“THE GREENISH EYES!”
Doctor Lord was a young man, with next to no practice, who had recently
moved into one of the new houses on the hill. It was easier, therefore,
to go for him in person than to stop to telephone.
In the meantime, the women were reassured and thrilled by the
announcement that Cray still lived, and Mrs. Simpson at once took steps
to care for him.
She had sent the maid to the house for a basin of warm water and some
towels. With these at hand, Mrs. Simpson herself knelt beside the
unfortunate man and tenderly wiped the blood from his forehead and face.
Not until then had she recognized him, but when she did so, she gave a
great start, and an audible gasp escaped her.
The other women were crowding around then, and her behavior was not
lost on them.
“What’s the matter?” they demanded. “Do you actually know him?”
Mrs. Simpson bitterly regretted her display of emotion. Fear seemed
to be squeezing her heart with icy fingers. In the background of her
mind a foreboding had been lurking for days. Her instincts had told
her that there was something strange and sinister about her husband’s
disappearance—something which the office had not seen fit to reveal to
her.
Now she recalled all of Cray’s strange questions and stranger actions.
“He’s a detective!” she told herself. “I was right. John is in trouble,
and this man must have set a trap for him last night. If he dies, John
will be his murderer. Oh, how could he do it! And Heaven pity me, how
can I stand it!”
She was the soul of honor herself, however, and simply did not know how
to lie.
“Yes, I recognize him now,” she admitted reluctantly. “I never saw him
until yesterday, though, and I don’t know what he was doing here last
night—if he was here. He’s a Mr. Jones from my husband’s office, and he
said they had sent him to see if he could help find Mr. Simpson.”
The young doctor arrived at that juncture, and, at his request, Mrs.
Simpson repeated the information for his benefit as he worked over Cray.
“You don’t know where he lives, then, or anything about his people?”
“No, but they would naturally know about that at the newspaper office,
wouldn’t they?”
“That’s true. You had better telephone there, then—or somebody had.
This poor fellow has had a terrible battering. Fortunately his skull is
very tough, but though I can’t be sure at present, I fear it has been
fractured, in spite of that. If so, the outcome is problematical, and
he may not recover in any case.”
He rose to his feet.
“But the first thing to do is to get him into the house,” he declared.
“Have you a bed or a couch on the first floor, Mrs. Simpson?”
“Yes, there’s a couch, doctor.”
“Good! Make that ready for him, then, and we’ll bring him right in.”
Mrs. Simpson and the maid rushed away to do the young physician’s
bidding, and several women accompanied them. The men waited for perhaps
five minutes, in order to allow time to get the couch in readiness.
Then they lifted Cray’s inert bulk as carefully as they could and bore
it slowly toward the house.
It was no easy task, for the detective weighed close to two hundred
pounds, but their united efforts were equal to it, and the unconscious
man was soon lying, partially undressed, on the comfortable couch in
one of the lower rooms.
A little later, every one had left the house, with the exception of the
doctor, who continued to work over Cray for some time.
“I’ve done all I can at present, Mrs. Simpson,” he announced finally.
“If you don’t mind, though, I’ll stay with him for the present, so that
I shall be on hand if any change comes.”
He paused and smiled frankly.
“You see, I’m not overburdened with practice,” he explained, “and under
the circumstances, I’m inclined to make as much out of this case as I
can—in the way of experience, I mean.”
That promised to relieve the woman of a great deal of responsibility,
and she accepted the suggestion readily enough, although she would
have preferred, if possible, that no outsider should have access to the
patient.
“I’m afraid you had better telephone to the office, though, before
breakfast,” the doctor went on. “As yet, there’s no knowing how this
case is going to turn out, and this poor fellow’s friends may live
out of New York, in some other direction. In that case, there’s a
possibility that it will take hours for them to reach here.”
“I’ll telephone at once,” Mrs. Simpson assured him, “and, meanwhile,
Mary will be getting breakfast. You must join me in the dining room,
doctor, or let her bring you something here.”
She intended to play the part that had been thrust upon her as well as
she could, even though her mind was filled with all sorts of tragic
possibilities.
Fortunately there was a telephone in the house, and, after considerable
delay, Mrs. Simpson got in touch with the office of the New York
_Chronicle and Observer_. To her regret, however, she could find no one
who knew anything about an employee by the name of Jones who answered
her description.
It was explained, however, that the hour was a very early one, and that
the business offices would not be open until eight-thirty.
“This is the editorial department,” the man at the other end assured
her, “and we don’t know much about the other branches. I’ll make a
note of it, though, and of your telephone number, and have the matter
brought to the attention of the general manager when he arrives.”
“I—I think it might be well to inform Mr. Griswold himself,” the woman
ventured to suggest. “Mr. Jones told me yesterday that Mr. Griswold had
sent him. I don’t know whether he meant it literally or not, but——”
“Well, I’ll do everything I can, Mrs. Simpson,” the editor promised,
and with that she had to be content.
Doctor Lord was plainly disappointed at the news, but seemed to have
nothing better to suggest.
“It’s pretty early,” he admitted.
Mrs. Simpson finished dressing, and she and the young physician
breakfasted together, after which he returned to Cray’s side, while his
hostess busied herself with some of her morning duties.
Lord was a practical, unimaginative young man, and therefore, although
he was greatly interested in the case from a professional standpoint,
he did not waste much time in speculation regarding it. That was for
the local authorities to do. He would not have been human, however,
had he not pricked up his ears when his patient, after showing various
signs of returning life, began to move uneasily, and to mutter.
The doctor was able to make out two names, which were repeated over and
over again.
The names were “Gordon” and “Nick Carter.”
“Nick Carter!” muttered the listener. “That’s queer! That must be the
well-known New York detective. What the dickens has this fellow got to
do with him, though, unless he has done something wrong, and Carter is
after him?”
Then he remembered the rumors that were flying all about in the
neighborhood—rumors which hinted that there was something queer about
John Simpson’s unexplained absence.
“This is getting interesting!” Doctor Lord told himself meditatively.
“Nick Carter!” Cray muttered again, and this time he added: “The
eyes—the greenish eyes!”