“I tell you, it’s a sure thing,” Nick heard Nixon say; “for he’s up there at the Windsor Hotel.”
“How you goin’ ter git ’im out?” demanded one of the men.
“That’s easy enough,” was the reply, and then the men talked in whispers again.
The detective laughed, softly to himself.
“They’ll have a nice job coaxing Chick to come out and be killed,” he thought.
Presently a muscular-looking young fellow entered the room and seated himself at a table not far from that occupied by Nick.
His oily trousers were thrust into the tops of a pair of heavy, unpolished boots, and he wore a baggy, blue woolen shirt under his rough coat, which smelled of machine oil. No vest or suspenders were in sight, and his closely cropped head was covered with a greasy felt hat.
He looked like an iron worker out for a midnight lunch.
He ordered a light meal and took out a huge roll of bills, as if to pay for it in advance.
Nick saw Nixon watching the money enviously.