“He’s a tougher man in a scrap than I thought he was,â€� observed one of the yacht’s crew—Groton, in fact—as he ruefully patted a very sore place on his cheek bone that promised to develop into a glorious black eye. “I always knew he could fight, but this is the first time I ever came against him. Holy mackerel! How he can hit!â€�
Kennedy was sitting up, spitting sand from his mouth and looking around in a dazed fashion. He groaned as he put a hand to his head. He had come down with a terrific bump when Nick Carter had whirled him to the ground at the end of their argument.
“What the blazes hit me?� exclaimed Kennedy.
He got stiffly to his feet and staggered toward where Nick Carter still lay on the beach, ere he went on, in a confused way:
“That’s it, eh? Well, I’m willing to tackle anything human. But when it comes to stopping a whirlwind, I’ll duck every time.�
For a few moments he stood looking down at the detective, who did not make a move to indicate that he was conscious, although he was keeping close watch of everything from beneath his half-shut eyelids.
Kennedy was deeply impressed with the wonderful[Pg 35] battle the detective had put up, and he looked over the splendidly built frame with the admiration that one strong man always vouchsafes to another—even though that other may be a foe.
Neither Kennedy nor the two sailors still on their feet had any idea that there was somebody else gazing at Nick Carter from behind the bushes, with anxious eyes and rapidly heaving bosom.
Yet so it was. More remarkable still, it was a woman!
The Baroness Latour, as she was called in the Hotel Amsterdam—although better known to Nick Carter and to many others in different parts of the world as the lovely Mademoiselle Valeria, the adventuress who always had kept out of the grip of the law, despite many illegitimate transactions—had known what was going to take place when the boat left the hotel, carrying the unconscious Lord Vinton.