It was a thin, frenzied scream that went up. Chick felt the muscular fingers relax from his throat, and dimly saw the long, lean arms, waving wildly, drawn in from the window. For a few moments he hung there, gasping, then, inch by inch he dragged himself up until his head was level with the sill again, and his feet had found a support on a little ledge which hooded the first-floor window. Another heave brought him higher, and he dizzily drew himself over the sill somehow, anyhow, into the room. For an instant he lay where he had fallen, while the interior of the room danced about him. Then, as his eyes cleared, he saw two figures writhing on the floor, locked in each other’s arms. Summoning all of his strength, and gritting his teeth, he rose to his feet and staggered forward. It seemed as if the Fury possessed Follansbee, for he fought like a wild cat, and it was all Carter could do to hold him down. But the detective won at last, and as Chick scrambled to his feet, Follansbee was stretched out flat on his back, while the chief, with one hand on the heaving chest, pinned the miscreant to the floor. “It looks like a—a case of handcuffs, chief,” Chick said, panting for breath. CHAPTER XLV. “HEAVEN HELP ME.” Nick Carter looked up at his assistant’s words, then nodded toward the door. “Lock that!” he commanded. “Quick!” Chick made his way dizzily across the room and turned the key in the lock. He knew the meaning of the move. The noise of the struggle might have been heard, and if so, the room might be invaded at any moment. It was evident that the chief did not wish such an interruption. As soon as Chick had locked the door, he returned to his chief’s side. “Now, watch this fellow,” the detective directed. “Don’t let him make even a move to get up.” As he spoke, Nick got to his feet, and, striding to the wall, switched on a couple more lights, flooding the room. Follansbee lay where he had been left, but his evil eyes searched the features of the pajama-clad detective. Seemingly he had guessed his identity, but had failed to verify his suspicions from the bearded face. “Who are you?” he demanded. “And what does this mean?” Simultaneously he started to rise on one elbow, but Chick prodded him in the ribs with his foot. “Stay where you are!” he advised. “I have my eye on you, you know.” “It’s too much trouble to take off this beard, Follansbee,” Nick replied evenly. “I hardly think that’s necessary, anyhow. I have a notion you could guess at my name without much trouble, and that the guess would be right. I am Nick Carter, not at yours—but at James Stone’s—service.” There was a tense, dramatic silence; then suddenly, with a curious, gurgling sound, another figure came to the stage.