“You bet we found them.”
“I pretended to be crying bitterly all the while,” she went on to explain. “So I was, in fact, with my head bowed in my hands, but I contrived to tear off bits of the veil at intervals and drop them from the car. I hoped——”
“Your hope is fulfilled,” Chick interposed. “They en[Pg 38]abled us to trace you. Nick should be somewhere near here, unless he——”
He stopped short, interrupted by the sudden sharp crack of a revolver—that of Patsy Garvan, when he killed Ben Ardley.
“Great Scott!” Chick exclaimed. “Wait here, Mrs. Clayton. I’ll see what that means.”
He did not wait for an answer, but darted out through a side door of the house.
The first person he caught sight of was Margate, just leaping through the broken door of the building, some fifty yards from the house. The rascal was reaching for a revolver, and was turning toward the door at the opposite end of the building.
Margate caught sight of Chick at that moment, however, instantly recognizing him, and all that was cowardly in him leaped into play. He did not put up a fight, did not venture attempting to rescue his confederates in crime, but he turned like a mongrel cur and darted down to the launch near the river bank, bent only upon making his escape.
Chick saw his design and pursued him, whipping out a revolver. At the same moment he caught sight of Patsy Garvan and the cornered gang through the broken door. Without pausing, he yelled at the top of his lungs:
“Keep them covered, Patsy. I’ll get this other rat.”