“I don’t doubt it,” was Nick Carter’s dry response. “However, please tell me all the facts of this case. Then we will see what we can do.” “There is nothing to tell, except that the records sent to me by my friend Andrew Anderton, just before his death, have been stolen from my home since yesterday afternoon, when I last looked at them. The theft may have been committed while we were at Ched Ramar’s, or afterward, when we were asleep.” “Who was in the house while you were at Ched Ramar’s? This Japanese of yours, Swagara?” “No. Only the two maids--the cook and the general servant. They would never touch anything. We’ve had them a long time. Besides, I’ve seen them proof against all kinds of accidental temptations. They could have robbed me hundreds of times if they had been criminally disposed. You may as well cut them out of the list of possible thieves, Carter.” “I have cut them out,” replied Nick. “And Swagara, too?” “Not yet. I should like to know a little more about Swagara. You are sure he was not in the house while you were away?” “Quite.” “How do you know?” “He has proved an alibi--without trying to do so. He mentioned that he was visiting a fellow countryman of his who is employed at Yonkers, and that he did not get home till two o’clock this morning. This friend of his is in the service of a friend of mine, and I had him on the telephone just before I came out this afternoon. Swagara did not leave the house in Yonkers till one o’clock. He and his chum sat in the kitchen, talking till that hour. My friend happened to have company, and he did not go to bed till Swagara left. So he knows. I was home by one.” “That settles that, then,” agreed Nick. “We must look elsewhere. By the way, have you ever heard exactly how Andrew Anderton died?” “No. I was told that he died of heart failure. But from what I have heard about Sang Tu and the Yellow Tong, and of its hatred for Anderton, I am inclined to think that hideous Chinese organization was somehow responsible for his death.” “It was responsible,” declared the detective. “Wait a moment. I want to show you something.” He went to his iron safe, and, twisting the combination knob for a few seconds, opened the great door. Then, after using a key he carried on his key ring to open one drawer within another, he brought out a small tin box and placed it on the table. “Don’t touch what I am about to show you, Mr. Bentham,” he warned. “It is dangerous.” When he opened the box, he held it close to his visitor. Inside were two long, glittering needles, crossed and held together at the point of contact. “Harmless-looking things, aren’t they?” asked Nick. “Yet it was these that killed Andrew Anderton. Well, not these exactly, but two needles of the same kind. They are poisoned, so that even a slight scratch with one of the points will cause instant unconsciousness, followed by death in a few seconds.” “Who did it?”