“Easily,” snapped Nick, more sharply. “Madame Clayton saw by chance that scar on your head, probably that very evening, and she suspected your identity. That must have been after her son and his wife left the house. Doctor Thorpe called only incidentally, presumably to see Clayton. Burdened with her terrible discovery, she confided your criminal career and her consequent fears to the physician, and he advised her to call me by telephone and confer with me. She attempted to do so, and you, returning home and approaching the open French window at the time, and apprehending that your present knavish game would be thwarted--you shot him to prevent his revealing what the woman had told him. You then overcame her, or she may have fainted, and you drugged her and threw her into the condition in which I found her, bent upon keeping her so till you could carry out your designs upon Clayton. You planted the evidence that I found, and you since have had the woman’s nurse in your employ. That, Margate, is how and why it was done. There is little need to add to these details, little to assert that they are true, and that----” Nick broke off abruptly. Busby’s wife had appeared at the laboratory door. Margate swung round like a flash, with his ghastly face showing plainly how near Nick had come to the truth. He started up, crying harshly: “Why are you here, Nancy? What do you want? Leave us to send these infernal sleuths to perdition.” Nancy Busby did not fear him. “I’m here with a reason,” she retorted. “There’s a man at the front door to see you.” “See me?” cried Margate, staring. “What man?” “He says his name is Peterson, and as how he’s got a message for you.” Nick Carter’s face did not change by so much as a shadow. “Peterson!” Margate spoke, with a gasp. “Don’t be alarmed, mates. He’s the house butler. He must have seen me coming here, or this way. Wait while I see what he wants.” “He will not keep you waiting long,” thought Nick, with grim satisfaction. Margate had hurriedly replaced his disguise, and he now hastened to the front door and opened it. Peterson stood bowing on the steps, sedate and solemn, but with an unusual gleam in his eyes. “Why are you here, Peterson?” Margate demanded, governing his voice with an effort. “What do you want?” “Well, Mr. Garside, sir, it’s like this,” Peterson deliberately explained. “I want, Mr. Garside, sir, a hand in the game you are playing, and a bit of the stake.” Other figures, with weapons drawn, were stealing nearer the door, hugging the wall of the house. “If I’m not to have it, Mr. Garside, sir--I want you, instead!” Peterson rang out the last with a voice that Margate remembered only too well, the voice of the man who had sent a bullet at his head long months before. And Peterson’s revolver leaped from his pocket and covered the staggering crook. “Heavens above!” Margate gasped, while reeling. “Chick Carter!”