“Are you sure, Skip,” he said, “that Hilton Field is safe?”
“Of course.”
“But those fellows may go back on us,” suggested Greer; “money is tempting, and in the course of a day or two a large sum will be offered for information of his whereabouts. Then, too, the detectives may discover the hand we had in it.”
“Nick Carter already knows that. Dell Ladley, you may be sure, once she began to talk, kept nothing from him.”
“Where have they taken the banker?” asked Greer.
“To the old house up at Sands Point, on Long Island,” was the reply. “You need not fear for his safety. Mackrell is with them, and he is as true as steel.”
The owner of the face pressed against the glass window that gave light and sometimes ventilation to the room, drank in this last speech of Brodie’s with great satisfaction.
And when the ruffian had finished the face disappeared.
“Our friend here,” said Jack Shea, the proprietor of the den, addressing Skip and nodding toward Elmer, “has a nice lay for the boys.”
“Carrying off another old bloke, I suppose,” remarked Brodie.