The form he had clasped, confining both arms and preventing the use of a weapon—was that of a woman.
Amazement, however, did not cause Nick Carter to lose his head. He held fast to the supple, writhing figure of the unknown female, who wriggled vainly to free herself and reach for her revolver, while the detective quickly whispered, in tones well calculated to dispel her fears:
"Whist! Keep quiet! I wa’n’t wise to your being a skirt. What’s your game here?"
Nick’s quietude also was assuring. The woman ceased struggling, but turned sufficiently to gaze at his face, as well as it could be seen in the faint light that came through the pebbled-glass panes of the front door.
Nick now could see the sharp glint of her eyes and the outline of her brow and cheeks above the bandage of black cloth that covered her mouth and chin.
"What’s your own game?" she questioned quickly, under her breath. "What sent you here?"
"I’m on the lift and——”
"You’re not a dick?"
"Dick be hanged! I saw the iron door under the front steps was open, so I picked the lock of the other to see what I could nail," Nick explained. "I piped you in yonder at the desk when I crept up the stairs. But I did not dream you was a skirt."
"Let me go, will you?"