Although this was the first time Nick Carter had ever visited Professor Matthew Bentham in his home, he had met him several times, at meetings of scientific societies and at public dinners. The detective was a student, and whenever he could take time away from his main calling, that of investigator into strange crimes and seemingly unsolvable mysteries, he was pretty sure to be actively interested in the progress of the world from a scientific standpoint. So, when he was ushered into the library of Matthew Bentham, in a quiet avenue in the shadow of Prospect Park, Brooklyn, the two met as old and valued friends. Matthew Bentham had been sitting at his large table, an open letter in one hand and a crumpled newspaper in the other, as Nick entered. That he was deeply shocked was evident at the first glance. His hand shook as he gave it to the detective, and it was in a shaky voice that he requested his old friend to take a chair. “I see you have read the awful news of Andrew Anderton’s death at the moment you got his letter, professor,” remarked Nick. “I thought it might happen in that way.” “Why, how did you know?” asked Bentham, in surprise. “It seems to me sometimes as if you know things that you could get only by some supernatural intuition. How did you know I have a letter from Anderton?” Matthew Bentham was a tall, well-built man, whose ruddy face indicated that he was fond of outdoor life, in spite of his being a close student. The truth was that he learned many things about nature at first hand. He had traveled in many lands, besides knowing a great deal about his own, and his knowledge was extensive and peculiar. He had been lucky enough to conserve health and wisdom all in one operation. “My explanation of how I know about the letter is very simple,” replied the detective. “I had that letter mailed myself. It was written only a few minutes before his death last night.” “To think that Anderton should die of heart failure,” exclaimed Bentham. “Why, I can hardly believe it. Think of the altitudes to which he climbed in the Himalayas, Carter. No man with a weak heart could stand such a cold and rare atmosphere as you get up there. Well, I’m glad I have probably the last words he ever wrote.” “Yes, there is no doubt of that, I think. The fact was, I had that letter mailed for certain reasons.” Matthew Bentham looked puzzled. Then he shook his head, as if he did not care to pursue the subject. “Those reasons are sufficiently weighty,” went on Nick, “for me to desire to know what he wrote. I realize that my request is distinctly out of the ordinary. But I think you know me well enough to be sure that I must have a very strong motive.” The professor was silent for a few moments. The detective knew he was turning the request over in his mind, and that it had not struck him at all favorably. Then he seemed to decide the other way, for he broke out impulsively: