“Those cigarette ashes assay close to fifty thousand to the ton!” declared the assayer. “I wish I had a few tons,” remarked Nick, with a dry laugh. “To think that I have been bamboozled by that assistant of ours! I must call in those assay certificates and----” “Do nothing of the kind, just yet,” cut in Nick. “But are you aware of the position it places me in? Every assay certificate is vouched for by us the moment it is signed. And then, to have the hocus-pocus worked right in our own office---- But, by Jove, it was clever!” “Certainly it was,” said Nick, “and Gillman was only a tool and not the leader in the swindling game. What I want to do is to get the whole gang. If you’ll lay back on your oars a little while, I shall succeed.” “But to-morrow morning at ten o’clock a million dollars will be paid over to these swindlers for the Royal Ophir mine.” “It won’t be paid over,” averred Nick. “You assure me of that?” “Yes. What I want you to do is to keep this to yourself. Don’t let Gillman suspect that you know what he has done. Keep him here until five o’clock and then let him go.” “But my responsibility----” “I’ll take your responsibility on my own shoulders.” “Very well, Mr. Carter, I will do as you say.” Nick went away. “The young fellow had a talk with the man in the brown derby,” Chick said, as his chief walked slowly past. “Stay here and watch,” Nick returned. “I’ll be back in an hour. You’ll recognize me. I’m going to shadow the young fellow, and if the man in the brown derby follows me you follow him.” Nick went to police headquarters and made a few changes in his disguise. When he came out he looked at least twenty years younger. There was a cigar store opposite the building in which Cruse & Cupell had their assay office, and Nick stepped in there, bought a weed, and stood leaning on the counter, smoking and watching the doorway across the street. It was five o’clock and time for Gillman to show himself. Nick had not long to wait. The clerk came briskly out and Nick went after him. Just beyond the corner a man in a brown derby dropped in behind Nick. Chick, keenly alive to the situation, picked up the single tin automobile that he had left, pushed it into his pocket, and trailed along in the rear of the man in the brown derby. From the opposite side of the street a neatly dressed man in a sack suit and black Fedora hat took in the situation and gave vent to a muttered oath. “I like the layout, Mr. Nick Carter,” he said to himself. “Keep on after Gillman and you’ll find yourself in a hornet’s nest. You’ll never live to put those Boston men next to my game, or to bring me to book for that Montana job. Now for Hamilton Street.” CHAPTER VIII. BOUCICAULT’S. At certain times Nick Carter had intuitions that amounted almost to positive knowledge. It was the “detective instinct,” amplified by years of intelligent practice.