GRISWOLD STILL DOUBTFUL.
The detective leaned forward in the taxi, and held Griswold’s eyes
commandingly.
“That’s about enough of that, Griswold,” he said, with ominous quiet.
“I would advise you to restrain yourself. I’m not accustomed to being
approached in this way, and I’ve endured it thus far only because I’ve
made allowance for your obvious excitement. I supposed that a man in
your position would be sufficiently informed concerning me and my work
to have no such illusions, and sufficiently in command of himself to
conquer such heated impulse. A moment’s reflection ought to convince
you that my presence up the State for the last few days can easily be
verified.
“And now, if you’ll come to your senses, I shall be more than eager to
hear what you have to say about this extraordinary experience of yours.
First, though, tell me how seriously my friend is injured.”
During this speech, and for some moments afterward, the millionaire
newspaper man continued to gaze at the detective as if he were trying
to pierce his very soul, and when he withdrew his gaze at length, it
was only to shift it to Chick.
“You almost persuade me,” he told Nick at last. “Either I’ve been
dreaming, though, or I’m dreaming now. This is the most amazing
thing that has ever occurred in my experience. I want to believe in
you, Carter, I assure you. I have all along, and it was only with the
greatest reluctance that I accepted the conclusion which seemed forced
upon me by circumstances which I could not question.”
He paused for a moment, and then launched into an account of his
reasons for visiting Cray, the latter’s suggestion that they should
call upon Nick Carter and seek his aid, the interview in the
detective’s study, and so on.
“I can’t see any difference,” he declared. “So far as I can tell,
you are the same man I talked with there, and don’t forget that Cray
himself was evidently convinced that he was talking with you. Later,
you—or the man I took to be you—phoned me and asked further particulars
concerning Simpson. I hoped for speedy results, of course, with the
case in such hands, but I heard nothing more until the next morning,
when I was informed that a man named Jones, who had represented himself
as connected with the _Chronicle and Observer_ office, had been
seriously injured in New Pelham. The description suggested Cray, and
I hastened up into Westchester County. I found that it was Cray, and
learned that he had been muttering your name. He had been repeatedly
struck on the head with some blunt instrument, and the doctor feared
a fracture. He had not really been conscious, though, and hasn’t been
yet, to the best of my knowledge.
“I questioned Mrs. Simpson and the doctor, and learned that Cray had
been found in the back yard near one of those little portable garages.
Curiosity sent me out there, and, hearing a sort of groan, I broke
into the garage, and, to my amazement, found Simpson himself bound and
gagged.”
He then went on to repeat the treasurer’s story of his capture, and the
unseen conflict that had taken place between Cray and his companion—the
man whom Jack had referred to as Nick Carter.
Incidentally, he referred to the term “green-eyed,” which Simpson had
overheard.
“Now, that’s pretty strong circumstantial evidence, isn’t it?” he
demanded at the conclusion. “If you are really Nick Carter, and can
prove that you haven’t been in New York for days, no one will rejoice
more sincerely than I—although it would cheat me out of a tremendous
news sensation. Frankly, though, I still find it almost impossible to
believe you, despite your attitude and your appearance of sincerity.
How could your own servants have been deceived? How could any one have
lived in your house for days without betraying himself in some way? How
could Cray, a detective himself, and an old friend, have been so blind?”
Nick and his assistant had listened to the story with growing interest
and excitement. More than once they had exchanged meaning glances, but
when Griswold mentioned the compound word which had been part of Cray’s
last startled whisper, the faces they turned to each other were a study.
It seemed impossible for them to keep silence any longer, but they
managed to do so until the millionaire had finished.
“The ‘dead’ have come to life more than once, you know, in our
experience,” Nick said softly, looking at his assistant.
Chick nodded. “Yes, that must be it, I suppose,” he agreed. “I was
thinking all along that I knew of no one else who would possibly have
turned such a trick, and when it came to that ‘green-eyed’ business——”
“There wasn’t much room left for doubt,” Nick supplied.
“What in thunder are you two talking about?” Griswold broke in.
“Have you ever heard of Ernest Gordon, familiarly known as Green-eye
Gordon?” the detective asked him.
“Of course. I read my newspapers more carefully than any one else
does. Good heavens! Is it possible that you think Gordon could have
impersonated you?”
Nick nodded.
“That’s precisely what I feel obliged to think,” he answered.
“But—but Gordon is in prison, isn’t he? No, by Heaven, he’s dead! I had
forgotten for the moment, but he died in that fire up at Dannemora a
short time ago. Don’t you remember?”
“That was the report,” Nick admitted readily, “and naturally I accepted
it at the time, as every one else did. This astounding information you
have just given me, however, puts a very different face on the matter.
I believe Gordon would have been capable of that sort of thing—in
fact, I have evidence of similar stunts pulled off by him in the past.
Furthermore, I know of no one else with a criminal record who would
have been capable of such a performance—and no one without a long
criminal experience would have dared do such a thing. Finally, we
have Simpson’s testimony, which seems plain enough to me. When Cray
was first attacked, he naturally assumed that his assailant was I,
and he spoke my name in dazed incredulity. The next moment, however,
overwhelming doubt would naturally have assailed him, and, under the
influence of that, he must have obtained a closer glimpse in some way.
Or it may be that the scoundrel betrayed himself unconsciously. Jack
was about all in by that time, but he had strength enough to whisper
his enemy’s name. He wasn’t talking about green-eyed jealousy, you may
be sure, but about Green-eye Gordon!”
“Very ingenious,” Griswold admitted doubtfully.
“How could such a mistake have been made at the prison, however? The
report of Gordon’s death has never been corrected.”
“Probably because its inaccuracy has never been discovered,” Nick
told him. “A convict was burned unrecognizably, and the remains were
identified only by the number on the coat. Another convict escaped and
hasn’t been recaptured. Isn’t it easy enough to believe that a man of
Gordon’s stamp might have seen a fellow prisoner succumb to the choking
fumes, and, under cover of the excitement, might have managed to
exchange coats without being discovered?”