“Possibly, Toulon, I can find the finger prints on your neck,” said Nick, rising. “They might enable us to identify your assailant, if he is a crook and----” “I don’t think so, sir,” Toulon quickly objected. “I have been rubbing my neck, sir, and----” “Ah, of course,” Nick cut in, resuming his seat. “That would obliterate them. Could you identify either of the men, Toulon?” “No, sir. They wore masks.” “All three?” “Yes, sir.” “H’m, that makes it bad,” Nick remarked. “So it does, sir.” Then, without having evinced the slightest suspicion of his hearer, but rather the contrary, in fact, Nick added pleasantly: “That’s all, Mr. Toulon, and I’m very much obliged to you. When I find the three rascals, I will make them pay dearly for what they have done to-night.” “I hope so, sir,” Toulon declared, rising to go. “I’d like a crack at them myself. I bear them no good will, sir, you can bet on that.” “I guess, Toulon, it would be a safe bet,” laughed Nick, as the waiter withdrew from the room. Toulon glanced back over his shoulder and grinned expressively. CHAPTER IV. NICK CARTER’S INSIGHT. Langham Manor, by which name the great stone mansion and vast estate of the millionaire banker was known, presented a very different appearance in the gray light of daybreak on the following morning. The beautiful grounds and driveways near the house were littered with bits of rubbish invariable to such an occasion. The lawns were marred with great tire tracks, where divergencies from the driveways had been unavoidable. Hundreds of paper lanterns that had lent an aspect of fairyland to the attractive park now hung limp and discolored below the drooping branches of the dew-damp trees. Within the house was a mourning husband, robbed of his bride of two short hours, and now resting in merciful slumber under drugs administered by the physician. Also a sad and anxious father was impatiently awaiting the work of the detectives, necessarily deferred until daylight, but who had been forbidden to accompany them when they left the house at early dawn that June morning. It then was only four o’clock. “He would be in our way and serve only to hinder us,” Nick said quietly, after he and Chick had turned a rear corner of the house. “Sure thing,” Chick muttered. “We can do better alone.” The detectives were not then in evening dress. They wore the business suits and woolen caps in which they had journeyed from New York the previous day in Nick’s powerful touring car. Each had in his pockets, moreover, a brace of revolvers and a disguise or two, taken from their suit cases that morning, without which frequently needed articles they never left home. Danny Maloney, the detective’s chauffeur, then was asleep in the house, Nick having decided not to arouse him before he was definitely needed.