“Call up Danny Maloney, and tell him to bring the small car--the new one. I don’t think there are many persons in New York know I have that one. I have never had it out yet.” In ten minutes’ time, Nick Carter and Patsy were sliding smoothly uptown in the new car which the detective had bought for daylight use--mainly because his other motor cars--and particularly the big sixty-horsepower machine--were too familiar to the gaze of certain New Yorkers who feared him. Leaving the car at a little distance, Nick and Patsy walked along the side street on which Sun Jin’s laundry was situated, and stepped inside. The detective produced a shirt and collar which he said he wanted laundered, and accepted the check from the moon-faced man at the ironing board without any comment. During the transaction, another Chinaman continued to iron at a board at the back of the hot little room without turning his face toward the customers. He seemed to be completely absorbed in his work, and to feel no interest in anything else. Certainly, he showed no curiosity. This did not deceive Nick Carter, however. He knew that the very calmness of these Chinamen was suspicious. There might be a dozen more of them in the place behind, or upstairs, and each one might be staring down through peepholes at the strangers. Only one thing Nick was sure of, and that was that the man with the scarred ear was not in the front shop. Neither of the men working had any such mark, and their hands were clear of bandages or injuries. Without comment or inquiry, Nick accepted his check. The Chinaman said laconically, “Thursday!” and went on with his ironing without looking at his visitors as they left the shop and closed the door behind them. Patsy glanced through the window as they passed. The two Chinamen were still ironing with characteristic patient industry. Turning a corner, Nick met a policeman, and the quick look of recognition from the officer made him ask a quiet question, without stopping, as they passed: “Is there another entrance into Sun Jin’s laundry besides the front one?” “Through the saloon on the corner,” replied the officer briefly, as he walked on. “That cop knows his biz,” remarked Patsy, in a low tone. “Anybody seeing him would think he’d never seen you before.” “He’s an old friend of mine,” returned Nick coolly. “I have a great many on the force.” Neither Nick Carter nor Patsy wore any disguise, but both were dressed in such inconspicuous raiment that they looked like thousands of other New Yorkers. At a glance, one would have said they were ordinary business men--insurance agents, perhaps. So, when they slipped into the saloon the policeman had specified and strolled into the room at the back of the bar, the waiter served them with the beer Nick ordered, and went back to the free-lunch counter in front without giving them any further attention.