The miscreant’s laugh was utterly void of anything like mirth. It was as cold, exultant, and merciless as ever had fallen on the detective’s ears. In a way, moreover, it struck him as being familiar, but he did not recall when and where he had heard it. He was not, however, left long in doubt of the outlaw’s identity.
For the rascal’s vicious laugh ended with a sharp, hissing whisper.
"You keep your voice down, now, or there’ll be something drop," he threatened. "Speak above a whisper and I’ll plug you on the instant."
"I’ll take your word for it," Nick said quietly. "But you are not going to get fat from this job. If you lift all I have in my jeans, you’ll not carry away much."
"Oh, I’m not after your coin," the holdup man retorted, with bitter asperity. "I’ve not run you in here to lift anything. I’ve got you where I want you, at last, and you’re going to hear my little verse. I’ll finish you later."
"Why finish me?" Nick coolly inquired. "What have I done that you want to finish me?"
"You’ve done me, blast you," was the reply, with suppressed ferocity. "You twice have crossed my path and turned me down. You have sent me from bad to worse and made me what I am. I know you, Carter, hang you, in spite of your disguise. I have been watching for you, lying in wait for you, and I’ve got you where I want you."
"Which seems to please you mightily," Nick said dryly, trying vainly to recall the rascal’s identity. "When did I——”
"Oh, I’ll tell you when," interrupted the other, with unabated bitterness. "You’ll know when, Carter, when you see my face. I’ll reveal it to you. I want you to see it, that I may laugh at you, mock you, and tell you face to face how deeply I hate you. Sooner or later, too, I’ll hand you yours and send you to the devil.
"But not to-night—no, not to-night!" he went on, when Nick viewed him in silence. "I want you to anticipate it, to live in fear of it, to be racked mind and nerves until my bullet finds you. I’ll send it into you sooner or later, Carter, as sure as my name is—Gaston Goulard."