GRISWOLD IN COMMAND.
The millionaire remained lost in thought for a few moments longer, then
grasped Simpson firmly by the arm.
“Come into the house,” he ordered.
“But—but these, sir!” his former subordinate stammered, nodding over
his shoulder, and moving his hands so that the chain of the handcuffs
rattled.
For the moment Griswold had forgotten his desire for secrecy. To be
sure, if he could expose Nick, he would be willing to have all the
facts come out, but he knew that he would have to be very sure of
himself and his facts before publishing any such charge against a man
of the detective’s reputation; consequently, he would have to delay,
in the hope that Cray would be able to tell his side of the story, and
until then it was desirable that no rumors should be set in motion.
Therefore, he slipped off his motor coat and threw it like a cloak over
Simpson’s bowed shoulders.
“Come!” he commanded again.
And with shuffling steps, his head down, John Simpson accompanied him
to the house, but went through the kitchen, instead of going around to
the front door.
“Thank Heaven!” the maid cried, as she caught sight of her employer.
“Mr. Simpson! Is it really you? I must run and tell Mrs. Simpson right
this minute!”
“No, no, Mary!” the wretched man protested weakly. “Not—not yet! I wish
to surprise her.”
Griswold had not told Simpson that the injured detective was in the
house, but now he led the thieving treasurer to the room in which Cray
lay. He said nothing about his object, because he wished to see if
Simpson would recognize the patient at once.
If he did so without hesitation, and spoke of him as Cray, that would
go far to indicate the truth of his story, for if Cray had been struck
down under other circumstances, this unexpected sight of him might well
cause a momentary confusion.
The spectacle was, indeed, unlooked for, but though surprised, Simpson
did not appear to be in the least embarrassed.
“Yes, that’s the fellow who called himself Cray,” he said, with a nod.
“He was the one that jumped on me first, and the other, Carter, gagged
me. He certainly seems to be in pretty bad shape.”
The doctor looked at him in the greatest surprise. He had never met
Simpson, for the latter had moved to the hill very recently. He knew
him by sight, however.
“You may or may not know that this is John Simpson himself, Doctor
Lord,” the newspaper proprietor said bruskly. “I found him locked up in
the garage just now. I’ll make it worth your while, however, to keep a
discreet tongue in your head.”
The young physician’s shoulders went back proudly.
“I accept remuneration for professional services only, Mr. Griswold,”
he said crisply. “I hope I can be trusted not to blab anything I may
learn while attending a case.”
“I meant no offense, I assure you, doctor,” Griswold hastened to say.
“I merely——”
“Wished to remind me of something you should have taken for granted,”
the doctor cut in. “Please say no more about it, though.”
Then Lane Griswold did another unexpected thing. He held out his hand
with an apologetic smile, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Doctor Lord
gripped it firmly.
A moment later Griswold led Simpson into another room and closed the
door.
“Look here, Simpson,” he said, without preliminaries, “I’ve been
grievously disappointed in you, but we’ll let that pass. I’m done
with you, and your dismissal is waiting for you at the office. I want
to hear no excuses. As for prosecution, however, you have doubtless
counted on immunity from that, and I regret to say that you haven’t
counted in vain—unless this new complication makes it worth while to
air the whole thing for the sake of a supreme newspaper sensation. For
your wife’s sake, I’ll let you know about that as soon as possible.
Meanwhile, I shall see that you are under observation all the time. You
can’t get away, for I may want you locked up. If I don’t, you’ll soon
be free to do what you please and go where you please.”
“I—yes, sir,” was all Simpson was able to say, and he had to swallow
more than once before he could utter those words.
“Now you had better go to your wife.”
“But these handcuffs, sir!” Simpson again protested.
“You should have thought of the possibility of such adornments before
you made away with that fund,” Griswold told him sternly. “Don’t
imagine that your wife doesn’t know what you have been up to, for
she does. Still, it isn’t her fault, and I would not like to see her
needlessly distressed. Perhaps there’s a key to the handcuffs in Cray’s
pockets.”
There was, and Simpson was freed from the humiliating shackles before
he went upstairs to face his wife.
Griswold watched his halting progress, then sought the young doctor
once more.
“It’s important that this man should be able to talk as soon as
possible—if he’s ever going to,” he said. “If you desire to consult
with any one, no matter what his price, do so, and I’ll be responsible.
You may also look to me for your fee, and I wish you would get the best
of trained nurses you can procure—one whose discretion you can rely
upon. While you are with the patient, listen carefully for anything
he may say, and make a note of it, whether it seems delirious or not.
Request the nurse to do the same, and see that I’m notified by phone as
soon as Cray is able to be questioned for five minutes.”
“Very well, Mr. Griswold.”
“One thing more. If the patient should become lucid at any time, and
you or the nurse should have reason to believe that he may lapse into
this same condition in a few minutes, ask him just one question and
jot down his answer.”
“And that question?”
“Ask him who is responsible for his injuries—who struck him down.”
Doctor Lord agreed to do so if the opportunity offered, and, after
coming to that understanding, the millionaire reëntered his waiting car.
“New York,” he ordered, giving Nick Carter’s address.