As he had expected, the door was fastened. The only bolt was inside. But there was a lock that could be operated either without or within.
“The lock is nothing, Chick! We can burst that!” whispered Nick. “Now! Together!”
The two hurled all their weight against the door. The lock broke away, and Nick Carter found himself in the arms of Prince Miguel, the bigger of the two ruffians.
There was a desperate struggle for a few minutes, and then Jean, the valet who had been attending Nick when he came aboard—showing him his dry clothing and explaining to him that his bath was ready—tried to help his master.
It happened that Nick was held in such a way that his left arm was free. He sent a swing at the valet that knocked him spinning down the deck, where he lay without movement.
The sailors at the other end of the yacht had not been told of what was to take place.
As Nick had said, the yacht was hired for two months from the multimillionaire, Judge Millings, and all the crew went with the vessel. It was not likely the sailors belonging to the yacht would take a hand in anything that looked too bad.
“Don’t you suppose they knew Marcos was a prisoner?” Chick had asked.
“Not likely. Marcos was allowed to go about the yacht as he chose. We have proof of that in the fact that he attacked Miguel when he was sitting on the deck, smoking. They relied on there being no boats handy, and on the watchfulness of that scoundrelly valet, Jean, who was really his guard, I should judge.”
Now that there was a quiet, but strenuous battle on, the crew were in blissful ignorance. Miguel and Solado had thought they were quite capable of holding Nick Carter until they should be ready to take him to some place ashore.