LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Why, murder, of course.”

      “Who has been murdered?”

      As “Mr. Colton”—who was no other than Nick Carter—asked this question, his face looked as innocent as a babe’s. He seemed surprised to hear that there had been a murder, though his companion, Lawrence Deever, had been saying so repeatedly during the last half hour.

      Deever now looked at Nick with eyes and mouth wide open.

      “Who has been murdered?” he repeated. “My brother has been murdered.”

      “What makes you think so?” asked Nick, calmly.

      “What, indeed!” exclaimed Deever. “I have told you already.”

      “No, you haven’t. You have told me that your brother has been missing since night before last.”

      “I told you more than that,” cried Deever. “He is known to have quarreled with that man Jarvis.”

      “Dr. Jarvis, of St. Agnes’ Hospital?”

      “Of course. And I have proved—”

      “You have proved nothing,” said Nick. “Let me repeat your statements:

      “Your brother Patrick worked for Dr. Jarvis, or under his direction, in the garden of St. Agnes’ Hospital. The doctor frequently remonstrated with Patrick for drinking too much whisky, and—”

      “Remonstrated!” exclaimed Deever. “That’s hardly the word for it. He abused the lad. He struck him half a dozen times during the last week.”

      “With the flat of his hand,” said Nick, smiling. “That is hardly the foundation for a charge of murder.”

      “It shows that Jarvis is a violent man,” said Deever, “and everybody knows that he is.”

      “He has a bad temper, I will admit.”

      “He’s a dangerous old crank.”

      “Well, to continue your statement of the case, late on Monday afternoon they were heard quarreling in the garden. They were seen there about half-past six o’clock.

      “A little after half-past seven the doctor was seen coming toward the hospital. He was greatly excited. He passed Martin Burns, who drives the hospital ambulance.

      “Martin went into the garden and failed to find Patrick. Nobody can tell what became of your brother or how he got out of the garden.”

      “Yes; that’s the point,” Deever cried. “How did he get out?”

      “He may have climbed over the wall.”

      “You’ve forgotten that his coat, with a little money in the pocket, was found hanging on the limb of a tree.”

      “No, I did not forget that.”

      “Well, why did he leave it?”

      “I don’t pretend to know.”

      “And what has become of him?”

      “There, again, I shall have to find out the facts before I answer.”

      “I tell you he was murdered.”

      “Now,” said Nick, smiling again, “I shall have to turn your own question against yourself: If he was murdered, what’s become of him?”

      “You mean where’s his body?”

      “Exactly.”

      “But do you mean to tell me,” cried Deever, indignantly, “that if this man has hidden my brother’s body so that nobody can find it he will escape punishment for his crime?”

      “Nothing of the sort,” Nick replied. “I only wish to curb your impatience.”

      “I’m not more impatient than any man in my situation ought to be. I simply demand justice.”

      “Or, in other words—”

      “I want you to arrest Dr. Jarvis.”

      “I can’t do it.”

      “Why not?”

      “We must have some sort of proof that your brother is dead. We can’t try a man for the murder of somebody who may be alive for all we know.”

      “You seem to be working in Jarvis’ interest,” said Deever, with a sneer.

      “Not a bit of it. You know why I am here in your house.”

      “Because Superintendent Byrnes sent you; and I supposed that he had sent a good man. He promised the best.”

      “Well, that ought to satisfy you.”

      “There was no need of sending anybody. We might have arrested Jarvis at once. Any ordinary policeman could have got evidence enough to convict.”

      “But the superintendent did not think so.”

      “No; and I’m willing he should work in his own way, so long as I get justice in the end. Now, what do you want?”

      “Well,” said Nick, appearing to consider the subject deeply, “I would like some evidence of a motive.”

      “I don’t believe there was any motive. The thing was done in anger.”

      “Then I want evidence of a really serious quarrel.”

      “Very well; you wait right here, and I’ll bring a man who knows something about it. I heard of him this morning, and had time to ask him a few questions, but I don’t know all he has to tell.”

      Deever hastily left the room. From the window Nick saw Deever pass up West One Hundred and Forty-third street, on which the house stood. He was going in the direction of St. Nicholas avenue.

      In less than an hour he returned with a young man whom he presented as the important witness for whom he had been in search.

      “Your name is Adolf Klein?” said Nick.

      The witness nodded. He was a bashful, awkward fellow, who did not seem to be possessed of the average intelligence.

      “Where do you work?” was the next question.

      “I’m a bartender in Orton’s saloon, up on the avenue.”

      “Do you know what has become of Patrick Deever?”

      “All I know is this: I was passing the grounds of the hospital Monday evening and stopped just by the wall. The reason I stopped was that I heard Pat Deever inside, talking very loud. He called somebody an old fool and swore at him.”

      The witness paused. He seemed to be a good deal excited. It was not very warm in the room, but the perspiration was pouring off of Klein’s forehead.

      “Was that all you heard?” asked Nick.

      “No; I heard more hard talk, and then a blow was struck. It sounded heavy and dull. Then came more blows. Somebody seemed to be pounding. It sounded as if he was pounding on the ground, and if it hadn’t been for the loud talk just before, I’d have thought that Pat was smoothing down a flower-bed with his spade.”

      “Did you hear any talking after the blow?”

      “I didn’t hear Pat’s voice again.”

      “Did you hear any voice?”

      “I heard somebody muttering. The voice sounded like Dr. Jarvis’. I’ve been to the hospital, and I know the doctor.”

      “Did you look over the wall?”

      “No; it’s too high there. I ran around to the gate on St. Nicholas avenue and tried to see in; but I couldn’t. There were too many trees between me and the garden.”

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