Nick Carter did not see her until, hearing her fierce, sibilant voice, he swung round and found himself gazing into the deadly muzzle of a leveled revolver. “You’re wrong! He’s not under arrest!” Irma Valaska cried, with terrible intensity. “Throw up your hands, Nick Carter. Up with them--or there’ll be a corpse where you are standing.” Nick did not pause for an instant. No sane man looking into her drawn, determined face, would have ignored the murderous light in the woman’s eyes. Nick fell back a step and threw up his hands. Irma Valaska came nearer to him. Plainly enough, she feared him no more than a wild cat fears a rabbit. “Don’t drop them!” she cried, between her teeth. “I’ll fire if you lower them an inch. You devil of a Carter! You would foil my designs, eh? Oh, I know you--I know you! I know all. You move foot or finger, and I will kill you.” “You look quite capable of it,” said Nick calmly. “I am!” she cried. “I would rather than not. But there will be time for that--time for that! Move quickly, Casper, while I keep him covered. Get your revolver. Cover him while I get his weapons and keys. I’ll have those things off your wrists. The baron is coming. He will aid us. We shall fool this devil Carter, and spit in his face. Be quick, Casper, be quick!” There was no need whatever for so vehement a bidding. Dillon had seized upon life anew the instant he saw her and the complete change in the situation. He caught up the key from his table and opened the drawer in which he had placed his revolver. He had it in his hand and was on his feet, white and vengeful, before Irma Valaska had ceased speaking. In view of the several irons he had in the fire, and the value he placed on a whole skin, Nick Carter did not think it worth while to invite so ready a bullet by attempting any absurdly desperate move. Smiling indifferently, he permitted Irma Valaska to hold the ribbons for a time. CHAPTER IX. CHICK CARTER’S QUEST. There were reasons, of course, for the swift sequence of sensational episodes of that morning, as there are reasons why the maelstrom so fiercely swirls on certain tides. There is always turbulence and violence when strong tides meet. It was after nine o’clock when Chick Carter approached the rented home of the Baron Esterveldt and his wife, as well as the beautiful snake who was posing as their orphan relative. It was, as Garland had said to Nick, a most attractive place. A stately stone residence well in from the street, with an environment of beautiful grounds, shaded with fine old trees and adorned with ornamental shrubbery. Rounded and perfectly kept driveways led to a stable and a commodious garage, beyond which a stone wall divided the estate from a rear street.