Two policemen in the front yard tried to stop him.
Margate dodged them, cleared the front fence cleanly, and in an instant was in the runabout Irma Valaska had left at the curbing. He uttered a defiant yell and was away in a moment.
Patsy Garvan rushed out of the house in time to fire twice, only to miss the crouching rascal, and in another moment the speeding car had turned the nearest corner.
At one o’clock that afternoon, Nick Carter, in company with Chick and Patsy, knocked on the door of a suite in the Willard and waited for the occupant to[{40}] open it. There was an odd smile on the face of the famous detective, an odd smile on that of each of his companions. The light in their eyes was one that never shone on land or sea.
They had not long to wait, scarce a moment. Well enough the man in the suite knew that only one person would be likely to knock on his door, that only Nick Carter and his assistants knew that he was there.
Harold Garland, as anxious and distressed as if his life was at stake, ran to the door and opened it.
“Ah!” said Nick, smiling. “I thought you might be at lunch.”
He had an overcoat on his arm when he entered with his assistants, and he placed it on a table in the parlor.
“Lunch!” Garland echoed the word derisively. “Heaven above! will I ever eat again, Carter?”
“Well, I hope so,” said Nick, laughing.