When the pair alighted at Little Neck, they took to the woods, but the detective never lost sight of them until they entered Sam Cole’s cabin.
Nick crept close to the hut, and through a chink in the side he was able to see anything that might take place inside.
Upon the floor lay Skip Brodie, tied hand and foot, cursing and roaring like a madman.
His pal cut the bonds, and, springing to his feet, Brodie dashed out of the cabin and ran through the woods like a deer, closely pressed by Denton.
What could it all mean?
Nick Carter called on them to stop, at the same time sending several bullets after them, none of which seemed to take effect.
He tried to follow, but before going a hundred yards, the detective’s head began to pain him, and he was obliged to give up the chase.
Returning to the cabin, Nick boldly entered, but he found no one there but Tambourine Jack, and the little fellow seemed to be almost as much bewildered as himself.
“This beats Banhager, and Banhager beats all,” said Jack. “If this isn’t a pretty go, call me a liar.”
“I don’t understand it,” exclaimed the detective. “Where can Hilton Field be? Surely they have not killed him?”