“Not on our lives.”

“A warning whistle will start Pylotte, and we’ll be on hand to do our part,” added Kilgore, hurriedly.  “Go back at once, and waste not a moment in getting at his game.”

“Trust me, Dave.”

“We must land Nick Carter and get him away from here before that running mate of his can make any move against us.”

“That’s the stuff.”

“And then we’ll plan to get the other.  Away with you!”

These forcible measures were precisely what Nick had felt sure would be adopted by the gang, and were the very steps to which he had so shrewdly planned to force them.

Venner darted softly across the hall and returned to the dining room.

Nick was still examining the diamonds.

He stood near the table, at a point midway between the two open doors.  He had selected this position for a very good reason.  He was inviting capture and removal, which he knew must be preceded by an assault; and he therefore laid himself open from either side, aiming to be put down and out with as little violence as possible.

He wanted all his resources for what he knew was very likely to follow.

Nick was quite as anxious as the gang to force matters, moreover; for at the end of ten minutes, in case he did not return to the carriage, Chick was to begin getting in his work.

Therefore the climax came quickly.

Six minutes had already passed.

“Well, sir, what do you think of them?” cried Venner, as he returned to the room.

“The diamonds?” queried Nick, tossing several of them back upon the table.

“Certainly.  What else?”

“They are all right, Mr. Venner.”

“I thought you would say so.”

“Yes, indeed.  They are all right—­for what they are!”

“For what they are?”

“Precisely.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do?” snarled Venner, inquiringly, with his frowning eyes shrinking from Nick’s steadfast gaze.

“Certainly you do,” declared Nick.  “These diamonds are imitations, not natural stones.  They are the most perfect and marvelous artificial diamonds ever made.

“Artificial!” cried Venner, now drawing back.  “You are mad, sir!  Why, man, you are away off the track!”

“Oh, no, I’m not.”

“You are!”

“Not off the track at all, but very squarely on it,” Nick now retorted, speaking in his own sternly resonant tones.  “Hark you, Venner, I am the one to ask the meaning of this, not you!”

Venner’s hand went stealing toward his hip pocket.

“So you are showing your true colors, are you?” he cried, with threatening significance.  “By Heaven, you are no Hindoo!”

“That’s right, Venner, I am not,” said Nick, quickly throwing off the loose robe that hid his own apparel, fearing it might impede his movements.  “I am no Hindoo, but am—­”