“Don’t you want any ’elp, sir?” asked Ruggins, who did not like to be thus dismissed. “I’ll get all the help I want in a few minutes. I’m going to telephone for it. A gentleman will come here soon--probably in less than a quarter of an hour. If he says his name is Carter--Mr. Nicholas Carter--bring him up at once. That’s all.” He waved them both from the room. Then he shut the door and took up the telephone. Soon he had a response to the number he had called, and he asked whether Mr. Carter was on the wire. A reply came, and he went on: “Oh, all right, Carter! This is Andrew Anderton’s house. You know where it is. Can you come at once?... Yes, very important.... You will? Ten minutes? All right! I’ll wait for you.” As he hung up the receiver, he soliloquized: “That’s one good thing about Carter. He doesn’t bother you with a lot of questions over the telephone. He knew that if I had anything to tell I would have said it. I wish everybody I have to deal with was like that. I’d have a much easier life. So they got him! The Yellow Tong! This is the second time I’ve seen their work. I believe some of those people on the Yellow Sea must get their devilish ingenuity from the Evil One himself.” He had placed the crossed needles on the white letter paper, which had only the date line written upon it, and covered the face of Anderton with a newspaper. Now he sat down in the big swing chair from which the stricken man had fallen, to stare at the needles. Soon he dropped into a doze, for he was a busy man, with a practice that kept him out a large part of his time, and his sleep was a thing he had to take when he could get it. He had acquired the ability to drop off anywhere so long as he could sit down, and a short nap always did him good. He was brought to himself by the announcement of Ruggins, at the door, as he ushered in a visitor: “Mr. Carter!” The great detective looked at the doctor--who jumped from his chair, wide awake, at the first sound of the butler’s voice--and then glanced at the figure stretched across the floor, with a newspaper over the face. A frown drew his heavy brows together. He stooped and removed the newspaper. “Poor Anderton!” he murmured. “Ah, well! I’m not surprised. How was it, doctor?” For answer, Doctor Miles pointed to the white paper on the table. “The crossed needles!” whispered the detective, in an awed tone. Then, sternly: “The Yellow Tong is at it again. This is the second.” “Yes, Carter. The other one was that poor hobo they got in a Bowery lodging house. It was the same thing, you remember. But I was coroner at that time, and I believed the ends of justice would be served by not letting any one know what I found inside his shirt. I have those crossed needles locked up in my laboratory now.” “You’ve examined them, haven’t you?” asked Nick Carter.