“Take me out there,” said Nick, mounting to the seat. “To the house of Mr. Amos Badger.” “The broker, sir,” nodded Grady. “I know the man, sir. I’ll land you out there in thirty minutes, sir, or less, if you say the word.” “I’m in no special hurry,” said Nick. “Keep down to the speed limit.” He did not tell Grady his name, nor that he came from the police headquarters. Neither did he enter into much conversation with the man, for Nick was absorbed in thought about the disclosures made him, and the various possibilities of the work he was invited to undertake. Grady, on his part, was not quite as good as his word. He ran a mile or two out of the direct course to Laurel Road, and then he had to round the great Chestnut Hill reservoir in order to hit the right track. There are numerous wooded roads on the outskirts of fashionable Brookline, along which the attractive dwellings are much scattered, or divided by extensive estates; and through one of these roads Grady was sending his machine at a faster clip, to make up for lost time. Suddenly, from out a little piece of woods some fifty yards away, a drunken fellow came staggering into the road, much as if he had just awakened from a nap in the shrubbery; and Nick Carter, being the first to see him, said quickly to his driver: “Look out for that chap, Grady.” “I see him, sir,” nodded Grady. “He has a load aboard.” “I should say so.” The intoxicated man now heard the automobile approaching him from behind. He turned around, halting unsteadily in the middle of the road, where he stood swaying and staring as if too fuddled to know which side of the road to seek to avoid being run over. Grady naturally slowed down when scarcely twenty feet from the fellow. “Get out of the road!” he impatiently yelled. “Take one side or the other, blast you!” The auto had come to a dead stop. The man in the road reeled a little to one side—and a little nearer. Then, with movements as quick and decisive as a lightning stroke, he sprang forward, whipped out a brace of revolvers, leveled them straight at the heads of the two men in the auto, and sharply cried: “Hands up! If you start that machine, driver, I’ll blow your head off!” The voice was as firm and cold as ice, yet it had a ring as threatening as when blades of steel cross in deadly combat. Nick Carter fairly caught his breath. “Held up, by thunder!” was his first thought. CHAPTER IV. THE ESCAPE. How to get the best of the highwayman was Nick Carter’s second thought. This did not look to be easy, yet Nick’s hand instinctively went toward his hip pocket. “Stop! Hands up!” The reiterated command fairly cut the air with its threatening intensity. Grady’s hands were already reaching after clouds. Nick Carter’s now followed suit, and went into the air.