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With Links of Steel

<h2>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> <h3>AN ONLY RESOURCE.</h3> Despite the corner in which he had placed himself, a situation far more desperate than he at first imagined, Nick Carter was congratulating himself upon the success of his ruse by which he had so quickly located the secret plant of the diamond swindlers, even at the sacrifice of his personal freedom. The fact that he now sat bound in a chair in the hidden stronghold of the gang, watched only by Cervera, did not seriously disturb the fearless detective. Nick had been in many a worse corner than this, or in corners believed to be worse, and he felt confident of pulling out of the scrape with a whole skin, and with most of the gang in custody. He had surveyed his surroundings with more than cursory interest, therefore, while Kilgore and his confederates were binding his arms to the rounds of the chair back, and his ankles to the legs of the same. The rough foundation walls of the house, the massive stone wall built across the cellar to mask the secret chamber, the elaborate electric furnace, the huge hydraulic press, the workbench and tools, the powerful arc light pendent from the ceiling—half an eye would have convinced Nick that he occupied the workroom of that master craftsman whose chemical knowledge and inventive genius had given birth to a most marvelous production, long, earnestly, yet vainly, sought by others— The production of an artificial diamond! Not until Nick heard the stone door forcibly closed, and its iron bolts shot violently into their sockets, did he pay serious attention to Cervera, the venomous Spanish vixen left to guard him. Then, as she swung round toward him, he took a sharper look at her darkly magnificent face, and was thrilled despite him by the extraordinary changes it had undergone. It had lost its beauty. Its olive flush had given place to a chalky whiteness. The radiance of her eyes had become a merciless glitter, like the glint cast from the eyes of a serpent. The reflection of a consuming passion for vengeance had transfigured her countenance, till it had become like the face of a fiend. Though Nick saw at a glance that his situation had taken on an unexpected and desperate phase, he suppressed any betrayal of it. He met the woman eye to eye, while she briefly paused and faced him, with a cruel smile curling her gray lips. "So I have you now, Nick Carter," she cried, with mocking significance. "Well, yes, in a way," admitted Nick, coolly. "I have you in my power," hissed Cervera, with a vicious display of satisfaction. "Ah! that's different," said Nick. "How different?" "That you have me in your power remains to be demonstrated." "Are we not alone here, you fool?" "Yes, very much alone." "And you helpless?" "Apparently." "If I wish, Nick Carter, I can kill you." "Then pray don't wish it," said Nick. "I am still too young to be heartlessly slain, even by so beautiful and accomplished a woman." "Caramba! you mock me!" cried Cervera, darting toward him with eyes ablaze and her lithe figure quivering with passion. "You mock me!—you shall repent it! Perdition! you shall repent it!" "Is that so?" "You shall repent it, I say!" "In this world, or in the next?" inquired Nick, bent upon prolonging the scene as much as possible, with a hope that Chick might suddenly turn up. Cervera did not answer him immediately. She wheeled again and darted to the door, once more to make sure that she had secured its bolts. She was clad in the black dress in which she had escaped from Nick the previous night, the somber hue of which was relieved only by occasional flashes of her dainty white lace underskirts, as she swept quickly from place to place, with her lithe figure crouching at times, and her every movement as swift and impulsive as that of a startled leopard. As he sat watching her, Nick was reminded of her matchless work upon the stage, thrilling men and women alike with her wild grace and the fiery passion of her indescribable dances. She returned to confront him after a moment, crouching before him, with her glowing eyes fixed on his. "In the next world—not in this!" she now replied, with a voice that cut the air like the snap of a whip. "You'd have brief time for repentance in this." "So you've decided to do the job, have you?" Nick coolly demanded. "Yes." "Well, I'm sorry to hear it." "Here is where we even up accounts." "Even them up, eh?" "You heard what I said." "But I wasn't aware that I have so very much the best of you." "You have." "How so?" "Caramba! you know too much!" "Ah! you mean about that girl." "Yes." "I see," nodded Nick, secretly working in vain to loose the ropes confining his arms. "Well, señora, as a matter of fact, I am rather likely to make things unpleasant for you one of these days." "It will be this day, or never. You'll not live to see another." "Possibly not." "Caramba! do you doubt it?" She darted nearer to him, with her hand tearing open the waist of her dress, and then the gleam of a poniard met Nick's gaze. She swept it before his eyes with a wild gesture, and gave vent to a mocking laugh. "Do you doubt that I can slay you?" "Not at all," answered Nick. "It's very evident." "Or that I will?" "That appears equally manifest." "So it is!" hissed Cervera, with vicious intensity. "I intend to do it! Do you hear, Nick Carter? I intend to do it!" "Oh, yes, I hear you." "Why don't you shrink? Why don't you plead for mercy?" "What's the use?" She answered him with a laugh that made the room ring. "Besides," added Nick, "it's not my style to show the white feather." "We'll see! Caramba! we will see!" She came nearer to him, crouching before him, so near that her breath fell hot upon his cheeks. Then, with a quick movement, she pressed the point of the blade through his clothing, till it pricked the flesh above his heart. With his arms bound, with his ankles secured to the legs of the chair, Nick appeared utterly at her mercy—of which she had none. Despite himself, Nick shrank slightly from the wound, and for the first time shuddered at the peril by which he was menaced, and from which there seemed to be no avenue of escape. Cervera laughed again, a laugh freighted with the terrible ring of madness. "Did it hurt you?" she screamed, with her glittering eyes raised to search his. "Perdition! I hope so! You have tortured me with a thousand fears. I'd like to repay you with a thousand pangs!" Nick's eyes took on an ugly gleam. "Why don't you do so, then?" he growled. "I would, if I had the time," cried Cervera, through her teeth. "You have all there is." "Ten thousand times I'd thrust it into you—thus! thus!" Nick set his jaws and met the blade without flinching. Twice the vicious demon thrust it through his clothing, and now two crimson stains of blood on his shirt front followed the withdrawal of the weapon. "See! see!" screamed Cervera, triumphantly, with her terrible face upturned to his gaze. "You're beginning to bleed! Did you know that the sight of blood affects me as it does a leopard? I thirst for more—if that of one I hate! When next I strike you, I shall strike deeper!" That she fully intended to murder him, Nick now, had not a doubt. The homicidal madness was in her eyes, in her every feature, her every motion, and it rang in every word that fell from her bloodless lips. Yet the inflexible nerve of the detective did not for a moment desert him. "Send the blade home at once, if you like," he said, with a scornful frown. "Not yet—not yet!" she cried, shrilly. "There'll be time for that." "Time and to spare," sneered Nick. "I first wish to torture you, as you've tortured me!" "Go ahead, then." "Once more! Are you ready?" "Let it come." Again she drew back the glittering blade, only to mock him with several pretended thrusts, hoping thus to create and prolong an agony of fear and suspense. A more viciously cruel and vindictive creature never drew the breath of life. She laughed again, and slowly pressed the weapon closer—and then, with a sudden startled cry, she drew back and leaped to her feet. A noise like that of a mighty cannonade seemed to shake even the solid walls of this buried chamber. It was the crash of thunder in the heavens overhead. It was Cervera's first intimation of the terrible tempest that had been gathering outside. At first she thought the sound was that of revolvers, and she darted to the door and listened, pressing her ear to the wall. The instant her back was turned, Nick made a desperate attempt to free himself, straining cords and muscles under the determined effort. It proved vain, however. The ropes held him as if made of twisted steel. Yet in his brief but desperate struggle his right arm came in contact with an object in the side pocket of his sack coat. The object was a box nearly filled with parlor matches—one of the most dangerous and treacherous creations of man's inventive genius. Like a sudden revelation, or a bolt out of the blue, there leaped up in Nick's mind a possible way of escape. He thought of Cervera's garments, of the fluffy lace skirts beneath her gown, to which a single flash of fire would instantly prove fatal. The resort to such means seemed horrible—yet Nick well knew it was the one and only resource left him. He glanced sharply at Cervera. She was still listening at the door, with her evil face a picture of intense suspense. With a quick turn of his wrist, Nick succeeded in extracting the box from his pocket. Then he forced it open, and with a move of his hand he scattered its entire contents over the floor around his chair. The tiny matches fell with scarce a sound, and Cervera, ten feet away, failed to hear them. Then Nick quietly worked his chair back a foot or two, in order to bring some of the fateful things upon the floor directly in front of him. A moment later Cervera turned from the door. "Thunder—it was thunder," she muttered, under her breath. "There's a storm outside." "Somebody coming?" queried Nick, with taunting accents. He now aimed to provoke her, to force the situation to a climax, lest any mischance should have befallen Chick, or perverted in any way his own designs upon Kilgore and the gang. His taunting remark proved effective, moreover. With a snarl of rage Cervera darted toward him, with eyes for him alone, never for the floor. "You dog!" she cried, through her white teeth. "Do you mock me again?" "Oh! no, of course not," sneered Nick. "You lie! You do! You think some one will come—that you will then escape me," screamed Cervera, quivering through and through with venomous passion. Nick watched her as a cat watches a mouse. Her face was ghastly and distorted, her breast heaving, her every nerve quivering, and her eyes were like balls of fire under their knitted brows. Still clutching the poniard, her jeweled fingers worked convulsively around its haft, like those of one who fain would strike a death blow, yet whose hand was briefly held by consuming horror. Suddenly she darted nearer, with a vicious snarl. "You think you'll escape me," she screamed, with bitter ferocity. "It shows in your eyes. I'll make sure that you don't. Let come who may, you shall be found—dead! Dead!—do you hear?" "Oh! yes, I hear." "Yet you do not fear? We'll see—we'll see!" She darted closer to him, with the weapon raised, above her head, and her knee touched Nick's knee. He swung quickly around toward her, and scraped his feet over the floor below her skirts. Then came a quick, furious snapping, like the noise of a miniature fusillade. A score of the matches had been ignited by Nick's swift move. Almost instantly a shriek of terror broke from Cervera's lips, and she reeled back, clutching wildly at her skirts. "My God! I'm on fire!—on fire!" she screamed, with a voice so intense in its agony as to have chilled a man of stone. A roar came from Nick as he sighted the flames under her gown. "Release me! Release me!" he thundered, furiously, with a voice that drowned her frightful screams. "Cut me loose—loose! It's your only hope—your only hope!" She heard him like one in a nightmare of agony and terror, and her instinct rather than her reason responded to his thundering commands. Still with the poniard in her jeweled hand, still shrieking wildly, she leaped to his side, and with a single sweep of the keen weapon severed the rope binding his arms. Then Nick snatched the poniard from her hand. With several swift cuts and slashes he released his limbs, and sprang quickly to his feet. He had already shaped his course. He had observed on the sulphur barrels, near the wall, a strip of matting, used as a cover for them. Nick snatched it from the barrels, and rushed to wrap it around the skirts and limbs of the terror-stricken woman. For several moments the result seemed doubtful, so doubtful that Nick finally threw Cervera heavily to the floor, the better to press the matting closely around her and so smother the flames. In this he presently succeeded, but not before she was so severely burned as to be rendered utterly helpless. When Nick arose to his feet Cervera remained lying prostrate on the floor, moaning with pain, yet in a state of semi-consciousness only. A glance told Nick that she could make no move to escape, and he now had other work than that of looking to her comfort. He ran to the stone door, threw the bolts, and quickly dragged it open. Even as he did so, from out of the gloom of the adjoining cellar, a man came into view, as if suddenly arisen from the ground. The man was Dave Kilgore. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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