That the fire was incendiary there could be no doubt. Indeed, Nick Carter had heard enough of the plots of the two rascals from Joyalita, as well as of the Dugan gang, to know that the whole affair had been planned. The only place where the plot had fallen down from the original intention was in the escape of Marcos. He was to have been burned to death in this warehouse, and the explosions, arranged so that they should end in a general conflagration, were prepared for his destruction. The fact that Chick was in the building, too, was merely an incident. It is not likely that the explosions would have been caused just for him alone. Still, as he chanced to be in the way of them, why, so much the better, in the opinion of the conspirators. Dugan and his gang had been seeking to get Nick Carter and his principal assistant out of the way for years. Nick was not bothering about that now. He had just climbed to the top of a blazing pile, and found Chick lying in a hollow on the other side. Suddenly the heated mass gave way beneath him! “I don’t care!” gasped Nick Carter, as he drew one foot out of a hole, where it seemed as if the leather of his shoe must be burned through. “I’ve got to get him out of this! I’d do it or--go with him!” This was no idle talk. He meant it. It will be remembered that Nick wore a pair of high wading boots, which were of leather below and up to his knees, with rubber above, covering his thighs. There is little doubt that these stout, high boots did a large part in enabling him to reach Chick. They protected him to some extent, where low shoes and trousers would surely have meant painful, if not fatal, burns. He plowed through the awful smoking mass till he found himself standing right over his unconscious assistant. “Now, Chick! If only you were a little like yourself, how easy it would be!” muttered Nick. “But there is no use in wishing. I’ve got to take him the best way I can.” Stooping over and getting a firm hold, he lifted the young man and swung him over one shoulder. Then, without stopping to look one way or the other, he began his journey back to the window. It took him five minutes to accomplish this feat, and more than once, when a quantity of burning rubbish came tumbling about his ears, he believed it was all up with him and his helpless burden. But in some almost miraculous way he got through, and resting Chick on the stone coping at the window opening, looked around for a means of escape. “Chief!” shouted Patsy, from his boat among the rushes. “Wait a moment! I’ll be there!” “That’s what you won’t!” roared Larry Dugan, in impotent wrath. “You ain’t going to run me into no such risks as that. If you want to put me in jail, all right. But----” A large, open hand came rattling across the side of Dugan’s face and shut off his eloquence. The owner of the hand--none other than Prince Marcos--called out to Patsy to drive the boat close to the window.