It was all over in a few seconds, but they seemed like years to Carter’s assistant.
“A-h-h!”
It was a thin, frenzied scream that went up. Chick felt the muscular fingers relax from his throat, and dimly saw the long, lean arms, waving wildly, drawn in from the window. For a few moments he hung there, gasping, then, inch by inch he dragged himself up until his head was level with the sill again, and his feet had found a support on a little ledge which hooded the first-floor window.
Another heave brought him higher, and he dizzily drew himself over the sill somehow, anyhow, into the room. For an instant he lay where he had fallen, while the interior of the room danced about him. Then, as his eyes cleared, he saw two figures writhing on the floor, locked in each other’s arms. Summoning all of his strength, and gritting his teeth, he rose to his feet and staggered forward.
It seemed as if the Fury possessed Follansbee, for he fought like a wild cat, and it was all Carter could do to hold him down. But the detective won at last, and as Chick scrambled to his feet, Follansbee was stretched out flat on his back, while the chief, with one hand on the heaving chest, pinned the miscreant to the floor.
“It looks like a—a case of handcuffs, chief,” Chick said, panting for breath.
CHAPTER XLV.
“HEAVEN HELP ME.”
Nick Carter looked up at his assistant’s words, then nodded toward the door. “Lock that!” he commanded. “Quick!”
Chick made his way dizzily across the room and turned the key in the lock. He knew the meaning of the move. The noise of the struggle might have been heard, and if so, the room might be invaded at any moment. It was evident that the chief did not wish such an interruption. As soon as Chick had locked the door, he returned to his chief’s side.