A long, low bar ran along the left-hand wall; off to the right were half a dozen tables; in the rear were four or five small rooms partitioned off. When Gillman entered the dive it was half filled with a roaring complement of sailormen, every one in the lot considerably more than “half seas over.” The air was thick with tobacco smoke, heavy with the fumes of cheap beer, and resounding with sea songs--every song pitched in a different key and sung in a different language. Nick Carter had established his case and was ready to arrest his man. What he wanted, however, was to make a clean haul of the entire gang, and to this end he had shadowed Gillman. He was now certain that Boucicault’s was the rendezvous of the swindlers, and he followed Gillman through the fog of smoke, and saw him vanish into one of the rear rooms. The time had come when the detective thought it would be as well to bring matters to an issue with the assayer’s clerk, to find out what he could from him, and then turn him over to the police for safe-keeping. Advancing to the door of the room entered by Gillman, Nick tried the knob. The door was locked, and he applied his knuckles to the panel. “Who’s there?” called a voice. “Yasmar.” “What do you want to give that name for? Haven’t you got another?” asked the voice, anxiously. Nick saw that Gillman was very suspicious. He felt, too, that he must act quickly. He had already guessed that Yasmar’s true name was Ramsay, but had never verified it. Now he was face to face with the question. He took a long chance, and called out: “Ramsay.” To his delight he heard the bolts being drawn back, and the door was thrown open. “You know, Ram----” Gillman began, then he stopped dead, for the man who had entered was not Ramsay, but Nick Carter. Without taking his eyes off Gillman, Nick closed the door and locked it. The room was about ten feet square, had paneled side walls and contained a table and four chairs. It was lighted by an incandescent bulb, pendant from the ceiling. Gillman showed a good deal of surprise when he discovered that the newcomer was not Ramsay. “Well, well!” he exclaimed, his right hand groping under his coat. “Who are you and what’s your game?” “My game is to call yours, Gillman,” answered Nick, sternly, his right hand in his coat pocket. “Bring that hand out in front of you! I’m covering you with a gun.” Gillman brought the hand slowly to the required position. “You’ve been crowding me pretty close for the last hour or two,” said he. “What do you want, anyhow?” “I want you.” With his left hand Nick brought out a pair of handcuffs. “What do you want me for?” queried Gillman, sweeping his eyes shiftily around the room. “For smoking that brand of gold-filled cigarettes this afternoon.” That was the point where Gillman began to lose his nerve. “I--I don’t understand,” he stammered. “Yes, you do,” answered Nick. “Put up your wrists.” “Don’t you do it, Gillman!”