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Supportive Accountability
How to Inspire People and Improve
Performance
Sylvia Melena
A Strong Supervisor-Employee
Relationship
In the bigger scheme of things, none of this matters if you don’t
focus your energies on the most crucial factor for unleashing
performance excellence: a strong supervisor-employee relationship. A
solid and healthy supervisor-employee relationship is the foundation
of the Supportive Accountability Leadership Model. All the rest will be
to no avail if you don’t get this right. As the immediate supervisor, you
alone can break or make the workplace in the eyes of employees. So
this entire book, from the first chapter to the last, focuses on how you
can be a great supervisor. I will unveil the art of supportive leadership
to help you unleash the potential of the people you lead.
Supportive Accountability Leadership isn’t just for turning around
substandard performance. It’s the bedrock of performance excellence.
It can also help employees who are doing well to take their
performance to higher levels. So whether you want to jump-start
performance for your new employees, transform good performance
into performance excellence, or turn around lackluster performance,
Supportive Accountability Leadership will provide you a firm
foundation for immediate and long-lasting success.
Chapter 1
The Heart of Supportive Accountability
“We just have to create a work environment where whatever is
going on with our team, we let them know that there is somebody
there.”
– Scott H. Silverman, CEO of Confidential Recovery
In Review
The key takeaway is that strong leadership is paramount for creating
an environment that engages employees and promotes strong
performance. Leaders who are proactive and balanced in their
leadership approach engage employees and create a motivating work
environment. Leaders who are too harsh or too lenient or who avoid
their responsibilities altogether create a disengaging work
environment. This leads to less-than-optimum performance. The great
news is that capable leadership is a skill that can be learned and
refined over time. Managers and supervisors can enhance their ability
to develop, support, and hold employees accountable and create a
motivating and high-performing work environment.
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Putting It into Action
1. Review the descriptions of the four leadership styles of
supportive accountability—unsupportive accountability,
supportive unaccountability, total avoidance, and supportive
accountability.
2. Self-reflect. In which style do you most consistently operate? Are
you high or low in accountability? Are you high or low in
supportiveness?
3. Keep this self-reflection in mind as you read more about support
and accountability in the rest of this book and write down ways
you can improve in supportiveness, accountability, or both.
Chapter 2
The Art of Supportive Leadership
A strong supervisor-employee relationship is the most important
source of support you can provide employees.
Title: Nick Carter Stories No. 146, June 26, 1915: Paying the Price; or,
Nick Carter's Perilous Venture
Language: English
No. 146. NEW YORK, June 26, 1915. Price Five Cents.
PAYING THE PRICE;
Or, NICK CARTER’S PERILOUS VENTURE.
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.
It then was about half past eight on the first day of November, and the
famous New York detective was in Washington on other business, the nature
of which will presently appear. He knew it could wait, however, and he was
not averse to complying with the urgent request of the local police chief,
who, in as serious a case as had been reported to him, was more than eager
to secure the aid and advice of the celebrated detective.
Nick took a seat with Fallon in the tonneau of the touring car, the latter
having hurriedly given the chauffeur his instructions.
“We can run out there in ten minutes, Nick,” he added, when the detective
banged the door and sat down.
“The St. Lawrence Church, eh?” queried Nick, gazing at him. “I don’t
recall having seen it.”
“It is a new one,” said Fallon. “It was built only a year ago. It is pretty
well out and not in a wealthy and fashionable section of the city. Father
Cleary is a comparatively young priest, not over forty, and is known for the
good work he has done in the slums. He will be sadly missed in the low
districts.”
“Were you acquainted with him?” Nick inquired.
“Yes, slightly.”
“How long has he been in Washington?”
“About three years,” said Fallon. “You were here about a month ago, by
the way, on that government case against several foreign spies. I heard of it
after you left. I was sorry not to have seen you.”
“I was here only a couple of days with two of my assistants,” Nick
replied. “We were fortunate in speedily rounding up the miscreants, barring
one.”
“You refer to Andy Margate, I suppose.”
“Yes. The net still is spread for him, however, and the others now are
doing time. Margate was not one of the spies. With the help of two local
crooks, he turned a trick on the foreigners that proved to be much to my
advantage.”
“You refer to Larry Trent and Tom Carney?”
“Yes.”
“Both are bad eggs,” said Fallon. “I have known them from ’way back.
Trent is the worse of the two, for he is better educated and came from decent
people.”
“So I have heard.”
“He has a sister, Lottie Trent, who is an honest and industrious girl. She’s
employed as a stenographer in an office in the war department. I knew her
parents, also, who have been dead for several years. By the way, Nick, there
was mighty little published about the true inwardness of that foreign-spy
case. They went up without a legal fight, even.”
“There was no fight coming to them,” said Nick dryly. “They had no
defense. I clinched the case against them, including Captain Casper Dillon.”
“But the bottom facts were nearly all suppressed.”
“Yes, all of the bottom facts,” Nick allowed, smiling significantly.
“It is hinted, nevertheless, that Senator Barclay and a young government
engineer in the war department, one Harold Garland, were somewhat
involved in the matter,” said Fallon. “Is that true?”
“Really, Fallon, I cannot say,” said Nick, still smiling.
Detective Fallon laughed lightly, knowing well enough that Nick could
have informed him concerning every part of the case, if so inclined. He took
no exceptions to his reticence, however, and inquired, after a moment:
“Is there any clew to Margate’s whereabouts?”
“Not that I know of,” Nick admitted. “The police throughout the country
are on the watch for him. He is a very keen, crafty, and elusive fellow,
however, and is better known in Europe, where he has done most of his
knavish work. But we shall get him, Fallon, sooner or later. If——”
“Here we are,” Fallon interrupted. “There is the church.”
The touring car had turned a corner, bringing the sacred edifice into view.
It occupied the corner beyond and stood somewhat back from the street, both
front and side. In the rear, fronting on the side street, was the dwelling
occupied by Father Cleary, whose only servant was an elderly housekeeper,
one Honora Kane, who had been a widow many years.
The church, the rectory, and the surrounding grounds extended back to
the next street, from which they were divided by a stone wall, the rear
grounds being adorned with several old shade trees, the wide-spreading
branches of which mingled with those in the side grounds of the adjoining
estate.
Nick took in all these features of the scene while approaching the rectory,
on the sidewalk in front of which a policeman was pacing to and fro. He
touched his helmet when Fallon sprang from the car, but evidently he did not
know the face of the more famous detective.
“What has been done, Bagley?” asked Fallon, pausing briefly.
“Nothing, sir, except to keep it quiet,” said the policeman. “We have been
waiting for you. Grady is inside.”
“We’ll go in,” said Fallon.
“One moment,” Nick interposed, detaining him. “The murder has not
leaked out, Bagley, I take it?”
“No, sir.”
“I see that there are no inquisitive people hanging around here. Have you
seen any one, by the way, who appeared to have an interest in the place?”
“No, sir; I have not.”
“That’s all, Bagley; thank you.”
“I see the point, Nick,” Fallon remarked, as they entered the grounds
fronting the rectory.
“Holy smoke!” Bagley muttered, starting after them. “That must be Nick
Carter. Great guns! there’ll be nothing to the case, if he is on it.”
The two detectives were admitted to the hall by a pale young woman in a
calico wrapper and a long gingham apron. Her tear-filled eyes, together with
the low moans and sobs of a corpulent woman in an adjoining room, evinced
the grief and distress of both.
“Let me take the ribbons, Fallon,” Nick said quietly. “We may go over the
traces if we drive too fast.”
Fallon readily acquiesced, and Nick paused and questioned the woman
who had admitted them.
He learned that her name was Margaret Dawson; that she was the nearest
neighbor to the rectory, and that she had hurried to assist Mrs. Kane, the
housekeeper, upon learning her cries when she discovered the terrible crime.
“Nora was nearly out of her bed, sir, and didn’t know what to do,” she
explained. “So I telephoned to the police station, sir, and was told to let
things alone till the officers came. That was not long, sir, and nothing has
been touched, not even Father Cleary’s body. An officer is in the library, sir,
where it’s lying.”
“Mrs. Kane is the only servant?” questioned Nick, glancing at the
sobbing woman in the adjoining room.
“Yes, sir. She is quite deaf, sir, and heard no disturbance during the night.
She went to bed before nine o’clock last evening, leaving Father Cleary
alone in the library.”
“She has told you this?”
“Yes, sir. The library door was closed when she came down this morning
to get breakfast, but she did not think of anything wrong on that account.
When the meal was nearly ready, however, she went up to call Father Cleary
and found his room had not been used. Then she came down to the library,
sir, and discovered what had been done.”
Seeing the housekeeper gazing anxiously at him, Nick entered the room
and briefly questioned her. She could tell him only that Father Cleary had
had no visitors early in the evening, and that he expected none, as far as she
knew, and that he had not lately appeared at all troubled, or in any way
apprehensive.
That was about all that the elderly housekeeper could tell him, and Nick
turned to the waiting detective.
“She is too deaf to have heard any disturbance in the library, Fallon, after
having gone to her bedroom,” he said quietly, with a gesture directing the
two women to remain in the front room.
“Yes, surely,” Fallon agreed.
“Come. We will go into the library.”
Nick led the way through the dim, simply furnished hall. He passed a
passageway leading to a side door. Beyond it was the library, in the east side
of the house, with a dining room nearly opposite across the hall, and a
kitchen and porch in the rear.
The door of the library was then open. A policeman who had heard them
enter had stepped into the hall and was waiting for them.
“One moment, Fallon,” said Nick. “What has been done in this room,
Grady, since the crime was discovered.”
“Nothing, sir,” said the policeman, gazing curiously at him. “Both women
say they have not entered the room, though the housekeeper opened this
door. I have disturbed nothing. Things are just as I found them.”
“Very good.”
Nick paused on the threshold of the open door and studied with searching
scrutiny the tragic scene that met his gaze.
CHAPTER II.
CONFLICTING EVIDENCE.
The first thing to catch Nick Carter’s eye after stepping out on the
veranda was a strip of white cotton cloth, also a piece of common white
string, both lying on the veranda floor near the willow chair mentioned.
The strip of cloth was somewhat soiled and wrinkled, also creased and
curled in a way, and Nick picked it up and examined it.
He found that it was about two feet in length and five inches wide, also
that it had been carefully folded lengthwise. On one soiled end of it were
stains of blood.
“By Jove, here’s another bit of curious evidence,” said he, after a careful
examination.
“It looks like a bandage,” said Fallon.
“That’s just what it is.”
“But why curious?”
“Note the wrinkles and creases and the way it curls,” said Nick. “Plainly
enough, Fallon, it has been bound around a man’s hand, or it would not have
retained these several turns and creases.”
“I see.”
“Hold out your hands, both of them. We can find out by readjusting these
quirks and turns on which hand it was worn.”
“Certainly. That’s a simple problem.”
Nick proceeded to fit the bandage, so to speak, to Fallon’s hands. It
would not fit the right hand, though turned in either direction, without
altering the original turns and wrinkles. It could be perfectly bound around
the left hand, however, and the result of Nick’s experiment was convincing.
“This is as plain as twice two,” said he. “It was worn by some man on his
left hand.”
“Surely,” Fallon agreed. “He probably had a sore hand, or a cut.”
“You are wrong,” said Nick. “That’s the curious part of it.”
“Wrong?” questioned Fallon, puzzled. “Why so?”
Nick still had the bandage twined around his companion’s left hand.
“Notice these bloodstains,” he replied. “They are not on the inside of the
bandage, which would come next to a cut, or sore. They are on the outside of
it.”
“By Jove, that is a bit strange,” Fallon now declared.
“The blood did not soak from a wound, moreover, for the layer of cloth
beneath this outside one is perfectly clean, as you see.”
“True.”
“So, as you now can see, is the inside of the bandage, which came next to
the hand,” Nick continued, removing it and displaying the inner side. “There
is not a sign of blood, pus, salve, or liniment, as if it had been bound around
a wounded hand. It is perfectly clean, in fact.”
“Humph!” Fallon ejaculated, gazing at it with increasing perplexity.
“There is no question as to your being right. It speaks for itself. But what in
thunder do you make of it?”
“The hand was not injured,” said Nick.
“It may have been lame, or sprained.”
“The bandage would not have been removed in that case, Fallon,” Nick
replied. “If sufficiently lame to require a bandage, it would not have been
removed when the man arrived here. No man about to attempt a desperate
job with a lame hand would first weaken the hand by removing a bandage
with which it had been protected, or strengthened.”
“That’s true, also,” Fallon nodded. “You think it was worn by the
assassin?”
“I do.”
“When he entered?”
“No. Before he entered,” said Nick. “In order to have free use of his
hand, he evidently tore off the bandage and string and threw them aside
before he entered. Here are stains of blood on the string, also, proving that
those on the bandage were on the outside of it, as I have already
demonstrated.”
“You’re right, Nick,” agreed Fallon. “There is no denying it.”
“Take it from me, too, the man’s hand was not injured.”
“But why that bandage, then?”
“For some other reason,” Nick said dryly. “What that reason was, Fallon,
remains to be learned. It would be a waste of time for us to try to guess it.”
“I agree with you.”
“The blood on the outside of the bandage evidently came from the man’s
right hand, moreover, which I already have pointed out was stained, not
after, but before he entered this door. This mysterious bandage confirms my
previous deductions.”
“By Jove, it’s a perplexing mess,” said Fallon, brows knitted. “I cannot
fathom why the scoundrel’s right hand was soiled with blood before he
entered this house. Why it afterward may have been is simple enough.”
“Let’s go a step farther,” said Nick, thrusting the string and bandage into
his pocket.
He then began a careful examination of the veranda floor, but he could
find no tracks, nor evidence of any description.
Leaving the veranda, Nick then inspected the walk leading out to the
street, also the neatly trimmed lawn adjoining it. The gravel walk retained no
footprints, but Nick had taken only a few steps when, abruptly halting, he
pointed to the greensward.
The grass was slightly bent and bruised. Faint though it was, the track of
a small shoe was discernible, showing its size and the direction in which it
was turned.
“I see,” Fallon nodded, crouching with Nick to examine it. “Some one
recently stepped here, not longer ago than last evening.”
“That some one was a child, a girl, or a woman with a small foot,” Nick
replied. “It most likely was the last, a young woman.”
“Why so?”
“Notice the prints of the heel, which sank a little into the sod. It was small
and quite high. The deduction is a simple one. Only young women wear
shoes with French heels. They are seldom found on girls, or on elderly
women.”
“By Jove, you overlook nothing, Nick.”
“Not this, surely, for it stares me in the face,” Nick replied. “Here’s
another. Notice that the first points nearly toward the street. This points
toward the rear grounds. Plainly, then, the woman was going toward the
street when she first stepped from the gravel walk, and she then turned in the
opposite direction.”
“That’s plain, too,” Fallon agreed. “But what do you make of it?”
Nick glanced back at the veranda for a moment.
“The woman came from the side door, or from that opening on the
veranda,” said he. “She walked as far as here, as if about to go to the street,
then she turned toward the rear grounds. Take it from me, Fallon, she was
Father Cleary’s first visitor last evening. He let her out, probably through the
door opening upon the veranda, and she started for the street. After hearing
him close the door, however, and knowing he was not watching her, she
turned in the other direction.”
“By Jove, I think you are right.”
“Come. We’ll try to follow the tracks.”
Nick traced them with no great difficulty. The trail led him for a short
distance diagonally across the grounds toward the back street. Then it
diverged abruptly in the direction of the low wall dividing the church
property from an adjoining estate.
Gazing over the wall, Nick discovered other tracks in the next yard,
where the grass was not as closely trimmed and was considerably trampled
down. It was in the side yard of a wooden dwelling somewhat back from the
street and about thirty feet from the wall.
Leaping over the low wall, Nick examined the sod and grass. He found
numerous intermingled tracks and indentations, including that of a slender
heel and others much broader and deeper. Passing his hand over the grass
and glancing at the palm, he found it slightly stained with blood.
“Here we have it, Fallon,” he said, rising and displaying his hand. “Here
is the key to the mystery, or to a part of it.”
“Good heavens!” Fallon exclaimed, gazing at it and then at the trampled
grass. “There was a fight here.”
“A very one-sided fight, Fallon, unless I am much mistaken,” Nick
replied.
“You mean?”
“It’s as plain as twice two, Fallon, as far as it goes,” said Nick,
confidently. “Father Cleary had a woman visitor last evening. She confided
something to him, or revealed it in a confession, about which he then sat
down to write to Bishop Cassidy.”
“As the unfinished letter indicates.”
“Exactly. After leaving him and pretending to start for the street, the
woman came this way and got over the wall into this yard. Here are her heel
prints in the sod. Why she came here and where she intended going is an
open question.”
“Plainly.”
“Be that as it may, she went no farther voluntarily,” Nick continued. “She
was intercepted by two men, at least; possibly three. I can find at least two
different heel tracks in the sod. The depth of them, also the trampled
condition of the grass, show plainly that there was a brief struggle. The
woman was overcome, though not without bloodshed, as also appears on the
grass.”
“Considerable blood, too, Nick, judging from your hand.”
“Enough to tell this part of the story,” Nick replied. “Probably, too, here
is where Father Cleary’s assailant got the blood on his right hand, as well as
on the outside of the bandage, before entering the rectory.”
“Yes, surely.”
“He tore off the bandage and cast it aside before undertaking the more
desperate game,” Nick added. “My opinion is, at present, that the scoundrel
knew that the woman had revealed something to the priest, whom he then
killed to prevent further exposure, while confederates who were with him
got away with the woman. That is my theory. Whether it is correct, or not,
remains to be discovered, as well as the identity of the knaves and the
whereabouts or fate of the woman.”
“I agree with you,” said Fallon gravely. “That seems to be the most
reasonable theory, if not the only one. What’s next to be done. Can we trace
these tracks any farther?”
“Not beyond the street, I fear, though I will try to do so,” said Nick. “I
will also question the people living in this house. They may have heard some
disturbance last evening. In the meantime, Fallon, you return to the rectory
and notify the coroner and a physician.”
“The coroner is a physician, Doctor Hadley.”
“He will be sufficient, then, for the present,” said Nick. “You had better
talk with the chief, also, and tell him what I make of the case. I saw a
telephone on a stand in the hall.”
“I saw it, too.”
“Go ahead, then. I will rejoin you there a little later.”
Fallon readily acquiesced, turning and quickly retracing his steps to the
rectory.
Nick glanced again at the trampled grass, then traced the several faint
tracks as far as the sidewalk, where, as he had expected, the trail ended
abruptly.
He then rang at the door of the house, in the side yard of which he had
made his latest discoveries. The summons brought a middle-aged woman to
the door, who stated in reply to his questions that no disturbance had been
heard the previous evening, and that she knew nothing of what had
transpired outside of the house.
Nick saw plainly that she was telling the truth, and he did not long detain
her. Returning to the sidewalk, he noted that there were no dwellings
opposite, only several vacant lots, none of which was inclosed with a fence.
“The rascals may have gone in that direction,” he said to himself, after
vainly searching the street for tracks of a carriage or a motor car. “They
must, if they got away with the woman, have had a conveyance of some
kind. They may have crossed those lots, however, to the next street.”
Bent upon confirming this, if possible, Nick walked in that direction. He
had only just entered the nearest of the several lots, however, when he saw
some pieces of white paper scattered over the dry ground. They appeared to
be fragments of a torn letter, and were so fresh and clean that they must have
been recently dropped.
Nick picked up a few of the fragments and examined them. They were
written on only one side, in a dainty, feminine hand; but the few words on
each piece, none of which was more than an inch square, gave him only a
vague idea as to the character of the entire letter.
That was so suggestive, however, that Nick carefully searched the ground
for the remaining fragments, which had been somewhat scattered by the
wind, or designedly done by the person who had destroyed the letter. He
succeeded in finding enough of the fragments to feel reasonably sure that
they would nearly complete the torn sheet, and he inclosed them in his
notebook.
Nick then crossed the vacant lots to the next street, noting that the locality
was one in which such a crime as he now suspected could have been
committed without much danger of detection; but he could discover no
further clew to the movements of the woman and her assailants, and then
retraced his steps to the rectory.
The coroner had arrived during his absence and was viewing the remains
of the murdered priest. Nick did not remain to talk with him, however, but
beckoned for Fallon to join him on the veranda.
“I must be going, now, for I have an appointment this morning,” he
explained. “You can tell Doctor Hadley, also the chief, what I make of the
case. Here is Father Cleary’s unfinished letter, which you had better hand to
the coroner. I will try to see you later and give you further assistance.”
Detective Fallon thanked him, and Nick then departed.
CHAPTER IV.
A CONNECTING LINK.
Nick Carter had spent much less time at the St. Lawrence rectory than
one might infer from the nature and extent of his investigations. He had
covered the ground rapidly, despite the numerous deductions and
explanations with which he had assisted Detective Fallon, from whom he
parted shortly before ten o’clock.
Something like twenty minutes later, Nick alighted from a taxicab at a
handsome stone residence in Massachusetts Avenue. It was that of Senator
Ambrose Barclay, one of the leading statesmen then in the higher house, and
the man directly responsible for Nick Carter’s arrival in Washington late the
previous night.
A butler admitted the detective and at once ushered him into a richly
furnished library, where Nick was almost immediately joined by both
Senator Barclay and his daughter Estella, a beautiful brunette in the twenties.
The great service already done them by the detective was fresh in their
minds, only a month having elapsed, and their greeting was extremely
cordial.
“I got your wire saying you would see me this morning,” Senator Barclay
then said, while Stella quietly closed the door. “I’m very glad you could
make it convenient to comply with my request. I have not forgotten how
deeply I am indebted to you, Carter, for having saved my reputation in that
foreign-spy affair. I will not say my honor, of course, for I was in no degree
culpable, though malicious persons, or an uninformed public, might have
thought differently.”
“I was very well aware of it, Senator Barclay, and I made sure that your
name did not appear in the matter,” Nick replied. “But let the dead bury the
dead. What’s the trouble, now, that you again need my aid?”
“I am in a quandary, possibly in an equally bad mess,” said the statesman.
“It concerns, to begin with, the same young man who was robbed of the
government coast-defense plans by those infernal foreigners, aided by that
traitor, Dillon, all of whom woolly-eyed me into friendly relations with them
for more than a year. I cringe with chagrin when I think of it.”
“But how is Harold Garland involved in your present trouble?”
questioned Nick, keeping him to the point.
“Involved in it!” blurted Senator Barclay. “Damn it—excuse me, Stella; I
forgot you were here. How is Garland involved in my present trouble? Hang
it, Carter, he is something more than involved in it. He is the trouble.”
Nick laughed, while Stella Barclay blushed profusely.
“Suppose you explain, senator, without any expletives,” Nick suggested.
“Yes, dad, dear, do,” pleaded Stella. “Tell Mr. Carter the whole business.
Don’t mind me, I shall survive it.”
“It can be told in a nutshell, Carter,” said Senator Barclay familiarly.
“Since you opened his eyes to the devilish treachery of that jade, Madame
Irma Valaska, Garland has transferred his affection to my daughter. He
always was fond of her, mind you, and he now declares that he loves her. I
am glad that he does, and she him. I am fond of Garland myself, as far as
that goes, for he’s a clean-cut, manly, and wonderfully capable fellow. I
know of no man whom I would rather have for a son-in-law.”
“Permit me to extend my best wishes,” said Nick, with a sort of droll
pleasantry, glancing at the crimson face of the smiling girl. “I think, like
your father, that Harold Garland is a remarkably fine fellow.”
“I think so, too, Mr. Carter,” Stella said simply.
“But what is the trouble?” Nick inquired, turning again to her father.
“What is wrong with Garland?”
“That is what I want you to learn,” Senator Barclay said gravely.
“Garland is not himself. He is frightfully worried about something.”
“You don’t know about what?”
“No; I only suspect. Although he firmly denies it, Nick, he is in serious
trouble of some kind. It is something that came up about a week ago, when
Stella and I first noticed his changed manner and appearance.”
“Changed in what way?” Nick inquired.
“He has become indescribably moody and depressed. I have watched him
covertly at times and seen him wearing an expression of utterly
indescribable anxiety. He has lost twenty pounds in a week and looks as pale
as a corpse. Something must be done, Carter, and you are the man who must
do it.”
“We are dreadfully anxious,” put in Stella, with an appealing glance at the
detective. “Do, Mr. Carter, see what you can learn about him, or from him.”
“You have questioned him, of course,” said Nick.
“Yes, vainly.”
“Does he say nothing at all in explanation of these changes?”
“He attributes them to our imagination and insists that there is nothing
wrong,” said Senator Barclay. “I know better, however, and that he is all
wrong. I called him down quite severely night before last, Mr. Carter, and he
then made the remark which afterward led me to send for you.”
“What was that?”
“I charged him with being in serious trouble of some kind and insisted
that he must confide in me,” Senator Barclay explained. “My persistency
irritated him a little. He seemed to lose his head for a moment, and he
asserted quite resentfully that I must cease interrogating him. He then added
impulsively that I would be quite lucky if I kept out of the trouble myself.”
“H’m, is that so?” said Nick. “Did you ask him to explain?”
“Yes, certainly. He declared that he meant nothing definite, however, that
he had spoken impulsively and only in a cursory way. I am sure,
nevertheless, that the remark had much more serious significance, and that
he implied that I might become involved in the very trouble with which he
was burdened.”
“That is a natural inference,” Nick agreed.
“And you know, too, what it might signify,” Senator Barclay responded
gravely. “There is only one bad mess, Mr. Carter, in which I could be
involved with Garland. That is something relating to the theft of those
government plans, and the fact that my name was kept out of that
unfortunate affair.”
“That is what I have in mind,” bowed Nick.
“You also know, of course, that the miscreant who stole them from Dillon
after he had received them from Irma Valaska, is still at large. I refer to Andy
Margate. He is capable of any kind of knavery. If he——”
“I know all about Andy Margate and of what he is capable,” Nick
interposed. “It may be, of course, that he still is in Washington. He may be