Well, old man, said Nick Carter, as he shook the snow from his overcoat, "what’s the news? Anything strange since this morning?" He was addressing Chick, his assistant, who, to use his own expression, was "acting the chamber lawyer" for the day. "Yes. Two small cases have come in; but there is a telegram from Boston that may be of importance." "Let’s see it, my lad!" said the great detective, throwing his overcoat on a chair and seating himself. He took the dispatch in his hands and read it slowly. "H’m! Yes, there’s something in this, Chick. What time is it?" "Five-forty." "Good! I can catch the Providence boat. Telegraph anything you have to say to the Adams House!" and in another moment the noted detective had left the office. The snow lay heavy upon the ground when Nick Carter arrived in Boston next morning. Nothing eventful happened during his journey, and he felt rested and ripe for his work—whatever it was. He was about to step into a cab, when his eyes caught sight of a small vial, half buried in the snow, which he picked up and placed in one of his overcoat pockets, then addressing the hackman, he said: "When did the snow stop falling?" "Just after the train for New York pulled out last night, sir." "You had a heavy fall?" "Yes, sir." "Do you know where Mr. Samuel Rogers lives in Dorchester?" "Of course I do, sir." "Well, take me there." Half an hour later the cab stopped at an old-fashioned mansion, which stood in a beautifully kept lawn, in the most fashionable part of Dorchester. "I wish to see Mr. Samuel Rogers, junior," said the detective to the colored man who answered his ring. "What name shall I say?" asked the domestic. "Oh, never mind the name. Tell him that a friend from New York wishes to see him."