This was the man who twice had conspired against Chester Clayton, who twice had been thwarted by Nick Carter and his assistants, the man whose true history and twin kinship with Clayton was known only by Nick and the mother then lying bereft of memory and speech in the banker’s mansion. “Great guns!” gasped Patsy, staggered beyond description. “Have my lamps gone wrong? Is my bean twisted? That’s Chester Clayton’s double, Dave Margate, alive, too, as sure as I’m a foot high. He wasn’t drowned, then, as we supposed, nor did Chick’s bullet kill him. But it hit him, all right, and left its mark. Gee whiz! that’s what Madame Clayton meant by those two words--the scar! the scar! Holy smoke! this sure sheds new light on the case.” It was plainly visible, in the bright light that fell upon his head--a scar running like a clean-cut white mark through his dark hair, and extending nearly over the top of his head. It told plainly, too, where Chick’s bullet had struck him, glancing from the skull without causing a fracture, but depriving him of consciousness and causing him to pitch headlong into the river, the chill of which must have quickly revived him, enabling him to escape drowning and elude discovery, though by what means Patsy could not then conjecture. Nor was he then inclined to speculate upon it, or concerning the other features of that sensational case of months before; for that then engaging him was of paramount importance, and, despite his momentary amazement upon beholding Margate alive, by which name he now will be designated, Patsy had been alert to catch every word of the intercourse then in progress. “Where is Dunbar? Where is Haley? Why aren’t they here, Busby, in case of need?” These were the first words to reach Patsy’s ears, uttered with feverish impatience by David Margate, and confirming the former’s suspicion as to the identity of the occupant of the house. “Dunbar--Clayton’s former secretary,” thought Patsy. “There is a bigger gang and been more doing, by Jove, than the chief suspects.” Busby shook his head, replying with a rasping snarl: “How can I tell you where they are? Neither has been here since morning.” “Do you know, Nancy?” Margate demanded, turning to the woman. “No, Dave, I don’t,” she replied. “They went out about noon.” “But why are you here?” Busby questioned suspiciously. “What sent you at this hour? Is anything wrong?” “Wrong enough,” Margate said, with asperity. “We are up against it, Busby, good and strong.” “Up against what?” “Suspicion.” “Suspicion!” Busby lurched forward in his chair. “Not--not Nick Carter?” “That’s what.” “But you told me yesterday----” “What I told you yesterday cuts no ice, Busby, in view of what I have overheard to-night,” Margate curtly interrupted. “What d’ye mean?”