Elmer saw that it would be absurd to deny his identity any longer, and he removed the beard that disguised his features. “I suppose I am good for twenty years?” he said, making a sickly attempt to smile. “Not quite,” replied Nick; “they hang murderers in this State.” “Murder!” ejaculated the prisoner. “I do not understand.” “How about shooting Wilbur Field night before last? If you had but a white robe and a golden harp you might pose as an angel.” “There is no hope for me,” muttered Greer. “But tell me, how in the name of all things infernal have you learned all this?” “That you shall never know,” answered Nick; “but I can inform you of one thing, and that is, nothing that you have done since carrying off the banker has escaped me. I charge you with murder, and I have the proof to convict you.” “I have money--heaps of money.” “You lie, but if you were to make me a millionaire if I would unlock these handcuffs, they would not be unlocked until you reached a prison cell.” “I will put you on the track of Hilton Field.” Nick would have laughed had he not had a little compassion for the now abject and trembling wretch. He begged, prayed and cursed by turns, but his appeals had no effect. “Send me to prison for my other crimes,” the rascal cried, beseechingly, “but do not make the charge of murder against me. It is horrible to die.” “No more so to you than to your victims,” said the detective. “No, I will bring you to the gallows.” When he left the Tombs, whither he had taken Greer, Nick visited a friend of his, who had a saloon in Center Street, and from him borrowed a bloodhound that had been brought from Cuba, where it had been used in hunting down runaway slaves. The detective had often fondled the dog, and they were very good friends. Taking the brute with him, Nick went to Long Island City, and learned that the last train for Little Neck had left, but that he could get one to Flushing, which is about halfway. At Flushing the detective engaged a horse and carriage, and, taking the dog in the wagon, he drove to the negro settlement near Little Neck. He awoke the occupant of one of the cottages, and engaged him to care for the horse, since he might be absent until late the next day. Nick Carter found Sam Cole’s cabin a smoking ruin, and by the small tongues of flame that sprang up only to die away in a second, he saw a figure sitting near the edge of the burning hut. There was no mistaking the person. “Tambourine!” the detective cried. The figure leaped to its feet, and the little fellow was at his side in a moment. “Who set it on fire?” “Skip’s bones are in the ruins somewhere; he was dead, but poor Dell Ladley and Dick Denton were burned alive.” “This is horrible!” exclaimed Nick Carter. “How was it you escaped?” “I was out of the hut at the time,” answered Tambourine, “or I would have been served like the rest.” Jack went on to tell him all he had learned of the affair from the incendiaries.