“That will do,” said Nick Carter shortly. “We’ll all go to bed. In the morning we’ll go after the man with the scar on his ear and the rag on his finger.” CHAPTER VII. CHICK FINDS HIS MAN. If Chick had a fault, it was an excess of enthusiasm in his work that sometimes led him into indiscretion. That is what Nick Carter told him sometimes, although the admonition never had any particular effect. Chick would go ahead on his own responsibility whenever he believed he could get results. It was because of this disposition to do things on his own judgment that he did not go to bed when told to do so by his chief. He went to his bedroom obediently enough. But he did not stay there. “The chief believes I’m tired,” he muttered, as he sat on the edge of his bed, waiting till the house should quiet down. “That’s why he fires me off to bed. Well, I feel just right for work, and I’m going to do it.” He chuckled to himself, as he thought of how quickly Patsy would be in his room, to go with him, if he knew what Chick contemplated. “But I don’t want Patsy,” he decided. “I can handle this myself. That chink with the scar probably killed Mr. Anderton, and if I could get him, I’d probably have the whole case cleared up. If I don’t get him, I’m going to interview that professor. What was he going into that laundry for? A man like him, who is supposed to be a Japanese, and who is supposed to be a professor, wouldn’t be mixing up with chinks of that kind if he was square. Well, he’s got to talk to me.” Chick felt sure that the attack on him had been made by order of Professor Tolo, and he believed that he would be found to be mixed up in some way with the Yellow Tong. “I don’t believe he is what he pretends to be,” went on Chick, as he got up from the bed and put a revolver in his pocket. “Anyhow, I’ll be ready for him if he tries any more monkey work with me.” He went to the door, opened it a little, and listened. Everything was quiet. No doubt Nick Carter had gone to bed, and Patsy, of course, was in his own room. It would be safe to go out. Chick knew the house so well that he could have gone down the stairs in darkness and let himself out without a sound. But there was a light in the hall, which was always kept burning all night, and it enabled Chick to get out that much easier. “Well, I did that without disturbing anybody,” he murmured. “Now for a taxi and the laundry uptown. If I can only find Mike Donovan at his usual stand in Thirty-fourth Street, I shall have somebody to help me if I should need him. Mike is a good man.” He referred to a certain taxicab chauffeur whom he and Nick Carter both employed frequently. This chauffeur, Mike Donovan, was an ex-lightweight champion, and he enjoyed nothing so much as a good scrap, notwithstanding that he was no longer a professional pugilist. He was the same man who had taken Nick Carter to Mr. Anderton’s house earlier in the evening.