Nick was not foiled by the chair, however. Agile as a panther, he placed one hand lightly on the back of the chair, and vaulted completely over it, at the same moment stretching forth a hand to seize Potter.
But Potter had vaulted over the table and was through the doorway before the detective could get him, notwithstanding that he leaped over the table just the splinter of a second behind the man he wanted to capture.
But the rascal’s luck was with him. He reached the top of a long flight of stairs to the basement, and went down them in a huddled heap, part of the time on his feet, and the rest of it rolling down like a ball.
Again Carter was so close to him that he almost had him, when a big man, with a knife in his hand, rushed up from the bottom, and came right between them.
It was the man Chick had seen trimming off the plaster molds in the old kitchen, while the metal boiled on the stove that had so nearly been the death of Carter’s principal assistant.
“Look out, Davis! The cops!” bellowed T. Burton Potter. “It’s a raid! Hand him one! Croak him!”
The big man, whose name, it seemed, was Davis, made a lunge at Nick with his long, dirty knife.
The detective was too quick for him, however. Dodging the knife stroke, he feinted with his right fist, and then sent his left straight into Davis’ face, between the eyes.
The blow was a magnificent one from a boxer’s point of view. Not only did it send Davis down the few stairs up which he had come, but it drove him six or eight feet along the hall.
It was not altogether satisfactory to Nick, however. He had to dispose of the big man, of course. But, in the meantime, T. Burton Potter was getting away.