The negro carried a pail half filled with newly slaked lime and a pair of whitewash brushes. He crossed over to Sixth Avenue and there took a can to Fifty-ninth Street, where he got off and wended his way to Madison Avenue. To the servant girl who answered the ring of the basement bell of Hilton Field’s residence, the negro said: “I wish to see the young lady of the house.” “Go away; we don’t want any whitewashing done,” exclaimed the queen of the kitchen. “I don’t propose to do any,” answered the colored man. “I want to see Miss Mignon Field; she sent for me.” “She is engaged.” “It does not matter. You go and tell her to step downstairs for a minute.” The domestic slammed the door in his face as she muttered: “Sneak thief!” It was soon reopened and Mignon stood in the doorway, and at her side was the servant. “What can I do for you, my good man?” said Miss Field. “The girl told me you said I sent for you. There must be some mistake.” “Send that minx away.” “Mary, go into the kitchen,” commanded Mignon, much surprised at the negro’s request. Darting an angry look at the “nagur,” the cook retired to her domain. “You have a visitor,” said the colored man; “her name is Louise Calhoun; she used to be your younger sister’s music teacher.” Miss Field was greatly astonished. “Who are you? You are not what you seem,” said Mignon. “You do not talk like a negro.” “Nick Carter!” The beautiful girl clapped her hands for joy. “You bring me news of father!” she exclaimed. “But why do you come here like a negro minstrel?” The detective laughed. “I will tell you at some other time,” he replied. “I want you to place me somewhere, that I may hear the conversation between you and this woman without being seen.” “Why?” The girl’s eyes opened to their fullest extent as she put the query. “That also I will tell you another time,” the detective said. “I hope you did not tell her that you heard your father was still alive.” “I did.” Nick Carter’s jaw dropped; he feared Mignon had told her more. “And did you,” he continued, “tell her the sort of person who brought you the intelligence?” “No. But I was about to,” answered the girl. “I am forever thinking of that comical little chap.” “I am glad you did not tell her that,” Nick said. “She is a particular friend of ours,” remarked the girl, “and I have no secrets from her. Poor thing! she takes papa’s disappearance as hard as any of us. Father he thought a great deal of her.” “Hum!” “What do you mean by that?” “Oh, nothing,” replied Nick. “I was but clearing my throat. I must have swallowed some of the burnt cork when I blackened my face and hands.” “Please satisfy a woman’s curiosity, and tell me why you wish to overhear our conversation?” the girl asked. “Not now,” said the detective, “at another time I may. When you go back to the room talk as much as possible about your father.”