He was lying on the floor in one corner, insensible from a drug administered by Busby the previous night.
Margate had removed his disguise and tossed it upon the table. That he had the famous detective helplessly in his power, he had not the shadow of a doubt. It had impelled him to do what he had done the night before, when talking with Patsy Garvan—to vaunt his evil exploits, to boast of what he was about to accomplish, to express his vicious hatred of his hearer, and much that he had said to Patsy, he now had said to Nick.
Not one of his confederates had ventured to interfere.
Aside from his surprise at beholding Margate, whose identity he really had not suspected, the effect of all that the rascal had been saying was not manifest in the detective’s face. He had appeared as unmoved and severe as a man of bronze while he mutely listened.
Not until Busby began to growl with impatience, whereupon Margate seemed about to end the scene, did Nick take steps to prolong it, knowing well what soon must occur.
“Get Clayton’s fortune, eh?” he then remarked, picking up a prediction Margate had just made. “So that has been your game, much in line with what you twice have attempted. Do you expect to meet with more success this third time, Margate, that you have declared yourself so boldly?”
Margate laughed derisively and pointed to the senseless form of the detective’s assistant.
“Does that, with your own situation, look like success?” he questioned, with a mocking sneer. “Oh, I’ve got you this time, Carter, and there is no loophole through which you can escape. You undertook last night to trap me with a ruse, but I have turned the tables on you. I have you where I want you, where I long have wanted you, and, as for the game I am playing—well, I shall make good. I will stake my life upon that.”
“Your life may be the price, Margate.”
“Not through your agency, Carter.”