“Nick Carter.”
“The devil he is!” Carney gasped, staring.
“Leastwise, Andy saw him in Hardy’s office yesterday afternoon, and he reckoned——”
“Never mind what I reckoned, Larry, just now,” Margate interrupted. “Sit this whelp against the wall and chuck some more water on him. We must find out just what Carter knows, or suspects, and what he has done. He knew me, all right, or this blooming idiot would not be here. We’ll find out what more he can tell us.”
“You’ll get fat and juicy on that,” thought Patsy, intensely disgusted with the unfortunate turn of affairs. “There’ll be nothing in denying my identity, for that cold-blooded guy is right. But if he gets anything more out of me, he’ll do it with a corkscrew.”
Another splash of cold water broke Patsy’s train of thought, indulged in while the two lesser rascals sat him against one of the kitchen walls. He did not want it repeated. He opened his eyes, therefore, and said curtly, gazing from one to the other:
“Cut that! I’m not on a water diet. What do you ginks take me for?”
“Great guns! He’s a long ways from dead,” growled Carney.
Larry Trent laughed loudly.
But Margate waved both of them aside, taking a chair directly opposite the detective and coldly eyeing him.