All this proved disastrous for Patsy Garvan. He partly lost his balance when the door opened, and he fell against the casing.
A gasp of relief came from the woman, and then a fierce cry.
“Down him! Down him, Jim, for God’s sake!”
Dacey needed no bidding. He had guessed the truth upon hearing the noise of the struggle. He had drawn a weapon while approaching the door—the same weapon that felled Nick Carter a quarter hour later.
It fell like a flash when Patsy reeled against the casing, and while the frantic appeal was still on the woman’s lips.
The sandbag caught Patsy squarely on the head, dropping him as it dropped Nick a little later. Without a groan, even, he sank in a crimped and senseless heap on the threshold of the door.
It was a brutal blow, dealt by the hand of a brutal man. It was this man who had been smoking a cigarette in Kate Crandall’s suite just before the arrival of Nick Carter, but who had stolen into the rear entry before the detective entered, returning after his departure. Safely enough, indeed, the woman had given Nick permission to search her apartments.
“Quick!” she now said curtly. “Drag him in here, Jim.”
“Do you know him?” questioned Dacey, hastening to obey.
“Know him—I should say so!” snapped Kate. “He’s one of Carter’s assistants. His name is Garvan.”