"All right, inspector. I'll be with you inside of half an hour." Nick was as good as his word, and, after the usual friendly greetings, the inspector began: "Jackson Feversham, of Washington, is an old friend of mine, and naturally he first puts himself in communication with me, although he wants you. He wasn't certain that you were in the city, though he might have easily ascertained whether or not you were by wiring your residence. If you were not in town, Chick, Patsy, or Ten-Ichi would have answered. But I see you are impatient. You want me to come to the point. Here it is: A murder, which is shrouded in mystery, has been committed in the national capital; the detectives there are at sea, and the call is for Nick Carter, the man of no failures." "The Playfair case, isn't it?" "Yes, I suppose you read the newspaper account this morning. Then you know as much about the affair as I do." "Let me see if I can recite the facts as given in the press despatch," said Nick. "James Playfair, a retired merchant, widower, and childless, was found dead last night beyond the Mt. Vernon Ferry, at the foot of Seventh Street. He had been out for a moonlight excursion down the river, but instead of returning to his home on Maryland Avenue, nearly a mile beyond the capitol, he saw all his fellow excursionists depart and then walked down by the river shore. The body was found near one of the old, disused wharfs, now nothing but rows of unsightly piles. The only evidence of violence were finger-marks about the throat. The police theory is that he was choked to death. Motive, robbery; for everything of value--purse, pocketbook, watch, and rings, etc.--was stolen. No one was seen in his company after he left the Mt. Vernon wharf. He had no known enemies, and he had lived an upright life." "You have stated the case correctly, Nick," said the inspector. "Of course, there may be facts, clues, suspicions, which the reporters were unable to cover." "I understand. Detectives are not in the habit of exposing their hands at the beginning of an investigation. There is a time for broad publicity as there is also a time for secrecy. What did your friend Feversham say in addition to what you have told me?" "Nothing. He wants you, and that means that the mystery is a deep one. Playfair was Feversham's close friend. They were like brothers, and Feversham will spend a fortune, if necessary, to bring the murderer to justice. Can you start to-night?" "Yes, and Chick and Patsy will go with me." The next day Nick Carter and his two assistants were in Washington. Apprised of their coming, Jackson Feversham was at the B. & O. depot to meet them. Nick took to the man at once. He was past middle age, small, wiry, alert, with good humor and keen intelligence written on a thin, smoothly shaven face and sparkling from bright, black eyes. There was a striking resemblance in face, figure, and expression to the late Lawrence Barrett, the popular tragedian and man of letters.