Andrew Anderton was a bachelor. He never had had time for marriage, he said. His explorations in foreign countries would not have fitted well into married life, either. So he had lived his own life in his own way, and, being a wealthy man, had been able to go where he would, and study with every advantage at his finger ends. “I waited for you, Mr. Carter,” remarked the driver of the taxi, as the detective stepped in. “I knowed you’d want to go home some time. Where to, now?” “Home!” replied the detective laconically. This taxi driver was a man who often was employed by Nick Carter, and who never made any comment on what he might see or hear. The detective had many such assistants about New York. More than once this particular driver had helped him out of a tight place, by putting on speed, without asking questions, and without delay. Incidentally, it may be explained that he was always well paid for his services. Once in his own comfortable library on the second floor of his Madison Avenue home, Carter told his principal assistant, Chick, to give him volume ten of the “International Records.” “Anything on, chief?” asked Chick, as he brought out the book from the steel-lined, fireproof closet. “I heard what you said at this end of the telephone, you know.” Chick was an alert young man, and was so thoroughly in the confidence of the great detective that he was privileged to ask this kind of question. “I was called to Andrew Anderton’s house by Doctor Miles,” replied Nick, opening the book and turning to a certain page. “Mr. Anderton is dead.” Chick started and an expression of mingled sorrow and horror came into his face. But he said nothing, and Nick Carter continued: “He was killed by the Yellow Tong.” “The crossed needles?” gasped Chick. “Exactly. He was found dead just as that man was in the lodging house. What was his name? Brand--something or other.” “Brand Jamieson,” supplied Chick. “He had been a deck hand on a tramp steamer in the China trade, and found out too much about the tong. But Mr. Anderton? How did they get at him? He never goes out without somebody with him, and he has enough people in his house to keep strangers away from him.” “All that is true enough, Chick,” returned Carter. “But the men in the Yellow Tong are not ordinary rascals. They have some of the brightest minds in the world among them. You know something about the Chinese, Chick. You have been with me on more than one case among those people. They are not fools, whatever else may be said against some of them.” “Fools?” ejaculated Chick. “I should say not! I’d back a chink--especially an educated one--against any other citizen on this round earth, when it comes to plain, natural smartness--and cussedness.”