Nick began to tear away the barrels, taking no notice of Solado or Miguel. He had something more important to engage his attention just then.
The deadly fumes of ammonia were coming from the chinks of the cellar, and, as he turned the key, kicked away the bar, and pulled the door open, they came pouring out in a volume that staggered him for a moment.
“Chick!” he called.
There was no answer.
Nick Carter turned the powerful gleam of his flash light into the gloomy depths, and a low cry of horror broke from him.
Lying on the floor, against the wall, his limbs contorted and his face buried in his arms, as if he had resisted the deadly gas as long as he could, was Chick.
It was not necessary for Nick Carter to see the face to know who it was. He would have recognized the general appearance of his beloved first assistant even if he had not known him by his clothes.
“Chick!” he repeated, in an agonized groan, as he pressed a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. “Chick! Keep your mouth covered!”
“Chief!”
The response came in a far-away gasp, as if it were almost the last effort the speaker was capable of making.