“No, I wasn’t,” denied Patsy in a hurt tone. “I always do as I’m told, don’t I? And when you’re in charge of a case, I regard you as the chief’s representative, and I take as much notice of what you say as if you were Nick Carter himself.”
“These two houses are exactly alike, from what I can see,” mused Chick aloud, as they slowly descended to the basement again. “What do you know about it, Patsy?”
“I’d bet on it,” was the curt response.
“That’s what I think. We’ll go lower this time.”
“In the cellar?”
“Yes. The cellar stairs are under these, and the door is not locked. Be careful you don’t stumble.”
“I’ll look out,” returned Patsy. “I don’t want to break my neck by going down headfirst.”
“It isn’t that. But you might make a noise that would attract attention—that’s all.”
Patsy shrugged his shoulders at this remark. But it was too dark for Chick to see the gesture. Nor did he hear the whispered observation of his companion.
“What does my neck matter, so long as we don’t spoil the case? That is a businesslike way to look at it, anyhow.”