At eight-thirty sharp a “four-wheeler” dashed up the east drive of Central Park and came to a halt opposite the Egyptian relic known as the Obelisk, otherwise “Cleopatra’s Needle.” Three men got out of the carriage. An electric light faintly illuminated that particular spot, and the forms looked dark and indistinct. But their general outlines were plain enough. Three more men sat on a park bench hard by the Obelisk. One of them was tall and wore a slouch hat. “Here they come,” he said, in a low voice to those near him. At the same moment Nick Carter had breathed to his two aides: “Get the cuffs on them as soon as we get within arm’s reach. I’ll take Ramsay. Chick, you’ll attend to the man in the brown derby. Patsy, take the third.” The three men on the bench got up and spread out, separating so that there were two or three yards between each of them. The detectives also separated, each making for the man that had been picked out for him. A mounted policeman, further along the drive, was approaching at a trot. He had seen the four-wheeler driving faster than the park regulations allowed, and had started after it at a gallop. Now that the carriage had stopped haste was not necessary, and he came on at a more leisurely gait. Nick and Ramsay came close together at the railing about the base of the monument, Nick with his right hand thrust into the breast of the frock coat and holding the second pair of cuffs. “On time, I see,” said Ramsay. “Always on time,” answered Nick, edging closer. “Are those fellows all right?” “Whisper,” said Nick, bending forward. Ramsay brought his face close. Snap! Almost before he could realize what was up the cold steel was about his wrists. “You’re my prisoner, my dear Ramsay,” said Nick, calmly. “Make a break and you’ll stop a bullet.” “Nick Carter!” cried the amazed Westerner. “The same.” “Curse you!” He sprang at Nick furiously. Nick grabbed him by the collar, but he wrenched away, fighting like a demon with his manacled hands. “Here, none o’ that!” It was the officer. He had dismounted to read the riot act to the driver of the carriage, the latter having jumped from the box to fix one of the harness tugs. Seeing that a row, as he supposed, had started up the incline, toward the monument, he ran in that direction. “Stop!” shouted Nick to Ramsay, who was a yard or more away. “Stop or I’ll shoot you.” Nick had a revolver in his hand, but the officer was close enough to grab it. “Don’t you know better than to----” “Nick Carter, officer!” exclaimed Nick. “I’m after that man--he’s a thief.” “Je-ru-sa-lem!” gasped the astounded bluecoat. By then, Ramsay, making good use of his legs, had reached the officer’s horse. Without touching his manacled hands to the saddle he sprang to the animal’s back, gave a yell, and dug in with his heels. Away went the horse at a wild gallop. Half a dozen jumps carried Nick down the hill. Another jump landed him on the seat of the carriage.