“He’s on board your vessel, isn’t he?” demanded Nick sternly. “A passenger of yours?”
“No. He ain’t nothing of the kind. You say you’re a detective. Well, you’re a little late. Another detective, from New York, has been here and arrested him. So he isn’t a passenger. He’s a prisoner.”
“Impossible!” ejaculated Nick Carter.
“Nothing impossible about it,” sneered the captain. “He’s down in the cabin he’s had since we left New York. Only now it’s a cell, instead of a stateroom, and I have two of my men watching to see that he doesn’t get away. That’s all there is to it.”
“How do you know this man who arrested Paul Clayton—or Miles—is a detective?”
The captain held out a card, which Nick Carter took and scanned hastily.
“Detective Lieutenant Sawyer!” murmured Nick, reading from the card. “I don’t know of any New York detective by that name.”
“Well, anyhow, he was here, and he’s gone ashore with the stolen property, in a suit case. If you look over there, you can just make him out, landing on the wharf from a yawl.”
“Gee!” whispered Patsy. “I believe that’s right. Eh, Chick?”
“Looks like his walk,” returned Chick.