“Yes. I want to refer to some memoranda I have there, and I can telephone more conveniently from my own library than anywhere else. We’ll go home and——”
Nick broke off suddenly and ran to the middle of the wagonway on the boat.
For an instant he seemed inclined to leap over the gates, so that he could see better whatever it was that had caught his eye, and which had made him oblivious of all else?
“What is it?”
Chick was by the detective’s side, and both were staring at the dark river in front of them, but somewhat to starboard.
What they saw was startling enough to warrant the interest of Nick Carter—a man who seldom allowed himself to become excited, or he would have been so now.
A rowboat—a yawl—was moving swiftly toward the Manhattan shore, propelled by two men, and helped along considerably by the outgoing tide.
The tide caught them in such a way that, while it forced them downstream to some degree, also took them across the river, and soon would put the boat among the tangle of piles supporting some of the big wharves below the ferry slip.
The two men were T. Burton Potter and—Patsy Garvan.