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Excerpt: 'Nick Carter paused only a moment before replying. He took that one moment to consider the other strange matter that had brought him to Washington, and whether compliance with the request just made by the chief of police would seriously interfere with it. He decided that it would not, and he then said quite gravely: 'Why, yes, I will go with Detective Fallon, since you both press me so earnestly. It is barely possible, chief, as you say, that I may detect something that would escape his notice. Who is the victim of the crime, if such it proves to be?' 'There is no question about that, Nick,' said the chief. 'The murdered man is the Reverend Father Cleary, of the St. Lawrence Church. He was found dead on the floor of his library in the rectory, which adjoins the church, about half an hour ago.' 'A Roman Catholic priest, eh?' 'Yes.' 'What do you know about it?' 'Very little. I was notified by telephone. I directed that nothing should be touched, nor anything said about the crime before I began an investigation. I sent two policemen to take charge in the rectory until I could get word to Detective Fallon. He is the best man on my force for such a job.' 'But I am not in your class, Nick; far from it,' put in Fallon, who was an erect, dark man of forty, with a rather grave and resolute type of face. 'You are in a class of your own, Carter, as far as that goes.' 'Cut it!' said the chief tersely. 'Chucking violets is a waste of time. Fallon will tell you all that is known, Nick, while you are on the road. My car and chauffeur are outside. Take it, Fallon, and let me hear from you. You have carte blanche, Nick. Dig into the matter in your own peculiar way.' 'I will see what I make of it,' Nick replied, turning to accompany Fallon from the police headquarters.'