From below a low, moss-covered wall flanking one side of the place, Patsy saw the wagon enter an ill-kept driveway, the broken gate of which was hanging awry on its rusted hinges.
From a back door of the house came a tall, gaunt man of nearly sixty, clad in overalls and a red cardigan jacket, whose looks and bearing denoted that he was the owner, or tenant of the place. He paused at the edge of the driveway, with lowering gaze fixed upon the men in the approaching wagon, and Patsy heard him growl tersely, in harsh, nasal tones:
"Got her?"
"Bet you!" Mullen responded. "Got her dead to rights, Jim, and none the wiser."
"Don’t bank too heavily on that," thought Patsy, with grim satisfaction, though he never was more puzzled in his life. "I’m wise to some extent, at least. You rats are up to some devilish game, though I cannot fathom how old Mantell figures in it."
"You saw his nibs, then," remarked the man in a cardigan.
"Sure. He rode out with Fallon in his taxi, as he promised," said Mullen. "He’s gone back to town, Corson, to look after a job he has framed up with Sadie."
"What kind of a job, Jake?"
"To get the big dick."
"The big dick?" echoed Corson, staring. "You don’t mean Nick Carter?"