This man, of all others, must not take him for a prying detective. It would be better for him to consider Nick as a common sneak thief. So the detective set about to foster the latter impression. Catching up the wallet, he slipped it into his coat pocket. Then he began throwing the other contents of the grip aside in a seeming eagerness to find something else of value. “There, my man, that’ll do!” The voice came from the man in the doorway, and Nick sprang round, the very picture of trepidation and fear. CHAPTER XXI. NICK BECOMES CHAUFFEUR. “Don’t shoot!” pleaded the detective, cringing before the pointed gun; “for Heaven’s sake, don’t shoot!” “What do you mean by sneaking into this room?” demanded the man, making a threatening gesture with the revolver. Nick thought he recognized the voice. It sounded strangely like the tone assumed by the man from Montana, through the phone. “My wife and family are starving,” said Nick, in a choking voice; “I can get no work, and they must live.” “Bah! What do I care for your wife and family? You can’t ring in a bluff of that kind on me, not on your life. You’re a common, ordinary, go-as-you-please sneak thief, and right here is where you are going to get it in the neck!” The man took a sidestep to the left, still holding the gun on Nick, and reached his left hand toward the push-button above the speaking tube. “Oh, don’t, sir!” implored Nick, wringing his hands. “Let me go! I beg of you to let me go!” “Shut up, you coward!” gritted the man. “If you had any nerve about you, I might be tempted to cut you loose; but I haven’t any sort of use for a sniveling, chicken-hearted coyote like you are showing yourself to be.” His hand rested on the round piece of wood that framed the push-button, but he did not ring the bell. Nick gave vent to a hollow groan, sank to his knees, and covered his face with his hands. “Look here, you!” growled the man with the gun. “You’re pretty well dressed for a man working this sort of graft.” “I’ve seen better days,” sniffed Nick. “Bother! Better days don’t count. It’s what you are to-day, not last week, or last year. What do you call yourself?” “My real name do you want, or the one I have been going by?” “The one you go by now.” “Chuffer Jones.” The man with the gun gave a start. “Chuffer!” he exclaimed. “You mean Chauffeur, don’t you?” “Yes, sir.” “Why were you called that?” “Because of my trade, sir.” “You know how to run these automobiles?” “That used to be my business. But I took to drink, sir, and lost job after job. Then I took to this graft.” “What’s your record?” “It’s terrible, sir.” “How terrible?” “Five years in Sing Sing and ten in Stillwater.” A gleam had come into the murky eyes of the man with the gun. “I suppose you know,” said he, “that I could jab this button and have the house policeman up here in about two minutes.” “Mercy!” gasped Nick, all but tying himself up in a knot.