Patsy guessed the truth on the instant. There was no need for explanations. He knew, now, why Nancy Nordeck had distrusted her master’s visitor, why she felt sure that she had seen him before, and why he had involuntarily betrayed his recognition of her when she first admitted him to the Darling residence.
It was a discovery that clinched all of Nick Carter’s suspicions. For Patsy now plainly recognized the cleverly disguised face. It told him on the instant that Philip Floyd and Kate Crandall were one and the same.
The recognition was mutual, moreover, and a half-smothered oath broke from the lips of the dismayed woman.
“Let me go!” she hissed, struggling viciously. “Let me go, I say!”
“Not much!” muttered Patsy exultantly. “I know you, now, and I’ve got you for keeps.”
His arms closed more tightly around her. He had seized her, by chance, so that her arms were confined to her sides and she could not free them, could not use them to scratch and tear him, as she fain would have done.
But she writhed from side to side like an eel in his powerful grasp, her eyes glowing like balls of fire, her breath coming in quick, sharp gasps and falling hot on Patsy’s cheeks.
“Let me go! Let me go!” she repeated in fierce, frantic whispers. “Curse you, let me go!”
“Not by a jugful,” said Patsy. “I know you now. You’re Kate Crandall.”
“Let me go!”