“There is no ‘but’ about it,” broke in the other man impatiently. “If you only had a little more red blood in you, Solado, instead of being always afraid to do what common sense dictates, we should have had Marcos safe long ago, and we shouldn’t be bothered with this detective and his man, as we are. Are you going to forget that he had handcuffs on us, and that, if it hadn’t been for Dugan and his men, we might have been in that prison over in New York now?”
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” hissed Solado. “There will be an international inquiry into that outrage when we get back to Joyalita. The heir presumptive to the throne and the prime minister can’t be treated as felons without making trouble.”
“Bah!”
“I mean what I say!” shouted Solado, who seemed to lose control of himself as he thought of the indignity that had been put upon him. “We are guests of a civilized country—men of substance and wealth. We were torn away from our private yacht and treated like criminals, just because this man, Nicholas Carter, seems to be in the way of Prince Marcos.”
“A good way to put it,” sneered Miguel. “And I have no objection to your taking up the matter with the United States government when once we are safely in our own country. At present, it would be well to take the law into our own hands.”
“What do you mean?”
Miguel leaned a little closer to his fellow conspirator, so that the light of the kerosene lamp fell full upon the hard, evil features of the pair. Nick Carter instinctively bent over the crazy banister to listen.
“I mean just this, Solado: If this place should accidentally catch fire, there is ammonia enough stored in the basement to make a smoke that would soon settle the business of any one who had to inhale it——”
“Well?”
“Where is that fellow?”