“The Boston men sent an expert in whom they have the utmost confidence to Montana to take a sample of ore from the Royal Ophir. “That sample was not out of the expert’s hands, day or night, from the moment it was taken until, in a sealed bag, it was deposited in a New York bank. “The Boston men and my uncle, accompanied by the expert, will call for the ore this afternoon, take it to an assayer, and have it assayed. “On the result of that assay hangs the investment of a round million of dollars.” “Who is to do the assaying?” “Cruse & Cupell, near Sixth Avenue and Twenty-third Street.” “Who is the expert?” “Orlando G. Bates.” “I know Bates, and he’s as straight as a string. The assayers are all right, too. Will Yasmar be present during the assaying?” “No; no one but Mr. Bates, my uncle and the Boston men. Will you take the case for me, Mr. Carter?” “It’s hardly a ‘case,’ Mr. Lansing. You want me to prove to your uncle that the Royal Ophir mine has been ‘salted,’ as the saying is.” “That’s it. I’m sure the mine has been ‘salted,’ and I’m also sure that neither the expert nor my uncle nor the Boston men are clever enough to discover it. You are the only one who can do that, Mr. Carter.” The detective smiled at the young man’s confidence. Before he could answer Lansing’s question, another rap fell on the door, and the servant handed in a card bearing the following name: “Adolphus Yasmar.” CHAPTER III. A FAMILIAR FACE. “Bring him up,” said Nick, to the servant. When the servant had gone, the detective opened the door of an adjoining apartment. “You will have to step in here for a few minutes, Mr. Lansing,” said he. “Your man Yasmar has come to see me.” “Yasmar!” exclaimed Lansing. “Yes. Step in, quick. Be quiet, and do not come back until I open the door.” “But what can he want?” murmured the astounded youth, passing into the other room. “I shall find out very soon.” Nick closed the door, and was seated at his desk, writing, when his second caller entered the study. “Mr. Carter?” Nick dropped his pen, whirled around in his chair, and got up. He saw before him a man of forty, or thereabouts, tall, muscular, smooth shaven and wearing a long frock coat, dark trousers, patent leather shoes and a flowing necktie. In his left hand he held a black “slouch” hat. His right hand was extended and an amiable smile wreathed his face. Nick took the extended hand, and was surprised to find the palm hard, as though roughened with manual labor. For a “promoter,” dressed as this man was, the fact might have been significant. “What can I do for you, Mr. Yasmar?” asked Nick, when they were both seated. “I have a case, and there is no one in the city, except yourself, whom I desire to handle it.” “Excuse me a moment while I finish this letter, and then I will give you my attention.” Yasmar nodded, picked up the paper Nick had recently laid down, and the detective touched a bell. “Send Patsy to me,” he said to the servant.