged if I now can fathom it, but I reckon I see my way to doing so. Lure me to New York, eh? I can guess what that means, all right. Well, I’ll give the rats a chance.” Most men would have shrunk from the risks involved, but not Chick Carter. He now hastened to find a second-hand clothing store, where he clad himself in a somewhat seedy suit and a woolen cap, directing that his own discarded garments should be sent to his New York address. Ten minutes later, wearing an entirely different facial disguise and having a rather sinister appearance, Chick returned to Broad Street and entered Meyers’ store. He then found both suspects engaged in hurriedly putting into various shelves and drawers the goods taken from the packing case, which had been opened during his brief absence. Both at once ceased working when he entered, and Chick saw that he was instantly suspected. He saw, too, that Bailey shot a swift, significant glance at Meyers, plainly directing him not to interfere. “Is the boss around?” Chick inquired, as he approached them. Bart Bailey nodded, hooking his thumbs through the armholes of his vest, while he replied inquiringly: “I am the boss, my man. What do you want?” “I’m looking for a job, sir,” said Chick, respectfully touching his cap with his forefinger. “I thought, mebbe----” “That I would give you employment?” Bart put in, with searching scrutiny. “What led you to think so?” “Nothing, sir, save that most stores need help,” Chick explained, quite humbly. “I have been trying for a job in others, sir, but luck seems against me. I’m broke and in hard sledding, you see, and----” “Do you live in the city?” Bart cut in again. “No, sir. I’m here from Chicago only a couple of days.” “Why did you leave there?”