For five minutes Nick Carter reclined in one of the two comfortable American rockers, his hand before his face, but his eyes peering out between the fingers.
Suddenly he jumped from the chair, ran out of the front door, and crossed the dusty road.
Behind a huge bowlder, one of several which had rolled down from the mountains at different periods, he came across a man, who had been peeping out slyly, watching the detective in the hotel room.
He wore a panama hat and he had a ridiculous sword in his belt.
Nick Carter seized this man by the throat in so strong a grip that he could only gurgle incoherently, as he struggled vainly to escape.
“So you didn’t die, after all!” said Nick, with a grim smile.
“Die? Of course not. Who do you think I am?” demanded the man, as the detective slightly released his grip to allow the words to come.
“Who do I think you are, my friend?” rejoined Nick Carter. “I know who you are, in spite of the mustache you have stuck on your lip to deceive me. You are Jason, the rascal who was in the employ of Prince Marcos, now trying to get back to his own country in time to save it from ruin.”
“My name is not Jason, and I don’t know what you are talking about,” was the surly response. “I never heard of Prince Marcos. Who are you?”
Before Nick could say anything more, the fellow, realizing that the hold upon him was not so strong as it had been, made a sudden dive and got away.