Nick Carter was much too keen to overlook that possibility, though only a bare possibility it appeared to be. He saw the front door deliberately opened and the man who complacently entered. He was of medium height and rather slender build, a man about forty years old, with thin features, a pallid complexion, and a mustache and beard of peculiar bronze hue and oily luster. His hair was of the same remarkable color, observable when he removed his hat. It was most carefully combed and brushed, being fairly plastered down with artistic skill over his skull and brow and above his ears, lending to that part of his head which it covered the glistening smoothness of a polished bronze globe. He had entered with a latchkey. He paused in the hall and placed his cane in a stand, then removed his hat, overcoat, and gloves, all the while quietly humming a popular song. Gloves off, he gazed into the hatrack mirror, and, with his palms, augmented the radiant smoothness of his remarkable hair, much as if that was the one personal adornment of which he was really proud. He hesitated at the base of the stairs, toward which he had deliberately turned, and then gazed toward the library and listened, finally wheeling abruptly and walking in that direction. Nick drew from behind the door, and in another moment the stranger appeared on the threshold--only to recoil with a startled cry, hands in the air, and with his face gone white with alarm. “Don’t be frightened,” said Nick, sharply regarding him. “A crime has been committed here, and we are detectives. Who are you? I suppose you reside here.” “Detectives--crime!” The man steadied himself, yet spoke with a gasp of augmented dismay. “You don’t mean a murder? Merciful Heaven! What’s wrong with Mrs. Clayton?” His gaze had fallen upon her, but she had not so much as glanced in his direction, nor appeared to know him, or have more interest in him than in the others. “There is more wrong here than can be told with a breath,” Nick replied. “Step in and answer my question. To begin with, sir, who are you?” “I am Mr. Chester Clayton’s private secretary, Rollo Garside,” said he, with a manifest effort to pull himself together. “Do you reside here?” “Yes, yes, certainly. Who are you? How came you here? Why----” “Patience, Mr. Garside, and answer my questions, that I may see how best to proceed with this case,” Nick interrupted. “I’m a detective, as I have stated, and my name is Nick Carter.” “Oh, oh, that’s very different,” Garside quickly exclaimed, countenance lighting. “I have heard Mr. Clayton speak of you. I feared at first that you were deceiving me, that you were responsible for all this, and that I might suffer the same fate.” “There is nothing for you to fear,” Nick replied. “Do you know where Mr. Clayton has gone this evening, and the rest of the household?”