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The Four-Fingered Glove
OR,
THE COST OF A LIE
NICHOLAS CARTER
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
The Four-Fingered Glove
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian.
Bill Cody
At a rough estimate there are 400 million civilized human beings who have heard of Bill Cody, not under his real name, but by the name everybody called him, "Buffalo Bill."
His character made him an outstanding figure during a period of the development of America when a strong character was a matter of vital necessity.
We doubt, however, whether the man's work is fully appreciated, or ever has been. In the rush and bustle that followed the introduction of the railroad to the West, the results of Buffalo Bill's work were more or less overlooked, but a time is coming when this remarkable man's achievements will be fully appreciated.
This is the character whose adventures are dealt with in Buffalo Bill's Border Stories.
Read them. You will find them of true historical value.
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
Real Cloth Books At 75 Cents
We have a line of new 75-cent books which dealers everywhere are selling under the title of CHELSEA HOUSE POPULAR COPYRIGHTS.
These books are well bound, are stamped in gold, and make a very satisfactory addition to one's bookshelf after they have been read.
The stories are of the adventure, Western and mystery type, and are exceptionally good value in the way of cloth-bound books.
Ask your dealer to show you CHELSEA HOUSE POPULAR COPYRIGHTS. If he does not carry them send us his name and address and we will send you a list, and arrange to have your dealer carry them, or else to supply you direct from this office.
CHELSEA HOUSE
THE FOUR-FINGERED GLOVE
"IF I AM GUILTY, CONVICT ME."
The hands of the clock pointed at half-past five, one beautiful June morning, when Nick Carter, having just finished with his morning exercise and cold plunge, was told that there was a gentleman in the reception-room who wished to see him on matters of the utmost importance, as soon as he was at liberty to descend, and the servant who brought the message to her master passed a card through the partly opened doorway upon which was engraved in fashionable block lettering:
"Young Danton, of Linden Fells, eh?" murmured the detective, as he proceeded with his toilet after placing the card on the dresser. "What in the world can he want at this hour? I should not hesitate to wager a considerable amount that he has never been out of bed at this hour before in all his life, unless it was because he had stayed up all night. Reggie Danton! Humph! Whether he is in trouble or not, it is safe to say that he believes he is, or he wouldn't be here to see me so early in the morning."
Ten minutes later Nick entered the room where his caller was awaiting him, only to find him pacing up and down between the window and the door, apparently under the greatest strain of excitement.
Nick Carter's half-contemptuous, half-humorous remark, "Young Danton, of Linden Fells," had been peculiarly appropriate, for Reginald Meadows Danton exactly filled one's ideas of a young man of possibilities--and perhaps probabilities--who hailed from somewhere in the world of society and wealth.
He was neither tall nor short, fat nor lean; nor did there seem to be a distinguishing trait about his appearance or his manner, and yet there was an indefinable something which compelled a stranger to glance at him a second time, and then to wonder why he had done so. He was Reggie Danton to everybody, several times a millionaire in his own right, and the son of a man who had long since ceased to count his millions by units, having adopted multiples instead.
Then Linden Fells became transformed.
From the home of a recluse who used it only as a place of refuge while he awaited permission to return to his own country, it was turned into an open house of entertainment, for the Dantons liked to "sling things."
Mrs. Danton was a beautiful woman of middle age, who still looked thirty--scarcely older, in fact, than her two children, Reginald and Mercedes, aged respectively, twenty-three and nineteen.
It had happened in the past that Nick Carter had done some little business for the head of the house of Danton, but it had been of a commercial character, and he had never met the other members of the family, although naturally they were all known to him by sight, as well as by the reputations they had earned for themselves in their own separate ways. Mrs. Danton--or the se?ora, as she was often called because of her Spanish ancestry--because she was a leader of society and a giver of the most lavish entertainments in New York and Newport; Reggie, because he was a self-confessed high roller who was inevitably getting into some sort of hot water and paying his way out of it with gold--whom everybody talked about, and laughed at, and wondered what he would do next, but who was nevertheless generally well liked, and among those who knew him best, respected, too; and Mercedes!
The reputation of Mercedes Danton can be comprehended in three words. She was beautiful, she was brilliant, and she was, above all, good.
Everybody loved Mercedes. Her father adored her; her mother worshiped her; her brother idolized her; her servitors almost deified her; and she merited it all.
Reference to her upon any occasion was comprehended in the utterance of her first name only. There was but one Mercedes in the world, one queen of beauty, one fountain of sympathy and goodness--Mercedes.
She was nineteen, with the poise, the repose and the presence of twenty-five. She was tall, regal, as graceful as a fawn; she had unfathomable, gipsy eyes, hair of a dead black, with a faint suggestion of waviness, and when the light struck it just right, a touch of amber somewhere in the depth of the tresses which disappeared as it came and which was inevitably changed to a reflection upon rather than from it; and with all her somber hair and eyes, her long black lashes and brunette presence, she had the complexion of an Irish beauty.
To describe Mercedes as beautiful is inadequate, for she was the standard of beauty.
And now, that we have outlined the chain of thought which flitted through the mind of Nick Carter as he descended the stairs to meet his early caller, we will return to the moment of their greeting.
"Good morning, Mr. Danton," said Nick, as he entered the room. "You rose early this morning."
"Yes. That is--fact is--I haven't been to bed. Thank you. Yes; I will sit down. Are you Mr. Carter? Mr. Nick Carter? Pardon me for asking, but I wish to be sure."
"Yes. I am Nick Carter."
"I have heard my father speak of you several times, Mr. Carter. I suppose you are aware that my governor is abroad just now?"
"I think I noticed in one of the papers, about a month ago, a mention that he had sailed. I did not know that he had or had not returned."
"No. He's over there still. I say, Mr. Carter, do I look excited?"
"Well, yes, a little," replied Nick, smiling. "Has something happened to upset you?"
"Well, rather! Do I talk as if I could tell a connected story? Eh?"
"Why, yes."
"What is?"
"The murder."
"The murder? Do you mean to say that you are speaking seriously and that you have come here to see me about a murder?"
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