A light was burning in the suite. Patsy quietly unlocked the door with his picklock, and the three men rushed through the parlor and into the bedroom. An unconscious man was lying on the bed. “Guelpa himself!” cried Patsy. “By thunder, chief, he has committed suicide.” “If he has,” replied Nick, “he will have saved himself a prison term. Ring for Detective Webber. We’ll give the rascal in his charge.” “I can’t wait--I can’t wait for that,” cried Clayton, in a frenzy of joy. “I must telephone to my mother. I must telephone to Mademoiselle Falloni. The joyous news must not be delayed. I’ll return in a couple of minutes, Carter. My God! how can I ever repay you?” “Let him go and spread the news,” laughed Nick, as Patsy turned from the house telephone. “The crooks are booked to get theirs. As for this rascal and his--ah, here is Webber now. Look after this scoundrel, Webber, and put him where he belongs. No, no; don’t ask me to discuss the case at present. We have made good, all right, and that enough for now. As for us, Patsy, we’ll compare notes in my library, in company with Chick.” THE END. You will read more of the mysterious David Margate in “The Blue Veil; or, Nick Carter’s Torn Trail,” which is the title of the long, complete story you will find in the next issue, No. 158, of the NICK CARTER STORIES, out September 18th. You will also find an installment of the corking serial now running, together with several other interesting articles. A BAD BOY. For precocity, irrepressibility, and too often depravity, “Young America” in these days can hardly be surpassed. Here is a story told me the other day: A little chap, not eight years old, whose parents live in one of the fashionable parts of New York, went last week to pay a visit to his grandmother. While there, in rummaging through his grandmother’s secretaire, he came across a half dollar, and shortly afterward he was on his way downstairs to invest his “find.” He expended the whole amount in candy, and, upon his return, was enjoying it in the privacy of his room, when his grandmother put in an appearance. “Why, Robby,” she exclaimed, taking in the situation, “where on earth did you get all that candy?” “Bought it,” was the reply. “But where did you get the money?” “A gentleman I met in the street gave it to me.” “Robby, I don’t believe you are telling me the truth,” said the old lady slowly, looking her grandson in the eyes. “In fact, I am sure you are telling me a falsehood. A little bird tells me that you are.” The boy looked at her with a somewhat incredulous expression. “Now, come, Robby, tell me where you got that money?” “Why don’t you ask your dickey bird?” was the ready reply of the bad boy. SNAPSHOT ARTILLERY. By BERTRAM LEBHAR. (This interesting story was commenced in No. 153 of NICK CARTER STORIES. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the publishers.) CHAPTER XVI. A NIGHT’S WORK.