The telephone communication was from Arthur Gordon, the prominent New York banker and broker, then a candidate for election to Congress on the Fusion reform ticket—a communication so sensational in character and so imbued with alarm and anxiety on the part of the speaker, that it evoked only the following terse, decided response from Nick Carter, to whom the frantic appeal had been made:
“I will go right up there, Mr. Gordon. I will be there in ten minutes.”
“What’s the trouble?”
The inquiry came from Chick Carter, the celebrated detective’s chief assistant, when Nick arose from his swivel chair and hurriedly closed his roll-top desk.
“A murder has been committed, or said to have been,” he replied.
“A murder—where?”
“Columbus Avenue,” Nick said tersely. “Arthur Gordon is under arrest
