Under The Tiger's Claws: A Struggle for the Right
Library of Alexandria
“Well, my dear Gilsey, I rather think I can land him for you,” declared Nick Carter, with an odd smile lurking in the corners of his keen, gray eyes. “But that will not do, Nick,” protested Mr. Raymond Gilsey, with an immediate display of apprehension. “Not do, sir?” “It may not be what I want.” “Not what you want?” “Not exactly, Nick,” and Mr. Raymond Gilsey decisively shook his head. He was a venerable banker, with a remarkably gentle and benevolent countenance. He was the president of the Milmore Trust Company, a banking-institution located in Forty-second Street, the patrons of which consisted chiefly of business firms in the immediate neighborhood, and of wealthy women, to whom the up-town location of the bank was a convenience. It was in Mr. Gilsey’s handsome private office that Nick Carter was seated, one afternoon early in May, in response to a telephone request from the banker about an hour before. Between the two there existed a friendship of long standing, and the celebrated detective had hastened to respond. As yet, however, he had received but a hint at the business for which he had been called, and he wondered a little at the banker’s obvious misgivings, as appeared in his remarks noted above. “Please explain, Mr. Gilsey,” said Nick. “Certainly, if there is a deficit in your cash, and you suspect—— Ah, but stop a moment. Perhaps it will be just as well, my dear Gilsey, if our interview——” The last, spoken with lowered voice, was considered with a significant glance in the direction of Gilsey’s private stenographer, who sat busily engaged near one of the office windows, and Nick’s glance was equivalent to a suggestion that the presence of a third party might wisely be dispensed with. This third party was a young woman named Belle Braddon, apparently about twenty-five years of age. Certain features about her, however, which Nick’s keen eyes were quick to notice, indicated that Miss Braddon was in divers ways experienced beyond her years. She was that type of girl quite properly termed dashing. Her figure was striking, her face handsome, with mobile red lips, alluring blue eyes, and cheeks with a soft tinge of color not entirely their own. She had, too, an unusual abundance of wavy auburn hair, which was then arranged in picturesque disorder. Regarded from top to toe, she was decidedly noticeable, and the style of girl to which most men are quick to respond.