“I will put you on the track of Hilton Field.”
Nick would have laughed had he not had a little compassion for the now abject and trembling wretch.
He begged, prayed and cursed by turns, but his appeals had no effect.
“Send me to prison for my other crimes,” the rascal cried, beseechingly, “but do not make the charge of murder against me. It is horrible to die.”
“No more so to you than to your victims,” said the detective. “No, I will bring you to the gallows.”
When he left the Tombs, whither he had taken Greer, Nick visited a friend of his, who had a saloon in Center Street, and from him borrowed a bloodhound that had been brought from Cuba, where it had been used in hunting down runaway slaves.
The detective had often fondled the dog, and they were very good friends.
Taking the brute with him, Nick went to Long Island City, and learned that the last train for Little Neck had left, but that he could get one to Flushing, which is about halfway.
At Flushing the detective engaged a horse and carriage, and, taking the dog in the wagon, he drove to the negro settlement near Little Neck.
He awoke the occupant of one of the cottages, and engaged him to care for the horse, since he might be absent until late the next day.