The little dialogue had been carried on with the punctilious politeness that usually distinguishes the intercourse of Latin peoples. The detective fell easily into it, while to the Cuban it appeared to be entirely natural. Both men arose from their chairs, and the Cuban drew up his cigar with several strong inhalations. Then he bowed, as a signal that he was ready. Nick Carter stepped in front of him, and, while the Cuban held his cigar between his teeth, the detective, perfecto in mouth, came close. “Now!” smiled the Cuban. “Thanks!” “I’ll draw up a little more.” “All right! I can get it,” replied Nick. With the ends of their cigars touching, as the detective drew some of the fire from the Cuban’s to his own, the two men stared directly into each other’s eyes. The glow of the cigars lighted up their faces, and each had an opportunity to study the other at very close range. Somehow, it was difficult for Nick Carter to get his cigar alight. Once, when he thought he had it, he was obliged to go back again. The Cuban did not show or express any impatience, however. He seemed to be desirous only to oblige his casual acquaintance. For more than half a minute they stood with their faces only the combined length of the two cigars apart--that is to say, about six inches. Then, as Nick Carter slowly drew back, his cigar burning brightly, he suddenly shot out both hands and gripped the Cuban by the shoulders! “What does this mean?” hissed the dark-visaged stranger indignantly. “Only that I want a little conversation with you, John Garrison Rayne,” replied Nick Carter. CHAPTER VII. THE SLIPPERY APACHE. The words were hardly out of the detective’s mouth, when the Cuban, with a snarl of rage, tore the cigar from Nick’s teeth and pressed the burning end upon the bare hand of his captor. There were few things that would have made Nick Carter loosen his hold. The exquisite pain of the burning cigar was one of them, however. Anybody who ever has been hurt in this way can testify that the red-hot ash sticks to the flesh in a cruel fashion, causing excruciating agony. As Nick took away one hand, John Garrison Rayne pulled the other loose. Then, hissing defiance between his set teeth, he dragged a long knife from inside his coat and aimed a blow at the detective’s heart. Nick Carter was unable to ward off the blow entirely, but it only cut a long slit in his sleeve. The next moment he had seized the rascal around the waist and slammed him down upon the table by his side. The table never was meant to stand such a shock. Down it went, in a muddle of broken legs and splintered top, with the Cuban and Nick in the ruins, for the Cuban had pulled his assailant down with him. “Thieves!” roared the Cuban. “Look out! Grab him before he can get away!” Four big men piled on top of Nick behind, and, under their combined weight, down he went, flat upon the floor, while the cunning rascal, who had incited the attack, slipped away in the darkness.