“Yes,” replied Nick Carter, drawing his pistol; “it was.”
Sam saw the weapon glitter in the moonlight and advanced no further.
“He had like to kill me,” the negro said, “and I was obliged to kill him; I am sorry, gentlemen.”
“Look out for him,” whispered Tambourine, “he is a bad one.”
“Are you Sam Cole?”
The detective drew near the fellow as he spoke.
“That’s what they call me hereabouts,” was the answer. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yes; show me where you have hid the old gentleman you carried away from your cabin,” said Nick.
“Guess you have struck the wrong party, mister. I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Come, now, none of that, if you wish to save yourself from going to prison,” remarked the detective; “I am Nick Carter, of New York, and I know you have this man I am in search of.”