Nick had, in fact, more than one reason for doing so.
Goulard snarled an oath, adding quickly:
“By Heaven, this man is Nick Carter!”
“Right,” said Nick; “perfectly right, Gaston Goulard.”
Sadie Badger stared down at him as if dealt a blow. She seemed unable to realize how completely she had been duped, how completely she had exposed herself and her confederates.
“Get his bracelets,” growled Badger, who was the coolest of the gang. “It’s the dick, all right. Run your duke under his coat, Knocker, and get his irons. We’ll soon fix him so he can wag nothing more dangerous than his tongue.”
Freeland hastened to obey, dragging Nick’s handcuffs from his pocket, also the revolver he had partly drawn. He thrust the weapon into his own pocket. Then, with the help of the others, he quickly snapped the handcuffs on the detective’s wrists.
“Now, Glidden, bring a piece of rope,” Badger commanded. “No halfway work for mine. I know this dick from way back. Having got him, I’ll make dead sure to keep him.”
“That’s more wisdom, Badger, than you ordinarily display,” Nick dryly declared, looking up at his swarthy, sinister face. “Make a good job of it, by all means, while you’re about it.”
“I’ll do that, all right, Carter, and I have ample means at my command,” Badger retorted.