CHAPTER I.
A MAN IN A MASK.

“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.”

“Pity we hadn’t got the costumes in our own wardrobe.”

“Yes. We have all kinds of disguises,” returned Nick. “But we seem to have overlooked both a Spanish officer and a Mexican of this particular type. I could have gone as a vaquero without bothering anybody outside. But I have been seen in that dress, and this gang of counterfeiters we are after are as cunning as any set of men I have ever met. They’d smell me out, as a vaquero, as soon as I went into the ballroom.”

“I’d like to be going with you,” said Chick, with a shade of envy in his voice. “Those big balls at the Hotel Supremacy are always worth seeing. I dare say I could have got an invitation.”

“I am going on business, Chick,” returned his chief coldly.

“I know that. Still, some business is pleasanter than others,” persisted Chick. “You are going to do the tango, I suppose?”

“I shall not dance,” was the answer. “I intend to go up in the balcony to look on. I’ll get into a private box if I can.”

The telephone bell rang, and Chick answered. Then he turned to Nick.

“It’s Corliston, the costumer.”

“Find out what he’s after. I suppose he wants to apologize for sending me the wrong costume.”

That was exactly what Corliston did want. There had been a Spanish officer and a Mexican both ordered, and through an error on the part of some of his men, the Spanish officer had gone to somebody else. He hoped Mr. Carter would not be much inconvenienced. If there was anything he could do, et cetera, et cetera.

“Tell him it is all right,” directed Nick shortly.

He put a light overcoat over his Mexican rig, and went down to the taxi waiting for him at the front door.

There had been some counterfeits of big bills worrying the treasury department of late, and Nick Carter had been asked to help in gathering in the persons who were making and “shoving” the bad bills.

Information had reached Nick that some of the guests at the mask ball at the big hotel might be the men h