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With Links of Steel

<h2>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> <h3>THE CUNNING OF JEAN PYLOTTE.</h3> Kilgore had reasoned shrewdly, in so quickly suspecting that Nick Carter would lose no time in getting a line on the Venner residence. Even while the diamond gang were discussing the plan by which to capture the Carters, the two detectives were at times within a hundred yards of the secret plant. It was dark out of doors that night, with only a few stars in the clouded sky, and the wooded locality and neighboring streets were but poorly lighted. It was in a northern suburb of New York, a section not yet much encroached upon by the spreading city, and the dwelling owned and occupied by Rufus Venner was that in which three generations of his family had lived and died. It was a square, old house of brick, set fifty yards from the suburban street, and was flanked in either direction by extensive, ill-kept grounds, made damp and dark by the huge, old trees, which nearly covered the estate. Back of the house, and off to one side, was a large wooden stable, fast running to ruin; while a rusty iron fence, falling to fragments in places, skirted the dismal grounds in front. Beyond the trees, far to the rear, could be seen the roof and chimneys of an old, wooden mansion, fronting on another street, and having a very similar environment. There, too, the house and grounds were running to ruin and decay, both places being but crumbling monuments of former opulence and grandeur. It was upon this scene that Nick Carter and Chick arrived just before midnight, having left their carriage at a remote corner, to await their return. "Yonder is Venner's house, Chick," said Nick, as they picked their way along the unpaved sidewalk. "We'll vault this iron fence and steal across the grounds." "It doesn't look much as if our quarry was there," observed Chick, as they scaled the fence. "Their deeds are dark, and like seeks like," replied Nick. "They now may be making darkness their cover." "Not a light in the house, is there?" "None visible from this side. We'll steal between the house and stable, and have a look at the opposite elevation." "Not much danger of being seen. It's as dark as a nigger's pocket under these trees." "So much the better in case anyone is watching." "Who lives here with Venner?" "Only an elderly housekeeper, of whom I don't hear anything very good," replied Nick. "Venner is here but part of the time, I am told. In fact, I don't quite fathom his habits." "Why so?" "I can't learn what takes him from home so much of the time. He does not leave the city, nor patronize any hotel that I can discover, yet he frequently is away from this house overnight." "Perhaps he secretly keeps another house, and is leading a double life." "Possibly," admitted Nick. "He is on friendly terms with numerous women, I learn, and other quarters may be essential to designs of some kind. Quietly, now, and we'll slip across the back lawn." Like shadows, as dark as the night itself, they silently reached a point from which they could view the north side of the house. Here they discovered that one of the lower rooms was lighted, with the curtain at the single window nearly drawn. "Somebody is up," murmured Chick. "We'll learn who, if possible." "Going to have a look?" "Yes. Come, if you like, but don't get into the glare from the curtain. Kilgore has a very wicked air gun, and if he and his gang are about here, we might invite a bullet." "I'll have a care." Stealing closer over the damp greensward, they approached the house and peered beneath the curtain mentioned. There was but one occupant of the room, which was a small library. In an easy-chair near the table, with a newspaper fallen across his knees, sat Rufus Venner, apparently sound asleep. This was only a part of the game, however, for Venner was wide awake. By means of their secret wire, he had been informed of Cervera's arrival at the diamond plant, and of Kilgore's designs upon Nick, and Venner at that moment suspected that he might be under the eye of the detective. For nearly half an hour Nick waited for some sign of this artifice, but Venner in no way betrayed it. Presently a clock on the mantel struck the half after one, and the sound appeared to awake him. He yawned, glanced at the clock, then took the lamp from the table and went up to bed. But never so much as a glance toward the window. Nick led Chick away, and they returned across the lawn to a point beyond the stable. "It rather looks as if Cervera had been here, doesn't it?" inquired Chick, with a grin. "Yes," admitted Nick. "Two facts are very significant of it. First, that Venner is at home on this particular night; and, second, that he should be asleep in his chair after midnight. It has a fishy look." "That's my idea, Nick, exactly." "Yet the way to prove it doesn't appear quite easy." "Not just yet. But who occupies that house over yonder, where the roof shows above the trees?" And Chick pointed to the distant dwelling, little dreaming that the diamond plant and the gang they sought were established under its many-gabled roof. This was not the first night Nick had watched Venner's house since the diamond robbery, the doubtful character of which he had suspected at the outset, and incidentally he had informed himself concerning Venner's neighbors. "One Dr. Magruder, I am told, a retired physician from Illinois," he replied. "He bought the place at a forced sale some little time ago." Nor did Nick, when thus replying, dream that Dr. Magruder and Rufus Venner were one and the same; or that, in attributing to him a double life of shameful iniquity, Chick had hit the nail squarely on the head. "Come this way," added Nick. "Where now?" "We'll go down to the corner of the grounds, and watch the house for a time." Before Nick's reply was fairly uttered, however, both detectives were startled by distant cries, which fell with frantic appeal on the midnight air. "Help! Help! Help!" The startling cry was thrice repeated, the last time as if choked in the speaker's throat, yet the direction of the sound was unmistakable. "Something's up!" muttered Nick. "This way!" With Chick at his heels, he tore across the wooded grounds and bounded over the iron fence at the street. Then the occasion of the outcry at once became apparent. Some two hundred yards away, in the yellow glare of one of the incandescent lights by which the little-frequented street was illumined, a man was battling desperately with three assailants, one of whom he had knocked to the ground. Without a word, both detectives rushed down the road to his assistance. As they drew nearer there came a flash of light, then the report of a pistol, followed by another shriek for help. Then Nick saw one of the ruffians reel a little, as if shot, while a second hurled their victim to the ground. The third leaped to his feet at the same moment, yelling wildly: "Look out! Scatter, boys! The cops are upon us!" "Kilgore's voice, or I'm a liar," muttered Nick, over his shoulder. Both detectives were still fifty yards from the scene of the furious conflict, and were running at the top of their speed along the rough road. Before they could come near enough to use a weapon, however, the three ruffians scattered like frightened cats, leaping the wall near an adjoining woodland, into the gloom of which they speedily vanished. It was obvious to Nick that pursuit would be vain, so he hastened to the side of the fallen man, who had been left prostrate in the road, and helped him to his feet. The man was Jean Pylotte. He was panting hard after the conflict, the fake character of which Nick could not then foresee. His coat was ripped up the back, his linen collar torn off, and he was deathly pale, with a smutch of blood across his cheek. In one hand he held a revolver, and in the other—a chunk of coal. "Are you wounded, stranger?" Nick quickly demanded, as he studied the man's pale face. "Not much—not badly, I think," gasped Pylotte, trembling violently. "But it's lucky you came. They'd surely have killed me." Nick noticed that he spoke with a slight foreign accent, and was a man of considerable physical prowess. "There's blood on your face," said he. "It came from one of them, I think," said Pylotte, drawing his sleeve across his cheek to remove the stain. "I must have wounded one of them." "It's a pity you did not kill him," said Nick, bluntly. "Was it you who fired the gun?" "Yes. I tried to fire again, but one of them struck me down before I could do so. The ruffians came upon me before I fairly realized it." "Do you know them?" inquired Chick. "Only one of them, a man named John David," replied Pylotte, now appearing to pull himself together. "John David, eh?" grunted Nick. "He has swindled me, and I—I saw him at a theater to-night, and afterward followed him out here." "For what? If he has swindled you, why didn't you have him arrested at the theater?" demanded Nick. "Well, I—I wanted to learn where he lives. He must have discovered that he was being followed, and then tried to do me up." Nick observed the speaker's faltering manner, and it increased his curiosity. "Why do you wish to know where he lives?" he demanded. Pylotte hesitated, and shrugged his shoulders. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," said he, after a moment. "Not believe you?" "I hardly think so." "Suppose you tell me, and see," suggested Nick, with a faint smile. "I have no objection to telling you, none at all," Pylotte now replied. "The man I spoke of, John David, swindled me yesterday with two artificial diamonds." "Ah! is that so?" cried Nick, with a significant glance at Chick. "What is your name, my man?" "Jean Pylotte, sir." "Who are you, and where do you live?" "I am a Frenchman by birth, and arrived in New York only this week. My home is in Denver. I am a diamond cutter by trade, and came here to buy some gems for a Denver woman of wealth, who wishes to obtain a certain size and quality." "Then you are a judge of diamonds?" "One of the best," Pylotte modestly admitted, with a faint smile. "I am an expert judge of diamonds, and so it happened that I discovered the swindle of which I am a victim." "Then you bought a diamond of the man who said his name was John David, did you?" "I bought two, sir," nodded Pylotte. "They appeared like natural and very perfect stones when I first examined them, but after subjecting them to more careful tests, I found them to be the most extraordinary imitations I ever beheld." "Artificial diamonds, were they?" "Yes, artificial. But only the best of experts, and after the most rigid tests, could discover the fraud. I never saw such imitations. The stones are really almost as good as natural ones." "Have you them with you?" "Yes." "You feel quite confident that they were manufactured, do you?" "Oh, I am positive of it," cried Pylotte, with emphasis. "That is why I was secretly following the swindler." "You wanted to discover his house, and learn how he made such perfect imitations, eh? Was that your motive, instead of having him arrested at the theater?" "Well, yes, it was," admitted Pylotte, with feigned reluctance. "Do you know any process for manufacturing diamonds?" Nick next demanded. "I am pretty well informed on the subject." "Quite an art, isn't it?" "Yes, it is." "And one that could be made very profitable, perhaps?" "I judge so." "Put up your revolver," said Nick, abruptly. "What's that black object you dropped just now?" Pylotte glanced down at his feet, then laughed faintly. "That's odd," said he. "It's a piece of coal. I must have seized it from the road, thinking to defend myself with it." "What is there odd in that?" Pylotte laughed again. "Diamonds may be made from coal," said he. "The fact that I should have got hold of a piece in the road here, while tracking that diamond swindler in search of his house, strikes me as being rather odd." "So it was," said Nick, a bit dryly, thinking of Venner's house in the near distance. Then he added, decisively: "Put up your gun, Mr. Pylotte. I want you to go with me. I think you are the very man I want." "Go with you!" exclaimed Pylotte, drawing back. "If you please," said Nick, politely. "I want, at least, to hear more of your story." "But who are you, sir?" "My name is Nick Carter." "Not the celebrated detective?" cried Pylotte, with feigned amazement. "Precisely." "That's quite sufficient, Mr. Carter!" the Frenchman now cried, with much bowing and scraping. "I'll go with you when and where you wish. If any man can run down these swindling ruffians, sir, you certainly are the man." "Thanks," said Nick, dryly. "I'll take you home with me for the night." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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