The transfer had been made in half a minute.
In another half the car was speeding back over the woodland road at thirty miles an hour—heading for Badger’s place near Brookline.
Senseless, between the seats, out of view of any persons whom the speeding car might pass along the road, lay the man for whom failure only had been predicted by the desperate woman who had struck him down.
CHAPTER XIII.
CLOSE QUARTERS.
“It’s not for me to say what you’ll do or not do, since you now appear to hold the ribbons. It’s up to you, Badger, and not for me to say.”
The above came from Nick Carter several hours after the tragic episode enacted in the woodland road.
Bound hand and foot, with his head rudely bandaged, Nick sat propped against one of four stone walls, evidently those of a small cellar, or possibly a wine-vault, with but one heavy door through which the place was accessible.
Only the bare earth was under him, damp and cold, while a small pool of stagnant water in one corner of the place evinced the depressed location of the ground.
Two empty beer-kegs stood on end near-by.