Nick seized the opportunity to look him over, and he felt comparatively sure that he was up against the same man that appeared in the Badger photograph.
The fellow was roughly clad at this time, however, with a soft felt hat drawn over his brows.
He was a well-built, athletic man, apparently somewhere in the forties; yet he was as quick as a cat in his movements, and evidently was endowed with supple muscles and nerves of steel.
The rascal was heavily bearded, yet this did not figure for much with Nick Carter. He rightly judged that the man was carefully disguised, yet the make-up was so cleverly prepared and adjusted that Nick, despite his experience in such artifices, could not detect it.
What Nick chiefly noted, in fact, was that the eyes of the man had in them the piercing gleam of deadly resolution, a fixed and vicious determination to execute the desperate deed that he had undertaken. There was no sign of intoxication now, which plainly had been assumed only for the purpose of holding up the travelers.
Though not lacking in courage, Nick Carter had his share of wisdom and discretion. He saw at a glance that he was entirely helpless for the moment, at least, and he had no idea of deliberately inviting a bullet.
Such stirring episodes occur in a very few moments, and not thirty seconds had passed since the hold-up, when the voice of the highwayman again cut sharply upon the morning air.
“Chauffeur, you do what I command, or worse will be yours,” he cried sternly. “Lower one of your hands and remove your employer’s watch.”
Grady hesitated for the bare fraction of a second.
Nick saw the hand clutching one of the weapons begin to contract.