REWARDED AT LAST.
More than once during the wait that followed, Jack Cray felt compelled
to enjoin silence.
Under ordinary circumstances, he would not have thought of doing so
where Nick Carter—as he believed—was concerned. That night, however,
the great detective appeared to be unusually reckless, and Cray, on the
other hand, felt an unwonted sense of responsibility and leadership.
To be sure, his ally had taken the joy out of life to some extent
by arriving at practically the same point through a process of
reasoning, but Cray had done all the work, and was quite proud of his
achievements; therefore, for once in his life, he felt somewhere near
on an equality with Nick, and allowed himself to call Gordon down for
incautious remarks now and then.
“Not a word now!” he at last whispered authoritatively. “No telling how
soon he may come!”
As a matter of fact, he had reason to be more cautious, and to take
Simpson’s anticipated advent more seriously than did Gordon. Cray was
doing everything in good faith, and kept continually in mind Griswold’s
injunctions in regard to secrecy. He believed that it would be easy
enough for two of them to capture Simpson, should that individual
appear, but he went further than that, and determined to accomplish
the capture as nearly in silence as possible, for he feared that the
neighborhood might be aroused by Mrs. Simpson, if she heard anything in
the nature of a scuffle.
On the contrary, Green Eye cared nothing about the millionaire
newspaper proprietor’s desires or interests, and it made little
difference to him whether the man were arrested or not, if only he
could get the best of Cray and Simpson and make his get-away.
Nevertheless, he did not resent Cray’s assumption of command, for his
brain was very busy, and quickly turned from the contemplation of one
pleasing possibility to another.
He did not believe that a man of John Simpson’s type had succeeded in
spending very much of that eighty thousand dollars. Therefore, the
absconding treasurer’s loot promised to be well worth having as a nest
egg.
Gordon meant it to be more than a nest egg, though. Other and larger
sums were soon to join it and keep it company, according to those rosy
dreams of his.
Now to the front crowded memories of those coveted papers he had
examined in Nick Carter’s study that afternoon—the papers which were
now safe in his pockets, and represented his real fortune.
In particular, he recalled one set of records relating to the doings of
a young man of sporting inclinations. The young man in question was the
only son of one of America’s richest men, and the sporting tendencies
referred to had once got him into a very awkward position.
Nick Carter had extricated the foolish youngster without injustice to
any one, and without the slightest hint of publicity. If Green-eye
Gordon had his way, however, the young man and the young man’s father
would soon learn how it feels to have youthful indiscretions return to
roost.
“That alone ought to be worth a tidy fortune,” the schemer told himself.
In addition there were the Walsh papers, the Gravesend case, all the
tempting possibilities of the Lindley matter, and, coming nearer
home, there were a number of documents dealing with men within easy
reach—with Chester J. Gillespie, for instance; ex-Senator Phelps,
Bertie Craybill, Harold Lumsden, the actor, and others.
Yes, there were endless possibilities—money to be wrung from men who
would be forced to keep their mouths shut, and their banking accounts
at his command.
In the darkness, the criminal gave vent to a chuckle, which choked as
he felt Cray turn and glance at him inquiringly.
“I was just thinking of the surprise in store for our friend,” he
whispered. “Why doesn’t he come?”
But John Simpson seemed in no hurry to arrive, if he intended to do so
at all. One o’clock came and passed, and the waiting men were still in
their cramped positions beside the pile of lumber.
It began to look as if Cray had been wrong in his theory, or else
that, discouraged by Mrs. Simpson’s new hobby of sleeping at the rear
of the house, the missing man had decided not to visit the place that
night—for surely Simpson must have known that everybody had been in bed
for hours.
Even the ex-police detective, usually so stolid, began to fidget.
Suddenly, however, his body grew rigid, and his left hand closed upon
the arm of the man beside him.
From the roadway at the rear, still some little distance off, had come
faint but unmistakable sounds.
A motor vehicle of some sort, well-nigh silent in operation, was
approaching, and pebbles were being displaced by its rubber-tired
wheels.
“Our man!” Cray whispered.