“I don’t believe Martin or any of the gang are here,” muttered Nick, after half an hour’s steady contemplation of the promenaders and dancers. “He’s heard that I’ll be here, and he’s keeping dark still. Well, I’ll get him yet. I shall stay for a couple of hours, anyhow. He and Lawton, or some of the gang, may come later. They’re going to get rid of some of those hundreds to-night, unless that informant of mine is a liar or very badly mistaken.”
There was a little disappointment in Nick Carter’s bosom. This man, Shoreham Martin, was a man who had always covered his tracks successfully. At the same time, there was little doubt on the part of Nick Carter that he was the prime mover in one of the most audacious and successful counterfeiting organizations in America.
“If I don’t get Martin to-night, it will only be putting off the happy day,” continued Nick, to himself. “I have that comfort for my soul.”
A soft tap-tap at the door made him swing around and look into the gloom at the back of the box.
The tapping was repeated, and Nick got up and opened the door.
A slender girl, in the black-spangled robes of a “Queen of Night,” stepped inside and closed the door.
She was masked, but Nick could see a beautiful chin and white temples, which satisfied him the “Queen” was young. Probably, also, attractive of face.
“Hush!”
She held up a finger for silence and motioned toward the curtains at the front of the box.