Melting Pot, or, Nick Carter and the Walmere Plate

Excerpt: ''Oh, no, I have not forgotten you. I never forget the face of a crook.' The speaker was Nick Carter. His voice, though somewhat under ordinary pitch, had a subtle and ominous ring. There was a threatening glint in the eyes he had fixed upon the face of the man he addressed. It was a striking and impressive face, nearly as strong and impressive as that of the famous detective-but for directly opposite reasons. Nick Carter's face was frank, manly, and wholesome. That at which he was gazing was pallid, sinister, and severe. Its clean-cut features were as hard as flint. The thin-lipped mouth denoted cruelty and vicious determination. The square jaw and aggressive chin evinced firmness and bulldog tenacity. The cold gray eyes had a shifty gleam and glitter seen only in the eyes of what the detective had called this man-a crook. He took up the epithet bitterly, saying, with a sneer: 'Crook, eh! You cannot prove it.' 'I may sooner or later.' 'You have tried-and failed.' 'Failure never deters me from trying again. You know the old adage.' 'You succeeded only in smirching my name, in giving me a bad reputation. It caused my friends to desert and avoid me. It excluded me from the clubs, the reputable hotels, from every desirable place that I had been accustomed to frequent. It has changed my life and turned it as arid as the heart of a desert. I have you to thank for all this-you, Carter!''