Ida hurried to the table and filled in the address of Chick, at Nick Carter’s, in New York. Then she wrote these words: “Am in trouble.”
She had only gotten so far when she heard quick steps in the hall without, approaching her door.
Without waiting further she rushed to the window and thrust the telegram she had written out of the window to the boy, who snatched it and crawled away in a hurry.
Ida went back to the table, her hand on her revolver.
The bolts were withdrawn and a man entered the room.
At a glance Ida saw that he was disguised, and not skillfully at that.
He crossed the room to where she was standing, the table between them, and stood looking at her intently a moment or two.
Ida returned his gaze. Neither spoke for a while. Then the man said:
“You are Nick Carter’s Ida. What is your business here?”
“I have none,” said Ida. “I was brought here against my will.”