Excerpt

Nick Carter waited, listening intently, listening vainly, with his desk telephone in his hand and the receiver at his ear. Chick Carter, the celebrated detective’s chief assistant, sat watching him, noting each changing expression on his strong, clean-cut face, and wondering what occasioned it. It was about nine o’clock one evening in October, and both detectives were seated in the library of Nick Carter’s spacious residence in Madison Avenue.

“Hello!” Nick now called quite sharply. “Hello!” No answer. “What’s the trouble?” Chick inquired. “Don’t you get a reply?” “No, Chick, and that’s not the worst of it,” Nick said quite gravely. “Why so? What do you mean?” “I heard my name called just as I removed the receiver from its hook,” Nick explained. “The voice sounded like that of a woman, though I am not positive about it. Then came a single sharp crack, like the report of a revolver, or as if the telephone had dropped from the speaker’s hand and crashed upon the floor. I suspect there is something wrong.”