“It’s the Yellow Tong, Mr. Carter,” remarked Doctor Farrell gravely. “Doctor Miles showed me the crossed needles that were found in the body, and said that the tong had been trying to get hold of certain papers prepared by Mr. Anderton, to be submitted to the government at Washington. The doctor also told me that you were interested in the case.” “I am,” affirmed Nick. “Glad to hear it, Mr. Carter,” responded Farrell heartily. “That means that poor Anderton will be avenged. Mind, I don’t mean to cast any reflections on the ability of the police department. But it can’t be denied that headquarters will be glad of your help.” “I often work in coöperation with police headquarters,” was Nick’s quiet reply. “Where are the crossed needles that were found in Mr. Anderton’s chest?” “Doctor Miles has them. He will produce them when required by the police. Do you want to examine them?” “It is hardly necessary. I know as much about them as I require. They are charged with deadly poison, and a mere scratch is enough to cause death. What makes them the more dangerous is that they leave no marks. Even after death there is nothing to show that the poison has been used, unless there is an autopsy. I want to look about this room for a little while, however. You have finished with it, haven’t you?” “Yes, I am glad to say. I had to come here to hold this inquest. But my investigation is only preliminary--just to comply with the form of law. The real work on the case begins where I leave off,” replied the coroner briskly. “Well, I must be going. I’ve a heap of work to do. Good morning!” Doctor Farrell clattered down the stairs and out to the avenue, where his automobile was waiting. Nick Carter was glad to get rid of him. He sat down at the big table and took a white envelope out of the top drawer. A moment’s comparison of the envelope with the scrap that Patsy had found on the stairs at Sun Jin’s laundry was sufficient to convince the detective that they were of the same kind. Then he looked into the wastebasket, which had never been emptied since the death of Anderton. A low cry of satisfaction came from Nick Carter’s lips as he found some scraps of an envelope among the other torn paper. With patience and care, the detective pieced the fragments together, until he had a sort of framework of an envelope. From the middle of it had been torn part of a name and address, which he was convinced had been that of Matthew Bentham. “Yes,” he murmured, looking at the pieced envelope through the strong glass. “Here is the ‘M’ which he failed to tear off, and below is the whole word, ‘Brooklyn,’ with the initials ‘N. Y.’ I see. He wanted the address of Bentham, but he did not trouble to take the name of the borough. He knew it was in Brooklyn, anyhow.” “Have you got something, chief?” asked Patsy, who had been watching in silence. “Did that bit of paper I got help at all?” Nick Carter laughed a hearty, but silent, laugh.