Nick stopped short at that point.
Floyd’s right hand suddenly appeared above the edge of the table. It held a revolver—aimed point-blank at the detective’s breast.
“You know too much, Carter, for your own good,” he hissed viciously between his teeth. “If you move foot[Pg 27] or finger, I’ll send a bullet through your heart. Sit quiet, Sheldon, and keep your mouth shut.”
Nick Carter did not appear at all disturbed by the sudden threatening turn of the situation. He had deliberately invited it, in fact, though it came so much more quickly than he expected, that it found him partly unprepared. Without stirring from his position, he gazed across the table at Floyd’s hard-set face, replying sternly:
“Your threat is equivalent to a confession. You have decided, then, to fly your true colors. That is what I wanted.”
“True colors be hanged!” snapped Floyd. “You’ll never discover my true colors, Nick Carter, nor get me under your infernal heel. Keep your hands where I can see them, or you’ll get all that’s coming to you.”
Nick saw that the hand gripping the weapon was as steady as the voice uttering the threat. He saw, too, that the scowling rascal meant what he said, though his confederate, Sheldon, had gone as white and mute as a corpse.
“I shall do nothing to invite a bullet, Mr. Floyd,” he coolly answered, though watchful to seize the slightest opportunity to reverse the situation. “I value a whole skin too highly. But matters cannot remain as they stand. What do you propose doing, now that you have held me up, and——”
“You’ll soon see,” snapped Floyd, interrupting. Then, with voice raised: “Hurry up, Martin! Get a move on! Come here, and——”
Nick cut him short in characteristic fashion. For the hundredth part of a second Floyd’s eyes were diverted from him. Nick saw the opportunity, and seized it. He heard hurried steps in an adjoining room. He lifted his knees as quick as a flash and upset the table—just as a portière behind him was cast aside and two brawny, powerful men bounded into the room.