Floyd’s thin lips curled again with intense scorn and bitterness.
“That epithet again,” said he between his teeth. “I have you to thank for it—and repay.”
“Ah! I see now why you stopped me,” said Nick. “You wanted to threaten me.”
They had met in Madison Avenue; in fact, the detective having left his residence only a few moments before. It was about ten o’clock in the morning.
“Threaten you!” exclaimed Floyd, with ominous quietude. “There has been no day or night for two years that I have not threatened you.”
“Indeed!”
“Have you supposed that I forgot, that my memory is less retentive than yours, that I have less cause than you to remember? Have you thought for a moment that I forget and forgive?”
“It matters very little to me, Floyd, whether you do or not,” Nick calmly informed him, entirely unaffected by the subdued yet vicious intensity with which the other was speaking.
“Later, Carter, you will pipe a different tune,” Floyd went on, with eyes vengefully gleaming. “I will not sleep until the debt is paid. I am going to put something over on you, Carter, that will more than balance our account. Smile scornfully, if you will, but wait until I plunge you into the melting pot. It will come—take my word for that. It’s you for the melting pot. You for the melting pot!”
Nick Carter did not ask him what he meant—did not seriously care. Nor did he attempt to detain him, though he glanced after him a bit sharply.