The third man bore a strong resemblance to Wright, the Brooklyn crockery dealer, as also did he to Jack Weeden, the Astoria automobile repairer. Besides the revolvers that the men carried, each was armed with a long, murderous-looking knife.
“It is very evident,” murmured Nick, “that I am too hot on the trail of the Astoria horror, and that gang intends to murder me, if they possibly can. I will give them a warm reception if they try to get into my room.”
Nick stole silently to the bed. He lifted one of the pillows. There lay two automatic revolvers, each one fully loaded. Then he crept back to the window, and in the shadow of the curtain watched the men.
It was evidently their intention to enter his room and murder him while he slept.
Nick could hear what the men said.
The following is a part of what he heard:
“And so Billy’s done for,” said the man who resembled Weeden.
“Yes,” was the reply of one of his companions. “He was shot by a cursed newspaper man.”
“Well, I will see to it that he don’t write any more interesting stories.”
“What do you mean?”