Neither of the interested parties—if perchance both were interested—could see Red Mike; neither one had heard the sound of his approach, the opening of the door, or his tread upon the soft and yielding rug.
As a matter of fact he barely trod upon it at all, for he had not taken the second step before he discovered the scene that was being enacted before him, and halted.
It has been said that despite his red hair and an unmistakable air of brutality about him, Red Mike was a handsome man, stalwart, powerful, and sensuous in his appearance.
His face, always of a redder hue than most masculine faces, flushed to a deep crimson when he came upon that scene in the parlor of the house boat, and he halted, and waited, and listened.
If Nick Carter could have looked upon him at that moment, he would have discovered in the aspect of the man, and in the scowl that became deeper with every second, that he had doubtless been correct in his prognostication.
Red Mike was jealous; there could have been no denying that fact.
He stood there near the door by which he had entered, his weight upon the foot that he had put forward in the act of stepping so that his attitude was that of a man about to leap upon another.
His upper lip curled beneath his mustache, showing his teeth, like the snarl of a dog when angered. His fingers twitched, then clenched together in the palms of his hands, and then one of them relaxed as it sought the pocket where he carried his automatic revolver.
But he thought better of that impulse, and dropped the hand at his side again.
“Do you like to have me do this?� he heard Madge say to Lynne; and Lynne replied: