Excerpt: "“You’ll pass for a Mexican in those togs, chief.” “The ‘togs,’ as you call them, Chick, don’t necessarily make any character. But there is nothing about a Mexican to distinguish him from other men except his costume, so I dare say I shall be a good-enough Mexican for the purpose.” Nick Carter, the famous detective, regarded his reflection in the mirror rather disgustedly, and his speech came in angry jerks, unlike his usual calm, even tones. “You’ll be masked, of course?” observed his assistant, Chickering. “Certainly. It is a masked ball. If it were not, I should have very little chance of catching my men. They would know me at once.” “I hope they will be there.” “They will, in all probability—unless they suspect that I may be on the lookout for them. But I wish the costumer hadn’t made this mistake about my dress. I told him distinctly I wanted the uniform of a Spanish officer—a colonel, if he had it. Evidently he considered this rig—with the trousers split at the bottoms, and this big sombrero—was near enough, when he found he had not just what I ordered.”"
