“That’s true,” Chick allowed.
“They must have known the numbers of the three cases containing the gold plate. They must have known that the location of those three particular cases in the freight car was such that they could quickly remove them, or they could not have figured so fine as to time. They got away with them, mind you, only twenty minutes before Gilbert arrived in the yard.”
“That’s right, too, by Jove.”
“Furthermore—but here comes our man,” Nick broke off abruptly. “We will size it up later.”
The truckman had entered while the detective was speaking.
CHAPTER III.
NICK CARTER’S CRAFT.
Nick Carter needed only to glance at the face of the man who had entered to feel assured of his honesty. He was a rugged, red-cheeked Scotchman of nearly fifty years, clad in a checked blouse and overalls and carrying in one of his begrimed and calloused hands a faded woolen cap.
“Come nearer, my man,” said Nick pleasantly. “What is your name?”
“Tom McLauren, sir,” he replied, complying.
“How long have you been in the employ of Macklin & Dale?”