“Keep back!” requested the detective. “I’d rather deal with him alone. We’ll have him where we want him in a moment.”
Slowly, Nick twisted the man’s right arm until his fingers relaxed and the knife he had kept firmly in his grasp throughout dropped from his hand.
“Pick up that knife!” directed the detective.
Chick had the knife in his hand almost before his chief spoke, and stuck it in his belt.
“There’s some rope by that couch, Patsy,” went on Nick. “Bring it over. We’ll tie him up. Then we shall be able to see what we have to do.”
A minute or two was sufficient time in which to secure the wretch’s arms and legs. Then they put him on the couch, where he lay silent, except for his heavy breathing.
The expression on his swarthy face told plainly enough that there would be murder if only he were able to get the upper hand for a few seconds.
Nick Carter gingerly picked up the shriveled head from the floor and examined it in the glow of the relighted lanterns.
The hideous article was perfect in everything but size. The face was not larger than a doll’s. The eyes were closed and the eyelashes and brows had been trimmed down. Some process had been applied to the mouth to reduce its dimensions, but the hair and beard had been left at their full length.
The effect was that of a pigmy face peering from a mass of red-brown hair, while over the forehead, where the skull should have been, was a fillet of soft gold, like a bracelet such as might be worn by a young girl.