“Curse you!” he yelled; “I know you now! You’re Moses Flood!”
“You lie!” thundered Nick, tearing off his disguise. “I am Nick Carter, the detective!”
Belle Braddon uttered a scream that pierced the very walls of the house, and from somewhere under her skirts snatched out a revolver.
Chick Carter, with eyes alert to see where he was most needed, was upon her as a leopard leaps upon a hare.
“Not on your life, miss!” he cried, wrenching away the weapon and forcing her into a chair.
Nate Godard, too, had drawn his revolver, but he never again discharged it.
Nick swept across the table like a whirlwind, and in an instant had the desperate man by the throat.
Then he drew back, startled.
Godard’s grip on his revolver had relaxed, and the weapon fell clattering to the floor. He threw both hands above his head, like one stricken a fatal blow, then brought both palms violently to his skull, as if within were the seat of a dreadful pain. His distorted face suddenly grew ghastly, with lips drawn and eyes rolling, and but for Nick Carter’s supporting arm he would have fallen headlong to the floor.
“He’s done for!” cried Nick to Chick, over his shoulder.