Excerpt: "“Message for Mr. Carter!” The wireless operator of the steamship Marathon, in the linen clothes and pith helmet ordinarily worn by white people in the tropics, came along the steamer deck with a slip of paper in his hand and stopped in front of a row of steamer chairs under an awning. “Where’s it from?” asked the occupant of one of the chairs, springing to his feet. “From shore, sir—Calcutta.” Nick Carter, who was holding out his hand even as he got up from his chair, took the paper quickly and glanced at the few words it contained: “Get up to Nepal quickly.” That was all. There was no signature, and the operator could not say who had sent it. “It came from the main office of the telegraph company in Calcutta,” he explained. “The operator told me a native man brought it in and paid for it. He said there would be no answer, and his own name did not matter.” “It is many years since I was in Calcutta last,” observed Nick Carter, to his companions, as the operator went back to the wireless room. “Then it was only for a few days, and I did not make many acquaintances.” A tall, middle-aged man, whose square face and straight-seeing dark eyes, as well as his decided manner of speech, were all suggestive of the successful American business man, got up from one of the chairs and looked over Nick Carter’s shoulder at the telegram he still held open in one hand."
