Gazing toward the desolate wooded country on the right, he saw that he had timed the desperate work to a nicety.
Three quick flashes of light met his gaze, coming from a point in the woods scarce twenty feet from the railway. He turned and banged twice on the car door with the butt of his revolver.
The three men within were awaiting the signal. The sliding door of the car then was opened. So was the door of the safe. A large leather bag, nearly as large as a letter pouch, was lying on the floor.
Near by, gagged and securely bound, lay Nick Carter, still insensible. One of his assailants of only a few minutes before, now hearing the expected signal, yelled excitedly:
“Out with him, Mauler! The roadbed is sandy. Out with him.”
“Sandy be hanged!” shouted Mauler, the miscreant who had impersonated Cady. “It may be lucky for us if his neck is broken.”
He rolled the detective’s inanimate form from the car while speaking, and it vanished into the gloom outside.
The large leather pouch quickly followed.
The car was steadily slowing down.
There was a bang on the front door—but the door was locked and barricaded.