“Whose are they, Patsy?”
“Those of the crook who gave the law the slip, but not before we got his measurements and identification marks,” cried Patsy. “There is no mistaking them, chief. They are the finger prints of—Gaston Goulard!”
CHAPTER V.
A CHANCE CLEW.
No jungle in the heart of the African desert, no wilds of the Far West, no desert region of the ice-bound North, no corner of the whole wide world, in fact, contains beasts more to be dreaded, more crafty, cruel, and terrible, than those to be found within the precincts of a great city, in the haunts of the underworld, in the lairs and labyrinths of vice and crime.
Close upon four o’clock that afternoon, or about three hours after Nick Carter and his assistants left the Mantell residence, two women met by chance in a certain disreputable section of the East Side, and nearly in front of an inferior hotel restaurant and barroom run by one Barney Magrath.
There was no mistaking their type and character. Their flashy attire, their painted cheeks, the swagger atmosphere with which they met and entered into conversation, told the story in broad-faced type and double-leaded lines.
One was a slender, thin-featured woman with red hair, crafty gray eyes, and a sinister expression.
The other was a more striking woman. She had a fine figure, the better clad of the two, a woman in the twenties, with regular features, dark hair and complexion, a firm mouth and chin. Hers was a decidedly strong and quite handsome face, lighted with eyes that had a habitual searching and defiant expression.
The first words that passed between them, uttered by the woman with red hair, fell upon the ears of a man who was about emerging from the near barroom, and who instantly passed back of the swinging doors and lingered to listen.
“Oh, I say!” exclaimed the woman. “You’re just the skirt I want to see. I’ve been looking for you, Sadie.”