Nick Carter Stories No. 155, August 28, 1915: The Gordon Elopement; or, Nick Carter's Three of a Kind.

Nick Carter did not interrupt the sobbing girl. He listened patiently, grave and attentive, letting her run on in broken, desultory phrases, until her first paroxism of grief immediately following his arrival should abate sufficiently for her to tell him connectedly what had occurred.

“They may say what they will--what they will, Mr. Carter, but I cannot believe it, will not believe it,” she tearfully declared. “My faith in him is unshaken. He is incapable of such deceit, such cruelty, such terrible treachery. He is the victim of a plot, a hideous conspiracy, or some terrible crime--oh, I am sure of it! He would not betray me in this way, not for life itself! I know he would not. Arthur is above such duplicity, such terrible----”

Nick now checked her with a gesture.

“I agree with you, Miss Strickland,” he said kindly. “Arthur Gordon is, in my opinion, a thoroughly honorable man. As you are so sure of it, too, and that he is the victim of a conspiracy, you best can serve him by subduing your agitation, and telling me precisely what has occurred. I can do nothing, nor form any opinion of the case, until I know all of the circumstances.”

“Mr. Carter is right, Wilhelmina,” said her elderly uncle, Mr. Rudolph Strickland. “It is very kind of him to come out here, with his assistant, this morning. Dry your eyes, therefore, or let me talk with him. I can inform him, Mina, better than you.”

“Do so, Mr. Strickland,” said Nick, turning to him. “What has befallen Arthur Gordon, as far as you know?”

The scene of this interview, which was the beginning of one of the most extraordinary criminal cases in the career of the famous detective, was the library of a new and exceedingly fine wooden residence in one of the most beautiful rural sections of the Bronx.

The hour was about ten o’clock, on a charming May morning, nearly seven months since Nick Carter first met these people, and recovered for Mr. Rudolph Strickland the costly art treasures stolen from the Fifth Avenue flat, in which he then resided, resulting also in the arrest of the notorious European crook, Mortimer Deland, together with a gang of local confederates.

Nick had frequently met Arthur Gordon since then, and he knew that this wealthy young banker and broker of Wall Street was contemplating matrimony, but he was ignorant of many of the particulars which Mr. Strickland hastened to impart.

“This is Mr. Gordon’s new house,” said he, “though he already has deeded the entire estate to Wilhelmina, who soon is to be his wife.”

“We were to be married next Wednesday evening,” put in the girl more calmly.

“This is to be their home, Mr. Carter, and I am to live with them,” Mr. Strickland continued. “Both insist that I shall dwell no longer alone in the flat I recently occupied.”

“You now are living here, I infer,” Nick remarked.

“Only Mina and I, aside from our several servants.”

“I see.”

“It was Arthur’s wish that the wedding should take place in the home he is to occupy. So he bought this fine estate of several acres and then built and furnished this beautiful residence. It was completed nearly three weeks ago.”

“It certainly is a fine place and a fine house,” Nick admitted, glancing around.

“I since have been living here with Mina, while she has been making preparations for the wedding,” Strickland went on. “Mr. Gordon has been living at home with his parents, in Riverside Drive, all the while, but he has been coming out here each afternoon after business hours to direct the laborers who still are at work on various parts of the estate.”

“Was he here yesterday afternoon?” Nick inquired.

“Yes, until nearly six o’clock.”

“And then?”

“We supposed he would return to dinner at that time, as usual, and we sent one of the servants to call him from the golf links, where he went to supervise the work of some of the laborers. The servant returned in a few moments and stated that Mr. Gordon had gone.”

“Gone where?”

“That’s the question,” said Mr. Strickland. “I am stating the circumstances in the order they occurred, that you may be better able to determine whether----”

“Oh, you are too slow, Uncle Rudolph,” cried Wilhelmina, interrupting. “I cannot endure this suspense. Here, Mr. Carter, read this! It came by mail this morning. It will tell you, in a nutshell, what is said to have occurred; but I cannot believe it, will not believe it. They say---- Oh, Mr. Carter, they say that Arthur Gordon has deserted me, and eloped with his handsome stenographer!”

Nick had heard of such cases. He did not reply to the grief-stricken girl, nor make any comments. He took a letter which she, starting up while speaking, hurriedly brought from the library table and tendered with trembling hand.

It was a typewritten letter, on paper bearing the printed business heading of the missing banker, also the date of the previous day. It read as follows:

“My Dear Mina: I am writing you a few lines before leaving my office, on a subject which, though I am to see you within an hour, I have not the heart or courage to discuss with you in person.

“This is a late day, indeed, for me to discover that it is best for us to part permanently; that I would do you a far greater wrong in making you my wife, than in taking the step I am about to take. Conditions have arisen that make it imperative, however, and I can see no wise, or even possible, alternative. I shall be far away when you read this, and it is my intention never to return. I cannot ask you to forgive me. My only hope is that you can forget me, and in time find one more worthy of you.

“You already have the deed of the new place, which, with all it contains, I hope you will keep in part amendment of the wrong I have done you. Do please try to forget me.

ARTHUR GORDON.”

Nick Carter’s grave, clean-cut face, on which Mina Strickland’s tearful blue eyes were anxiously riveted, underwent no change while he read the letter. He handed it to Patsy Garvan, his junior assistant, who had accompanied him there, saying quietly:

“Read it, Patsy. The case evidently is one that we must investigate.”

Patsy obeyed, without replying.

“Please tell me at once, Mr. Carter,” Mina pleaded. “Do you think that----”

“That Arthur Gordon wrote it?” Nick interposed, turning to her.

“Yes.”

“Frankly, Miss Strickland, I do not.”

“Oh, thank Heaven for that!” cried the girl. “Your opinion is worth more to me than that of all the world. It must be, then, that he is the victim of----”

“Stop a moment,” Nick again interrupted. “My opinion will be worth more after I know all of the circumstances. It now is based only upon the fact that all this is very unlike Arthur Gordon.”