“Let’s look farther. We’ll see what more we can find. It will be little enough, I imagine. The rascals have cleaned out their own belongings, no doubt, and have no intention of returning. They realized that a daylight investigation would surely expose their game.” Nick’s prediction proved to be correct. Several of the bedrooms on the floor below were in shocking disorder. Beds had been left unmade. Wardrobe closets were empty. Bureau drawers contained nothing but the dust and rubbish left by the miscreants. There appeared to be not the slightest clew to their true identity. Nick glanced sharply through the several rooms, then hastened down to the ground floor. There the dining room and kitchen were in corresponding disorder. Soiled dishes and the remnants of breakfast stood on the table. “We’ll have a look in the library,” said Nick, leading the way. “There is Patsy at the front door. You had better admit him.” Chick hastened to do so. Nick entered the library. A sheet of paper was propped up conspicuously against a book on the table. It contained several pen-written lines. Nick took up the sheet and read them: “MY DEAR CARTER: You solve the problem tardily. You arrive a little too late. There will be nothing for you in attempting to run down the writer. He is in a class of his own--and much your superior. Take a tip from me, therefore, and drop this matter. Don’t dig deeper into it, or you’ll surely tread on a rattlesnake. A word to the wise should be sufficient, or this warning from GERALD VAUGHN.” Nick Carter’s face underwent a quick change. He had made a discovery which Gerald Vaughn had not for a moment anticipated. He recognized the writing, or felt reasonably sure that he did. It was identical with the fine, clean-cut hand exhibited by Detective Conroy that morning--the writing of Mortimer Deland. CHAPTER V. SUSPICIONS VERIFIED. Nick Carter knew that he had found one important clew, at least, in the threatening communication which had been left there by Gerald Vaughn, as the latter had been known while occupying the Colonel Barker residence. The very audacity of it, moreover, was additional evidence of the true identity of the writer. For it corresponded with many a previous display of effrontery which had, in connection with his extraordinary crimes, made the name of Mortimer Deland notorious. Nick turned and displayed the letter when Chick and Patsy entered. “Do you recognize the hand?” he inquired. “By Jove, it looks like that which Conroy showed us,” Chick said quickly. “I can almost swear to it.” “I think so, too.” “We can clinch it easily enough, chief,” put in Patsy. “I still have the tracery I made. We came away in such a hurry, chief, that I did not put it in your desk.” “Let me see it,” said Nick. “I will compare them.”