“Andrew Lampton!” he breathed softly. “And, in the same person, my old friend, Joe Stokes! I thought I might catch him here. That is the advantage of having friends in the underworld.”
He strode over to the table, and looked over the top of the paper, and said, in low, distinct tones:
“Lampton, I want you!”
The man made a quick movement toward his side pocket. As he did so, the muzzle of an automatic pistol broke its way through the paper, and he kept his hand still.
“All right! I cave!” he growled. “Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter if you don’t know me,” was the detective’s reply. “But I believe you do. Wait a moment!”
Dexterously, Nick dipped into the coat pocket from which Lampton had meant to take something, and from it lifted a businesslike automatic.
“Any more besides this, Andrew?”
“A knife in my inside waistcoat pocket,” he replied briefly. “It’s in a sheath. Take it out if you like, but I don’t mean to use it.”