“From the office of Gray’s wharf, East River. I cannot explain by telephone. If----” “One moment,” Patsy interrupted. “Have you a taxi?” “I have my touring car.” “Good enough! Join me here as quickly as possible. I’ll find out in the meantime where Nick is engaged. We’ll go there and see him.” “Thanks, Garvan, a thousand times. I’ll be with you in ten minutes.” It then was about ten o’clock in the morning. One hour earlier, complying with an urgent telephone request from the police headquarters, Nick Carter and Chick arrived in the detective’s touring car at a dwelling in one of the outskirts of Manhattanville, the scene of a shocking crime evidently committed the previous night. It was an attractive wooden house somewhat back from the street and occupying a corner lot. It was in a quiet and entirely reputable locality, though somewhat thinly settled, and it was about the last neighborhood in which such a crime would have been expected. More than a score of people had collected on the opposite side of the street, and were viewing the house with feelings of morbid curiosity. They were prevented from coming nearer, however, or encroaching upon the surrounding grounds, by policemen who had been stationed on both the front and side gates. A police sergeant who was standing with an elderly man on the front veranda recognized the two detectives when the touring car stopped at the house, and he beckoned for them to enter that way. “We have been waiting for you, Mr. Carter,” he said respectfully, when Nick came up the gravel walk with Chick. “This is Doctor Boyden, who lives in the third house from here. I sent for him a few minutes ago, thinking you might want his opinion as to the length of time the two men have been dead, as well as any other information he can give you.” “There certainly is a deep mystery here, aside from the shocking crime, Mr. Carter, judging from the appearance of things in the house,” said the physician, after shaking hands with both detectives. “It looks like a veritable slaughter pen. There must have been an awful fight here.” “Come in, Mr. Carter, and see for yourself,” added the sergeant. “One moment, Kennedy,” said Nick, detaining him. “Who lives in the house? I see that the name plate has been removed from the door.” “I can answer that question for you better than Sergeant Kennedy, perhaps,” put in Doctor Boyden. “If you please, then.” “The house is owned by Mr. George Roland, who occupied it with his wife until about a month ago. She died quite suddenly at that time, and Roland since has been living with a married sister in Harlem.” “Leaving this house vacant?” “Yes. He owns it and the furnishings, however, and it has been in the market to rent. I noticed yesterday that the broker’s placard had been removed from the front window, and I inferred that the house had been rented.” “Are you acquainted with Roland?” Nick inquired. “Yes, indeed, very well acquainted.” “Is he a man of good character?”