It is not necessary to dwell on the trip; suffice it to say that Nick finished the examination of the mines and prepared to resume his return journey. While on the train he received a telegram that disarranged his plans and gave him the first inkling that his prophetic vision was to materialize. The telegram was from a man named Folsom, whom Nick had met while examining his friend’s mining property. It intimated that a tragic occurrence was disturbing the people of Mason Creek, and that the services of Nick Carter would be appreciated in clearing up the mystery. Nick decided to reply in person to the telegram, and started immediately for Denver. It is necessary to go back a little to understand why Folsom had telegraphed for Nick. A day or two before, two men had met on a rocky plateau, some three miles from the village of Mason Creek, in Colorado, and a little farther from Denver, near which city the overland express was bearing Nick Carter and his assistant eastward. One of the men was a farmer, the other a clergyman. The farmer was vociferating wildly, while the clergyman strove to pacify him. “It ain’t right! it’s swindling, and you can’t make it anything else!” declared the farmer. The clergyman raised his hand, and there was a look of pain on his pale face. “I wish you wouldn’t swear,” he said, gently. “Be calm, and tell me just what you mean.” The farmer looked ashamed of himself, and probably would have answered in a quiet way if another man who was standing near had not put in: “Don’t pay any attention to him, Mr. Judson. Let him rave. If he’s such a fool that he can’t make money, it’s not your fault, and he has no business to complain to you.” “But,” said Mr. Judson, “he makes a serious charge——” The farmer did not hear this, for he was angry almost beyond his control, “mad clean through,” as the saying is in that part of Colorado. He did not hear, because he broke in violently: “I’ve been swindled, robbed, do you hear? and you’re just as much to blame as if you’d been the only one in the scheme. You wear the clothes of a preacher, but, by thunder! you’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and you deserve to be shot on the spot. If you want to keep that pious skin of yours whole, you’d better not come around Hank Low’s way.” “But, Mr. Low, listen to me,” the clergyman begged. “Not a word, you black-coated villain! When I think of the way my wife and children have been cheated by a sneak-thief of a minister, it puts murder in my heart, it does! I won’t talk to you, for fear I’ll forgit and take the law into my own hands. Geddap, Jenny.” The farmer’s old mare responded to the command and a lash of the whip and jogged away, dragging the rickety old wagon in which sat the angry Hank Low alone. The clergyman turned, with a sigh, to his companion. “I’m afraid, Mr. Claymore,” he said, “that all is not as it should be in this matter.”