The result was precisely what the detective had expected.
The removal of the disguise revealed the pallid face and distorted features of the knave who had threatened him in Madison Avenue only a few days before, those of Stuart Floyd.
Floyd evidently was expecting no less.
In reality, he appeared to have planned for it. Like a flash, lurching forward from his stool while Nick was speaking, he suddenly threw both arms with viselike clutch around the detective’s legs, at the same time shouting, with frantic ferocity:
“Now, boys, quick! Get him! Get him! Get him!”
Nick Carter hardly knew where they came from, they came so quickly—the three ruffians who rushed into the place.
Two were powerful fellows in the neighborhood of forty, both armed with heavy bludgeons. That they meant business, moreover, and were out for bloodshed or murder, even, if it became necessary, was speedily apparent.
Nick realized on the instant that he had walked into a trap, an ambush from which escape would not be easy.
He reached for his revolver, bent upon putting up the fight of his life, but he could not draw the weapon.
For the frantic rascal on the floor, fiercely clutching Nick’s legs, was wriggling to and fro so furiously that the detective was nearly thrown from his feet.