“And I know, Madison, that that is a falsehood,” Nick said sternly. “I know that she was killed by persons employed by you to commit that crime, or to recover the letters you have written to her. I know who the culprits are, some of them, and within six hours I will have them behind prison bars. One is Cora Cavendish, a disreputable friend of the murdered woman. Another is Mortimer Deland, a notorious English crook. I know so much, Madison, in fact, that unless you confess the whole truth here and now, I will railroad you to the Tombs for safe-keeping until----” “Stop--stop! You have said enough,” Madison interrupted, with a groan. “I will tell you, Carter, I will confess the whole truth. I am in wrong, horribly wrong, but I will tell you all. I will----” An oath interrupted him--an oath and a blow. Both came from a man who had stealthily approached the house, peered in through the window, stolen in through the open conservatory, all so noiselessly that he had reached the alcove unheard--and from which he leaped, and, with a single bound, reached the unsuspecting detective. A blackjack in his uplifted hand fell like a flash, fell squarely on the detective’s head, meeting it with a single sickening thud. And Nick Carter pitched forward and rolled out of his chair, crashing to the floor, as dead to the world as if he had been felled by a thunderbolt. His assailant was Mortimer Deland. CHAPTER VIII. DRIVEN TO THE WALL. John Madison had sprung to his feet, uttering a cry, vainly attempting to prevent the lightninglike assault. But it had been made so quickly and with such vicious determination that Nick himself had received not the slightest warning of the terrible blow. “Good heavens! What have you done? You have killed him!” gasped Madison, when the detective fell insensible to the floor. Deland turned on him like a flash, with features distorted and murder in his eyes. He whipped out a revolver and thrust its muzzle against the lawyer’s burly form. “Sit down!” he cried, with a wolfish snarl. “Sit down, or I’ll send you after him. I’m here for business, and you’ll find I mean it.” Madison shrank instinctively from the deadly weapon, sinking back on his chair, as ghastly with fear and dismay as if the hand of death already had been laid upon him. “Sit quiet, now,” snarled Deland, still with terrible ferocity. “If you stir, hang you, I’ll send a bullet into you.” Madison’s only reply was a hopeless groan. Deland placed his revolver on the chair from which the detective had fallen, face down on the floor, with one arm crooked under his battered head. Crouching beside him, with one eye constantly on the lawyer, Deland drew up Nick’s coat and got his revolver, thrusting it into his own pocket. Then, fishing out the detective’s handcuffs, he drew Nick’s arms behind him and locked the iron around his wrists.