Nick lifted his revolver. “I hope so,” he said. The woman gave a scream of warning. Then the door opened, and a messenger’s uniform showed in the opening. Patsy was evidently in great haste, and closed the door after him with a bang. “Those fellows across the street are suspicious,” he said. “I should not have made a break to get up here except for the pistol shot. Are you hurt?” “Not in the least,” replied Nick. “Are the watchers coming up here?” “They started across the street just behind me.” “Watch the woman!” Nick sprang to the front window. The red silk handkerchief lay in a chair, ready for use as a signal. Nick lifted the lower sash and threw the end out to the breeze. It floated for a second in the strong light of the street, and then Nick dropped it. As it fluttered to the pavement below, the detective caught an exclamation of joy from a group of three men standing at the very entrance to the house. “There you are,” said Nick, turning back into the room with a smile. “I am now dead, and our three cutthroats will go away. How are you feeling now, madam?” he added, speaking to the woman, who had thrown herself into a chair and sat looking at the two men with rage and hate in her eyes. While Patsy watched the prisoner, Nick made a search of the rooms. He found letters and telegrams by the score. His conclusion was that the Great Diamond Syndicate was using the rooms as headquarters. As he opened a locked drawer in a small secretary, the woman sprang to her feet and fought desperately. “They are private papers there,” she cried. “If you are a gentleman, let them alone. Let them alone, I tell you!” “Private papers!” echoed Nick. “I should say so! The private papers of the Great Diamond Syndicate! This is indeed a find!” The woman fell back on the floor in a faint. “This looks like easy money!” smiled Patsy, with a grin. CHAPTER XXII. THE STORY TOLD. The Booth Dramatic Club was holding rehearsal at its rooms on West Fourteenth Street. The rooms were on the top floor of an old-fashioned house, and were nicely fitted up with stage, dressing room, and scenery. The play long in rehearsal was to have been presented to the intimate friends of the members of the club that night, but the death of Townsend, the illness of Maynard, and the strange disappearance of two young men who held leading parts had made a postponement necessary. There was a stage entrance from a hall which ran along the east side of the house, and at eight o’clock Nick Carter, in the guise of Mantelle, passed through the hall and stepped out on the stage. He was accompanied by Patsy, who carried a large suit case. “I wonder which is my dressing room?” whispered Nick. Patsy looked amused. The two detectives had run many risks in getting into the house and up to the rooms of the club, but the test now seemed at hand.