THE MILLIONAIRE PLAYS SLEUTH.
As we have seen, the missing man’s wife had always had an uncomfortable
feeling that all was not as it should be. Her husband had not been
himself for some time before his disappearance, and the sudden fit of
extravagance which had led him to take the new house on such short
notice, and to talk about buying a car, had aroused suspicions, which
she had loyally tried to tread under foot.
Naturally, therefore, his actual flight, and the strange attitude of
those connected with the newspaper—their unwillingness to have her go
to the police, for instance—had worried her greatly, although she had
succeeded again and again in arguing herself into a belief that there
was some other explanation.
Now, after hearing Lane Griswold’s unguarded statement, there was no
longer any room for doubt in her mind. She staggered forward half
blindly, and, forgetting the doctor, or ignoring him, she laid both
trembling hands on Griswold’s sleeve.
“My—my husband!” she stammered. “Then he—took——”
The newspaper proprietor lowered his head.
“Yes,” he answered soberly. “I’ve tried to keep the truth from you
as long as I could, Mrs. Simpson. I thought you were out of earshot.
You must try to bear up under it. If I had had any intention of
prosecuting Simpson for making away with the relief fund he was
handling, this whole affair would not have been conducted with any
such secrecy. I have hired private detectives to investigate, because
I wished to keep things quiet, in order that the reputation of the
_Chronicle and Observer_ might not be tarnished.”
“Then, if they catch John, he’ll not be arrested? Is that what you
mean?”
“Exactly,” he answered. “I must confess, Mrs. Simpson, that I shall not
approve in every way of such an outcome. I believe in just punishment.
As it happens, however, we’re not in a position to punish your husband
without starting a lot of injurious gossip about the way we handle
public contributions. Therefore, when Simpson is found, he’ll merely be
forced to disgorge. His discharge is already awaiting him on his desk,
of course. Beyond that, I shall do nothing.”
As may be imagined, Mrs. Simpson’s emotions were chaotic. Her horror
at the certainty of her husband’s crime had been succeeded by loving
anguish, as she pictured his arrest and punishment. Now she was greatly
relieved to hear that there was no danger of this; but, on the other
hand, her heart bled as she realized what it would necessarily mean to
them both, at best. He was no longer a young man, and had been able
to save very little. His disgrace and the loss of his position would
almost certainly age him greatly, perhaps cause a complete breakdown.
Nothing but misery seemed in prospect.
“I—I thank you, but I’m in—in no condition to remain!” the poor woman
sobbed, and, turning on her heel, precipitately left the room and fled
upstairs.
Griswold and the doctor exchanged glances. The former was as sorry for
Mrs. Simpson as he could be in his own way.
“You’ll treat this as strictly confidential, I’m sure,” the millionaire
said. “You must see the importance of secrecy to us, and so long as
there can be no prosecution, there’s no use in making that poor woman’s
life more of a burden to her than is unavoidable. There’ll be a lot of
gossip here, anyway, I suppose, but we must do all we can to minimize
it.”
“I agree with you perfectly, sir, and you may count on me,” Doctor Lord
declared sincerely.
“Thank you. Now, tell me, please, what you make of this man’s injuries,
and what you know of the circumstances?”
The doctor’s reply was a rather lengthy one.
“There must have been several blows, and they were very severe,” he
concluded. “I should say that they were delivered by a man of unusual
strength.”
“That’s interesting,” Griswold said, with a change of expression.
“You don’t believe, then, that a man of slight build, who had spent
practically all of his life in an office, could have perpetrated the
assault?”
Doctor Lord shook his head emphatically. “That’s extremely unlikely,”
he replied. “In fact, I venture to say that it’s quite impossible.”
“Then, it’s hard to explain,” Griswold muttered. “Apparently Cray
found some reason to hang about here last night, presumably to catch
Simpson, or to recover the missing gold. If he was knocked out by an
unusually powerful man, the only reasonable conclusion, it seems to
me, is that the fellow in question must have been an accomplice of
Simpson’s.”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s the way it looks to me offhand,” he answered. “I don’t pretend
to be a detective, though.”
“Neither do I. Such problems interest me, though. Can you tell me where
the phone is?”
The doctor informed him, and Griswold left the room in search of it.
After a little more delay than usual, owing to its being a suburban
call, the millionaire was connected with Nick Carter’s house in New
York. He was informed, however, that the detective had left there
shortly after seven o’clock the evening before, and had not yet
returned. Furthermore, nothing had been heard from him.
This information was a great disappointment to Griswold, for he had
hoped to get in touch with Nick at once.
“Very likely he has gone to Hattontown,” he decided. “If both of them
had been watching this place, Cray would hardly have got the worst of
it to such an extent, and would certainly not have been left to be
found by accident—unless there’s a whole gang involved. In that case,
Carter himself must have met with foul play. But it doesn’t seem likely
that Simpson could have enlisted any strong-arm assistance.”
He reëntered the room where Doctor Lord was.
“I think I’ll have a look around myself,” he announced. “Will you tell
me just where this man was found?”
Three minutes later, he approached the pile of lumber, having quietly
left the house by the front door and walked around by way of the
graveled drive.
He was looking for signs of a struggle, but had found none. The
arrangement of the lumber had been changed when the boards had been
hastily thrown from on top of Cray’s form, and the sod had been badly
trodden by the rescuers.
Having decided that he was not capable of reading the signs there, if
there were any to be read, the newspaper proprietor stepped rather
aimlessly toward the little garage. Passing around it, he tried the
door, and found it locked. While he was tugging at it, however, a sound
came to his ears from within, and he paused abruptly, holding his
breath.
“What was that?” he thought.