Then followed a chase through the tortuous streets of lower New York, until T. Burton Potter rushed up a stairway to the elevated road at South Ferry. Patsy was not far behind him—so near, in fact, that he contrived to be on the same Sixth Avenue train that carried Potter uptown to Eighth Street.
At this station Potter got off, and Patsy, who had been in the next car, also dropped off and hid himself in the shadows until Potter went down the stairs.
In less than half an hour Patsy rapped at the door of Nick Carter’s library and walked in, cool and collected, to find his chief busy with some papers at his big table, and alone.
Nick looked up calmly.
“I was expecting you, Patsy,” he said.
“I came as soon as I could,” was Patsy’s response.
“Where’s your man?”
“My man?”
“T. Burton Potter.”