Hurrying around the corner, Nick saw no sign of his quarry on the avenue. He then hastened to C Street. Peter Mannion was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he had not had time to get there. The detective in the dark shade cast by the sidewalk trees waited for ten minutes, his observation covering both ways of departure from the hotel premises. Then he went to the hotel, entered the office, which held only the clerk and several colored attachés, and asked if a person, describing Peter Mannion, had been in that evening. The reply of the clerk was that the gentleman referred to had engaged a room for the night, and had then gone out. "By the front way?" "Yes." "I may have been making a mountain out of a mole-hill," thought Nick, as he went out, "but I don't like the look of things. Peter has a card to play, and I will confess that he is a deeper man than I imagined." Arrived at the stairway leading to his rooms, he scrutinized it carefully from top to bottom. No trap was there. In the corridor above his searching eye again came into play. All was as it should be. Before his own door he paused and listened. Silence within. Then with his pass-key he unlocked the door and threw it open, but did not enter. The lights inside were out, but the illumination from the street enabled him to see that everything appeared to be as he had left it. True, he could not see into the closet, but, stooping, he could see under the bed. He was in this posture, when the door of a room on the opposite side of the corridor opened quickly; a man sprang out, and, with uplifted sand-bag, struck the detective a powerful blow on the head. Nick flattened out and did not move. Swiftly the body of the unconscious detective was dragged into his room, and the door closed and locked. Fifteen minutes later Nick opened his eyes, to find that he could neither move nor speak. His enemy had restored him to consciousness, but had taken the precaution to bind and gag him. The room was now full of light, and Nick, with aching head but with clear sense, saw that he had fallen a victim to the wiles of Peter Mannion. The uncle, seated in an easy chair, looked at the disgruntled man-hunter with an evil smile. "You did not realize what you were up against?" the harsh voice jeered. "Thought you had a farmer in tow, I suppose? Well, you might have made the proper crack at Arthur, if he had been alive, but you are no match for the mature individual who is now before you." Nick clenched his hands. It was all he could do. He would have gritted his teeth, but the gag was in the way. "I don't know as this move of mine was required," Peter Mannion went on, "for I think the game is in such shape that even Nick Carter could not have checkmated it. But it's best to have the ground entirely clear. You were obnoxious; the sight of you at Craven's the other day offended my sense of proportion. You don't fit into the picture. To-morrow is my day, and butters-in are barred."