Somehow, it was difficult for Nick Carter to get his cigar alight. Once, when he thought he had it, he was obliged to go back again.
The Cuban did not show or express any impatience, however. He seemed to be desirous only to oblige his casual acquaintance.
For more than half a minute they stood with their faces only the combined length of the two cigars apart—that is to say, about six inches.
Then, as Nick Carter slowly drew back, his cigar burning brightly, he suddenly shot out both hands and gripped the Cuban by the shoulders!
“What does this mean?” hissed the dark-visaged stranger indignantly.
“Only that I want a little conversation with you, John Garrison Rayne,” replied Nick Carter.
CHAPTER VII.
THE SLIPPERY APACHE.
The words were hardly out of the detective’s mouth, when the Cuban, with a snarl of rage, tore the cigar from Nick’s teeth and pressed the burning end upon the bare hand of his captor.
There were few things that would have made Nick Carter loosen his hold. The exquisite pain of the burning cigar was one of them, however.