Perplexed and dissatisfied, the detective went to the river end of the street. There was a rotten wharf extending toward the big grain-elevator. It was short, and for a portion of its length the planking had been torn out. The night was clear, with a half-moon, and Nick picked his way about the wharf, in the hope that he might find a clue to the night's mysterious proceedings. There was a possibility that Luke Filbon, determined on suicide, had given up the idea of going home to secure the revolver--to take which action he would have to tell a story that would deceive his mother, and that would be no easy task--and instead had thrown himself into the Mississippi. Nick, with his bull's-eye, investigated the water space under the wharf without much hope of making a discovery. If death by drowning had been Filbon's purpose, he would, in all probability, have jumped from the edge of the wharf into the river, and the swift current would have carried him far down-stream. The water, muddy and but slightly disturbed, carried nothing upon its surface that was out of the ordinary. Nick moved to a point where he could get an outlook on the short section of bank beyond the water. He was rewarded by the sight of a human figure huddled up on the sloping bank of the levee a few feet from the water's edge. The figure was that of a man, with head bowed, elbows on knees, and face in hands. As the light of the bull's-eye was flashed upon him the man lifted his head with a start, but made no effort to arise. Nick believed that a way to get under the wharf would be found at the street abutment. Hastening over the planks, he soon discovered an opening, and quickly descended. The man was still there. He had not moved. Walking over to him, the detective saw a small, thin man of about twenty-five, with a haggard face and bloodshot eyes. "What do you want?" he asked, in a surly tone. "I am minding my own business here." "I want your confidence," said Nick kindly. "I am not your enemy. I may prove to be the best friend you ever had." The young man gazed stupidly at the detective, then lowered his head and said, in a voice broken with emotion: "No; I have no friends." "That remains to be seen, Mr. Luke Filbon." "My God! Do you know me?" There was the ring of abject despair in the utterance. "Yes, I know you now, if I did not know you before." For a few moments there was silence. Then Nick asked: "What do you fear?" "If I ever see daylight, I fear the anger and vengeance of one man." "Gabriel Leonard?" "Yes. How did you know?" "By putting two and two together." "Who are you?" There was both fear and curiosity in the expression of Filbon's face. "I am a friend of John Dashwood, and he is one man among a thousand. That ought to satisfy you." Filbon groaned. "Yes, yes," he huskily replied. "I can guess who you are. You are Nick Carter, and that means----"