It was a ruse that would have deceived the most suspicious of mortals. None would have supposed for a moment that he was there in double disguise--this man who now was pretending to be no less a crook than the woman herself. She laughed softly and clasped his arm with both hands. "Say, you’re all right, pal," she whispered. "Flash it on me. I’ll go as far as you have gone, since you sure seem on the level. Have a look at my mug." She drew down the black cloth from her face, on which Nick flashed the beam of light, giving him still another surprise. "Great guns!" he mentally exclaimed. "Sadie Badger, the queen of the old Badger gang." Nick knew both her and the gang, all of whom had figured in the recent murder case against Gaston Goulard, and all of whom had been sentenced to prison, with the exception of Goulard himself, who was supposed to have been drowned, and this one woman against whom sufficient evidence to connect her with the murder, or show complicity after the crime, could not be found. She had been liberated, therefore, after the trial and conviction of the rest of the notorious gang, and she had not since been seen in her customary haunts. Nick Carter’s surprise was the greater for that reason, when he now beheld her in the very act of robbing the house outside of which he had so unexpectedly encountered Goulard. That they were not confederates in this robbery was obvious to him, however, for he at once reasoned that Goulard would not have put the woman in danger of arrest, if he had known that she was in the house. Nick now saw, too, that Sadie Badger was clad in a tight-fitting black jersey, under a loose dark coat, and that she wore knickerbocker trousers, black stockings, and rubber-soled shoes, all combining to give her the appearance of a youth under twenty, who might have walked the streets at almost any hour of the day or night without a challenge from the police. Nick was quick to appreciate all that this signified, and to take advantage of the situation he had in part framed up, though his sinister face reflected none of his true sentiments and designs. "You’re all right, kid, if looks count for anything," he said quietly. "We meet by chance, a dead queer chance, but there might be something in it for both. What’s your name?" "What’s yours?" questioned Sadie circumspectly. "Bosey Magee," Nick promptly informed her. "Bosey?" "That’s short for Ambrose," whispered Nick. "That’s my moniker. I hang out in Boston most of the time, but I blew in here last night and went broke in the stuss joints." "I get you, pal." "I held up a bloke an hour back and lifted a small wad. It was not enough, when I saw that the front-basement door of this crib was easy to get at. You can find out all about me from Jack Gleason, who runs the Orient House in Richmond Street, where I hail from," Nick added. "He’ll tell you Bosey Magee wouldn’t crab a game or squeal on a pal. That’s me, kid."