“I know all about the affair of four years ago. My price for silence is one hundred thousand dollars. Have it ready when I call, or pay it to any one who may present an order from me. Don’t think you can stop this by trying to have me arrested. You will fail, and the whole story will come out. I have fully arranged for its publication, no matter what happens to me. The money is the only thing that will buy my silence. Pay it, and your secret is safe. What is more, you will never hear from me again. Refuse to pay it, and—ruin!” It was a bold letter, but Nick saw that it was nothing but a bluff. He said as much. “I hope you haven’t been deceived by this,” he remarked, tapping the sheet. “This fellow is working alone, you may be sure, and, therefore, it isn’t at all likely that he has ‘arranged’ anything of the sort in case he should be arrested. By this, as you ought to know, the newspapers would not publish a story about you without warning. You have too much money and too many friends. You would have an opportunity to bring your influence to bear, and the story would be killed.” “That sounds plausible enough,” Gillespie admitted. “That’s what I would tell any one else in my position, if he were similarly threatened. When this sort of thing comes home to a fellow, though, it makes a lot of difference.” “I know,” the detective replied, with a nod. “That’s the sort of mood such a scoundrel counts on.” He paused and thoughtfully fingered the letter. “I must confess that this is a disappointment,” he resumed slowly. “I had hoped that the blackmailer would set a definite time for his call, or ask you to take the money to some specified place. This, however, avoids anything of that sort, and leaves me nothing definite to go on. All it tells us is that he expects to call at some unnamed hour—perhaps to-day, perhaps to-morrow, perhaps not for several days. I think we need not bother about the hint that he may send some one with a written order, for if such a person presented himself, I feel sure it would be the blackmailer, and no other. This absence of details, however, makes it rather difficult to know just what to do.” “How would this do?” Gillespie said hesitatingly. “You are a genius at make-up. Why don’t you pass yourself off for me? Go to my place on Fifth Avenue and wait for this fellow, whoever he is, to call? The chances are that he won’t put it off very long, and even if you had to remain there a couple of days, you would not mind, would you, if you could nab your man at the end of your wait?” CHAPTER XLIII. AN ASTOUNDING RUSE.