CRAY’S LIPS ARE UNSEALED.
Despite his eagerness to see his friend Cray, and to get on the
fugitive’s trail, Nick remained at the house long enough to draft a
telegram to the warden of Clinton Prison, asking for further details
concerning the supposed death of Green-eye Gordon, and the escape of
one of the prisoners on the night of the fire.
The message was given to the butler, who was asked to phone it at once
to the telegraph office.
“They may have facts up there which they have been keeping from the
public,” Nick explained. “Even seemingly valueless facts may assume
great importance in the light of what has happened down here, for that
matter.”
Meanwhile, one of Nick’s fastest cars had been ordered around, and now
the familiar honk-honk was heard.
“There’s the machine,” Nick announced. “Come on.”
It was plain to be seen that both Nick and his assistant were laboring
under unusual excitement. The chauffeur was instructed to push the car
to the lawful limit, and although he did so, with his usual skill, the
detective seemed to think the car was creeping.
For miles and miles they had to traverse the streets of the city which
stretched out northward to the confines of the Bronx, and not until
these were passed, did they feel free to risk a faster pace—and even
then they had to slow down through the frequent villages.
It was not in reality a long drive, however, and in less time than
Griswold had made the trip the morning before, they had covered the
distance.
The chauffeur had slowed down considerably before entering the village
of New Pelham, but they were still going at a rapid rate, and Griswold
was obliged to raise his voice for his final instructions to the
chauffeur.
“The top of the hill!” he called out, leaning forward and pointing,
while he held his hat on with the other hand.
The usually easy-going millionaire was having some unusual experiences,
and had been pretty thoroughly shaken up in more ways than one.
Straight up the hill that led from the heart of the village, the great
car raced, and Griswold added that it was the last house. A few moments
later the machine came to an abrupt, but quiet, stop in front of No. 31
Floral Avenue.
Quickly the three men alighted and hurried through the gate. The door
was opened almost immediately by the maid, and behind her stood Doctor
Lord, who had evidently been impatiently awaiting Griswold’s arrival.
The doctor looked inquiringly at the others.
“Carter, shake hands with Doctor Lord,” he said informally. “Doctor,
this is Nick Carter and this is Chick Carter, his assistant.”
“I’m very glad,” the young physician said heartily, as he acknowledged
the detective’s greeting. “Frequently during the patient’s long stupor,
Mr. Carter, he mumbled your name.”
“Just how is he?” Nick asked eagerly, and, for the moment, concern for
his friend weighed with him more than anything else.
“He’s better,” was the reply. “He has taken the turn that I hoped for,
and now, although he may be laid up for some time, I think I may safely
say that the danger is over. You must not see him for long, however,
and you had better come at once. I’ve been afraid that he might lapse
into unconsciousness again before Mr. Griswold could get here.”
“You have questioned him as I suggested?” the millionaire put in, as
they moved toward the door of the room in which Cray was lying.
“Yes,” was the answer, “but he’s stubborn. He refuses to tell me
anything—said he would do so if he felt himself losing consciousness
again, but that he wanted to say what he had to say directly to Mr.
Griswold, if possible.”
They had reached the door of the room by that time, and Lord stepped
aside to allow the others to enter.
A nurse in a trim, crisp uniform was sitting beside the couch, but rose
and effaced herself quietly, thus giving Nick his first unobstructed
view of his friend.
The burly detective seemed to fill the narrow couch, and yet he
appeared, somehow, shrunken. His face was still very pale, and the big,
hairy hand that lay on his chest had a suggestion of helplessness about
it.
Cray turned his head slowly, and looked toward the door. Instead of
seeing merely the millionaire, as he had anticipated, he beheld two
other visitors, and identified them after a moment or two.
“Mr. Carter!” he exclaimed weakly. “And Chick, too! Is it really you
this time, Carter? This is more than I hoped for.”
He tried to raise himself on one elbow, but sank back faintly.
“Lie still, old fellow!” Nick said, quietly stepping forward and taking
Cray’s hand. “You are gaining, and must hold on to what you have
gained. Take your time, though, about——”
“I can’t take my time, Carter,” Cray said, feverishly clutching at
his friend’s hand with both of his. “This isn’t the worst yet. It was
Gordon—Green-eye Gordon—who did this to me, and he’s made off with two
suit cases crammed full of gold coins.”
Nick saw that it would be necessary to cut the interview short, but he
wished to test Cray, if possible. It might be that Jack had forgotten
about the fire and the reports of Gordon’s death. If he were reminded
of that, he might not be so sure about the identity of his assailant.
“But Gordon is dead, you know—burned to death in prison,” Nick said
quietly.
“No, no! Don’t you believe it, Carter!” the patient insisted. “There’s
no mistake about it. I forgot about all those reports when he struck
me; they don’t cut any ice. I have thought about them since I woke up,
and I’m just as sure as ever that it was Gordon.”
“What makes you so sure?” inquired Nick.
“He forgot himself when he cursed me,” was the reply, “and I thought I
recognized the voice; then I caught a glimpse of his eyes, and I was
sure. There’s only one man with eyes like that—cat’s eyes. They looked
green as he glared at me. He knows I recognized him, because I said his
name just before I got my knock-out. Probably he thought he had killed
me, for I don’t believe he would have left me to tell the tale.”
He paused for a moment, and one hand wandered weakly to his injured
head.
“I’ll never get over the way I was taken in,” he went on, more faintly.
“Most humiliating. Must say, he’s a wonder, though. Never imagined
anybody could pull off a stunt like that. The car is an electric—a
coupé, two or three years old, I should say. The gold was in a couple
of suit cases which had been buried in the ground. Can’t tell you any
more, I’m afraid—just about all in, you see.”
He looked about helplessly, and in a frightened sort of way, then, with
a sigh, lapsed into unconsciousness once more.