se Dyke."

"Why didn't you bring the young missus wid yo?" questioned the
negress.

"What's that? Hope you didn't think I'd committed matrimony?" and the
detective laughed lightly, at the same time chucking Aunt Jule under
her fat chin.

"Lor-a-massy, no, Marse Dyke. I meant Missy Nell," explained the black
woman.

"Miss Nell? Isn't she at home?"

"Wal, now, what a question. In coorse she ain't. Didn' yo' send fur
her yo' very self? How den yo' 'spec she's goin' to be home ef yo'
didn' done brung her, eh?"

All this was Greek to Dyke Darrel.

"What in the name of caution are you driving at, Aunt Jule? I haven't
seen my sister since I left home, and if she's gone to look for me
she's done a very foolish thing, for I'm not long in one place--she
ought to have known better."

Aunt Jule flounced out of the room, to return soon with a yellow
envelope in her hand.

"Dere, look a-dat now. Ef yo' didn' done writ dat, den I'd like to
know who did."

The detective opened the letter his housekeeper placed in his hand,
and read:

"CHICAGO, April 30, 188-.

NELL:--Come on the next train, as I wish to see you in this city. Aunt
Jule will look after the house until your return. Don't disappoint me.
"DYKE."

The detective glanced at the negress after reading this note, the
writing of which very much resembled his hand.

"This came when?"

"Yesterday."

"Through the mail?"

"Yes, Marse."

A frown darkened the brow of the detective. He crumpled the letter in
his hand and began pacing the floor with nervous strides.

"Somefin must be wrong ef yo' didn' write that letter."

Suddenly Dyke Darrel turned on the speaker and touched her huge arm
with a clinging hand.

"Jule, when did my sister answer this letter?" he demanded, fiercely.

"Jest the next train."

"Last night?"

"Yes, Marse Dyke."

Dropping his hand from Aunt Jule's huge arm, the detective rushed from
the room and the house. He was laboring under great excitement, as
well he might be, for Nell was as the apple of his eye, and she had
been enticed to the great city for a fell purpose, he believed.

CHAPTER XVII.

NELL IN THE TOILS.

The instant after Professor Ruggles fired, the masked face in the
doorway disappeared, and the sound of swift-moving feet was heard.

Still clutching his weapon, the Professor strode to the door and flung
it open, gazing into the alley, which framed no reply to the question
that trembled unspoken on hi