CHAPTER XIV.

WITH THE TIDE.

The look of amazement on the face of Chick, as he heard this extraordinary statement, as he considered it, compelled Nick to laugh aloud, bothered as he was just then.

There was no light in the cab, but they happened to be passing a lighted restaurant at that moment, and Nick had a good view of his companion’s face.

“What’s that, chief?” gasped Chick. “Won’t you say it again?”

“I will if you like. I say, that T. Burton Potter is so much like the heir to the Milmarsh millions, that I cannot think they are not the same person.”

“But—but—this Potter is a crook!” protested Chick.

“That is what makes the case so difficult to handle,” replied Nick. “If Potter were an honest, reputable member of society, I should not have to proceed so carefully. As it is——”

He did not finish the sentence. He felt that it was not necessary. He leaned back in the taxi, and not another word was spoken by either until the cab had been run upon the ferryboat. Then the chief remarked that the smell of horses was rather strong, and that they might as well go to the front of the boat to get the night air on the wide river.

They got out of the cab, Nick telling the taxi driver they would get in again before the ferryboat tied up in her slip, and walked to the front of the deck on the men’s side, where Nick could continue to smoke his cigar without breaking rules.

Having looked about him, to make sure there were no eavesdroppers, he explained to his assistant how it was this case interested him so much.

“You know, Chick, that when we left Maple, and after we had pretty well combed out all the camps in that part of the country, to make sure neither Andrew Lampton nor Howard Milmarsh were in any of them, we came to the conclusion that they must have made their way East.”

“It was you came to the conclusion—not I,” corrected Chick. “I did not decide anything.”

“Well, that’s of no consequence. Anyhow, it turned out that I was right, for Andrew Lampton was traced by the police to New York, where he then disappeared, and I believe I saw Howard Milmarsh to-night in the person of T. Burton Potter.”

“That’s a hard thing to get through my head,” confessed Chick.

“I don’t wonder. But I had a good view of Potter, and every lineament was that of Howard Milmarsh. His hair was the same color, the expression of the eyes was the same, and there was a certain poise to his head that I had never seen except in Howard. I did not hear his voice, but no doubt that would only have confirmed my belief that he was the son of my old friend, Howard Milmarsh the elder, whose business, estate, and millions of dollars are seeking their rightful heir.”

“There is somebody else after the estate, isn’t there?”

“Yes. That is why I do not feel at liberty to waste time over this case,” replied the chief gravely. “If we do not find Howard Milmarsh, then Thomas Jarvis, the father of Richard Jarvis—the man Howard believes he killed—will probably claim everything. He is the heir at law if Howard cannot be found.”

“Isn’t there anybody else besides that fellow?”

“No. He is the only member of the family known to be living. I understand he will put in a claim—although he is related to the Milmarshes only by marriage, and has no blood connection. I have never seen this Thomas Jarvis. But I _know_ something about him.”

“Well, we don’t have to think about him, chief, do we, if you are sure this man Potter is Howard Milmarsh? And even if he were not the man, we saw Howard in Maple—or at least, you did—and he is still on earth in some shape or other.”

The ferryboat had been skimming across the North River in the darkness, and was rapidly approaching the Manhattan line of shore, with the masses of twinkling lights in the many skyscrapers, and the occasional sound of bells, whistles, and other signals warning craft to be careful as they approached the wharves.

“There’s the green and red lights of our slip not far ahead,” remarked Chick. “But we don’t have to get back to the taxi till we are right in. Are we going right home?”

“Yes. I want to refer to some memoranda I have there, and I can telephone more conveniently from my own library than anywhere else. We’ll go home and——”

Nick broke off suddenly and ran to the middle of the wagonway on the boat.

For an instant he seemed inclined to leap over the gates, so that he could see better whatever it was that had caught his eye, and which had made him oblivious of all else?

“What is it?”

Chick was by the detective’s side, and both were staring at the dark river in front of them, but somewhat to starboard.

What they saw was startling enough to warrant the interest of Nick Carter—a man who seldom allowed himself to become excited, or he would have been so now.

A rowboat—a yawl—was moving swiftly toward the Manhattan shore, propelled by two men, and helped along considerably by the outgoing tide.

The tide caught them in such a way that, while it forced them downstream to some degree, also took them across the river, and soon would put the boat among the tangle of piles supporting some of the big wharves below the ferry slip.

The two men were T. Burton Potter and—Patsy Garvan.

“Thunder and lightning!” burst out from Chick. “How did Patsy get him? Say, chief, he’s beaten both of us!”

“All the better!” responded Nick. “I don’t care who gets Potter so long as we have him at last.”

“What are we to do now?”

“Trust to Patsy,” was the chief’s reply. “What else can we do?”

Chick nodded. As the chief had said, what else could they do?

“We couldn’t jump off this boat, Chick. And if we did, it would not help us at all. Patsy is sure to have some plan in his mind. It isn’t likely Potter knows who is in the boat with him, and I think we can depend on the shrewdness of Patsy.”

“I believe that, too,” mumbled Chick. “But I envy him his luck. I wish I were in that boat, instead of him.”

“Don’t be jealous,” laughed the detective. “You should be above that. Patsy deserves all he has, for he must have exercised judgment to have brought about what we see—the fellow we want so badly. T. Burton Potter, sitting there and rowing himself straight into the arms of the police.”

“I hope that will happen,” responded Chick. “The boat is out of sight now, for we are in the slip. We may as well get into our taxi. But I certainly have had beastly luck this night.”

“You’ve had plenty of experience, at least, Chick,” laughed his employer.

It did not take long for the taxi to run up to the detective’s home. In less than half an hour from the time they saw Patsy in the yawl with Potter, Carter was in his usual seat behind his big table, reading a short telephone message which had come about an hour before, and which the butler, who knew a great deal of the detective’s business, had taken and left for him, in the shape of a written note, on his table.

The note read, in the words that had come over the wire:

“This is Patsy. Have man. More later. Just coming over from Jersey City to New York.”

Nick read the memorandum two or three times, considering as he did so. Then a slight smile broke over his thoughtful countenance, as he looked at Chick and murmured:

“Patsy must have got to a telephone just before he entered the boat with Potter.”

“But how the dickens did he get into a boat with Potter?” asked Chick, in a puzzled tone.

“My theory is that Patsy traced Potter down to the river in some way, saw that he wanted a boat to get across without having to take the ferry, and quickly took advantage of the situation.”

“Patsy is smart enough to do that,” admitted Chick.

“Of course he is. He knows everybody along the river front. It wouldn’t be much of a feat for him to get possession of a yawl and pretend to Potter that he was the owner.”

“By George! That’s what it looks like!”

“It does. But we don’t know till we hear from Patsy.”

“There doesn’t seem to be any way to get hold of Patsy. I suppose we shall have to wait,” remarked Chick. “We ought to be doing something in the meantime, I should think. What do you intend to do until Patsy comes or lets us know?”

“Well, I think our best proceeding would be to have the butler bring us up a sandwich or two and some good coffee. If you’re not hungry, I am,” replied the chief, with a smile.