But not a vestige of Potter could they find, and Nick could believe only that he had really made the seeming impossible leap.
When the prisoners had been safely conveyed to the police station, to be dealt with in due course by the government officers, Nick went around there himself, to make his report of what had taken place under his supervision.
That was merely a dry, official proceeding, and Nick, wearied of the whole business, and more disgusted than he would have cared to acknowledge over the way T. Burton Potter had escaped him, was about to go out of the station to the taxi he had ordered, when Brockton remarked casually:
“We have one prisoner who has a queer story to tell. He says he is your assistant?”
“What?” shouted Nick.
“He’s a young fellow. We didn’t see him in the room with the others. But he’s one of the gang. He was trying to slip out of the door into the front when one of my men grabbed him.”
“Where is he?”
Nick interrupted the narration curtly, and a black frown gathered over his keen eyes and brought his heavy brows together.
“In a cell, of course.”
“Did he tell you his name?”