Nick joined in the laugh of his invariably cheerful associate.

“Odds blood, Nick, as they say in the play,” added Chick.  “I’d welcome any sort of stir and danger, in preference to this chasing a will-o’-the-wisp.”

“There’ll be enough doing, Chick, take my word for it, as soon as we once more get on the track of Kilgore and his push.”

“Let it come, and God speed it,” grinned Chick.  “What’s your idea, Nick?”

“This empty jewel casket, the possibility that it contained diamonds, of which the girl was robbed and then murdered, and the fact that Harry Boyden is the clerk who brought the stolen diamonds to Venner’s store—­certainly the circumstances seem to point to some strange relation between the two crimes.”

While Nick was thus expressing his views, a rapidly driven carriage approached the residence of the famous detective, and a servant presently entered the dining room and informed Nick that a lady wished to see him.

Nick glanced at her card.

“Violet Page,” he muttered.  “I know no lady named Violet Page.  Is she young or old?”

“Young, sir.”

“Did you admit her?”

“She is in the library, sir.”

“Very well.  I will see her presently.  Request her to wait a few moments.”

Nick delayed only to finish his dinner, then repaired to the library.  As he entered the attractively furnished room his visitor quickly arose from one of the easy-chairs and hastened to approach him.

Nick beheld a young lady of exquisite beauty and modest bearing, and though her sweet face, then very pale and distressed, struck him as one he had previously seen, he at first could not place her.

“Are you Mr. Carter—­Detective Carter?” she hurriedly, inquired, in tremulous accents of appeal.

Nick had a warm place in his heart for one so timid and distressed as this girl appeared, and he bowed very kindly.

“Yes, Miss Page,” said he.  “What can I do for you?  You appear to be in trouble.”

“I am in trouble—­terrible trouble, sir,” cried the girl, with a half-choked sob.  “Oh, Mr. Carter, I come to you in despair, a girl without friends or advisers, and who knows not whither to turn.  I have been told that you have a kind heart, and that you are the one man able to solve the dreadful mystery which—­”

Nick cheered her pathetic flood of words with a kindly gesture.

“Calm yourself, Miss Page,” said he, in a sort of paternal way.  “Resume your chair, please.  Though I am somewhat pressed for time just now I will give you at least a few moments.”

“Oh, thank you, sir!”

“Be calm, however, in order that we may accomplish all the more.”

“I will, sir.”

“To what mystery do you refer?  What is the occasion of your terrible distress?”

Violet Page subdued her agitation and hastened to reply.

“My maid and companion, a girl named Mary Barton,” said she, “was found dead in Central Park late this afternoon.  Nor is that all, Detective Carter.  A very dear friend of mine, named Harry Boyden, has been arrested, under suspicion of having killed her.  Oh, sir, that could not be possible!”