“I’ll tell you this: If anybody has got to ‘drop it,’ as you suggested just now, you are the one to do it. You have bitten off more than you can chew. You just now said that Mr. James Duryea is dead. Let him lie. Mr. Ledger Dinwiddie stands before you, and Mr. Ledger Dinwiddie can prove his descent for generations back, and that without the slightest trouble. If Jimmy Duryea’s ghost walks, Nick Carter won’t be the man to lay it. You can bet your last dollar on that.”
“All the same, I think he will; and to prove it to you, I’ll just clap the irons upon you right now, Jimmy, and as soon as this storm is past I’ll take you where you belong.”
As the detective spoke he produced a pair of handcuffs from one of his pockets, and he held them, jingling before Duryea’s eyes, looking straight at the man.
But Duryea only laughed.
“Put ’em away, Carter,” he said. “You won’t use them; not on me; not to-day, at least.”
“Why not?”
“Because you won’t. That’s reason enough. What do you think would happen, if you should be ass enough to do what you threaten?”
“I think it would be Sing Sing for yours, Jimmy.”
“Not on your life; not much.”
“Why not?”