This did not satisfy Nick Carter, however.
Putting two and two together, and considering that this was almost certainly the yacht in which the abductors of Marcos had carried him away from Crownledge, it was quite reasonable to suppose that this big man in the chair on the cabin roof was really Miguel—as Claudia Solado had given his name.
Prince Miguel was calmly smoking throughout these surmises of the detective—for it may as well be admitted that the big man really was Miguel—and Nick tried to determine what should be his next move.
“I might get up there and tackle him unawares,” he muttered. “Then, if we did not make noise enough to attract the attention of the crew or others on the yacht, I might squeeze a confession out of him. All I want is this Marcos. Then I don’t care what is done.”
He turned this over in his mind for a few minutes. Then he decided it would not do.
There could hardly fail to be a great deal of racket if he were to scuffle with Prince Miguel. The latter was a powerfully built fellow, and would make a desperate resistance, no matter how the combat might come out in the end.
As it happened, Nick Carter was not called upon to decide the question for himself.
While he stood on his block, peering under the railing around the roof at the man in the chair, another man came carefully up the steep iron steps to the roof and stood statuelike behind the unsuspecting Miguel.
The attitude of the newcomer was that of one who had deliberately chosen the best way to make a sudden onslaught.
Nick Carter caught his breath in stern enjoyment of the contest he felt he was about to witness.