For a time it looked as if the millionaire newspaper proprietor meant to resent the supposed detective’s effrontery in some way, but he managed to swallow his wrath, and, after reseating himself and angrily fingering his watch chain, got down to business.

Probably he had decided that it would be very poor policy to have words with a man of Nick’s reputation, especially when he was badly in need of the detective’s services.

After clearing his throat, he began:

“I have explained it all to Mr. Cray, here, but perhaps I had better go over it again, in my own way. The case is in connection with the relief fund which my papers, headed by the Chronicle and Observer, have raised for the Hattontown sufferers.”

Gordon nodded almost imperceptibly. The terrible fire at Hattontown, which had destroyed a large part of one of New England’s busiest little manufacturing cities, had occurred while he was still in prison. He had read of it, however, in the papers to which he had access in the prison library, and for that reason he was familiar with the main facts.

Hundreds of residences and business blocks had been destroyed, with an appalling property loss and a considerable loss of life, as well. Thousands of persons, men, women, and children, had been rendered homeless and penniless.

That was where Griswold’s chain of newspapers had taken a hand. Always quick to respond to such emergencies—largely, it is to be feared, for the advertising it gave them—they had started to raise a fund for the destitute victims, and, thanks to their tremendous combined circulations, the amount had soon attained imposing proportions.

Part of it had been paid out for the immediate needs of the victims, but most of it, according to the latest reports Gordon had seen, was being retained for more permanent aid, to provide work, homes, et cetera.

What could there be about this fund, Green Eye wondered, that required investigation, particularly an investigation prompted by the proprietor of the newspapers responsible for it.

“As usual,” Griswold went on. “I started the fund by subscribing five thousand dollars, and many men of substance have contributed large sums, although none so large as that. You may or may not know that the receipts to date total a little over a hundred thousand dollars.”

“A very neat sum, indeed,” Gordon commented, “and one that is very creditable to those who have contributed, especially those who have done so anonymously.”

He could not resist that slight dig, for he knew perfectly well that Lane A. Griswold had never been guilty of making an anonymous contribution in his life. He was never satisfied unless his name could head the list.

Perhaps this baiting was unwise, but Green Eye did not think so. A little of it, he felt sure, would be good for the millionaire, and give him a wholesome fear of the supposed detective. He decided, though, to let it go at that, for the present, at least.

As for Griswold, after swallowing hard two or three times, he evidently determined to ignore the thrust.

“But how could a criminal case, delicate or otherwise, have arisen out of such a philanthropic enterprise?” Green Eye queried innocently.

If pressed, he could have given a pretty shrewd guess, but it suited his purpose just then to take another course.

“It’s simple enough—too infernally simple!” Griswold retorted feelingly. “The money has been stolen, that’s all!”

Gordon had suspected something of the sort, but it was pleasing to hear it put into words. A hundred-thousand-dollar relief fund reposing safely in some bank vault was of only theoretical interest to him, along with the hundreds of millions stored in similar vaults within a radius of a few miles of Nick Carter’s study. A hundred thousand dollars—or anywhere near that amount—in the hands of a fugitive from justice was a very different matter, however. There were possibilities in that situation.

“Ah, I’m not surprised!” Gordon remarked calmly. “How and when was the money taken? I assume you don’t know by whom?”

“But I do—I know only too well,” Griswold told him promptly.

“You do?”

“There’s no room for doubt about it. The money was taken by a man named John Simpson, an old and trusted employee of the Chronicle and Observer.”

“How did he happen to have access to it, may I ask?”

“I made him the treasurer of the fund. I never dreamed of anything of this sort. He had served in a similar capacity more than once in the past, and always with the most scrupulous fidelity.”

“But how did he have possession of the whole fund, if it was collected by different newspapers?”

“Daily drafts were sent to the Chronicle and Observer, as the parent newspaper of the chain. Our New York office is the general headquarters, you know.”

“I see. Simpson is missing, is he, along with the money?”