One of the ruffians picked up a chair, and brought it down with such crushing force upon Dell Ladley’s head that she sank to the floor insensible. Dick Denton raved and swore, struggling the while to free himself, but unsuccessfully. The ruffians examined their leader and found that he was dead. “Shoot that fellow,” suggested one, pointing to Dick Denton. “Yes, kill him,” added another, who was about to do so. “Let him stay where he is; we’ll burn the house,” cried a third. This was agreed to by the fellow’s companion demons. They dragged several straw mattresses outside, and, closing the door, set fire to them. The hut was old and as dry as a chip. With fearful rapidity the fire grew until in a few minutes Sam’s cabin was wrapped in a shroud of flame. No Indian ever died at the stake with more courage than did Denton--not a cry escaped him, even when the flames reached him. A little figure dashed into the clearing and rushed toward the burning hut. Strong arms grasped him and prevented him from entering. “Poor Crackers!” and the creature threw himself on the ground and began to cry. CHAPTER XV. RESTORED AT LAST. Nick Carter went at once, upon arriving in the city, to the place uptown where Tambourine Jack told him Dick Denton had met Elmer Greer. The murderer was not there, and, leaving the saloon, the detective took a position near at hand, where he could see everyone that entered. He had been at his post but an hour when a man, wearing heavy, black whiskers and beard, brushed past him. The man entered the saloon and Nick Carter quickly followed. “That disguise don’t baffle me,” the detective thought. “I think I should recognize Elmer Greer if I were to see nothing of him but his eyes.” Walking up to the bearded gentleman, Nick tapped him on the shoulder, saying: “I would like to have a few minutes’ conversation with you.” “I don’t know you, sir,” replied the other; “though I am a stranger in town, I am not to be taken in by any confidence man.” The detective began to laugh at this, and there was something so familiar in this laugh that the bearded fellow became very nervous. “I guess you and I have met before,” Nick said, playing with his mouse. “What might your name be at present?” “None of your infernal business, you bloody cockney!” “Elmer Greer, you are my prisoner.” Greer reached for his pistol, but before he could draw it, Nick Carter struck him between the eyes, knocking him down. In an instant the detective had securely handcuffed his prisoner. “This is an outrage,” cried Elmer. “What have I done? Are all strangers who come to New York treated like this?” “Well, no.” The detective removed his wig and whiskers, saying: “I guess you will remember seeing me before?” “Nick Carter!” involuntarily exclaimed Greer. “Or his ghost,” added Nick. “You thought I was dead.”