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Excerpt: ''Extraordinary-that doesn't half express it. I know of no word that would. To some extent, Nick, at least, men's motives are usually discernible in their conduct. But in this case-why, there was nothing to it. It is utterly inexplicable. It was like a horrid dream, a hideous nightmare, or the mental abnormalities of a dope fiend.' Nick Carter laughed and spread his napkin, with a significant glance at his chief assistant, Chick Carter, who sat at one side of the table, that of a private dining room in a new and fashionable New York hotel. 'Well, Mr. Clayton, if the story you have to tell warrants so remarkable a preface, it will be interesting, at least,' said the famous detective. 'Yes, Nick, and then some,' Chick agreed, smiling. 'He so has aroused my curiosity that I really am all ears.' 'I don't think I shall disappoint you,' said their companion, more gravely. He was a fashionably clad man of thirty-five, of medium build and with clean-cut, attractive cast of features, smoothly shaved. There was in other respects nothing specially distinctive about him. He was the type of well-bred, well-informed, and thorough business man with which New York City abounds.'