The Photographer’s Evidence; Or, Clever but Crooked by Nicholas Carter

“Mr. Carter, can I trust you?”
It was in the great detective’s own house that this question was asked.
“Well,” was Nick’s quiet answer, “if you had any doubt on that matter, why did you come to me?”
His caller looked nervously at the floor.
“There’s no use in talking to me,” Nick went on, “unless you do trust me. A detective can do nothing for a client who does not give him his confidence absolutely.”
“Of course,” the other assented; “I did not mean to offend you.”
“You haven’t offended me.”
“I am so disturbed by it, you see. So much depends on secrecy. It is so terribly important that I found it difficult to make up my mind to consult anybody on the matter; and yet I know by your reputation that you are a perfectly trustworthy man. There is nobody in the States more so.”
While the man was speaking Nick was studying him.
In fact, the detective had been doing that from the moment the man entered.
He was apparently about fifty years old; a well-dressed, prosperous-looking man, who might be a merchant, or a lawyer, or a banker.