A TRAP IS SET FOR NICK.
Lane Griswold had telephoned to the detective’s house only once, and
then had been told that the detective had not returned since the
previous evening. It might be, however, that Nick was there by this
time.
Nothing in Simpson’s story indicated that Nick had met with any mishap,
and it was improbable that a man of his daring and resourcefulness
would take to his heels at once simply because he had become a thief.
It was much more probable that he would return home and bluff it out to
the end.
In that case, Griswold hoped to corner him, and, under threat of
country-wide exposure, force him to confess—after which an exposure
would be likely to follow, anyway.
The millionaire’s face was flushed and determined as he strode up the
detective’s steps and pressed the electric button in peremptory fashion.
Joseph, the butler, opened the door.
“Is Mr. Carter in?” Griswold demanded.
“No, sir,” was the prompt reply. “I can’t say when he’ll be back,
either.”
“I telephoned from New Pelham a couple of hours ago,” Griswold went on.
“I was told then that he had left the house last evening, and had not
returned. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t you know where he is?”
“No, sir. He was going to New Pelham on the seven-thirty train,
however.”
“He was, eh? That’s significant.”
He had sized up the butler, and decided that he was telling the truth.
If necessary, he would try diplomacy. If he could get hold of Nick’s
assistants, he told himself, he might obtain some valuable pointers.
To be sure, if the detective had been playing the
wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing part for any length of time, it was quite
conceivable that his assistants, or some of them, at least, were as bad
as he. If this were the first offense, however, it might be possible to
get one of his staff to turn against him, and assist in his capture, in
the hope of stepping into his shoes.
“I’m Mr. Griswold, the owner of the _Chronicle and Observer_,” he told
the butler. “Perhaps you’ll remember that I was here yesterday with
Mr. Cray? I’m very anxious to see Mr. Carter himself, but one of his
assistants might do.”
“None of them is here now, sir,” Joseph told him. “They’re all away
from the city for one reason or another. Mr. Carter’s chief assistant,
Mr. Chickering Carter, left for the Adirondacks with him just the other
day, and stayed up there when he returned unexpectedly.”
“Carter’s leading assistant! He would be the best one!” thought
Griswold.
Aloud he asked for Chick’s address.
“Something has happened,” he explained. “Cray has been rather
badly injured, and I can’t seem to locate Mr. Carter. Under the
circumstances, I feel compelled to telegraph for this young man you
speak of, or else to call in some outsider.”
In view of this explanation, it is not surprising that the butler gave
him the desired information, especially as he and Mrs. Peters had been
worrying somewhat over Nick’s unexplained absence.
Armed with the address, Griswold lost little time in reaching the
nearest telegraph office, and in drafting a message to Chick Carter. It
read:
“Unusually important case on. Am badly injured. Come at once.”
And it was signed “Cray.”
He had decided to send it in the injured detective’s name, believing
that it would have more force than if dispatched by a third party. The
absence of any specific directions for finding Cray was intentional.
Griswold had neglected to make any inquiries concerning the injured
man’s relatives, and did not even know where he lived. He had been to
his office, that was all, and he knew that to be a business building.
He did not care to give the New Pelham address, because he hoped to
have a very confidential interview with Chick, and he did not care to
have it take place under Simpson’s roof; therefore, he had decided to
say nothing about it, and to meet Chick’s train—for he had estimated
the time required for the telegram to reach its destination, and could
easily look up the trains when he reached his office.
It was then nearly one o’clock in the afternoon, and Chick could not be
expected before morning. Meanwhile, Griswold hoped for a summons from
New Pelham, but none came.
Growing impatient, he telephoned late in the afternoon, and was
informed by the new nurse that there had been no change in Cray’s
condition, except one for the worse. He had sunken into a deep stupor.
“Hang it all! I hope he isn’t going to die,” Griswold muttered. “If he
does, without recovering consciousness, I may not be able to fasten
this thing on Carter, after all, for I’m certain Simpson’s testimony
would not have any great weight, unless corroborated.”
Later, the millionaire called up Cray’s office. He did not believe
the injured detective had any one to keep the place open during his
absence, but he wished to make sure, if possible, whether a message had
been received from Chick Carter or not. As he had expected, he found
the place closed.
It then occurred to him to return to Nick’s house. The detective might
have put in an appearance; if not, it was possible that Chick had sent
a reply there, trusting that it would reach Cray indirectly.
In this latter respect, his surmise was correct. Nick had not returned,
and Joseph’s worry had grown. On the other hand, a telegram had arrived
for Jack Cray, and Joseph was holding it; not knowing what else to do
with it.
Griswold promised to deliver it, and took it in charge. In this way
he learned that his guess as to Chick’s train was correct. The young
detective wired that he would arrive in New York at eight-thirty the
following morning.
Nothing developed in the interval, and a few minutes before
eight-thirty the next morning, Griswold took up his position at one
of the gates leading to the tracks in the great Forty-second Street
terminal.
The train from the Adirondacks arrived at schedule time, and began to
disgorge, while the millionaire, who had obtained a description of
Chick from the butler, narrowly scanned the faces of the passengers as
they hurried through the gate.
The newspaper proprietor did not have to wait long. He soon caught a
glimpse of an erect, keen-eyed, athletic young man, striding down the
platform, and carrying a heavy suit case, as if it were a featherweight.
“That must be Chick Carter!” he told himself, with a nod of
satisfaction.
But the next moment he gave a gasp, and a look of utmost bewilderment
spread over his face.
He had caught sight of the man at Chick’s side, and feature for feature
it was the man whom Cray had called into consultation—was, in other
words, Nick Carter himself!