“No.”
Carter, while he was talking, rose from his chair, holding one of his hands in the side pocket of his coat.
Brockey did not move.
Even when the detective drew up near to him he did not suspect that he was in any danger. He poured out another glass full of liquor and drank it.
As he was in the act of placing the glass back on the table Carter caught hold of him, and, before he could move or utter a word, the detective had the handcuffs clasped around his wrists.
“What does this mean?” Brockey ejaculated, with a fierce oath, and, as he tried to jump to his feet, he faced the pistol which Carter pointed at him.
The detective pulled off his disguise.
Brockey recognized him. He uttered a cry of terror, his face turned pale with alarm, and he sank down into his chair.
“Carter!” he gasped.
“Yes, and you’re my prisoner,” the detective smilingly replied.