“Come back, Patsy!” was Chick’s sharp command. “You can’t help. You’ll only be in the way.”
But Patsy had seen something that escaped his fellow assistant, and he kept right on.
“Here’s the gun, chief!” he shouted, as he held out his rifle.
“Give it to me!” responded Nick Carter. “That was right, Patsy! Now get back!”
Patsy obeyed, and Nick felt the rifle with the fingers of an expert, to make sure that there was a cartridge ready to be discharged.
As Nick took the rifle, the Scarab made a violent swoop at him with its right tentacle. If the detective hadn’t leaped aside, the poisoned point would have gone through his thin linen trouser leg and wounded him to death.
“Not this time, my friend!” observed the American.
He had jumped well back, out of reach of his foe. Dropping to one knee, he leveled the rifle and steadied himself until the fore sight came in line with the writhing, glittering head, and was clear of the people in the seats beyond.
Without hurry or excitement, he pulled the trigger.
In the hush that had fallen over the immense amphitheater, everybody heard the bullet strike.