“What you do with them is immaterial to me,” added Margate. “Carter is too dangerous a man for me to leave alive, if I were the one seriously threatened. That, however, will be up to you.” “We can take care of him,” snapped Irma Valaska, with a fiery glance at the unruffled detective. “We’ll be sure to close his mouth.” “Possibly.” Nick dropped in the single doubtful word indifferently. “A settlement, then, should be easily arrived at,” said Margate, resuming. “As a matter of fact, so far as I and my two friends here are concerned, there is nothing else to it. There is nothing----” “Oh, yes, there is! There is much more to it!” The interruption, one that turned the scene into a tumult, was shouted from outside. It was followed by the crash of the French window, through which came Chick Carter and Patsy Garvan, weapons drawn and with four policemen at their heels. Others were battering down the back door. Others were stationed at the front. A shout of satisfaction from Nick Carter was drowned by a roar of dismay from the Baron Esterveldt, a shriek of mingled fear and fury from Irma Valaska, and oaths and imprecations from knaves instantly involved in a vain but terrific struggle. Only one man succeeded in making a move for liberty--Andy Margate. He sprang through the parlor door, as quick as a cat and defiant of the bullet that whizzed by his head. Two bounds took him across the room. He did not seek the front door of the house, knowing it must be guarded. Without an instant’s hesitation, a devil indeed when cornered, he leaped straight through a side window, carrying away panes and sashes, and alighted in the side yard. Two policemen in the front yard tried to stop him. Margate dodged them, cleared the front fence cleanly, and in an instant was in the runabout Irma Valaska had left at the curbing. He uttered a defiant yell and was away in a moment. Patsy Garvan rushed out of the house in time to fire twice, only to miss the crouching rascal, and in another moment the speeding car had turned the nearest corner. At one o’clock that afternoon, Nick Carter, in company with Chick and Patsy, knocked on the door of a suite in the Willard and waited for the occupant to open it. There was an odd smile on the face of the famous detective, an odd smile on that of each of his companions. The light in their eyes was one that never shone on land or sea. They had not long to wait, scarce a moment. Well enough the man in the suite knew that only one person would be likely to knock on his door, that only Nick Carter and his assistants knew that he was there. Harold Garland, as anxious and distressed as if his life was at stake, ran to the door and opened it. “Ah!” said Nick, smiling. “I thought you might be at lunch.” He had an overcoat on his arm when he entered with his assistants, and he placed it on a table in the parlor. “Lunch!” Garland echoed the word derisively. “Heaven above! will I ever eat again, Carter?”