“Poor fellow!” she murmured. “I believe I know who he is. Unless I am much mistaken, he is Marcos’ valet.”
Nick Carter knelt by the side of the still figure and listened intently at the chest. A moment later he got up, and took one of the nerveless wrists in his cool, steady fingers.
“There is a slight pulse,” he murmured, half to himself. “I think we can bring him around.” Then, louder: “Chick! Give me a hand! Let us put him on the floor. We shall have a better chance of handling him there.”
They stretched the unfortunate valet on the floor, where Nick Carter and his assistant applied “first-aid” methods, rubbing his limbs, loosening his clothing, and so forth.
Claudia did not remain. She had darted away while the two detectives were taking the man from the bench, and went to the house.
In a few minutes she was back, with a decanter and a glass. As she poured some strong brandy into the glass, to give to Nick Carter, he noticed that her hand was bleeding, and commented on the fact.
“I couldn’t help it,” she returned. “There was no time to get to the front door, so I broke a glass panel at the side and got in that way.”
“You have pluck!” observed Nick Carter, in simple admiration.
CHAPTER VI.
A CLEW BY WATER.
It was not long before the treatment had its effect on the injured valet. The chafing and massage, aided by the brandy, restored him much quicker than might have been expected.