They had attacked American tourists more than once, and thrilling tales of the threats made by the rascals if ransom were not paid had reached New York from time to time.
The detective had taken all these reports with the traditional grain of salt, and had allowed amply for the terror of those who had been captured.
Now that he had come face to face with Gaspara, and had noted his cruel, relentless face, made more hideous by the loss of an eye, he gave more credit to what he had heard about this fellow and his band.
Nick Carter was still reflecting on the crimes he had heard attributed to the Gaspara outfit, when the man who had gone to the car with Jason came back, carrying his clothes.
“Put them on!” commanded Gaspara.
The scoundrel spoke in Spanish, taking it for granted that Nick understood, since he was supposed to be Prince Marcos, who lived in a part-Spanish community.
As a matter of fact, Nick had perfect command of that tongue—as he had of eight or ten others—and he picked up his clothes without a moment of hesitation.
“It will feel good to have a proper pair of soles under my feet, if nothing else,” he thought. “These flopping slippers are a nuisance.”
In about five minutes he was attired in the habiliments which were supposed to be those of Prince Marcos, including the comfortable motoring cap that was part of the outfit.
Mechanically he put his hands into his coat pockets.