In one corner of the office was a square wooden partition, which the detective believed concealed the door and staircase to the lower part of the building.
He opened the door of the partition with caution when he found that it was unlocked. He found himself in a small vestibule, which became pitch dark when the door swung back on a spring.
Before turning off his flash—which precautionary measure he had taken ere he let himself into this little lobby—he had seen that there was another door opposite.
Slowly he opened this door. As he did so, a blinding flash of light came in his face. He was looking directly into a lamp with a reflector on the wall of a room adjoining the office from which he had come.
At the same time he was confused by a babel of voices.
It was lucky for Nick Carter that the persons talking were all standing or sitting with their backs toward him—except one.
This one, whose eyes met his own at the moment he thrust part of his head through the opening, was the person he wanted to get into touch with. It was Prince Marcos.
The other three were Solado, Miguel, and the small-eyed, slick-haired individual who had been lying down in the skiff outside the warehouse up to the time he entered.
“I’ll give you this last chance, Marcos,” Miguel was saying, in harsh, insulting tones. “If you will give me your word of honor to remain in New York for two weeks longer, I will release you at once.”
“I wouldn’t do it,” broke in the slick-haired man. “Keep him where you can be sure of him.”