MRS. SIMPSON LEARNS THE TRUTH.
Lane A. Griswold’s big car hummed softly to itself as it climbed the
hill from the village of New Pelham, and stopped in front of No. 31
Floral Avenue.
The millionaire newspaper proprietor was on a strange errand, and his
expression showed that he realized it.
Although he was frequently absent from his luxurious suite of private
offices in the _Chronicle and Observer_ building for weeks at a time,
he had walked in that morning promptly at nine o’clock, instead of ten
or eleven, as was his usual habit when in town.
Five minutes later, he was in possession of such facts as his general
manager and the editor could give him concerning Mrs. Simpson’s phone
message. The manager, of course, informed him that no such person was
employed in the building, but the description had set Griswold to
thinking.
“I’ll call her up myself,” was the unexpected announcement which had
sent his subordinates about their business. The connection was quickly
made, but the conversation which had ensued was very brief.
Mrs. Simpson described Jones’ visit of the day before in a very few
words, and then told of the finding of the injured man. Griswold wanted
to ask her to describe the latter once more for his benefit, but
refrained, thinking the request might seem rather strange.
“I see,” he answered, instead. “I think I had better come up to the
house myself, Mrs. Simpson. I shall start at once, and ought to be
there in an hour, I should say.”
Less than that time had been required for the trip, and now the
millionaire stepped out of the car and approached the house, looking
about him rather critically as he did so.
He had not always been wealthy, and he knew that No. 31 Floral Avenue,
though insignificant enough from his present standpoint, was not the
sort of place that a man dependent on the salary of the size of John
Simpson’s was able to afford. Accordingly, therefore, he came to the
same conclusion that Jack Cray had reached the previous day.
“By Heaven!” he muttered, the skin under his jaws tightening. “The
fellow must have been helping himself from the fund before he decamped.
What a fool he is! What fools they always are to make a big showing on
nothing. Don’t they know what a telltale performance it is?” Then he
smiled a little grimly and shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose, though,
it’s natural that they should want to find some outlet for the money
they’ve sold their souls for,” he added mentally, as he pressed the
button of the electric bell.
The maid presently opened the door, and Griswold gave his name. He
was ushered into the same room in which Cray had been conducted less
than twenty-four hours before, and in hardly more than a minute Mrs.
Simpson joined him.
Griswold looked at her with a touch of curiosity, for to him the
members of his staff had always been little more than the cogs in the
great machine that he drove, and it was rather hard for him to think of
them in any intimately human relationship.
As soon as their first formal greetings were over, he came to the point
at once.
“I’m very much interested—after a fashion—in this man Jones, Mrs.
Simpson. Are you sure you made no mistake in the name?”
“Quite, Mr. Griswold,” the missing treasurer’s wife replied positively.
“That’s certainly the name he gave me yesterday. He said you had sent
him, too. He asked me all sorts of questions about Mr. Simpson and
the house and myself—very strange questions, some of them. He even
requested me to show him about the place. I do hope——”
Lane Griswold held up one carefully manicured hand.
“It’s all right, I think, Mrs. Simpson,” he hastened to assure her.
“If he’s the man I think he is, he was quite justified in saying I
sent him. Apparently, however, he didn’t choose to give his own name,
which seems to have been a rather useless and unlooked-for performance.
Describe him, please.”
The woman did so, and Griswold nodded once or twice during the
description.
“That’s the man,” he admitted. “The name has caused some confusion,
however, and the rest was due to the fact that he isn’t regularly
employed at the office, but works for me personally.”
He was studying Mrs. Simpson’s face intently, and trying to decide
whether it were worth while to continue the deception or not. Surely,
if she had any intelligence, she must have suspected long before that
there was something very queer about her husband’s disappearance.
Still, so long as she did not insist upon the truth, he thought it best
not to be too definite.
“I hope Mr.—er—Jones isn’t badly injured?” he said.
“He’s still unconscious, sir, and the doctor seems to be afraid that
his skull may be fractured. If he has any relatives, Doctor Lord thinks
that they should be notified at once.”
“I know nothing about his family affairs,” Griswold said, a trifle
impatiently. “My impression is that he’s alone in the world, but I may
be mistaken. May I see him?”
“Of course. He’s here on the first floor. They did not wait to take him
upstairs. This way, please, Mr. Griswold.”
And she led the way to the room in which the battered detective lay,
drawing back, however, at the threshold. The young doctor was still
there, largely, perhaps, for want of something better to do.
Mrs. Simpson had said that the patient was unconscious, thereby giving
Griswold a somewhat mistaken idea. Certainly Cray had not returned to
normal consciousness, but he was by no means in the motionless stupor
the newspaper proprietor had looked for. If his informant had told him
that Jack was delirious, he would have been better prepared.
Nick’s burly friend was tossing restlessly to and fro—at least, his
head and arms were—and just as Griswold came to a halt and looked down
at him, he uttered two words which had come frequently to his lips that
morning.
“Nick Carter,” he muttered, in a somewhat muffled, but perfectly
distinct voice.
“He has been repeating that name at intervals for hours,” the young
doctor remarked. “It must be the detective, don’t you suppose?”
Griswold was under the impression that Mrs. Simpson had withdrawn, but
even that did not entirely explain the slip that followed. He who had
desired secrecy above all things must have forgotten himself for the
time being.
“Yes, it’s the detective,” he answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “This
man is himself a detective, and they were working together on——”
He stopped abruptly as a cry from the doorway reached him. Mrs. Simpson
had heard what he said.