“Lock it in a drawer,” said Rohan. “Mind you, sir, I’m not to be held up, and I’m not to hold any one up. I only want a square deal.” Dillon placed the revolver in a drawer, turning the key and tossing it upon the table. That he anticipated what the proof was to be, despite his pretended ignorance, was betrayed by the eager light in his narrow eyes. “Now, Mr. Rohan, come to the point,” said he, settling back in his chair. “Where are your credentials? What proof have you?” “Proof enough, sir,” said Rohan. “The thing you lost.” “Have you brought it here?” “I have, sir.” “Let me see it.” Rohan arose and thrust his hands up under the back of his coat. The hump between his shoulders disappeared. He drew out a black leather portfolio and placed it on the table. “There ’tis, sir,” said he; then added quickly: “But don’t get gay. I’m to take it back when I go, and I’m going to do it. I’ve got a gun, sir, and----” “Enough of that,” Dillon interrupted, eyes glowing. “You’ll need no gun, Rohan, if that portfolio contains what I hope. I will pay any price for them that you rascals can reasonably ask. But I must see them--must be convinced.” Rohan snapped the two buckles that secured the folded flap of the portfolio. He thrust in his hand and drew out, not blank papers, which the dummy portfolio had contained--but a quantity of genuine government plans. “Have a look, sir,” he said indifferently. “It’s up to you.” An irrepressible cry of exultation broke from Dillon. He lurched forward to the table, quivering with eagerness and excitement, and with both hands outstretched to seize the plans and examine them. Rohan’s hands fell at the same moment. As quick as a flash, in the hundredth part of a second, he snapped handcuffs on the wrists of the recreant army officer. Then he arose, sweeping off his disguise and saying sternly: “Let the plans lie there, Captain Dillon.” “Oh, my God!” Dillon fell back with a terrible cry. “Nick Carter!” “Yes. Let them lie. I had Mr. Garland get them for me from his department this morning. They are not the plans you stole and lost, but they have served my purpose. You are under arrest, Captain Dillon, as a traitor to your country and a conspirator with foreign spies.” Captain Dillon had collapsed as if his last ounce of strength had left him--his last drop of blood, in fact, for he looked like a corpse in the great armchair into which he had fallen. He did not speak, could not have spoken; but an interruption, a most unexpected one, came from another. The stern words scarce had left the lips of the detective, when, through the partly open French window, entering with the swift stealthy and sinuous movements of a leopard, Irma Valaska darted into the room. Her face was ghastly, her lips gray and drawn, her eyes ablaze as if all that was devilish in her nature was concentrated in their fiery depths.