CHAPTER XXI.
NICK BECOMES CHAUFFEUR.
“Don’t shoot!” pleaded the detective, cringing before the pointed gun; “for Heaven’s sake, don’t shoot!”
“What do you mean by sneaking into this room?” demanded the man, making a threatening gesture with the revolver.
Nick thought he recognized the voice.
It sounded strangely like the tone assumed by the man from Montana, through the phone.
“My wife and family are starving,” said Nick, in a choking voice; “I can get no work, and they must live.”
“Bah! What do I care for your wife and family? You can’t ring in a bluff of that kind on me, not on your life. You’re a common, ordinary, go-as-you-please sneak thief, and right here is where you are going to get it in the neck!”
The man took a sidestep to the left, still holding the gun on Nick, and reached his left hand toward the push-button above the speaking tube.
“Oh, don’t, sir!” implored Nick, wringing his hands. “Let me go! I beg of you to let me go!”
“Shut up, you coward!” gritted the man. “If you had any nerve about you, I might be tempted to cut you loose; but I haven’t any sort of use for a sniveling, chicken-hearted coyote like you are showing yourself to be.”