His home had been empty for several years, and then Mala, seeing that the rush of motor cars gave promise of a paying trade for a hotel, took the house, and had found it fairly profitable for a person of his lazy habits.
Nick Carter was tired from driving the car all day, and he slept soundly during the first few hours of the night.
It was pitch dark when he awoke with a start. He had the curious, indescribable feeling that a stranger was in the room.
Softly he stretched out his hand, to get hold of the automatic pistol in the pocket of his coat that hung on a chair at his bedside.
Instead of getting to his pocket, his hand fell into the grasp of a large hand, with thick fingers, which closed tightly about his own. At the same moment a pillow was pressed against his face, and several men—he could not tell how many—lifted him from his bed.
Not a word was spoken, but it seemed as if the men all knew exactly what they were to do. They carried him noiselessly in the darkness till he felt the cool air of early morning blowing upon him.
He did not yield without a struggle. But there seemed to be so many men that he could not release himself, and continually there was the pressure of the pillow upon his face so that he could hardly breathe.
Down the stairs and out to the open he was carried. The increasing coolness told him he was clear of the house.
He had on only his pajamas, and when he was placed in a motor car, he wondered whether his clothes had been left behind.
Somebody loosened the pillow from his face, so that he could get his breath a little more freely, but it was still kept in place by a rope fastened around his neck. A pair of slippers much too large for him were slipped on his feet.