It revealed the evil countenance of Benton, with his thin, cruel lips, and habitual sneer. It shone upon the brutal face of the negro.
Each of them held a knife in his hand. They were bending forward, and were just ready to strike.
The bright flame dazzled and confused them for an instant.
Then they turned toward the spot to which Nick had sprung.
The sight which met their gaze was not reassuring.
In each hand Nick held a revolver. There was death in the glance of his eye.
Neither Benton nor the negro could summon up the courage to stir.
Every crook in New York—not to go further—knows Nick Carter’s reputation as a pistol shot.
Probably there is not a criminal in the whole city who would dream of making any resistance if he found himself covered by a revolver in Nick’s hands.
It would be suicide and nothing else.