He stopped short.
A pencil with which Pimlico had been toying had slipped from his fingers and fallen to the floor.
Sir Edward Chadwick leaned over to pick it up and replace it on the table. When he straightened up and again gazed at his visitor—he underwent a change as if death had suddenly claimed him.
There had been an equally quick change in the other.
Mr. Pimlico had disappeared. His gray wig and flowing beard were lying on the floor. His right hand held a revolver, his left a pair of handcuffs, and the stern face that now met the gaze of the horrified Englishman was that of—Nick Carter.
It wore an expression far different from that seen by the designing Englishman in the library of the detective’s residence a short time before. He thought he then had played his cards well. He had succeeded only in sealing his own fate.
How he had been duped, by what means it had been accomplished, or how much more the detective knew than he had blindly told him—into none of these did Sir Edward Chadwick pause to inquire. With a half-smothered oath, with his great white teeth meeting with an audible snap, he started to rise and reached for a weapon.
Nick Carter was much too quick for him, however. His hands shot like a flash across the table. They closed with a viselike grip on those of the titled crook. There was a swirl of glittering steel around his brawny wrists, a quick snap of the double locks, and Sir Edward Chadwick was secured in manacles almost before he knew it.
“Take them off! Hang you, take them off!” he fiercely snarled, tugging vainly at them. “What’s the meaning of this? What——”
“Silence!” Nick sternly commanded, forcing the frantic man back in his chair. “You know very well what it means. You are under arrest, Sir Edward Chadwick, a would-be murderer by your own blind confession. You will answer to the law for conspiracy with intent to kill. Now, having got the mastery, I will take steps to secure the hirelings.”