CHAPTER I. WHAT THE GIRL DID.

The girl at the switchboard held her breath. The detective waiting in the business office saw her. The girl at the switchboard was Helen Bailey. The waiting detective was Nick Carter.

No man was ever more quick than he to rightly interpret a facial expression. The partition through which he saw her was of glass, or a portion of it, dividing the general manager’s office in the central telephone exchange from the room in which the great switchboards were stationed.

There were other girls, half a score of them, seated in front of the innumerably perforated boards. They were too busy to notice one another. Their eyes were intent upon their work. Their deft hands flew from plug to plug, withdrawing some, inserting others. Their frequent, monotonous calls, the noise of the buzzers and the snapping of the rubber-covered plugs were the only sounds to be heard in that busy room.

“Hello! hello!”

“Number, please.”

“The line is busy.”

They were like machines, those switchboard girls, human, living, palpitating machines, each a connecting link for others in every phase of life, every calling and vocation, from the gilded mansions of exclusive society to the smoke-begrimed dives of the underworld. They are the servants of all, and, in a measure, the confidantes of all.

The girl who had caught Nick Carter’s eye was striking not alone because of her facial expression at that moment, but because of her remarkable grace and beauty. She was about nineteen, a pronounced blonde, with regular features, large, blue eyes, and a sensitive mouth, a pink-and-white complexion, an abundance of wavy, golden hair, crowning a {3}shapely head, finely poised on a graceful, slender, yet well-developed figure, then clad in a navy-blue skirt and a dainty white waist.

It was the expression on her fair face, however, that had riveted the detective’s attention, though he could see her only in part profile.

Nick never had seen a look of more poignant anguish on a human face.

The girl was pitched forward on her high chair, her hand grasping one of the plugs which she had pushed into the switchboard—and now seemed impelled to withdraw.

That would have abruptly ended the conversation between the two persons whom she had brought into communication, and to whose intercourse she was listening.

That she really was listening, listening as one might to the reading of one’s own death warrant, was painfully apparent. Her eyes seemed to be starting from her head, but with the wildly vacant expression of one horrified, one whose mind was elsewhere. Every vestige of color had left her cheeks. Her lips were gray and drawn, her graceful figure as motionless as if every nerve and muscle was as strained and tense as a bowstring.

“Great Scott!” thought Nick, watching her. “To whom is she listening, and to what?”

The girl suddenly withdrew the plug.

Then, with a quick change of expression, with a look of heart-racking determination, she inserted it again, renewing the telephone connection.

Then she listened again, ghastly and horrified, for nearly a minute—and then her head dropped to one shoulder as if her neck was hinged, her arm fell like that of a corpse, dragging the plug out of the switchboard, while her tense form relaxed and fell from the chair, dropping with a thud upon the floor beside it.

Nick Carter had seen what was coming, and he already was on his way to the room, darting out of the manager’s office and through the adjoining corridor. He heard the screams of the frightened girls, when he en{4}tered, and, with quick discrimination, he turned to the least-alarmed one and said:

“She has only fainted. Bring a glass of water. Be quick about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The girl addressed ran to a near closet and obeyed him.

Nick raised the prostrate girl a little, supporting her against his knee, and, with a wet handkerchief, he bathed her brow and cheeks, paying no attention to the fright and consternation of his observers.

The girl revived in a very few moments. A low moan, as pathetic as the facial expression which had preceded her collapse, broke from her gray lips. Her eyelids fluttered spasmodically, then were raised, and she gazed up vacantly at the detective’s kindly face.

“Did they—did they get him?” she gasped impulsively, almost frantically. “Did they—did they get him?”

Nick waved aside the several girls who had gathered near.

“Open one of the windows!” he commanded. “Give her some fresh air. Get whom, my girl?”

The last was addressed to the stricken girl, while Nick gently raised her to a sitting position on the floor.

She turned and looked at him, then suddenly seemed to realize what had occurred. She gazed at Nick again, striving to rise, and replied, more calmly:

“Get whom? What do you mean?”

“Don’t you know what I mean?” Nick inquired, helping her to a chair.

“No, I don’t,” she replied. “Thank you for assisting me. I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Nick was sure of the contrary, but he did not say so. Instead, he smiled and explained his presence there by saying:

“I happened to be in the manager’s office when you fainted. I saw you fall and hurried in to aid you. Are you subject to such attacks?”

“No, sir. I don’t remember ever having fainted away before.”

“You may have heard something that alarmed you, or——”

“No, no, sir; nothing of the kind,” interrupted the girl. “I cannot account for it.”

“Do you remember what number had been called, what connection you had made?”

“No, sir.”

“Or what was being said?”

“I do not,” the girl insisted. “I remember nothing about it. I know only that I was not feeling well this morning. I awoke with a racking headache. I suddenly felt dizzy and then I fainted. That is all I know about it. Please don’t question me further. I’m able, now, to return to my work. Thank you again, sir.”

Nick knew that the girl was lying, but he alone had observed her agitation for several moments before she fainted. She still was pale and nervous, trembling visibly while she replied to his questions, but it was obvious that she was determined to admit nothing in regard to what she evidently had heard at the switchboard.

Nick decided not to press her further, therefore, and he bowed indifferently and returned to the business office.

Manager Lawton, for whom he had been waiting, came in a few moments later and Nick transacted the business{5} for which he had called. He then quietly told him of the incident and pointed out the girl who had fainted.

“What is her name?” he then inquired.

“Helen Bailey,” replied Lawton, smiling. “She is the most capable girl in our employ.”

“She is a very beautiful girl, too,” Nick observed.

“And as good as she is beautiful,” Lawton said, with a nod. “The man who gets her for a wife, Nick, will get a treasure.”

“Where does she live?”

“She boards in Lexington Avenue.”

“With her parents?”

“No. Both are dead. She has only a brother, I believe, who—well, I know very little about him. Why are you so interested in the girl?” Lawton added, laughing. “You’re not smitten with her beauty, Nick, are you?”

Nick smiled and shook his head; then arose to go. As he passed out he glanced again through the glass partition at the several girls at the switchboards.

Helen Bailey had resumed her work as if nothing had occurred.

Nick still had her in mind when he left the building and walked up the street. He had in mind, too, the impulsive, almost frantic words that had broken from her when, with returning consciousness, she took up her train of thoughts just where she had left them—the thoughts which had brought that terrible expression to her fair, lovely face.

“‘Did they get him?’” he said to himself. “By Jove, that was a rather significant question, asked as she asked it and under such circumstances. Get whom? Get him for what? Was some man in danger, one with whom she is in love, perhaps, and for whose sake she was so shocked and alarmed? There certainly was some serious reason for that horrified expression and her sudden collapse. I would have been glad to aid her if she would have confided in me, but she preferred to lie, and—well, it was up to her. It is barely possible that she will regret it later.”

CHAPTER II. A FRIEND IN NEED.

Nick Carter’s intuition in regard to the telephone girl was verified much sooner than he really expected. He entered his Madison Avenue residence about an hour later and found in the library his two chief assistants, Chickering Carter and Patsy Garvan. He heard the following remarks from Patsy as he was approaching the open door.

“She certainly is a peach, Chick, and I felt dead sorry for her. She’s in wrong, all right, but I don’t half credit the charges, at that.”

“What charges, Patsy?” Nick inquired, entering. “Of whom were you speaking?”

“Of a girl I saw at police headquarters about twenty minutes ago,” said Patsy, turning from his desk. “I went down there on that Waldron case.”

“Was the girl under arrest?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“For helping a crook elude the police,” Patsy explained. “She denied it, chief, sobbing as if her heart would break; but they’re putting her through the third degree now, hoping to break her down and force a confession from her. My money goes on the girl, chief, all the same.{6}”

“Who is the girl?” Nick questioned. “Did you learn any of the circumstances?”

“Sure!” nodded Patsy. “Her name is Helen Bailey.”

“H’m, is that so?”

“She’s a telephone girl, and a sister of Barton Bailey, wanted for robbery in Mantell & Goulard’s big department store, where he was employed at the time. He got away with a diamond sunburst, you remember, and nearly cracked the skull of Gus Flint, one of the store detectives, who had seen him lift the bauble and tried to prevent his escape. That was six months ago.”

“Yes, I recall the case,” said Nick, with a more serious expression. “But what are the circumstances bearing on the girl’s arrest?”

“It seems that Bart Bailey was seen going into a house in East Forty-third Street about ten o’clock this morning,” Patsy continued. “He was in disguise, but was recognized by some one who declined to give his name to the headquarters chief, to whom he hastened to telephone.”

“He stated, I suppose, that he had seen Bailey going into the house.”

“That’s what,” said Patsy. “The chief then called up the precinct station and told the sergeant to go to the house with a couple of men and get Bailey.”

“I see.”

“Before he could finish giving his instructions, including the number of the house, the telephone connection was suddenly broken. Nearly ten minutes passed before the chief could get it renewed, and that brief delay cost the guns their man. When they arrived at the house, Bailey had been gone about three minutes.”

“Did the chief know his sister is employed in the telephone exchange?”

“Bet you!” exclaimed Patsy sententiously. “Let him alone to have learned that. He has had men out after Bailey for nearly six months. He learned, too, that Helen Bailey was the operator who connected him with the precinct station, and he noticed while talking with the sergeant that the connection was broken once and quickly renewed.”

“Precisely,” thought Nick, recalling his own observations. “He was not alone.”

“Half a minute later,” Patsy added, “it was broken completely, and the chief lost his man. It made him sore, for fair. He knows the girl must have overheard his orders to the sergeant, and he suspects that she purposely cut him off and afterward telephoned her brother to bolt.”

“Not an unreasonable inference,” Nick allowed, a bit grimly. “Nevertheless, Patsy, the girl did nothing of the kind.”

“Gee whiz!” Patsy returned, gazing. “Are you wise to something bearing on the case? Do you mean——”

“Never mind what I mean,” Nick interposed, glancing at his watch. “I’ll inform you later. I’ll knock those suspicions out of the chief’s head in about two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Helen Bailey is a heroine—much more heroic than most girls would have been under the same temptation.”

Nick did not wait to explain to Chick and Patsy. Disregarding their looks of surprise, he replaced his hat and started immediately for the police headquarters. He was so well known there, where his services were very frequently required, that no one would have thought of{7} opposing him. He learned that the chief still was talking with Helen Bailey in his private office, into which Nick walked without the ceremony of knocking.

The chief regarded him with a look of surprise. It became more marked, even, when Helen Bailey, pale and with eyes red from weeping, uttered a low cry and exclaimed:

“Oh, sir, here is the man who assisted me. This is the man I have told you about. He knows that my faint was not feigned. He will tell you——”

“I will tell the chief all that is necessary, Miss Bailey,” Nick interposed, smiling and shaking hands with her. “I am very glad to be able to befriend you.”

“Goodness!” said the chief, with his austerity suddenly vanished. “What do you know about this matter, Nick?”

“I know all about it, chief,” Nick replied, taking a chair. “Garvan was here when this young lady was brought in. He has told me why she was arrested and what you suspect. But you’re in wrong, chief, and I’ve come here to say a word for the girl.”

“A word from you, Carter, is usually enough,” replied the chief, while Helen Bailey, hearing the name of the famous detective, gazed at him with amazement and inexpressible relief.

“I can explain in a nutshell,” said Nick. “I was in the telephone office, chief, and saw all that occurred.”

“What did you make of it, Carter?” asked the chief.

Nick then told him all he had seen and what he had done.

“This girl did not cut you off, chief, but quite the contrary,” he added. “She knew, nevertheless, precisely what your communication signified. I saw her withdraw the plug once, then willfully reinsert it. I saw how terribly she felt, how terribly she was tempted—and I now know, too, with what heroism she resisted the temptation and stuck to her duty, though it involved the sacrifice of her own brother.”

The chief gazed for a moment at the detective, who had spoken quite feelingly.

“The girl has told me that, Nick, but I could not credit it,” he said, more gravely.

“It is true, chief. You can bank on it.”

“I’m mighty glad you have showed up, then.”

“I knew you would be.”

The chief turned to Helen Bailey and laid his hand on hers.

“Pardon me, my girl,” he said gently. “We have hard duties to perform at times, and duty leaves us no alternative. You are a good girl and a brave girl, and I’m sorry to have given you so much pain and trouble. I now believe all you have told me, and I’m very proud of you.”

Helen was sobbing again, but with mingled gratitude and relief. She turned and grasped Nick’s hand, saying brokenly:

“Oh, Mr. Carter, how can I thank you—how can I thank you?”

“By not trying to do so,” Nick replied kindly. “These little services are the bright spots in our lives. Go and wait for me in the outer office. I wish to talk with the chief a few moments and I then will join you.”

Helen dried her tear-filled eyes and obeyed him.

Nick had remained only to question the chief concerning Bart Bailey, and to find out what had been learned about him in the house he had been seen to enter.

“Nothing was known about him there, Nick,” the chief{8} replied. “It is a lodging house and is run by an honest, elderly woman. Bailey was there about ten days ago, remaining only two nights, and requesting the privilege of leaving a suit case until he could call for it.”

“That is why he went there this morning?”

“Yes. He remained only ten minutes.”

“He is a stranger to the landlady, I infer.”

“Yes, a total stranger. She knows nothing about him. I happen to know, however, that he’s a very bad egg, and I wanted to get him.”

Nick remained only a few moments longer, then went to the outer office and rejoined the waiting girl.

“Come with me,” he said pleasantly. “There is no occasion for you to remain here. I don’t think you will ever be wanted again, Miss Bailey.”

“I cannot express my gratitude, Mr. Carter,” she replied, while she accompanied him to the street.

“Don’t try,” smiled Nick. “Tell me something about yourself and your brother. He used to work for Mantell & Goulard, I understand.”

“Yes, sir. Young Mr. Mantell gave him a position there for—for my sake,” said Helen, blushing in a way that Nick rightly interpreted. “But Bart can’t go straight. He is bad, awfully bad. He is only my half brother, sir.”

Nick saw that the topic was a painful one for her, and he decided not to press his inquiries. He learned that the rascal had frequently threatened her, however, because of her refusals to join in his knavish projects, and that the girl stood somewhat in fear of him.

Nick took her Lexington Avenue address, therefore, and promised to aid her again if occasion required it. Smiling in response to her repeated thanks, he then placed her in a taxicab which he hailed and saw her driven rapidly away, well satisfied with the kindly deed he had done, but not supposing for a moment that it would have any further significance.

CHAPTER III. THE MAN OF LAST RESORT.

“There are detectives, Mr. Carter, and detectives,” said Nick Carter’s visitor. “By that I mean that only half of them are worthy of the name. Half of the remainder are mediocre, and only one in a hundred of the rest is really keen and clever. You, Mr. Carter, are the recognized man of last resort. When all others have failed, it is to you that the harrowed victim of crookdom turns for aid, as the only man in Christendom who can ferret out the truth and round up the guilty. That, sir, is why I am here.”

Nick Carter laughed.

“You are complimentary, Mr. Mantell, and I appreciate your very exalted opinion of me,” he replied, a bit dryly. “All that sounds very nice and pretty, remarkably so, but it does not do what you asserted. It tells me only what impelled you to come here, not why you are here. Suppose you come to the point and tell me why.”

Nick’s visitor joined in the detective’s genial laugh, as did Chick and Patsy, who were seated with them in Nick’s attractively furnished library. It was about seven o’clock in the evening, that of the very day on which had occurred the episodes described.

He was a young man, this visitor, of remarkably frank and prepossessing appearance. He was still under thirty,{9} set up like an athlete and scrupulously well dressed. He was the type of man to whom others are instinctively drawn, and to whom women turn for a second look.

Nick long had known him by name and sight, the only son of wealthy Henry Mantell, of Mantell & Goulard, the owners of the vast Sixth Avenue department store to which reference already has been made, and which then was by far the largest establishment of its kind in the country. He was Frank Mantell, of whom Helen Bailey had spoken to Nick in connection with the robbery committed by her recreant brother.

“Come to the point, eh?” he replied, still smiling. “That is a very good suggestion, Mr. Carter, and I will act upon it. Mr. Goulard, the junior partner of our firm, was to have met here to discuss our business with you. Pending his arrival, however, I will do what you suggest and tell you why I am here.”

“Very good. I am all ears,” Nick remarked, knocking the ashes from his cigar.