Doctor Lord was a young man, with next to no practice, who had recently moved into one of the new houses on the hill. It was easier, therefore, to go for him in person than to stop to telephone.

In the meantime, the women were reassured and thrilled by the announcement that Cray still lived, and Mrs. Simpson at once took steps to care for him.

She had sent the maid to the house for a basin of warm water and some towels. With these at hand, Mrs. Simpson herself knelt beside the unfortunate man and tenderly wiped the blood from his forehead and face.

Not until then had she recognized him, but when she did so, she gave a great start, and an audible gasp escaped her.

The other women were crowding around then, and her behavior was not lost on them.

“What’s the matter?” they demanded. “Do you actually know him?”

Mrs. Simpson bitterly regretted her display of emotion. Fear seemed to be squeezing her heart with icy fingers. In the background of her mind a foreboding had been lurking for days. Her instincts had told her that there was something strange and sinister about her husband’s disappearance—something which the office had not seen fit to reveal to her.

Now she recalled all of Cray’s strange questions and stranger actions.

“He’s a detective!” she told herself. “I was right. John is in trouble, and this man must have set a trap for him last night. If he dies, John will be his murderer. Oh, how could he do it! And Heaven pity me, how can I stand it!”

She was the soul of honor herself, however, and simply did not know how to lie.

“Yes, I recognize him now,” she admitted reluctantly. “I never saw him until yesterday, though, and I don’t know what he was doing here last night—if he was here. He’s a Mr. Jones from my husband’s office, and he said they had sent him to see if he could help find Mr. Simpson.”

The young doctor arrived at that juncture, and, at his request, Mrs. Simpson repeated the information for his benefit as he worked over Cray.

“You don’t know where he lives, then, or anything about his people?”

“No, but they would naturally know about that at the newspaper office, wouldn’t they?”

“That’s true. You had better telephone there, then—or somebody had. This poor fellow has had a terrible battering. Fortunately his skull is very tough, but though I can’t be sure at present, I fear it has been fractured, in spite of that. If so, the outcome is problematical, and he may not recover in any case.”

He rose to his feet.

“But the first thing to do is to get him into the house,” he declared. “Have you a bed or a couch on the first floor, Mrs. Simpson?”

“Yes, there’s a couch, doctor.”

“Good! Make that ready for him, then, and we’ll bring him right in.”

Mrs. Simpson and the maid rushed away to do the young physician’s bidding, and several women accompanied them. The men waited for perhaps five minutes, in order to allow time to get the couch in readiness. Then they lifted Cray’s inert bulk as carefully as they could and bore it slowly toward the house.

It was no easy task, for the detective weighed close to two hundred pounds, but their united efforts were equal to it, and the unconscious man was soon lying, partially undressed, on the comfortable couch in one of the lower rooms.

A little later, every one had left the house, with the exception of the doctor, who continued to work over Cray for some time.

“I’ve done all I can at present, Mrs. Simpson,” he announced finally. “If you don’t mind, though, I’ll stay with him for the present, so that I shall be on hand if any change comes.”

He paused and smiled frankly.

“You see, I’m not overburdened with practice,” he explained, “and under the circumstances, I’m inclined to make as much out of this case as I can—in the way of experience, I mean.”

That promised to relieve the woman of a great deal of responsibility, and she accepted the suggestion readily enough, although she would have preferred, if possible, that no outsider should have access to the patient.

“I’m afraid you had better telephone to the office, though, before breakfast,” the doctor went on. “As yet, there’s no knowing how this case is going to turn out, and this poor fellow’s friends may live out of New York, in some other direction. In that case, there’s a possibility that it will take hours for them to reach here.”

“I’ll telephone at once,” Mrs. Simpson assured him, “and, meanwhile, Mary will be getting breakfast. You must join me in the dining room, doctor, or let her bring you something here.”

She intended to play the part that had been thrust upon her as well as she could, even though her mind was filled with all sorts of tragic possibilities.

Fortunately there was a telephone in the house, and, after considerable delay, Mrs. Simpson got in touch with the office of the New York Chronicle and Observer. To her regret, however, she could find no one who knew anything about an employee by the name of Jones who answered her description.

It was explained, however, that the hour was a very early one, and that the business offices would not be open until eight-thirty.

“This is the editorial department,” the man at the other end assured her, “and we don’t know much about the other branches. I’ll make a note of it, though, and of your telephone number, and have the matter brought to the attention of the general manager when he arrives.”

“I—I think it might be well to inform Mr. Griswold himself,” the woman ventured to suggest. “Mr. Jones told me yesterday that Mr. Griswold had sent him. I don’t know whether he meant it literally or not, but——”

“Well, I’ll do everything I can, Mrs. Simpson,” the editor promised, and with that she had to be content.

Doctor Lord was plainly disappointed at the news, but seemed to have nothing better to suggest.

“It’s pretty early,” he admitted.

Mrs. Simpson finished dressing, and she and the young physician breakfasted together, after which he returned to Cray’s side, while his hostess busied herself with some of her morning duties.

Lord was a practical, unimaginative young man, and therefore, although he was greatly interested in the case from a professional standpoint, he did not waste much time in speculation regarding it. That was for the local authorities to do. He would not have been human, however, had he not pricked up his ears when his patient, after showing various signs of returning life, began to move uneasily, and to mutter.

The doctor was able to make out two names, which were repeated over and over again.

The names were “Gordon” and “Nick Carter.”

“Nick Carter!” muttered the listener. “That’s queer! That must be the well-known New York detective. What the dickens has this fellow got to do with him, though, unless he has done something wrong, and Carter is after him?”

Then he remembered the rumors that were flying all about in the neighborhood—rumors which hinted that there was something queer about John Simpson’s unexplained absence.

“This is getting interesting!” Doctor Lord told himself meditatively.

“Nick Carter!” Cray muttered again, and this time he added: “The eyes—the greenish eyes!”