As he jumped back from the disabled switch, he heard the padding feet moving toward it, followed, an instant later, by a muffled oath in the tones of the young man from the bed.
“Fooled him!” muttered Nick.
Suddenly there arose a terrific racket across the room, and he knew that Chick had come into collision with one of the two men who had come in, at least.
“Get out, you monkey!” growled Chick in a disguised tone. “Here’s one for you!”
A crash told the detective that Chick had floored his assailant, but a quick renewal of the battle was indicated by more noise, with the panting of two men in desperate contest.
It was at this moment that a sinewy arm was thrown around the detective’s neck from behind, while a knee was thrust into his back. The assailant evidently understood the gentle art of garroting, for he pulled hard while he pressed his knee harder against the detective’s back.
There could be only one result to an attack like this, made suddenly and unexpectedly—Nick Carter had to let himself go to the floor.
As he did so his adversary was on top of him, trying to hold him down and obtain a grip on his throat.
This was something different, however. Nick had no intention of allowing such a liberty to be taken with him. He had yielded to the garrote, because it was the only thing to be done. Now, however, when he had a fair chance, things wore another aspect.