It was this miscreant, too, whose treachery now bid fair to cost Nick Carter his life, yet whom the latter, with all his keenness, was far from suspecting. For who looks for treachery in high places, or in those from whom only loyalty is most naturally expected? The catlike eyes had lost their greenish glow, and the brick-hued head was again bowed above the books, when Nick and Chief Weston came striding through the passage and out of the enclosure. Nick did not delay his departure any longer, and without a word to the clerk, Chief Weston returned to his private office. It was then one o’clock. Five minutes later the head clerk came in from lunch, and Sandy Hyde at once laid down his pen and began putting on his street coat. The next hour was his own—and he thought he knew how he could best use it. CHAPTER XI. THE INCENTIVE TO TREACHERY. Ten minutes after leaving police headquarters Sandy Hyde might have been seen slinking across the Tremont Street mall of Boston Common. Yet only a close observer would have recognized the treacherous little rascal. He had his coat-collar turned well up about his ears, his soft felt hat drawn forward over his brow, and with his handkerchief held to his face his crafty countenance was for the most part concealed. Presently he glided across the street, then hurriedly bolted into the corridor of one of the buildings—that in which the rooms of the fortune-teller and long-time adventuress were located. Quickly mounting the stairs, Hyde unceremoniously entered her rooms. He found Vic Clayton, by which name he best knew her, seated alone in the reception-parlor, the maid employed there having just gone out to lunch. “Why, hello, Sandy!” she cried, starting up from her chair when he entered. When he eagerly advanced to clasp both her hands, moreover, she drew him into her arms and kissed him, as only lovers kiss. “Break away!” he quickly protested, however. “Well, well, what’s this?” “As much as I like it, Vic, there’s no time for that.” The woman’s eyes took on a startled look. “No time!” she echoed, sharply regarding him. “I should say not. There’s the devil to pay.” “What do you mean?” “Or worse than the devil—that’s Nick Carter!” “What of him?” “He’s coming here again.” “For what?” The last came with vicious asperity from the lips of the surprised woman. The color had left her cheeks. The light of sensuous affection, the bestowal of which had turned this man into a knave, a traitor to his trust at police headquarters, and made him her dupe and tool—this light of passion had suddenly died from her eyes, displaced by the vengeful fire with which she had last parted from the man he had just mentioned. Darting to the door, Vic hurriedly turned the key, then swept around, as quick and lithe as a panther in her movements, and grasped Hyde by the shoulder. “Not coming here now, not at once, is he?” she demanded, in rapid whispers.