Chapter XII: Montgomery at Bay

“Meet me at the corner, Chick,” said Nick, as he passed the man who was working on the street.

Nick waited, just around the corner on Sixth Avenue, and Chick came, stripped of his white overalls, blouse and hat and wearing his own garments.

He had traded with the regular street cleaner, for the time being, and the street cleaner was five dollars better off by the deal.

“Did you observe closely the two men who called at the house while I was there?” Nick asked.

“Yes. They drove up in a two-wheeler, and when they came out one of them was reading a letter.”

“Did the letter excite them?”

“They seemed a trifle worked up.”

“They’ll be worked up a good deal more before they finally quiet down,” laughed Nick. “You have got to pass for one of those men to-night, Chick, and Patsy for the other.”

“If it’s pretty dark, I guess we can.”

“Patsy will be busy all day, and you’ll have to secure the disguise for him as well as for yourself.”

“All right.”

“Get both disguises and bring them to the house. First, however, you are to take this cigarette and go to Cruse & Cupell’s. Find Mr. Cupell and confer with him privately. Tell him who you are and that you want him to smoke the cigarette and assay it, just as he did the other.”

“I see.”

“Have him make a rush job of it.”

“Sure.”

“Then find out if Gillman has come back to work this morning.

“Anything else?”

“That’s all.”

Chick boarded a Sixth Avenue car and started for Twenty-third Street.

Nick went to the address given him by John Lansing.

It was an obscure boarding house over on the other side of Broadway.

At the door Nick asked for “Herman Trevor,” which was the name Lansing had penciled on the card.

Mr. Trevor was sick in bed, the servant said.

“He’ll see me,” said Nick.

“Who shall I tell him wants to see him?”

“Don’t tell him. Just say it’s in regard to the Royal Ophir.”

Nick was admitted to the “sick” room and found that Lansing was feigning illness in order to keep in his room without causing remark.

He gave the young man a brief outline of what he had accomplished and of what he hoped yet to accomplish.

Lansing was astounded when he saw the drift of the detective’s logic.

He did not agree with Nick in his deductions, but promised faithfully to carry out his instructions.

Nick went away and proceeded to a secondhand clothing store to buy a suit of clothes that he desired for his own use.

It was difficult to find what he wanted, but at last he succeeded and made for home.

Chick was already there.

“Here’s the assay,” said Chick, handing over the certificate.

“Fifty thousand to the ton,” murmured Nick, looking at the certificate. “The cigarettes all pan out the same. You got the disguises?”

“Yes.”

“Put on yours and be ready to go with me at seven o’clock. We’ll carry Patsy’s get-up with us in a satchel.”

“I’ll be ready. Gillman hasn’t shown up at the assay office to-day, Nick.”

“I didn’t think he had.”

Chick went away and Nick threw himself down to smoke.

At seven o’clock Chick came into the study.

He had a brown satchel in his hand and looked like a red-haired capitalist.

“Good!” said Nick. “You’ll do for Cooper.”

“Providing you don’t throw a flash light on me,” laughed Chick. “You’re good, too, but I don’t know who you stand for.”

“Horace Montgomery.”

Nick wore an iron-gray wig and mustache and chin whiskers, gold-bowed spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose, and a silk hat of slightly old-fashioned block covered his head.

A grayish frock coat, with trousers of same material, patent leathers, dark spats and a gold-headed cane finished the disguise.

In each hip pocket he had one of his small but reliable revolvers, and in the breast of his coat were two pairs of handcuffs.

They rode in a cab to the Montgomery house, the cab was dismissed and they walked up the steps to the door.

As Nick was about to press the bell the door opened and Montgomery himself stepped out.

For an instant the two confronted each other in the semi-gloom.

“Merciful heavens!” gasped Montgomery, gazing as one transfixed at the living and breathing counterfeit of himself.

He recoiled, brushing a hand across his forehead.

His eyes wandered to Chick.

“Cooper,” he cried, “what does this mean?”

“I’ll tell you what it means, Montgomery,” answered Nick, sternly. “Go up to your study. Cooper will go with you, and I will join you both in a few moments.”

As one in a dream Montgomery turned and entered the house.

He walked up the stairs, Chick close behind him.

When they had passed from sight, Nick turned to Louise Lansing, who was standing in the parlor doorway with distended eyes.

“Is--is it really you, Mr. Carter?” she queried.

“Yes.”

“I can hardly believe my eyes.”

“Is everything all right?”

“It is.”

“How long has your uncle been here?”

“Not more than an hour.”

“Now, listen, Miss Lansing. I will give the signal by dropping a book.”

“I understand.”

Nick ran hurriedly upstairs, and, as he turned from the landing, Patsy stepped out of a room and caught his sleeve.

“Anything happened here since I left you, Patsy?” whispered Nick.

“Not a thing of any consequence.”

“You understand what’s to be done?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Lansing knows the signal.”

Nick passed into the study, closing the door after him.

Montgomery, a harassed and apprehensive look on his face, sat in the chair before his desk.

He turned his startled eyes on Nick as the latter entered.

“What does this farce mean?” he demanded, making a great effort to regain his composure.

“It means that I shall pose as Horace Montgomery for a few hours.”

“What sort of a crooked game are you attempting to play?”

“It is not crooked.”

“Who in the fiend’s name are you, anyway?”

“Nicholas Carter.”

Montgomery had started to rise, but at the sound of that name he sank back with glassy eyes.

“You--you----” he faltered. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to have a little talk with you. Could you load a few cigarettes for me, Mr. Montgomery?”

Had a bomb exploded at Montgomery’s feet he could not have been more startled than he was then.

He sprang forward in his chair and stared at the great detective as one fascinated.

“When you speculated with the money belonging to John and Louise Lansing, why did you not tell them?”

Montgomery’s white lips moved but gave no sound.

“After you lost that money, why have you tried to make your wards believe that you were going to invest it in the Royal Ophir mine?”

The guardian swallowed a lump in his throat, and his face was as white as a sheet.

“Did you want to make it appear that you had invested it in a salted mine, after an investigation that was seemingly sincere, and had lost it in that way?”

No answer came from the pallid wretch in the chair.

“What was to be your share of the money to be secured from Cooper and Bingham?”

Still no answer.

“Horace Montgomery, you are a thief!”