Chester Smith, the wealthy banker, Nick Carter, Chick and two detectives from the city force sat in a room not far from the chophouse.
It was nearly midnight, and they had been waiting there two hours.
“It beats anything I ever heard of,” said the banker. “When burglars took money from under my pillow, stole my revolver, cooked a breakfast in my kitchen, tapped my wine, and left an explanatory tag tied to my dog’s tail, I thought the limit of audacity had been reached; but this robbing a bank by machinery throws all that in the shade.”
The detectives laughed heartily at the banker’s account of the burglar’s visit to his residence.
Then Chick turned to his chief.
“I’d like to know,” he said, “how you got that make-up from the doctor, and how you knew what drug to use in order to help me back to life.”
“Why,” said Nick, “the fool of a doctor tried to catch me by giving me a dose of the same medicine he gave you. I got out of the room mighty quick and shut the door.”
“And he had to take the dose himself?”
“Exactly. Well, the ball wasn’t very strong, and when I went back into the room the fellow was still conscious, although lacking the power of motion.”
“That’s the way I felt at first.”