“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Nick, obeying. “Point the gun another way. It might go off by chance.”
Henley heard the snap of handcuffs around Nick’s wrists and saw Foster straighten up after having secured him, and he then lowered the shotgun and grinned maliciously.
“You thought you were the real thing, didn’t you, Carter?” he demanded. “Get a move on and I’ll show you what you’re up against and where you stand.”
“I can guess.”
“Into the shack, and no funny business, mind you, or you’ll hear something drop, if you live until you hit the floor. Lead the way, Brigham. Where’s his jags?”
“In the dining room, Jim.”
“Head that way. Plug along, Carter, where he leads.”
Nick felt the prod of the ruffian’s gun in the small of his back, but he had no intention of offering any objection. He followed Brigham into the house, a stocky, ill-favored fellow with fiery-red hair, and in another moment he heard the door closed and locked behind him.
The hall was dim when the sunlight was thus excluded. It ran straight through the spacious old colonial house to the front door. A broad, but angular stairway led up to the second floor. There was a damp and musty smell in the long-closed dwelling, and the rooms on each side of the broad hall looked dusty, gloomy, and deserted.
The exception, in the last respect, was the large dining room into which the detective was conducted by the three crooks.