Nick Carter’s face was frank, manly, and wholesome.
That at which he was gazing was pallid, sinister, and severe. Its clean-cut features were as hard as flint. The thin-lipped mouth denoted cruelty and vicious determination. The square jaw and aggressive chin evinced firmness and bulldog tenacity. The cold gray eyes had a shifty gleam and glitter seen only in the eyes of what the detective had called this man—a crook.
He took up the epithet bitterly, saying, with a sneer:
“Crook, eh! You cannot prove it.”
“I may sooner or later.”
“You have tried—and failed.”
“Failure never deters me from trying again. You know the old adage.”
“You succeeded only in smirching my name, in giving me a bad reputation. It caused my friends to desert and avoid me. It excluded me from the clubs, the reputable hotels, from every desirable place that I had been accustomed to frequent. It has changed my life and turned it as arid as the heart of a desert. I have you to thank for all this—you, Carter!”
“You are mistaken,” Nick replied. “You have only yourself to thank for it.”