The clerk came briskly out and Nick went after him.
Just beyond the corner a man in a brown derby dropped in behind Nick.
Chick, keenly alive to the situation, picked up the single tin automobile that he had left, pushed it into his pocket, and trailed along in the rear of the man in the brown derby.
From the opposite side of the street a neatly dressed man in a sack suit and black Fedora hat took in the situation and gave vent to a muttered oath.
“I like the layout, Mr. Nick Carter,” he said to himself. “Keep on after Gillman and you’ll find yourself in a hornet’s nest. You’ll never live to put those Boston men next to my game, or to bring me to book for that Montana job. Now for Hamilton Street.”
CHAPTER VIII.
BOUCICAULT’S.
At certain times Nick Carter had intuitions that amounted almost to positive knowledge.
It was the “detective instinct,” amplified by years of intelligent practice.
In the present instance he believed that he would be shadowed, and he even figured out to himself the successive links in the chain that brought the conclusion.
Gillman had suspected him and had conveyed his suspicions to the man in the brown derby at the same time that he had reported the result of the assay.