He had searched Gillespie’s private rooms, on the theory that Green Eye might have left the stolen papers there, but he had found nothing of the sort. Yet, it was imperative that these papers be recovered, if possible, at the same time the rascal was captured. Unless that were done, the precious records might not be returned at all, for certainly Gordon could not be counted on to restore them voluntarily. To be sure, the fact that he had been writing those letters—doubtless, blackmailing ones—under Nick’s own roof, suggested that he had the documents there to refer to. That, however, was by no means certain, for he might have put the records in some remote place, perhaps a safe-deposit vault, after making a list of the names and addresses desired. Therefore, it seemed wise to give the fellow his head, for the time, and meanwhile to keep him under observation, in the hope that his movements would give some hint as to his possession or nonpossession of Nick’s papers. The detective was about to explain this to his assistant when the latter broke in excitedly. “For the love of Pete! What’s up?” he demanded. “What are you cooking up in that brain of yours, and why are you so curious about Gillespie’s doings?” “Gillespie is down in South America,” Nick returned quietly. “That’s why. Our friend back there in the house is—well, you can guess, I imagine.” And then he proceeded to give his instructions to the dumfounded Chick. CHAPTER XLVI. GORDON’S LETTERS REACH THEIR MARK. Ex-Senator William Deane Phelps smiled complacently as he stood before a glass in his dressing room. He was a tall man, and the sixty years that had passed over his head had left him his rather slim and upright figure. His hair was white, but abundant, and on the whole, he had good reason to consider himself a handsome and well-preserved man. “Is there anything else, sir?” his valet asked respectfully. “No,” the ex-senator answered. “It’s probable that I shall be very late, so you need not wait up.” “Thank you, sir. Shall I ring for your car?” “No, no! A taxi will do.” Possibly the ghost of a smile curved the lips of the valet, but if so, it was quickly gone. If his employer chose to keep his movements secret, that was his employer’s business. Ex-Senator Phelps took the light coat and silk hat that were handed to him, and strolled toward the door. He was a single man, but his position in the world had made it necessary for him to keep up a rather pretentious establishment. He stood in the doorway holding a cigar as the taxi drove up, but at that moment his valet, who had followed him as if to close the door, spoke up in a surprised tone. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but this was lying on the floor. You stepped over it just now without knowing it. It’s addressed to you, and marked ‘Urgent.’ It’s stamped, but not postmarked—looks as if it had been slipped under the door instead.”