“Call me the man from Montana. I’m the pal of poor old Ramsay whom you bagged the other day. I’m the only man left of the Western swindlers, and you want me badly. You’re Nick Carter?”
“My name is Nicholas.”
“By thunder, you can’t fool me, Mr. Sleuth!”
“What do you want?” asked the detective.
“Simply wanted to get you into the telephone box. Right here is where you connect with your finish, and——”
The words were lost in a sharp report and a crashing of glass.
Nick felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, and, as he reeled backward and dropped the receiver, he heard a mocking and triumphant laugh come over the wire.
“Great heavens!” he cried; “I’m shot—killed!”
The next instant he burst out of the telephone box and fell into the arms of the chief of police, the latter having arrived at the hotel but a moment before.