“Your engagement is with Professor Ched Ramar,” remarked Nick Carter casually. “How long have you been employed by him, Mr. Swagara?” “Six weeks,” blurted out Swagara, evidently before he realized what he was saying. “That is--I have been told not to say anything about it,” he added lamely. “I know that. Ched Ramar doesn’t like his affairs talked about. But you are quite safe here. I know Ched Ramar, and he has no secrets from me--I mean, of an ordinary nature. You have been with him ever since he took that house in which he lives at present--on Brooklyn Heights. You never met him until you were recommended to him by somebody whom you do not know. Ched Ramar has never told you how he came to know of you.” This was all shooting in the dark for Nick Carter. But he knew the ways of Ched Ramar. He had not been idle all day, and he had found out from a friend of his at police headquarters considerably about Ched Ramar’s methods. It is a way the police have--that of making a few secret inquiries about mysterious foreigners in New York who have plenty of money and no particular apparent business. “It was something like that,” confessed Swagara. “But not quite. Ched Ramar saw me in a restaurant on the East Side of New York, where I sometimes play chess. He is a chess player, and he got into conversation with me one night. It ended in my saying I wanted employment, and soon--I don’t know how it was--I found myself engaged by him. I keep his rooms in order, and I do anything he tells me.” “Exactly. You do what he tells you, whether you want to do so or not.” As Nick Carter spoke, he moved his hands quickly before Swagara’s face, at the same moment that he turned on it a fierce light from a crystal disk set at a certain angle to the electric light over his desk. Swagara stiffened in his chair. Then he heaved a deep sigh and fell fast asleep. “A very easy subject,” observed Nick. “No wonder Ched Ramar uses him in his house. He finds it convenient to have a man he can handle as he does Swagara. Patsy!” “I’m here!” responded Patsy promptly. “Take a good look at this young man. Can you make up to pass for him, do you think?” “Can I?” snorted Patsy confidently. “Watch me. Where shall I do it? Right here?” “Yes. I’ll give you the paints and things. You can take his suit of clothes when your face and hands are made up. Be careful to get the exact shading of his features. You will have to use plain-glass spectacles. You couldn’t see through his. But I can give you a pair that will look exactly like them.” “Say!” exclaimed Patsy, with a chuckle, as Nick Carter brought a box of grease paints, with boxes of powder, puffs, and bits of soft chamois leather and put them on the table in front of him. “This is the easiest thing I have had for six months. Can I look like this Jap? Well, when I get through, he’ll think _he’s_ Patsy Garvan, and he’ll be asking me when I got in from Tokyo.”