Chick had already begun to move while he spoke, and he was at the bottom in such a short time that his feat would have done credit to any old sailor of the ancient windjammer days.
Nick was not far behind him. He walked down the rungs till a shout told him his assistant was off the ladder. Then, gripping the sides, he slid down like a streak.
He had not a fraction of a second to spare! The ladder cracked in the middle just as he passed the weak place. He had to drop a few feet, as it was.
“Get back there!” roared the fire chief, through his megaphone.
The warning was none too soon. As the crowd sprang away, the roof and upper walls of the middle house fell with a crash, and a great volcano of smoke, sparks, and dust flew up into the air.
Some of the débris fell among the crowd. It could not be otherwise. Cries of fright and pain arose here and there, and there was danger of a panic.
But the police were efficient—as New York police always are—and soon there was comparative order, as those who were injured were carried away in the ambulances which had been waiting on the chance that they might be needed.
Neither Nick Carter, Chick, nor Patsy Garvan were hurt. The girl and her father had disappeared, but the detective felt sure they were being cared for by somebody, and it did not worry him. What he wanted was to find the man he had been hunting so long, Howard Milmarsh.
Chick and Patsy both knew what was passing in the mind of their chief, and they, too, were looking about for Milmarsh.
“There he is!” shouted Patsy. “I wonder if he’s hurt!”