The Yellow Label: Nick Carter and the Society Looters

Alfred Knox Atherton was one of the most popular members of the “Marmawell Club.” He was a man in the prime of life, but, in spite of his wealth and good looks—and in spite of the schemes of designing mothers—he was still unmarried.

He had a country house in the Berkshires, and a luxuriously furnished bachelor’s apartment on Park Avenue. He was also the owner of a small, up-to-date steam yacht, which bore the uncommon name of The Philosopher’s Stone.

As is usually the case in such places, most of the waiters at the Marmawell Club were foreigners. One among them is worthy of special mention. He was the cardroom waiter, who went by the name of Max Berne, and was understood to hail from that land of model hotel keepers and waiters, Switzerland.

Max evidently had seen a great deal of the world, although he was still a young man. Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Rome, Madrid, St. Petersburg—we beg pardon, Petrograd—mention any of these cities to Max, and he could tell you which was the quickest way of getting there, which were the best hotels to stay at, how much they would charge you, what the cooking was like, and what quality of cigars and wines they stocked.

Needless to say, this made him very popular with the members of the Marmawell. He was, in fact, a perfect encyclopedia of information on all matters relating to the leading cities of Europe, and he could speak French, Italian, and Spanish as fluently as he spoke English.

That evening he was hovering over one of the tables in the deserted cardroom, giving a deft touch here and there, when Atherton walked in.

“Evening, Max!” the social favorite said affably. “Do you know if Mr. Frost is about?”

He referred to Jackson Frost—“Jack Frost,” as his friends called him—a young man of excellent family and expensive tastes, who belonged to the so-called “sporting set.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Max, in his silky, deferential voice. “Mr. Frost is in the writing room. He told me to let him know when you arrived. Shall I tell him you are here, or will you go up to him?”

“Is he alone in the writing room?”

“No, sir—at least, he wasn’t when I was there. There were several other gentlemen in the room.”

“Then ask him to join me here, and, after you have given him my message, bring me some Scotch.”

Max noiselessly retired, and presently returned with the whisky.

“Mr. Frost will be down in a moment, sir,” he said, as he placed the articles at Atherton’s elbow.

He had scarcely spoken before Jackson Frost appeared, a tall young fellow, faultlessly dressed.

“So, here you are!” he said, addressing Atherton. “A bit late, aren’t you?”

Before Atherton could reply, two other members of the club strolled into the room, a fact which brought a frown of annoyance to the man’s handsome face.

While the newcomers were giving their orders to Max, the latter stood before them in an attitude of respectful attention. All the time, however, he was straining his ears to catch what was passing between Atherton and Frost.