DETECTIVE NICK CARTER'S CASES - 7 Book Collection: The Great Spy System, The Mystery of St. Agnes' Hospital, The Crime of the French Café, With Links of Steel, Nick Carter's Ghost Story…. John R. Coryell

He uttered an exclamation of surprise and pointed across the tracks.

      “What is it?” cried Nick.

      “The man who was in room B!” exclaimed Gaspard. “I am sure of it!”

      At that instant a downtown train rushed into the station, cutting off Nick’s view.

      And a half-second later an uptown train pulled in on their side. Nick pushed open a gate before the train had fairly stopped. He dragged Gaspard after him.

      The gateman tried to stop them, but Nick pushed the fellow in the car so violently that he sat down on the floor.

      Then the detective pulled the other gate open, and, still dragging Gaspard, sprang down in the space between the tracks.

      The other train was just starting. Nick leaped up and opened one of the gates.

      Gaspard stood trembling. Excitement and terror rendered him incapable of action.

      Nick reached down, and, seizing the man by the shoulders, lifted him up to the platform of the car as if he had been a child of ten.

      “Look back,” cried the detective, pushing Gaspard to the other side of the car. “Is your man still at the station?”

      Two or three men were there, having, apparently, just missed the train.

      It seemed possible that the criminal—if such he was—had seen Gaspard point, and had been shrewd enough not to board the car.

      But Gaspard looked back and declared that his man was not there.

      “Good,” said Nick. “He must be on the train. We have him sure.”

Chapter III.

       John Jones

       Table of Contents

      “I want you!” whispered Nick.

      How many luckless criminals have been startled by those words! How many have seen the prison or the gallows rise before them at the sound!

      In this case, however, the words seemed to produce less than the ordinary effect.

      The man to whom they were addressed turned suddenly toward the detective, but did not shrink or tremble.

      “I beg your pardon,” said he; “I didn’t quite understand what you said.”

      The man’s coolness made Nick even more in doubt about Gaspard’s identification.

      After boarding the train they had walked through it hurriedly, and in the car next the engine Gaspard had clutched Nick’s arm, whispering:

      “There is your man!”

      The person indicated was well-dressed, rather good-looking, and about thirty-five years old. There was nothing particularly striking about his appearance.

      It would have been easy to have found dozens of such men on lower Broadway any day.

      Nick feared a mistake. But Gaspard was sure.

      “I never forget a face,” he said. “That is the man whom I saw coming out of room B. That is the murderer.”

      The man was standing up and holding on to one of the straps. His profile was turned to them.

      Nick waited until he turned and showed his full face. The detective was bound to give Gaspard every chance to change his mind.

      But he remained firm, and at last Nick approached the accused and suddenly whispered the terrifying words in his ear.

      Having done so, he was obliged to carry it through. Therefore, when the stranger asked Nick to repeat what he had said, the detective, in a low voice, inaudible to anybody else in the car, told him what the accusation was.

      “This is ridiculous,” said the man. “I read the story of this affair in the papers this morning, but I am not connected with it in any way. If you arrest me, you must be prepared to take the consequences.”

      “I guess we can manage the affair quietly,” said Nick, “and give you no trouble at all. I suppose you were going downtown to business?”

      “Yes.”

      “Well, I will go along, too, if you don’t mind.”

      “By all means,” said the man, and he looked much relieved.

      “I understand what your duty is,” he continued. “Since this imported French jackass has made this charge, of course you’ll have to look into it. Come down to the office and make some inquiries, and then go up to my flat. I was at home last evening after eight o’clock.

      “What did you do before that?”

      “I had dinner with my wife, and then put her aboard a train. She’s gone away on a visit.”

      “Where has she gone?”

      “No, sir; none of that. I don’t propose to have a detective go flying after her to scare her to death. She keeps out of this mess, if I have any say about it.”

      “But if you’re arrested she’ll hear about it and come back to the city.”

      “I’m not going to be arrested. You’re too sensible a man to do such a thing. I can see that.

      “Here we are. We get off at Franklin street. My place of business is just a little way up the street, toward Broadway.”

      They left the train. Nick was beginning to feel that a mistake had been made. This man’s easy manner and perfect confidence were hard to square with the idea of his guilt.

      “By the way,” said the suspect, as they descended the stairs, “I forgot to give you my card.”

      He handed it to Nick as he spoke, and the detective read this:

      MR. JOHN JONES.

       ALLEN, MORSE & JONES,

       Electrical Fixtures,

       The “Sunlight” Lamp.

      “What did I tell you!” exclaimed Gaspard, who was looking over Nick’s shoulder. “It is the name that was on the register. He is the man.”

      But Nick took a different view. He was of the opinion that Mr. Jones had presented very strong evidence of his complete innocence.

      Anybody else might have signed himself “John Jones,” but the real John Jones, never!

      It would be mighty hard to convince a jury that a man meditating murder had recorded his correct name for the benefit of the police.

      The coincidence was certainly astonishing, but it was in Jones’ favor.

      They walked over to the office of Allen, Morse & Jones.

      Mr. Allen was there.

      “Good-morning, Mr. Allen,” said Jones, “My name has got me into trouble again.”

      “How is that?”

      “Did you read about that French restaurant murder last night?”

      “Well, I glanced at the story in one of the papers.”

      “This Frenchman here is a waiter in the place. He saw me in an elevated train just now, and told this other man, who is a detective, that I was the party who took that woman to the restaurant.

      “That was bad enough, but when they found out what my name was, they convicted me immediately. It appears that the visitor to the restaurant signed the very uncommon name of John Jones on the books.”

      “Why, what the devil!” exclaimed Allen, looking wrathfully at poor Gaspard, who was shaking in his shoes. “Don’t you know that this is