“Where did he go?”
“Over to a house in Madison Avenue.”
“Did you find out his name?”
“Sure I did,” Nolan declared, much as if such a question was needless. “Trust me for that. I was wise to it, all right, when I piped him going in that crib.”
“Who is he? What do you know about him?”
“He’s a fly gun, boss; that’s what he is. He’s the biggest squeeze in the whole dick outfit. His name is Carter.”
“Not Nick Carter?”
“That’s what.”
“Are you sure of it, absolutely sure of it?”
“As sure as if a house fell on me,” Nolan forcibly asserted. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve had him after me more’n once. He was made up with grease paint and spinach, all right, but I was wise to his true mug when he went up the steps and into the house. I knew before where the dick lived. What’s the game, boss? I could help you further, if you fancied putting me wise.”