CHAPTER XXXII.
PAUL ROGERS’ LAST STRUGGLE.
Eleven o’clock had just tolled from the tower of the town hall in the village, three miles away, when Nick Carter saw a shadow cross the path near to the spot where he was sitting, and he started to his feet and bounded forward with the suddenness of the leap of a panther.
He seized the man from behind and forced him to the earth, at the same moment attempting to grasp his throat, thus to shut off all chance of his calling out and thus summoning assistance; but in the darkness he missed the man’s throat, and was amazed to hear the well-recognized tones of Tom Morgan’s voice cursing in a low tone, while he struggled to free himself from the grasp of his assailant.
Instantly the detective altered his tactics.
“Red Morgan! Tom! Tom Morgan!” he whispered in his ear. “Stop struggling. Lie quiet. Listen to me. I am Nick Carter.”
“Praise God!” breathed Tom, in reply. And then in a whisper that was still lower, he continued:
“Don’t make a sound, for Heaven’s sake. There are sixty-five crooks around us somewhere. If they are not here now they are on the way and not far distant. As many as a score of them must be hidden near here now, although I do not think they will approach near to the house before midnight.”
Then, as rapidly as possible, he revealed the awful condition of things to the detective, covering only the main points of the plot, for there was not time to go into detail; but he closed with this statement:
“The telephone wires were to be cut at eleven-thirty, and the electric light wires at midnight. At a quarter past twelve, the descent is to be made on the house.”
“Well, man alive, that gives us an hour and a quarter to work,” said Nick. “We can do a lot in that time.”