“My husband!”
“I am a detective. My name is Chick Carter.”
The last was instantly taken up by a fierce, threatening voice in the adjoining hall.
“Throw up your hands, then, and keep them up! Let the woman alone—or you’ll be a dead one!”
Chick swung round like a flash.
In the open doorway stood Morris Garland, with face as black as midnight and as threatening as his leveled weapon.
Behind him loomed the burly figure of a red-featured cabman, with blood in his eye and a blackjack in his hand.
Two other figures, those of women, were crouching against the wall farther down the hall—out of view of the startled detective.
CHAPTER VII.
NICK CARTER’S DOINGS.
It now is obvious, of course, that Chick Carter lied to Mr. Morris Garland—which was entirely warranted by the circumstances, since knavery can be successfully met only with its own weapons.