“I not only say so, but I can also prove it,” cried Nick. “I say, too, that you now have Arthur Gordon confined in this house, and that you and these three rascals——”
“Stop!” Deland leaped to his feet. “I have heard enough from you, Carter. Keep an eye on him, Foster, with a weapon ready. If he utters another word, or makes an aggressive move, shoot him instantly. This way, Henley, into the hall. I prefer to hear your story.”
An expression of devilish ferocity now had settled upon his vicious white face. He strode into the hall, Henley following, and for several minutes the two remained there in a whispered discussion.
Nick Carter waited with apparent indifference.
“There soon will be something doing, I imagine,” he said to himself. “I wonder whether Chick arrived in time to pick up his quarry. That now appears very improbable. Fortunately, however, I have another string to my bow, one that Henley does not even suspect. The odds are considerable, but—ah, well, I have never known him to fail to make good.”
There was a still more vicious look on Deland’s face when he returned with Henley. It was like that which it had worn when, having caught Patsy Garvan as he now had cornered Nick, he left him to die in the Barker tomb.
He came and stood directly in front of Nick, gazing down at him and saying, with icy severity:
“Henley has made it perfectly plain to me. There is no occasion for you to say more.”
“Very well,” Nick returned indifferently.
“You are very clever, Carter, very clever,” Deland went on. “I have never in Europe encountered an inspector who compared at all with you. You are so dangerous, Carter, that the world is too small for both of us.”