He had a brown satchel in his hand and looked like a red-haired capitalist.
“Good!” said Nick. “You’ll do for Cooper.”
“Providing you don’t throw a flash light on me,” laughed Chick. “You’re good, too, but I don’t know who you stand for.”
“Horace Montgomery.”
Nick wore an iron-gray wig and mustache and chin whiskers, gold-bowed spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose, and a silk hat of slightly old-fashioned block covered his head.
A grayish frock coat, with trousers of same material, patent leathers, dark spats and a gold-headed cane finished the disguise.
In each hip pocket he had one of his small but reliable revolvers, and in the breast of his coat were two pairs of handcuffs.
They rode in a cab to the Montgomery house, the cab was dismissed and they walked up the steps to the door.
As Nick was about to press the bell the door opened and Montgomery himself stepped out.
For an instant the two confronted each other in the semi-gloom.