Nick Carter gazed for a moment without speaking. The face of the knave peering in at him wore an expression the detective did not fancy.
Mingled malice, merciless hatred, and vicious exultation were pictured in every feature of Margate’s white, hardset face. His eyes had a gleam as cold and murderous as that reflected from a blade of steel. His thin, cruel lips were drawn like those of a dog about to bite.
“So you’re here again, eh?” he questioned, breaking the momentary silence.
Nick eyed him sharply, suspecting the truth, yet still maintaining the part he had undertaken to play.
“Yes, as I agreed,” he replied curtly. “Let me out. Why are you keeping me here?”
“Aren’t you comfortable?”
“No. It’s close and stuffy.”
“It’s not half as close and stuffy a box as you might land in,” Margate said, with a malicious grin. “Haven’t you thought of that?”
“I’m not thinking along those lines,” Nick replied. “Come, come, Mr. Margate, let me out.”
“Not yet,” leered the rascal. “I want to talk with you. Have you brought the money agreed upon?”