“There’s a boat at the back door, Patsy! I can see only the end of the rudder. But that is enough to tell us that if we were around the corner we should come upon the boat itself. You sit still. I’ll take the oars.” Patsy yielded the oars without a word. With extreme caution, Nick Carter pulled through the reeds, without coming out, until he had a clear view of the back door. Larry Dugan, in the bow of a serviceable skiff--flat-bottomed and solid, like Carter’s--was knocking at the heavy door with a blackjack. Pet Carlin was in the stern, and Foxey Irwin sat amidships, oars in his hands. It was almost dark by this time, and, if the reeds which concealed Nick Carter’s boat had not grown almost up to the warehouse, it would have been impossible to make out the door at all. When Dugan had tapped twice with his lead-weighted, short club, it swung open a little way, and a head protruded. “Hello, Dugan!” “Miguel!” muttered Nick Carter. “What’s the game, I wonder.” “All right, boss!” was Larry Dugan’s response. “We’re ready! Let me in!” “What do you want to come in for?” demanded Miguel. “Your man is ready to pass out.” “That may be. But we’ve got other business beside taking this guy away,” growled Dugan. “There’s some stuff of mine in this house that I have to get.” “I’d forgotten that,” returned Miguel. “Come in, then.” “I’m coming!” grunted Dugan. He stepped out of the boat to the stone sill of the door, and, as he disappeared, Foxey Irwin followed. It was just as Foxey went into the warehouse that another man in the boat, who had been lying along the bottom, as if anxious to keep out of sight, raised himself slightly, so that he could peer over the gunwale. “That makes four of ’em, chief,” remarked Patsy Garvan in a whisper. “Well, I reckon we can get away with them, especially if we get Chick going strong.” “Silence!” was all Nick Carter answered. He was trying to make out the features of this man. But it was not till the fellow had straightened up and stepped into the doorway, where the light of a lantern showed by this time, that Nick saw he was a pale-faced, slick-haired personage, who seemed to be in mortal terror of personal injury of some kind. “That fellow looks like a cur,” broke out the irrepressible Patsy. “Gee! I’d like to land on him with my left. S’help me! I’d send in a jolt right from my heels.” “Why? Do you know the man?” asked Nick, with a momentary hope that his assistant might be able to give him some information he wanted. “Ever seen him before?” “Nix! But I don’t like his face. His ears aren’t set on right, and there’s too much bulge each side of his nose. I want to hand him one on general principles, and if you say the word, I’ll----” “Keep quiet!” ordered Nick sternly. “There go the other two, and they have left their boat tied up outside.” Patsy did not speak. But he wondered what was to be the next move.