“THE DOCTOR.”
“There! You may set the electric drill in motion to-night, or as soon as
you please.”
Nixon stood by a basin of water in the cellar, washing his hands.
Gilmore and Geary, with smiling faces, stood near the break in the
cellar wall.
“Three million dollars are almost within reach,” said the latter, “and
then here’s one man for Europe.”
“What’s that for?” asked Gilmore.
“It’s safer over there.”
Gilmore lit a cigar and handed one to his companion.
“It’s safe enough anywhere now,” he said.
“What makes you think so?”
“Haven’t we got rid of Nick Carter and Chick?”
Geary looked doubtful for a moment.
“They are out of the way for the present,” he said, seeing that Gilmore
expected him to say something.
“Do you think they will get away?” demanded Gilmore.
“I’m afraid they will.”
Gilmore took the candle in his hand and walked through the break in the
cellar wall.
Turning to the right, he faced toward the rear of the bank vault, and
lifted the flashing candle above his head.
“There,” he said, “do you see anything there?”
As he spoke he pointed to the figure of a man lying on the floor.
“Yes.”
“Does it look as if he’d get away?”
“Hardly.”
“Do you think the doctors will allow Nick to escape?”
“No.”
“Of course not. They want him too much for that. Don’t you think so?”
“What you say is all true,” said Geary, “but for all that you may rest
assured that we are not through with Nick Carter yet.”
As he spoke, Geary and Gilmore felt a hand laid on their shoulders.
Each gave a start of surprise.
The doctor stood before them.
“My friend Chick seems to be behaving himself,” he said, with a smile.
“What brings you back here at this time?” asked Gilmore.
“Restlessness.”
“How did you leave our friend, Nick Carter?” asked Geary.
“A trifle under the weather.”
“Conscious?”
“Yes.”
“Then look out for him.”
“He’s in good hands,” replied the doctor.
“Where’s Richard?” asked Gilmore.
“At the rooms. He won’t be down to-day.”
“What?”
“He won’t be down until evening.”
“What are you down for? We shall have a hard night of it.”
“I want to get this young man away.”
“What young man?”
“Chick.”
Gilmore looked puzzled.
“I thought he was to remain here,” he said.
“And have the officers find him with the broken vault in the morning? I
should say not.”
“Where do you want to take him?”
“To a place where we can cut him up, of course.”
“That’s the doctor of it,” said Gilmore, with an oath.
Then Nixon stepped back to where the three men were talking.
“Are you going to cut Nick Carter up, too?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Who let you in?” asked Nixon.
“The fellow at the door.”
“He was there when you came in, then?”
“Yes, and he made a kick about letting me in. He said something about
the word having been changed.”
“He must have been drunk,” said Gilmore, “for the word has not been
changed.”
“Well,” said Nixon, “the fellow has disappeared.”
The doctor appeared to be very angry.
“You will spoil the whole scheme by putting such men on guard,” he said,
“and at this critical time, too.”
“I’ll run that door myself, after this,” said Nixon, “or at least until
the drill starts.”
The doctor stepped forward and bent over the still figure lying in the
corner by the bank vault.
“He’s about gone,” he said. “We must get him out of this before he
dies.”
“Why so?”
“Because you can take an unconscious man through the streets very
easily, but you can’t stir with a dead one.”
“You are right about that,” said Geary. “I have tried both.”
“How are you going to get him away?” asked Gilmore.
“In a carriage, I suppose.”
“Well, call one, then, and let’s have done with the affair for good and
all.”
Geary went out to call a carriage “for a sick man,” and the doctor went
back to the motionless figure by the vault.
Gilmore watched him closely.
Finally he saw him take a bottle from his pocket and press it to Chick’s
lips.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Trying to get rid of this accursed smell,” was the cool reply.
“I wish you could take the stink out of the rooms upstairs,” said
Gilmore.
“You won’t want the rooms to-morrow,” was the reply.
“I hope not.”
Then Nixon came back and announced that the carriage was waiting.
The doctor and Nixon took Chick by the feet and shoulders, and carried
him to the street door of the chophouse.
Then Gilmore called Nixon to the back end of the room, to a place where
the doctor could not overhear what was being said.
“What do you think of this?” he asked.
“Of what?”
“Taking Chick away.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Well,” said Gilmore, with an oath, “I don’t like it either. He may
escape.”
“Then don’t let him go.”
“But the doctor wants him.”
“Confound the doctor.”
“He’s been a good producer, Nixon,” said Gilmore.
“Yes, and has allowed us to do all the work and assume all the risks.
Where was he last night when we were out there at his block? He ought to
have been on deck then.”
“I know it, old man.”
Nixon chewed the end of his cigar, and looked ugly.
“I’ll tell you what it is,” he said, in a moment. “I won’t leave this
young man, Chick, until I see the knife in him.”
“I was about to suggest that.”
“I’ve had enough of this monkey work with Nick Carter and his gang,”
continued the burglar. “I have had Nick and Chick in my power before
to-night, and they have always escaped through some soft-heartedness on
the part of some member of the party. That don’t happen this time.”
Gilmore seemed greatly pleased.
“You stick to that kind of talk regarding detectives,” he said, “and
you’ll wear diamonds.”
Nixon turned away toward the door.
“Remember,” Gilmore whispered in his ear, “any knife will do as well as
a surgeon’s knife.”
The doctor, standing at the street door, with his hand on the knob,
heard the words, and gave a sudden start.
“Hurry,” he said, when Nixon came up, “help me into the carriage with
this sick man and then you can run the place to suit yourself for a
little while, but I advise you to keep a closer watch on the door
opening on the street.”
“I’m going with you.”
Nixon spoke half angrily.
“Oh, you are?”
There was something so peculiar in the doctor’s tone that the burglar
looked up with a start.
“That’s orders.”
“From whom?”
“Gilmore.”
“Very well. Come along.”
“He takes it mighty cool,” thought Nixon. But, then, he could not see
the doctor’s face from where he was standing.
Chick was placed in the carriage without difficulty, and then the doctor
stepped forward to give the driver his orders.
When he got back to the carriage door, Nixon was leaning over the still
figure of the detective.
He held a wicked-looking knife in his hand, and seemed about to strike.
The doctor caught his arm.
“Don’t make a muss in the carriage,” he said, coolly.
With an oath, Nixon threw himself into the front seat of the carriage
and folded his arms.
“Keep me away from him, then,” he said. “I shall not wait for the drug
if I get another chance.”
The doctor pointed out to the crowded streets.
“See the risk you would run,” he said.
The carriage drove straight to the Windsor Hotel.
Nixon glared about in a suspicious manner, but helped to carry the
unconscious man to a room on the second floor without making any
remarks.
He cursed and swore at the crowd which gathered around the stairway when
Chick was taken from the vehicle, but said nothing to his companion
until the door of the room was closed behind them.
“What does this mean?” he then demanded.
He spoke with his hand on the handle of a revolver, but before he could
draw it the doctor had him covered.
“It means,” was the calm reply, “that you are under arrest. Throw up
your hands.”
“You are joking, doctor.”
The “doctor’s” false beard and wig were off in an instant, and Nick
Carter stood revealed.
Regardless of the weapon held within an inch of his face, Nixon, wild
with rage, sprang at the detective.
Nick did not care to use his revolver and so attract the attention of
the police and the people in the house.
He grappled with his assailant, and the two men rolled on the carpet
together.
Nixon was a muscular fellow, and he now fought with all the cunning and
all the fierce strength of a maniac.
He had a knife in his possession, and he exerted himself to the utmost
to bring it into use.
Nick knew the danger he was in, and tried hard to bring the fight to a
sudden close.
Not only his own life, but that of his assistant also depended upon his
exertions.
In a moment the struggling men heard steps in the hall, and then the
door of the room was thrown open.
Nick expected that the intruder was an employee of the hotel.
Nixon was afraid it was an officer.
It was neither.
It was one of the toughs who had attacked Chick the previous night in
the chophouse.
Gilmore had ordered him to follow the carriage.
Nick sprang to his feet, and drew his revolver.
With grins of triumph, Nixon and the thug advanced upon him.
“We’ve got you at last,” hissed the former.