The stern words scarce had left the lips of the detective, when, through the partly open French window, entering with the swift stealthy and sinuous movements of a leopard, Irma Valaska darted into the room.
Her face was ghastly, her lips gray and drawn, her eyes ablaze as if all that was devilish in her nature was concentrated in their fiery depths.
Nick Carter did not see her until, hearing her fierce, sibilant voice, he swung round and found himself gazing into the deadly muzzle of a leveled revolver.
“You’re wrong! He’s not under arrest!” Irma Valaska cried, with terrible intensity. “Throw up your hands, Nick Carter. Up with them—or there’ll be a corpse where you are standing.”
Nick did not pause for an instant. No sane man looking into her drawn, determined face, would have ignored the murderous light in the woman’s eyes.
Nick fell back a step and threw up his hands.
Irma Valaska came nearer to him. Plainly enough, she feared him no more than a wild cat fears a rabbit.
“Don’t drop them!” she cried, between her teeth. “I’ll fire if you lower them an inch. You devil of a Carter! You would foil my designs, eh? Oh, I know you—I know you! I know all. You move foot or finger, and I will kill you.”
“You look quite capable of it,” said Nick calmly.
“I am!” she cried. “I would rather than not. But there will be time for that—time for that! Move quickly, Casper, while I keep him covered. Get your revolver. Cover him while I get his weapons and keys. I’ll have those things off your wrists. The baron is coming. He will aid us. We shall fool this devil Carter, and spit in his face. Be quick, Casper, be quick!”