The other was a roughly clad man of middle age, with a shotgun under his left arm, and under his right a large bundle. He turned quickly, as he heard the approaching car, then stepped to the middle of the road and held up the gun. “Slow down, Danny,” Nick commanded. “That fellow wants us to stop.” “Gee!” exclaimed Patsy, a bit derisively. “He’s got a gun. Are we up against a holdup?” “Nothing of that kind. He has something to say to us.” Nick was right. For when the car stopped near him, the man approached and said a bit gruffly: “Gimme a lift, gents, will you? I want to go to Jim Bailey’s house, a mile farther on. He’s a county constable. There has been a murder.” “A murder?” Nick echoed. “How do you know? What have you there?” “Some things Ginger sniffed out of some underbrush near the old millpond back in the woods a piece,” said the man, with a glance at the hound. “I saw a man and a girl plugging that way early yesterday evening. She had this hat on, I’ll swear to that, and she was lugging this jacket on her arm. Have a look at them.” The man unrolled a dark-green jacket and a stylish, velvet hat of the same hue. The latter was sadly battered and out of shape, as if beaten with a bludgeon. A crumpled handkerchief fell to the ground. “Here are two worked letters on the handkerchief,” he added, picking it up. “P. P., as near as I can tell.” “Pauline Perrot!” cried Patsy, momentarily excited. He had recalled the description of the dark-green traveling suit worn by Pauline Perrot, as reported by the two women who had seen her with Arthur Gordon. They were, indeed, the garments of the suspected girl. All of them were soiled and--red with blood. CHAPTER IV. CHICK FORMS A THEORY. It was eleven o’clock when Chick Carter, following the telephone instructions from Nick, entered Arthur Gordon’s business quarters in Wall Street to begin an investigation. He saw at once that the several clerks in the latticed inclosure were somewhat excited. Business appeared to have been suspended. Chick found Mr. Beckwith in Gordon’s private office, adjoining the business inclosure, a man well in the sixties and of a nervous temperament. “Thank Heaven, you have arrived, Mr. Carter,” said he, when Chick entered and introduced himself. “This is terrible, terrible! Gordon mysteriously missing. Miss Perrot gone. The vault robbed of----” “Hold your horses, Mr. Beckwith,” Chick coolly interrupted, after closing the office door. “There is nothing in going over the traces. Nick has told me most of the circumstances, as far as known. Calm yourself, and answer my questions.” “Well, well, I will try. But there is nothing I can tell you.” “Don’t be so sure of that.” “Sit down, then. Come on with your questions!” “To begin with,” said Chick, complying, “have you seen any indications that Gordon and Pauline Perrot are in love, any sign of it on the part of either?”