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“Hello! This is Nick Carter speaking!”
“This is Mr. Howard Milmarsh’s residence, in Westchester. Mr. Milmarsh died five minutes ago of heart failure!”
It was the voice of the millionaire steel man’s valet. The detective knew it at once.
“I will come there as soon as my car can bring me,” he answered. “In less than an hour.”
As he hung up the receiver, he pressed a button that brought into the room his confidential assistant, Chick Carter.
“Chick, Howard Milmarsh, the steel manufacturer, is dead. While I am at the house—which will be all night, and, perhaps longer, try to find the son, Howard Milmarsh, junior. At least, he is not junior, now that his father is gone. Young Milmarsh was in New York to-night, and he has not gone home. Understand?”
“I understand,” replied Chick quietly.
CHAPTER IV.
THE WHITE FEATHER.
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In one of the newer towns of the Canadian Northwest, far enough away from the usual paths of travel to give it an atmosphere of mystery, as well as romance, there is—or was, for things have changed in that town in the last few years—a hotel which made a feature of its cabaret performances, and in summer considered its gardens and the water frontage on a really beautiful lake, its greatest attractions.