“Here it is,” broke in Nick Carter, running his finger down the close typewriting on the page he had picked out in the large volume. “‘Yellow Tong. Death method--crossed needles. Poisoned. Poison a secret mineral, brought from the country bordering on the Yellow Sea. Very deadly. Object of tong--to establish gigantic criminal and political organization in United States, which may eventually even terrorize American government.’” “Gee!” broke in another voice. “That’s great hokum. As if chinks had any show to pull off such a scheme as that.” “Never mind, Patsy!” said Nick. “We won’t question whether they can do it. We’ll only take care they don’t.” It was Patsy Garvan, Nick Carter’s second assistant, whom he addressed. Patsy had been in the room all the time, but he had been busy at his particular desk, and the detective had not disturbed him. The young man was entirely in the confidence of his chief, however, and Nick was quite ready to answer any questions he might put. “Andrew Anderton killed,” murmured Chick. “It seems impossible. Why, it was only two days ago that I went up there to see him about this Yellow Tong, and he laughed at the bare idea that he was in danger from the organization.” “Anderton was a brave man,” commented Nick Carter. “Three parts grit, and the rest of him nerve,” added Patsy. “If we could only get our hands on Sang Tu,” mused Chick, half aloud. “That fellow is as slippery as a greased pigtail.” “He is in New York, I know,” declared Nick. “I have no doubt he was close behind this murder of Anderton. But nobody has seen him here. The last glimpse of him I had was at Shanghai, and then only for a moment. He was coming to America then, I feel sure, but I never was able to trace him.” “That’s proof enough that he’s a smooth guy,” interjected Patsy soberly. “If he hadn’t been slicker than most men, he wouldn’t have got away from you then.” “Well, there’s nothing more to be said just now. “But I want you two to get to work on this case.” “Good enough,” ejaculated Patsy, grinning his delight. “What am I to do, chief?” “Find me a laundryman with a burned finger on his right hand and a white scar on his right ear. Looks as if he had been burned at some time. That is all the help I can give you, except that the man is middle size, and I should judge him to be about thirty years old, from his shape and movements. I did not see his face.” “You’ve told me enough,” responded Patsy. “I reckon I’d better put on some clothes that will make the chinks think I’m all right. I don’t know whether I can make a good Chinaman of myself.”