Chapter VIII: Nick Begins to Solve the Riddle

Having partaken of a hasty supper, and having changed his disguise, Nick went downtown again to the neighborhood of the tragedy.

He did not go to the Borden Building this time, but to that one across the street, in which was the office out of whose window he was convinced the strange woman had seen the tragedy as it occurred in the office of Bridgely & Byke.

The building was locked up for the night, but Nick had no trouble in finding the janitor, who lived in one of the upper rooms, but who at that hour was on the street discussing with his acquaintances the tragedy of the Borden Building.

Oh, yes! He--the janitor--knew whose offices were exactly opposite Bridgely & Byke’s--they belonged to Lawyer John Woodford.

With Lawyer John Woodford’s address in his possession, obtained from the directory, Nick started uptown in search of him.

He found the lawyer at home, and was pleasantly received.

Nick inquired about a lady, whom he believed had been in Mr. Woodford’s office that afternoon about five o’clock, but of whom he had lost all trace soon after.

Yes, Mr. Woodford admitted that a woman had called to see him about that hour. He was out at the time, and his office boy asked her to sit down and wait.

She did wait for a little while, when, without saying a word, she passed hastily out of the office, almost running as she went.

He had come in a few minutes later when the boy related the circumstance to him.

He had no means of knowing whether he had ever seen the lady or not, or of knowing who she was. She left no name; indeed, left nothing to identify her but a glove.

Here the lawyer pulled a lady’s kid glove from his pocket and held it up before Nick’s eyes.

“She left this behind in her unceremonious departure,” the lawyer said.

Nick recognized it at once as the mate to the glove which was found partly on the hand of the dead girl.

With some reluctance, and apparent misgivings as to the policy, Lawyer Woodford permitted Nick to take the glove away with him.

As the detective was about to leave, Woodford seemed to recollect something, and said:

“Oh, by the way, perhaps I know who can tell you more about that lady!”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. My boy told me that she had scarcely disappeared down the stairs--she didn’t wait for the elevator--when Mr. Redway, of the firm of Bridgely & Byke, stepped off the elevator, and inquired for the lady. He seemed much disappointed when told she was gone.”

This was intensely interesting news to Nick.

“Did Redway follow her?” inquired Nick.

“Why, no. The stupid boy did not tell him she walked or ran downstairs, else he might have followed her. Do you know, I think she was trying to avoid Redway. I’d advise you to see Redway.”

Again Nick examined the directory. This time he looked for the name “Oscar Gay,” but didn’t find it. The name was not in the New York Directory for the current year.

He then turned to the Brooklyn Directory, and found the name, with the address, on Brooklyn Heights.

It didn’t take him long to go over to the place, which he found was a middle-class boarding-house.

The landlady informed him that Gay had not been a boarder with her for ten months.

He went to New York somewhere, but she never learned exactly where.

“Was there any reason for his leaving?” asked the detective.

“None that I’m sure of. There was a young lady boarding here at the same time, and we thought they were rather sweet on each other. She left, too, a few days after him, and I haven’t heard a word of either since.”

“What was the young woman’s name?”

“Let’s see: she was a typewriter, and her name was--was--was Langdon--Estelle Langdon.”

Though Nick had not discovered Gay’s address by his trip to Brooklyn, he had obtained information that was almost equally as valuable, and he went back to New York very much elated.

He returned to his house to meet with a surprise, which was almost dumfounding.

As he entered, his servant said a lady was waiting to see him in the library.

He proceeded straightway to receive his visitor.

She sat in the gloom as Nick entered, and it was not till he had turned up the light that the surprise came.

Even then it required ten or fifteen seconds for him to arrive at his startling discovery.

The moment his eyes fell upon the face of the woman before him a conviction forced itself upon him that he had seen her before.

Then came the more forcible conviction that it was a striking resemblance and not a recollection of features.

Her face had almost a counterpart in a younger, smaller countenance on which he had recently looked.

It was a twin picture to the portrait of the child in the back of Redway’s watch--was the face of the woman before him.

Instantly Nick knew that he was in the presence of Redway’s mysterious visitor of the afternoon.

What good luck had sent her to him?

“You have been waiting to see me?” said Nick, inquiringly.

“If you are the detective, Nick Carter, I have,” was her reply, as she looked intently into his face.

“Well, I am Nick Carter, at your service.”

“I have heard of your great professional skill, sir, and have come to seek your help in a case that to me has recently become more than a matter of life and death. I am rich, and can pay you well for your services.”

“What is the nature of these services?”

“To find my child.”

“I thought so,” was Nick’s mental response.

“Boy or girl?” he asked.

“A girl.”

“How old?”

“Nearly seven years old.”

“Are you a widow?”

“No, sir,” with a flush. “My husband is alive.”

“But you don’t live with him?”

“I do not. We have not lived together for five years.”

“And he has your child hidden away?”

“Yes.”

“What is your name?”

“Evelyn Lock.”

“Have you a picture of the little girl?”

“No, sir. I haven’t seen her since she was less than two years old.”

The tears came into her eyes, and a sob broke from her lips as she said it.

“Why have you not searched for the child before?”

“I have, but it was only within the last day or two that I have been able to locate her--abductor.”

“Her father, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are not a resident of New York?”

“No. I am an Englishwoman. My home is Birmingham. The last five years I have searched the world over with no success, till, by accident, I found the child’s father here in New York to-day.”

“He knows you are here?”

“Yes,” reluctantly.

“Is a reconciliation with him impossible?”

“It is--now.”

Nick began to fear that he understood the meaning of that last word, “now.”

“You say ‘now.’ Were you willing to be reconciled until recently?”

“Yes; I loved him dearly--never ceased to love him in spite of the fact that he robbed me of my child, for I know he was cruelly deceived about me, and had I been guilty of all which he had cause to believe me guilty of, I would have deserved to lose him, and my child, too.”

“Why do you say that a reconciliation now is impossible?”

“I cannot tell you that.”

“Is the cause on your side or his?”

“On his.”

Nick concluded he would now force the situation.

“You say you do not know how your little girl looks now?”

“Yes, sir. Remember, I have not seen her for five years.”

“Then I’ll let you see what she looks like.”

As Nick spoke he took Redway’s watch from his pocket, opened the back of the case, and presented to the astonished young woman the portrait of the sweet face set therein.

At first she could only gaze at it in utter stupefaction.

Then, realizing what it meant, she gave a great cry, pressed the portrait to her lips again and again, and ended all by--woman-like--fainting.

Nick caught her just in time to save the watch from slipping from her grasp. His experience with fainting women was large and varied. The means of resuscitation were near at hand, and he soon had his fair visitor back to consciousness.

Her first question was:

“Where did you get it?”

“The watch?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Indirectly from its owner.”

“From--from----”

“From Victor Redway. He is your husband, and the father of the missing child.”

The woman bent her head in silent assent.

“Is Victor Redway his real name?”

“Part of it. The full name is Victor Redway Lock.”

“Oh, yes--your married name. What is the little girl’s name.”

“Estelle Langdon Lock.”

It was one of those periods in Nick Carter’s life when sudden surprise nearly struck him dumb.

What did it mean? This woman’s little girl and the concealed child of Redway bearing the name of the girl who had so mysteriously met her death that afternoon.

As soon as Nick had time to pull his wits together, he inquired:

“After whom was the child named?”

“After my aunt--my mother’s only sister.”

“Where is she now?”

“She has been dead some six years. She died broken-hearted. Her life and mine were most wretchedly alike.”

“How so?”

“Her husband deserted her, taking their only child, a girl, away with him.”

“Where did they go?”

“I don’t know. They disappeared, were never heard of again, and I suppose both are dead.”

“Why did the girl go with the father and desert the mother?”

“She was her father’s idol, and he hers. She took his side of the quarrel.”

“What was her name?”

“Same as her mother--Estelle. But what has all this to do with my child?”

“More, much more, than you suspect, madame,” replied Nick, firmly.

“In what way--explain?”

“Presently. You recognize the portrait of your child in that watch?”

“Oh, yes! May I keep the watch?”

“If you answer me truly two questions.”

“Ask them.”

Nick produced the glove which had been taken from the dead girl’s hand, and held it up before her.

“Is this your glove?”

She turned pale, but answered firmly and promptly:

“It is. Where----”

“And this one, too?”

“Yes, sir; that, too. Where did you get them?”

“This one,” designating the first one, “was found in the private office of Victor Redway this evening.

“This one,” elevating the other glove, “was dropped in the law office of John Woodford, just across the street from Redway’s office.”

The woman had turned deadly pale, and Nick thought once she would faint again. So he gave her time to rally, which she did quite bravely. Then he went on:

“When you dropped the last glove in Woodford’s office you were sitting at his window watching a scene going on in Redway’s office, just across the street.

“In that scene a girl in Redway’s office was trying to get this other glove, the mate, on her left hand.”

Nick paused long enough to make his recital the more dramatic.

“While she was thus engaged, and while you were watching her, somebody killed her, shot her--murdered her in cowardly, cold blood.”

Mrs. Lock sat as if chiseled from stone. If she had the power of speech, she made no attempt to use it. So Nick concluded the dramatic situation.

“You do not know who that girl was, but I believe you do know who fired the shot which deprived her of life.

“Now, I am going to tell you who the victim was, and then I’ll ask you to tell me who was the assassin.

“You did not recognize the girl, I suppose?”

A negative shake of the head was the only response.

“But you begin to suspect.”

“Ah, my God!” came the response, in a whispering gasp.

“The girl whom you saw murdered was our cousin, Estelle Langdon. Now, who was it that fired the shot?”

The answer came almost as Nick expected.

For the second time Mrs. Lock lost consciousness. She had fainted again.