It was two days later. Nick Carter, his two assistants, and Paul Clayton were in the bedroom of Nick in the Ionic Hotel.
All four looked perplexed and disgusted. Patsy Garvan, who was standing at the window, gazing moodily across the harbor, indulged in various expletives in an undertone, and wished he had somebody whose head it would be permissible to punch.
“If I don’t get a chance to lick somebody soon,” he muttered, “I’ll get a cramp in my elbow. This case is the kind of thing that makes a man go stale. Gee! To think that a dub like John Garrison Rayne can keep out of our way on an island that you can almost spit across! Jumping cats! I’d rather go out and——”
“Patsy!”
It was the voice of Nick Carter. Garvan swung around.
“What is it, chief? Anything I can do?”
“Only stop your gro
