Nick Carter’s feelings upon seeing the sudden display of animosity by Pete Henley were not manifest in his face. He gazed at the swarthy ruffian with hardly a change of countenance, apparently indifferent to the double-barreled gun with which he was covered. “What’s the joke, Henley?” he asked coolly. The ruffian had murder in his eyes, and looked as black and threatening as a thundercloud. “You’re the joke, Carter, if there’s any joke to it,” he replied, with a snarl. “You’ve barked up the wrong tree and tackled the wrong bunch. Stick up your hands, and be quick about it.” “Certainly, Henley, since you insist so politely,” Nick rejoined, raising his hands as high as his head. “Keep them there, now.” “But you might answer my question, at least, and explain this sudden change of attitude on your part.” “You’ll know soon enough,” was the reply, followed by a short, sharp whistle. Ginger did not respond to it. He had disappeared around a corner of the house. Instead, the back door was quickly opened and two roughly clad men appeared on the threshold, both still under thirty. One of them instantly darted back through the hall, and Nick heard him shout to another in one of the adjoining rooms. Henley, meantime, growled harshly, with his evil eyes constantly on the detective: “Come out here, Foster, and get behind the dick. Feel under his coat and get his guns. Kneel down while doing it, so I’ll not hit you. I’ll plug him, all right, if he moves a finger.” “There will be no occasion, Henley, you rat,” Nick now said sternly. “I value a whole skin too highly to take any chance against that blunderbuss in such hands as yours. I see, now, that you have served me a scurvy trick. Go as far as you like.” “You don’t need to tell me that,” snapped Henley. “I’m on the way. Got ’em, Bill?” “Both of ’em, Jim,” returned Foster, who had hurriedly disarmed the detective and was threatening him with his two weapons. “Who is he?” “Nick Carter.” “Thunder! Where did you run up against him? If he----” “You’re to bring him in, Jim,” cut in the man who had briefly vanished, and now returned to the open door. “His jags says----” “Is he out here, Brigham?” Henley interrupted, with countenance clearing. “Sure. Been here ten minutes.” “That’s more like it,” cried Henley. “He can now take the ribbons. Get a move on, Carter, and--stop a bit!” Nick halted. “Feel again, Foster, and fish out his irons. Snap them on his own wrists, hands behind him, as he will on ours if he gets a chance.” “You’ve told the truth once, Henley, at least,” Nick put in dryly. “But you’ll never get the chance,” Henley retorted. “Dukes down and behind you, Carter, or I’ll pull the trigger.” “Don’t trouble yourself,” said Nick, obeying. “Point the gun another way. It might go off by chance.” Henley heard the snap of handcuffs around Nick’s wrists and saw Foster straighten up after having secured him, and he then lowered the shotgun and grinned maliciously.