CARTER AND HIS QUARRY.
It looked like a diabolical plot to make way with the girl who had
interested herself in the death of Mother Flintstone.
Margie cried again for help, but none seemed to come.
She heard the roar of flames just beyond the door, and knew that it was
locked.
Seconds seemed hours to the doomed maiden, and she felt her strength
leave her.
Suddenly there was a crash, and some one broke into the room.
Margie tried to rise, but her powers could not stand the strain, and
she fell back once more.
She felt some one lift her from the bed and carry her from the room.
She heard voices as in a dream, she felt smoke and flame in her face,
and then a rush of cold air.
Was she saved?
Had she been carried from the jaws of death and would she be able to
tell the story of her escape?
She did not know.
When she came to again she saw a woman standing over her, and a gentle
hand was laid upon her brow.
“It was a narrow escape, child,” said the nurse, and Margie looked up
with a query in her eyes.
“Tell me,” said the girl.
“All I know is that a fireman saved you in the nick of time. He carried
you from the house, which was entirely consumed. It was a brave act,
and will get him a medal.”
“But the woman?”
“They saw no one but you in the house. Was there another?”
“Yes; Nora.”
The nurse shook her head.
“The other one may have left the house in time,” she remarked.
“She was my jaileress.”
“You don’t mean to tell me that you were in that house against your
will?”
“That’s it exactly.”
“And you don’t know who Nora is?”
“I do not.”
Later in the day Margie, now fully recovered from the shock, was able
to sit up, and an officer came to see her.
“The man I want to see is Mr. Carter, the detective. I will talk to
him,” said the girl, and they telephoned for the detective.
In a short time the answer came back that the detective could not be
found, and Margie adhered to her declaration that she would talk to no
one but him.
Meantime Carter, whom we left in the corridor of the tall building with
a revolver at his head, had had an adventure of his own.
Eager to discover something about the man who had lost a card in Mother
Flintstone’s den, he had made his way to the building, only to reach
the third floor, where he was met by a man who covered him and told him
that another step would seal his doom.
The detective had not bargained for an adventure of this kind, and the
threat took him unawares. He could see the well-built figure of the
speaker, though it was not too well revealed, but the man’s face seemed
to be half concealed by a mask.
He stood but a few feet from the detective, and Nick noticed that the
hand which held the weapon did not quiver.
There was a desperate man behind the six-shooter.
“What do you want?” suddenly demanded the stranger.
“I want to see you.”
“Well, I’m here.”
“George Richmond, we have not met for some time.”
The stranger laughed.
“George Richmond, eh? You don’t take me for that worthy, do you?”
“You are that man and no one else,” was the reply. “I am here to tell
you this in spite of the menace of the revolver.”
“Well, what do you want with George Richmond?”
Nicholas Carter waved his hand toward a door near the man, and
continued:
“You live in this building. We cannot talk in this hall.”
“That’s right. Come this way, sir.”
For the first time the weapon was lowered, and the man called George
Richmond by the detective opened the door.
His action revealed a room scantily furnished, but Carter stepped
forward.
The moment he crossed the threshold the door was shut, and the other
turned a key in the lock.
“Now, sir, what is it?” he demanded.
The detective turned and looked him in the face.
“You have been to Hell’s Kitchen,” said the detective, as coolly as if
he addressed a man in the chief’s private room, instead of where he was.
“That’s news to me,” laughed the listener, as his face seemed to lose
color. “What business would I have in that delectable locality?”
“Never mind that. You went there.”
“Who says so?”
“The person who saw you.”
“You?”
“The person who saw you,” repeated the detective, with emphasis, as he
watched the man like a hawk.
“Well, what of it?”
“You sounded the walls.”
“In Hell’s Kitchen?”
“Yes, in Mother Flintstone’s den.”
“Why, she’s dead.”
“That’s true. You went to her house and sounded the walls. You examined
the floor and looked closely at the ceiling.”
The fellow seemed to grow desperate.
“What if I did?” he growled.
“You lost something there.”
The man started.
“Don’t you know that a man bent on evil always leaves a clew behind?”
“That’s an old story, but they don’t always do that. In the first
place, you have nothing to prove that I went to Mother Flintstone’s
den. I defy you.”
One of Carter’s hands vanished into a pocket, and came out with a small
card between thumb and finger.
“You left this there,” said he, coolly, displaying the bit of
pasteboard.
The other fastened his eyes upon the card for a moment, and then glared
at Carter.
“Supposing all this is true,” he said; “what are you going to make out
of it?”
“You went there after something the old woman is supposed to have
concealed in the den. That is why you searched the walls, George
Richmond. Did you do it for your friend, or was it all done on your own
hook?”
“For my friend?”
“Yes, for the friend you serve--the money king’s heir.”
At this there was a sudden start, and Richmond looked toward the door.
“You are taking desperate chances in order to keep up your reputation
as a detective,” he said at last. “I never thought you would resort to
this. I know you. I know that you are Nick Carter, the detective, but
with all your shrewdness you can’t hoodwink me.”
With this the speaker moved toward the door and laid his hand upon the
knob.
Before Carter could cross the room he saw the door flung open, and the
man sprang out into the hall.
The portal was slammed in Carter’s face, and a key turned in the lock.
All this was the work of a second, and he heard the feet of the other
on the stairs without.
As for himself, he was a prisoner in the room.
The gas burning overhead revealed the place to him, and he went back
and stood for a little while at the table.
He felt that Richmond was already on the street below and out of sight.
“I must follow that villain,” said Nick, and again he was at the door.
All his strength could not move the portal, and then he threw himself
against it, but still it would not yield.
Other doors had fallen before his assaults, but this one seemed built
of adamant, and he drew back out of breath, but by no means discouraged.
He knew he was in the third story of a building, and that the room
looked out upon a narrow alleyway between two houses. This he could
see from the window, and he saw, too, that he could not reach the fire
escape from where he was without great risk.
But it was not his intention to remain in the room any longer than he
could help it.
He raised the sash and measured the distance to the fire escape, upon
which he would be safe.
The detective studied the situation for a short time, and then
dexterously leaped for the escape.
His hands caught the irons, and he drew himself upon the platform.
There he stopped a little while for breath and looked around.
No one seemed to have witnessed his feat, and he congratulated himself
in silence that so far he had succeeded almost beyond his expectations.
In another minute he was going down the iron rungs of the ladder with
the escaping villain in his mind.
By that time George Richmond was far away, but the detective hoped
still to overhaul him.
He gained the street, none the worse for his startling adventure, but,
of course, the quarry was gone.
A few yards distant on a corner with the lamplight falling upon his
figure stood a policeman, and Carter went toward him.
The copper had seen a man pass a short time before, and told Nick so.
“He went that way a little fast,” said the policeman, pointing down the
street, and as Carter started off a carriage came around the corner.
The light for a moment fell upon it, and the detective caught sight of
a man’s face at the window.
He knew it at once--the face of Claude Lamont!