“I want to tell it to you. I wish you’d look at that letter.”
“It isn’t necessary. Hold out your hands.”
In another second the handcuffs were clapped on the wrists of Paul Clayton.
For the first time in his life he was a manacled prisoner. A dry sob broke from his throat.
It was then, as the officer stepped behind him and placed a hand on the precious suit case, that a curious change came over the face of the man from headquarters.
He bent over the suit case and a grin widened his mouth in so extraordinary a way that, if anybody who knew him had seen him at that instant, he would have declared that this detective lieutenant from New York was none other than John Garrison Rayne, the Apache!
“This is dead easy!” he muttered. “And it’s good that Nick Carter has gone off the ship. I’ll take these few things from my innocent young friend here, and he can get the handcuffs off when Carter comes back.”
How the scoundrel had contrived to get hold of the semiofficial uniform he wore in so short a time was his own secret.
It need only be said that when a man has six hundred dollars in cash in his pocket, he can get most things he wants, up to the value of his pile, in San Juan, just as he can in any other busy center.
At all events, here was John Garrison Rayne on the Cherokee, in the guise of a detective, seemingly carrying everything before him.