"You did not realize what you were up against?" the harsh voice jeered. "Thought you had a farmer in tow, I suppose? Well, you might have made the proper crack at Arthur, if he had been alive, but you are no match for the mature individual who is now before you."
Nick clenched his hands. It was all he could do. He would have gritted his teeth, but the gag was in the way.
"I don't know as this move of mine was required," Peter Mannion went on, "for I think the game is in such shape that even Nick Carter could not have checkmated it. But it's best to have the ground entirely clear. You were obnoxious; the sight of you at Craven's the other day offended my sense of proportion. You don't fit into the picture. To-morrow is my day, and butters-in are barred."
The uncle lighted a cigar, and, stooping over, deliberately blew smoke into his captive's face. Nick blinked his eyes, but the glance he gave his tormentor was cool and defiant.
"You are probably consoling yourself with the idea," pursued Peter Mannion, with easy assurance, "that your smart friend, Chick, will play your hand in case you are unable to do so. Don't think it. It's not on the program. Chick may come here to-morrow—I reckon he will—but he will not find you here. He will, however, find a note in your dear handwriting, informing him that you have struck a clue which clinches the whole business beyond the possibility of a doubt, and that he must come to your assistance without the delay of a moment. The note will further state that you are to be found on the outskirts of Georgetown, about a mile below the big bridge and at a boat-landing, with boat all ready for a sail. Will Chick bite? Of course, he'll bite. Chick is impulsive. Even if he suspected a trap he would go, for Chick is devoted to you, and would brave any danger for your sake. How do I know this? Through Nellie, my niece-at-law. Chick talked himself nearly blind while he was staying at Craven's house. He did not give anything away, but he said lots of nice things about you. Wish I could do the same, but I can't. You are not nice in my eyes."
There was a soft expression on the great detective's face. His thoughts were of Chick. But when this passed, alarm did not follow. On the contrary, a calm, deadly look shone in his eyes.
"As for Patsy," resumed Peter Mannion, with a contemptuous wave of the hand, "he's a boy and doesn't count. Besides, he's out of the way, for I was at the depot to-day, and saw him buy a ticket for New York. And if he does come back here within a week, it will be an easy job to fix him. This is the note which will settle Mr. Chick," he concluded, as he took from his pocket a folded paper and held it, opened, before Nick's eyes.
It bore evidence of having been written hurriedly, but the handwriting was a masterly imitation of the great detective's.
"Don't imagine that I did it," said Peter Mannion, "for such tricks are beyond me. But there's a smart little girl down at Craven's who spent a whole day in dressing up the document. How did she get a specimen of your fist? your eyes ask. Luck gave it to her. Chick's clothes, when they were changed, shed a note which you had written to him, and Nellie picked it up from under the bed after he had left the house. There was nothing in the note of value to us outside the handwriting."