Nick Carter glanced at his watch as he entered the street door of the Borden Building, New York City.
It was exactly half-past five o’clock in the afternoon.
“I am just on time,” mused the great detective, as he hurried toward the elevator.
Neatly folded and stowed away in one of his inside pockets was a note, which he had received by a messenger on the forenoon of that day. The note, written on a typewriter, was not signed, and ran as follows:
“Nicholas Carter, New York City. Dear Sir: Please call at room 59, Borden Building, at half-past five o’clock this afternoon on important business. Do not fail.”
There was such an air of mystery about the message that Nick concluded he would respond, and promptly to the minute he was at the place named in the note.
The Borden Building is one of those structures in lower New York City which are used almost exclusively as offices.
It was Saturday afternoon, and when Nick found that the elevator was not running he was not surprised.
Evidently most of the offices in the building closed on Saturdays before this late hour.
A young man neatly, almost foppishly, dressed, had entered the building ten seconds ahead of Nick and was near the first landing on the stairs walking up when Nick placed his foot on the first step ready to follow.
Just then there came ringing through the building the sound of the footsteps of some one flying down the stairs in precipitate haste.
Nick, by looking up, saw that the person making the furious descent was a boy about fourteen years old.
The well-dressed young man stopped when he heard the boy coming, and as the latter reached him he grasped the lad by the coat, and brought him up with a jerk.
“What in thunder ails you?” growled the young man.
For a moment the boy could not utter a word. His face was white as chalk, his teeth were chattering in his head, and he trembled so that it seemed he must fall in a heap.
