The millionaire remained lost in thought for a few moments longer, then grasped Simpson firmly by the arm.

“Come into the house,” he ordered.

“But—but these, sir!” his former subordinate stammered, nodding over his shoulder, and moving his hands so that the chain of the handcuffs rattled.

For the moment Griswold had forgotten his desire for secrecy. To be sure, if he could expose Nick, he would be willing to have all the facts come out, but he knew that he would have to be very sure of himself and his facts before publishing any such charge against a man of the detective’s reputation; consequently, he would have to delay, in the hope that Cray would be able to tell his side of the story, and until then it was desirable that no rumors should be set in motion.

Therefore, he slipped off his motor coat and threw it like a cloak over Simpson’s bowed shoulders.

“Come!” he commanded again.

And with shuffling steps, his head down, John Simpson accompanied him to the house, but went through the kitchen, instead of going around to the front door.

“Thank Heaven!” the maid cried, as she caught sight of her employer. “Mr. Simpson! Is it really you? I must run and tell Mrs. Simpson right this minute!”

“No, no, Mary!” the wretched man protested weakly. “Not—not yet! I wish to surprise her.”

Griswold had not told Simpson that the injured detective was in the house, but now he led the thieving treasurer to the room in which Cray lay. He said nothing about his object, because he wished to see if Simpson would recognize the patient at once.

If he did so without hesitation, and spoke of him as Cray, that would go far to indicate the truth of his story, for if Cray had been struck down under other circumstances, this unexpected sight of him might well cause a momentary confusion.

The spectacle was, indeed, unlooked for, but though surprised, Simpson did not appear to be in the least embarrassed.

“Yes, that’s the fellow who called himself Cray,” he said, with a nod. “He was the one that jumped on me first, and the other, Carter, gagged me. He certainly seems to be in pretty bad shape.”

The doctor looked at him in the greatest surprise. He had never met Simpson, for the latter had moved to the hill very recently. He knew him by sight, however.

“You may or may not know that this is John Simpson himself, Doctor Lord,” the newspaper proprietor said bruskly. “I found him locked up in the garage just now. I’ll make it worth your while, however, to keep a discreet tongue in your head.”

The young physician’s shoulders went back proudly.

“I accept remuneration for professional services only, Mr. Griswold,” he said crisply. “I hope I can be trusted not to blab anything I may learn while attending a case.”

“I meant no offense, I assure you, doctor,” Griswold hastened to say. “I merely——”

“Wished to remind me of something you should have taken for granted,” the doctor cut in. “Please say no more about it, though.”

Then Lane Griswold did another unexpected thing. He held out his hand with an apologetic smile, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Doctor Lord gripped it firmly.

A moment later Griswold led Simpson into another room and closed the door.

“Look here, Simpson,” he said, without preliminaries, “I’ve been grievously disappointed in you, but we’ll let that pass. I’m done with you, and your dismissal is waiting for you at the office. I want to hear no excuses. As for prosecution, however, you have doubtless counted on immunity from that, and I regret to say that you haven’t counted in vain—unless this new complication makes it worth while to air the whole thing for the sake of a supreme newspaper sensation. For your wife’s sake, I’ll let you know about that as soon as possible. Meanwhile, I shall see that you are under observation all the time. You can’t get away, for I may want you locked up. If I don’t, you’ll soon be free to do what you please and go where you please.”

“I—yes, sir,” was all Simpson was able to say, and he had to swallow more than once before he could utter those words.

“Now you had better go to your wife.”

“But these handcuffs, sir!” Simpson again protested.

“You should have thought of the possibility of such adornments before you made away with that fund,” Griswold told him sternly. “Don’t imagine that your wife doesn’t know what you have been up to, for she does. Still, it isn’t her fault, and I would not like to see her needlessly distressed. Perhaps there’s a key to the handcuffs in Cray’s pockets.”

There was, and Simpson was freed from the humiliating shackles before he went upstairs to face his wife.

Griswold watched his halting progress, then sought the young doctor once more.

“It’s important that this man should be able to talk as soon as possible—if he’s ever going to,” he said. “If you desire to consult with any one, no matter what his price, do so, and I’ll be responsible. You may also look to me for your fee, and I wish you would get the best of trained nurses you can procure—one whose discretion you can rely upon. While you are with the patient, listen carefully for anything he may say, and make a note of it, whether it seems delirious or not. Request the nurse to do the same, and see that I’m notified by phone as soon as Cray is able to be questioned for five minutes.”

“Very well, Mr. Griswold.”

“One thing more. If the patient should become lucid at any time, and you or the nurse should have reason to believe that he may lapse into this same condition in a few minutes, ask him just one question and jot down his answer.”

“And that question?”

“Ask him who is responsible for his injuries—who struck him down.”

Doctor Lord agreed to do so if the opportunity offered, and, after coming to that understanding, the millionaire reËntered his waiting car.

“New York,” he ordered, giving Nick Carter’s address.