More than once during the wait that followed, Jack Cray felt compelled to enjoin silence.

Under ordinary circumstances, he would not have thought of doing so where Nick Carter—as he believed—was concerned. That night, however, the great detective appeared to be unusually reckless, and Cray, on the other hand, felt an unwonted sense of responsibility and leadership.

To be sure, his ally had taken the joy out of life to some extent by arriving at practically the same point through a process of reasoning, but Cray had done all the work, and was quite proud of his achievements; therefore, for once in his life, he felt somewhere near on an equality with Nick, and allowed himself to call Gordon down for incautious remarks now and then.

“Not a word now!” he at last whispered authoritatively. “No telling how soon he may come!”

As a matter of fact, he had reason to be more cautious, and to take Simpson’s anticipated advent more seriously than did Gordon. Cray was doing everything in good faith, and kept continually in mind Griswold’s injunctions in regard to secrecy. He believed that it would be easy enough for two of them to capture Simpson, should that individual appear, but he went further than that, and determined to accomplish the capture as nearly in silence as possible, for he feared that the neighborhood might be aroused by Mrs. Simpson, if she heard anything in the nature of a scuffle.

On the contrary, Green Eye cared nothing about the millionaire newspaper proprietor’s desires or interests, and it made little difference to him whether the man were arrested or not, if only he could get the best of Cray and Simpson and make his get-away.

Nevertheless, he did not resent Cray’s assumption of command, for his brain was very busy, and quickly turned from the contemplation of one pleasing possibility to another.

He did not believe that a man of John Simpson’s type had succeeded in spending very much of that eighty thousand dollars. Therefore, the absconding treasurer’s loot promised to be well worth having as a nest egg.

Gordon meant it to be more than a nest egg, though. Other and larger sums were soon to join it and keep it company, according to those rosy dreams of his.

Now to the front crowded memories of those coveted papers he had examined in Nick Carter’s study that afternoon—the papers which were now safe in his pockets, and represented his real fortune.

In particular, he recalled one set of records relating to the doings of a young man of sporting inclinations. The young man in question was the only son of one of America’s richest men, and the sporting tendencies referred to had once got him into a very awkward position.

Nick Carter had extricated the foolish youngster without injustice to any one, and without the slightest hint of publicity. If Green-eye Gordon had his way, however, the young man and the young man’s father would soon learn how it feels to have youthful indiscretions return to roost.

“That alone ought to be worth a tidy fortune,” the schemer told himself.

In addition there were the Walsh papers, the Gravesend case, all the tempting possibilities of the Lindley matter, and, coming nearer home, there were a number of documents dealing with men within easy reach—with Chester J. Gillespie, for instance; ex-Senator Phelps, Bertie Craybill, Harold Lumsden, the actor, and others.

Yes, there were endless possibilities—money to be wrung from men who would be forced to keep their mouths shut, and their banking accounts at his command.

In the darkness, the criminal gave vent to a chuckle, which choked as he felt Cray turn and glance at him inquiringly.

“I was just thinking of the surprise in store for our friend,” he whispered. “Why doesn’t he come?”

But John Simpson seemed in no hurry to arrive, if he intended to do so at all. One o’clock came and passed, and the waiting men were still in their cramped positions beside the pile of lumber.

It began to look as if Cray had been wrong in his theory, or else that, discouraged by Mrs. Simpson’s new hobby of sleeping at the rear of the house, the missing man had decided not to visit the place that night—for surely Simpson must have known that everybody had been in bed for hours.

Even the ex-police detective, usually so stolid, began to fidget. Suddenly, however, his body grew rigid, and his left hand closed upon the arm of the man beside him.

From the roadway at the rear, still some little distance off, had come faint but unmistakable sounds.

A motor vehicle of some sort, well-nigh silent in operation, was approaching, and pebbles were being displaced by its rubber-tired wheels.

“Our man!” Cray whispered.