“I was right,” said Tambourine Jack; “I knew it would come to that. Hurry around to the front door; I will let you in.” When Jack opened the door for him, he gave Nick a key, saying: “Go right up to the top of the house; there is but one room in the garret, I believe; that’s the key.” Removing his boots, the detective ran upstairs, while Tambourine slipped out the front door and entered the kitchen by the back. His passage through the room had not been noticed, so deeply engrossed were the others in the general fight which was going on. Nick had no difficulty in reaching the banker’s place of confinement; and giving Mr. Field his arm to lean upon, he hurried him downstairs. The old gentleman was free! Not waiting to put on his boots, the detective hurried his prize as fast as was possible across the frozen fields toward Norwalk. The village lights shone clear, and no storm-beaten mariner ever saw a haven with more delight than did Hilton Field view those flickering lights. They had all but reached the town when Nick heard the sound of hurrying footsteps behind, and knew they were pursued. Their pursuers overtook them, and the detective determined to make a fight for it, although there were five against him. The first of them he shot dead in his tracks, but before he could fire again the brave detective was knocked down by the blow of a club from behind. “Finish him!” It was Mackrell who spoke, and he raised his pistol to fire. Another one cracked in some bushes close by, and the ruffian rolled over, a corpse. The villains were frightened, but they did not leave Hilton Field behind them when they fled. Rusty Owens threw the banker over his shoulder as if he was a bag of oats, and managed to keep up with his comrades. Tambourine Jack had saved Nick Carter’s life. * * * * * Nick Carter’s wounded head caused him terrible suffering, and it was not until the gray morning light crept in at the window of his room, in the Norwalk Hotel, that he fell asleep. It was yet early in the day when he was disturbed by a knock. The door was not locked, and, without leaving the bed, Nick told the person to enter. The visitor was Tambourine Jack, and the detective brightened at the sight of him. Jack rammed his hands into his pockets and emitted a long whistle. “What does that mean?” Nick asked. “I just did that to relieve myself,” he answered; “the fat is in the fire.” “Explain.” “Well, seeing it is you and you are not dead, I will,” said Tambourine. “Above all things don’t forget you are dead.” “Dead!” exclaimed Nick. “That was what I said,” answered the little fellow, “and I’ve come to town to put a notice in the paper. Friends and relatives invited to attend the funeral, no flowers, and all that. I told my friends that you had lit out for another world and, as I was never known to tell a lie--why, of course, it must be so. Do you catch on?” The detective laughingly said: