“He is without exception, bar none, Nick, the most accomplished, most versatile and original, and for those reasons by far the most dangerous crook now at large in this wicked world,” said Detective Conroy forcibly. “That face is a libel on his character. He looks more like a saint than a thief. That is because, perhaps, it was taken while he was posing as a priest in Berlin, where he swindled an Austrian duchess out of jewels worth sixty thousand dollars and got safely away with them. He has a record of which the devil himself would be proud. That’s the only photograph of him known to be in existence. That’s Mortimer Deland.” Nick knew him by name and reputation, and had read of his knavish exploits in Europe, where most of his evil work had been done; a series of crimes covering a period of nearly ten years, but accomplished with craft and elusiveness that had enabled him to avoid arrest and baffle the trained police of nearly every European country. Mortimer Deland was, in fact, almost a myth and mystery, so little was known of him aside from the extraordinary crimes that had made his name notorious abroad, and comparatively well known to the police of America. Nick viewed the photograph with considerable interest, therefore, and then handed it to Chick and Patsy for inspection. “Where did you get it, Conroy?” he inquired. “It was sent to me by Jenks, of Scotland Yard,” replied the headquarters man. “It was snapped by an English woman who was in Berlin when the robbery of the Austrian duchess was committed.” “There is no doubt about it, you think?” “Not the slightest. Jenks is absolutely sure that the woman made no mistake and is thoroughly reliable. Here is a copy of Deland’s writing, merely the fictitious name he inscribed on a hotel register. Both this and the photograph are entirely reliable.” “Make a tracery copy of the writing, Patsy,” Nick directed, handing him the scrap of paper Conroy had taken from his notebook. “We may find it useful, perhaps, sooner or later. Mortimer Deland, eh? If all I have read of him is true, Conroy, it will be a feather in the cap of the man who rounds up the rascal.” “I thought you might wish to see the photograph.” “Very much,” Nick nodded. “I’ll fix the face in my mind, though the print is too small to be of much value. The writing may prove useful, however.” “I had another reason for dropping in to show them to you.” “What is that?” “Jenks wrote me that Mortimer Deland is probably in this country, if not in New York City.” “On what does he base that belief?” “First, on the fact that there has been a complete cessation of Deland’s knavish work abroad for more than six months. That is a very long and unusual period for him to be idle. Scarce a month has gone by for six or eight years Nick in which he has not committed a crime of some kind, easily identified as his because of their peculiarly original and crafty character. There is no mistaking his work.”