“Enough of that,” Dillon interrupted, eyes glowing. “You’ll need no gun, Rohan, if that portfolio contains what I hope. I will pay any price for them that you rascals can reasonably ask. But I must see them—must be convinced.[{34}]”
Rohan snapped the two buckles that secured the folded flap of the portfolio.
He thrust in his hand and drew out, not blank papers, which the dummy portfolio had contained—but a quantity of genuine government plans.
“Have a look, sir,” he said indifferently. “It’s up to you.”
An irrepressible cry of exultation broke from Dillon. He lurched forward to the table, quivering with eagerness and excitement, and with both hands outstretched to seize the plans and examine them.
Rohan’s hands fell at the same moment. As quick as a flash, in the hundredth part of a second, he snapped handcuffs on the wrists of the recreant army officer. Then he arose, sweeping off his disguise and saying sternly:
“Let the plans lie there, Captain Dillon.”
“Oh, my God!” Dillon fell back with a terrible cry. “Nick Carter!”
“Yes. Let them lie. I had Mr. Garland get them for me from his department this morning. They are not the plans you stole and lost, but they have served my purpose. You are under arrest, Captain Dillon, as a traitor to your country and a conspirator with foreign spies.”
Captain Dillon had collapsed as if his last ounce of strength had left him—his last drop of blood, in fact, for he looked like a corpse in the great armchair into which he had fallen. He did not speak, could not have spoken; but an interruption, a most unexpected one, came from another.