CHAPTER XX.

A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS.

A strange series of accidents began the night of the day following the

receipt of the letter, and Nick Carter had no doubt whatever that it was

the first act to be played in the drama of vengeance which Black Madge

had inaugurated against them.

It was rather a simple thing of itself, and did no damage to amount to

anything. The fact was that during the night some malicious person had

placed under the front steps in the areaway of his house a barrel that

had been filled with cotton waste saturated with oil. It was only

necessary after that to apply a match to the inflammable material to

start an incipient conflagration. Had the house itself not been built of

granite, and--save the doors and windows and other trimmings--been

practically fireproof, the result would have been disastrous; as it was,

however, beyond badly scorching the door, and cracking a few of the

stones by reason of the intense heat that was generating, no damage was

done.

But the fact had been sufficient to remind Nick Carter and his three

assistants that Madge had not threatened idly, and that already she had

undertaken to carry out the substance of some of her warning.

At midnight the day following the fire in the areaway a blazing bomb was

hurled through the window of the second story of Nick Carter's house,

and rolled to the middle of the floor, where it blazed furiously, and

would undoubtedly have done a great deal of damage had it not so

happened that the housekeeper was present at the time, for Nick had a

guest that night, and she had been called late to prepare the room for

him.

The day following this one, about four o'clock in the afternoon, Joseph

discovered a dynamite cartridge containing a pound and a half of the

explosive in the vestibule at the front door. The fuse of this cartridge

was already alight and would have reached and exploded the percussion,

or detonating cap, if Joseph, for some reason unknown, had not gone to

the front door at that moment. He was not called there, and had not

heard anybody in the vestibule, or on the steps, and Joseph forever

insisted after this incident that it was an intervention of Providence.

This last incident was extremely serious, for had the cartridge been

exploded it must have torn away the entire front of the house, and have

done enormous damage, even if it had taken no lives.

Friday night of that week at about half-past eight o'clock in the

evening Chick and Patsy were walking up Madison Avenue together, and

when they arrived at the corner of Thirtieth Street, and were about to

turn toward Fifth Avenue, a shot was fired at them from across the

street.

Fortunately the bullet did not strike either of them; and, although they

both immediately pursued the would-be assassin, he was evidently

prepared to avoid them, for he leaped upon a bicycle and sped away so

swiftly that there was no hope of overtaking him. They only saw that he

was tall and slender, and that was all.

The Saturday morning following an express wagon stopped at Nick Carter's

house and delivered a package addressed to the detective, which was

marked: "Fragile. This side up, with care."

Joseph carried it to the detective's study, placed it upon the table,

and was about to leave the room when Nick stopped him.

"What is that, Joseph?" he asked.

"An express package, sir, which just came for you."

"Who brought it, Joseph?"

"The express wagon, sir."

"Bring it over here. Let me see it."

Joseph took the package in his hand, carried it over to place it on the

desk in front of the detective, who regarded it with a smile, while

strangely enough his mind went back to the number of attempts to injure

him that had been made during the week that was now nearly past.

"Did you sign for it, Joseph?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"I am expecting no package." said the detective.

"No, sir," said Joseph, not knowing what else to reply.

"I think, Joseph," said the detective, "that if you will take it to the

basement, or, rather, to the laundry, and draw one of the tubs there

full of water, it would be a good idea to put the package to soak for

five or six hours before we open it."

"Really, sir," said Joseph. "Why?"

"Joseph, if that package had come here as it has a week or ten days ago,

I should have opened it without a second thought, but, under the

circumstances and considering all that has happened of late, I deem it

wise to use every precaution. Take the package down and soak it as I

have directed."

Some hours later, when the detective recalled the incident to mind, he

and Chick went to the basement together, found the package, and with a

great deal of care opened it--from the bottom.

It was found to contain an infernal machine of the most approved

pattern, loaded with broken glass, slugs of lead and old iron, and an

assortment of nails, old keys, and bullets.

"A very pretty little present to send a fellow," said Nick, smiling

grimly. "I rather think it is a lucky thing, Chick, that it occurred to

me to give it a good soaking. I wonder what the woman will do next?"

Sunday evening when the detective entered his room he found Joseph

writhing on the floor in evident agony, brought about by the contents of

what had been a box of candy, and Nick instantly guessed that another

attempt had been made upon his life, this time to poison him.

But Joseph fortunately had only nibbled at one of the pieces, and,

beyond an hour's suffering for his foolishness, was not injured.

It appeared, when Nick questioned him, that a boy had handed the box of

candy in at the door, saying, when Joseph appeared to receive it, that

it had been ordered by the detective himself, and was to be placed in

his study for him; and the boy had had the temerity to raise the lid of

the box when he delivered it, wink slyly at Joseph, and exclaim:

"See! aren't they dandy? I tasted one; they're fine."

And then he had run away, laughing.

Joseph had seen the candy, and, being fond of it, could not resist the

temptation also to take a taste of it when he placed the box upon his

master's table.

That same night, at half-past eleven o'clock, Nick was seated at the

desk in his study, which is located on the third floor in the rear of

his house. He was engaged in looking over some notes relative to an old

case which he wished to recall to mind.

The shade at the window was lowered, but the light was in such a

position that it threw his shadow against the curtain and outlined his

head upon it almost perfectly.

Suddenly he was startled by the report of a gun, and the next instant a

bullet crashed through the glass of his window and buried itself in the

opposite wall of the room.

Later on, when he investigated the incident, he found that the bullet

had passed directly through the shadow of his head as it was cast upon

the window shade, the person who fired it evidently supposing that his

head was directly behind that shadow; but the fact that the light was at

one side of the room, and had therefore thrown the shadow somewhat back

of where he was actually seated, saved his life.

Further investigation disclosed the fact that the bullet had been fired

from the rear of one of the houses in the block directly behind where

the detective lived. It was not discovered how the would-be assassin had

secured his position on the roof.

But this accumulation of accidents--so called for want of a better

term--was altogether too much for the serenity and the composure of the

detective and his assistants.

It was evident that Madge had determined to make his life miserable if

it could be done, and when Nick recalled the substance of the letter she

had sent him he decided in his own mind that the bullet had not really

been intended to take his life, but only to warn him of the dangers that

were hovering over him every minute that he lived.

In the meantime--or, rather, during the time that has already been

mentioned--the detective and his assistants had not been idle. There had

not been a day or a night when he and Chick and Patsy and Ten-Ichi had

not been engaged in searching some part of the city for Black Madge, or

for some trace of her.

They had visited the dens in the lower part of the city; they had

questioned the policemen and the stool pigeons of the detective bureau,

and they had even gone so far as to communicate directly with crooks who

were known to them for information concerning the woman.

But none had been forthcoming. Black Madge was keeping herself as

thoroughly under cover as if she were still in the prison in that other

State from which she had escaped.

But after this occurrence of Sunday night, when the bullet was shot

through the window at the detective, he determined to make no more

half-hearted efforts to find Madge, but to set out at once that very

night in search of her; and accordingly he put away his papers and

called Chick into the room with him.

"Chick," he said, "do you happen to know anything about Mike Grinnel's

place?"

"I only know," said Chick, "that he is said to keep one of the worst

dives in the city, and that it is located somewhere in Rivington Street.

I am not sure about it, because I have never had occasion to go there.

The only thing I do know about it is that it is said to be a great

Sunday night resort for thieves and crooks of all classes."

"Right," said Nick. "That coincides with what I have heard. I have never

been there, either, Chick but I am going there to-night--now. The

question is, do you want to go with me?"

"I sure do," replied Chick.