Jack related to Nick a long story, which, stripped of its details, was as follows: No one of the gang had the slightest suspicion that Jack was not with them, heart and soul. In company with a man named Rusty Owens, he had gone to Norwalk and to the very house where the banker was confined. “Have you seen Mr. Field?” Nick asked, when the little fellow had concluded his narrative. “No,” said Jack, “but Crackers had an interview with him, it seems.” “Don’t joke; this is a serious matter.” “I am serious.” Tambourine fished up a dirty piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to his friend. “I found that tied to Crackers’ collar this morning.” Scribbled on the paper, with a lead pencil, were the words: “I am confined in a house near Norwalk, known as Sophie’s; she is my son Wilbur’s wife. My life is in danger. To the person who gives this to a police officer I will pay ten thousand dollars. “HILTON FIELD, “Banker, New York City.” “His son!” exclaimed Nick; “I never knew he had a son.” “Nor me either, until I got that; although I have long known Wilbur,” remarked Jack. “He is a promising bird, and if I was his guvnor, I’d be proud of him.” “And is he one of this infernal gang?” “Well, he is and he isn’t,” replied Tambourine. “You can bet it was him that put up the job to have the old duck eloped with.” “Poor Mignon!” thought Nick; “if she but knew who was her father’s jailer it would break her heart.” “I know where the old gent is,” continued Jack, “even if I didn’t see him. They have him in a room in the garret that has no windows to it. I don’t know how Crackers got to him, but he did, that’s certain.” “How many men are there?” the detective asked. “Too many for you,” replied Tambourine. “There were only four there until up to midnight last night, and then two others came along. They were strangers to me, but Wilbur and Rusty Owens seemed to know them. Talking about Rusty--there seems to be bad blood ’twixt him and Skip, and I shouldn’t wonder if they would have it out before morning. They have been growling all day.” “What about?” Nick asked, evincing a great deal of interest. “Owens did not want Brodie to kill Moses.” “Kill Moses!” ejaculated Nick. “Yes. Brodie found out that Moses was the traitor and not Dell Ladley, and he killed the Jew last night. “It seems that Rusty did not believe the Jew guilty.” “I hope they do fight,” said the detective, as he and his little friend left the hotel and made for the house. They hid themselves in an out-building and remained there for several hours, waiting for the villains to leave the field clear. Wilbur and his friends were in the kitchen, and they talked so loud that Nick could hear them, although he could not make out what they were talking about. Then came the sound of a heavy body falling on the floor, followed by a pistol shot, quickly succeeded by several more.