“You mean that?”
“I most certainly do.”
Nick Carter turned his head as he heard a scuffling and loud talking behind him.
What he saw was the shorter and thicker of the two figures in the dress of Indian princes at the other end of the corridor, supported by two of the hallboys of the Supremacy. He seemed unable to walk.
The detective did not wait to see whether Don Solado would recognize him or not.
As a taxicab drew up under the porte-cochère, in response to his call, Nick handed his fair companion into the vehicle.
She told the chauffeur to go to Riverside Drive. Then, waving her hand to Nick, as the taxi glided away, she sank back in the seat and seemed to give herself up to her own thoughts.
Another taxi drove up for the detective, and he told the man to take him to his home in Madison Avenue. On the way, he glanced at his bruised knuckles and smiled calmly.
“Rather jarred my fist,” he muttered. “But I think I jarred that fellow’s jawbone worse. I don’t know who Prince Marcos is. But I think he was in luck when Corliston got our costumes mixed. Those two fellows meant mischief to-night if they had caught the real Marcos.”
When he got home and was in his library, he threw off the Mexican jacket, glad to get rid of it. Something glittering fell from one of the sleeves and dropped upon the floor.