Nick pricked up his ears. Here was something that interested him.
“It appears,” continued the officer that had been talking, “that there is a man named Weeden, who is at the head of the gang, but nobody has been able to trace him in anything that savors of rascality, and as he has such a reputation among his neighbors for being honest, the people in charge are afraid to make any move against him, although I think that they would be only too glad to get something on him, as he has been very insolent to the men who have questioned him about the murders that have been committed near his repair shop.”
“Don’t talk too loud,” cautioned the sergeant. “That Manhattan man is in here; they say that he is a crackajack, too. I wonder what case he is working on now?”
“Oh, you mean the man that was talking with the inspector to-day?”
“Yes, that is the one. I have heard some of the men say that it is Nick Carter, the famous detective, but I don’t think that it is he, because I saw him once, while I was working on a case, and this man does not look anything like him at all.”
Nick smiled to himself. The man had once worked with him on a case, and as keen-sighted as he was, he did not penetrate the disguise that Nick wore at the time.
The door of the room opened, and the inspector entered.
As he came into the room, Nick staggered to his feet and looked confusedly around. He appeared as if he had just awakened.
“I see that you are on your feet again,” said the inspector, as he entered the room.
“Oh, yes, I am all right, barring a slight headache,” answered Nick. “I guess I must have had a narrow call at that time, and if it had not been for my usual good luck I would not now be willing to go to work again.”