Staggered, his brain reeling under the shock, Lane Griswold was flung clean off his balance.

What was Nick Carter doing here? Had he hidden the money somewhere, and hurried northward to join his assistant, as if nothing had happened?

That must be it, and yet it hardly seemed possible that he could have made the journey in that time. He would have had to leave New York in the dead of night following the robbery, and if he had reached the mountain resort in the far northern part of the State before Chick’s departure, there could have been no time to spare. In other words, he must have returned at once with his assistant.

But what nerve to have returned at all, in the face of such a message from the man who had been half killed by him!

The detective could not know that the telegram had not been written or dictated by his victim, and therefore, must expect to have to face Cray.

It was incomprehensible, and yet there was Nick, beyond a doubt, and more than that, he was looking as fresh and buoyant as possible.

A policeman brushed past Griswold, and, with a quick movement, the latter touched the officer on the arm. He would have Nick arrested, and then——

“Yes, sir?” the bluecoat asked civilly.

“That man!” the millionaire answered hoarsely, pointing toward the approaching detective. “I must ask you to——”

Then something stopped him. He remembered that he did not have enough evidence as yet, and that it would be very unwise to press matters, unless he were reasonably sure of proving his charges.

“I—I’m mistaken!” he added confusedly.

The policeman looked at him for a moment in disgust, then turned away with a shrug of his shoulders, muttering something under his breath.

Undecided, his thoughts in a turmoil, the newspaper proprietor stood aside and allowed Chick and his companion to pass him. They had gone hardly more than ten paces, however, before he suddenly made up his mind to follow and have it out with the detective at once.

He feared that it was a very foolish thing to do, under the circumstances, especially as Chick might be in the secret as well; nevertheless, he counted on his wealth and prominence to stay their hands, no matter how hostile they might be.

Just how he meant to proceed, he did not have the slightest idea as yet, but impulse flung him after the pair, and he overtook them just as they were about to step into a taxi.

“Mr. Carter!” he said sharply.

Both men turned.

“That’s my name,” the older man replied, looking the millionaire over coolly, as if he had never seen him before in his life.

The scrutiny had not gone far, however, before a look of recognition sprang into Nick’s eyes.

“Ah!” he went on. “Mr. Griswold, is it not?”

“You ought to know,” was the significant reply. “I called on you yesterday, in company with Cray, and it was that which took you to New Pelham night before last.”

Nick looked from the newspaper proprietor to his assistant, and back to Griswold again.

“There seems to be a very strange misunderstanding here, Mr. Griswold,” he said. “I have just returned from the Adirondacks, where we were enjoying a little vacation. Chick, here, received a telegram from my old friend, Jack Cray, stating that the latter had been seriously injured in connection with an important case, and asking that Chick return to New York at once. I did not understand why the wire hadn’t been sent to me, but, of course, I decided to accompany my assistant. If you know anything about Cray’s condition, I wish you would tell me.”

The dignified, commanding Lane Griswold looked at the detective in a half-dazed manner, and his lower jaw showed a tendency to drop.

“You are the coolest proposition I ever expect to see, Carter!” he said, with grudging admiration.

It was clear that something extraordinary was in the air, and Nick acted accordingly.

“I don’t know in the least what you are hinting at, Mr. Griswold,” he said, “and this is hardly the place for explanations. Will you do us the honor of sharing our taxi with us? Perhaps we can come to some understanding on the way home.”

Certainly, there did not seem to be anything menacing in his attitude, and in that of the younger detective at his side. Both appeared to be genuinely mystified. Griswold attributed it to good acting, nothing more, but after a few moments’ hesitation, he decided to accept the offer.

They would hardly dare attack him in a cab in broad daylight, and he need not enter the detective’s house, if he did not choose to do so, when they reached their destination. Accordingly, he bowed, and, in response to Nick’s gesture, stepped into the taxi, after which the others followed.

“Now, you’ll greatly oblige us, Mr. Griswold, by explaining what you are driving at,” Nick said, with courteous firmness.

The millionaire was a little too impetuous now and then, and this was one of the occasions. His reason told him that he had been misled in some unaccountable way, and that this was the real Nick Carter, but reason spoke in a very small whisper, and he did not choose to listen—in fact, he hardly heard it.

He had kept his rage and sense of injury bottled up, thus far, but now it exploded.

“I’m driving at just this, Carter,” he said hotly. “You are found out—the game is up! I don’t know whether this is the first time temptation has been too much for you, or not, but I have you where I want you, you thief! Your spectacular career is at an end. My papers have a circulation well into the millions, you know, and as soon as I say the word, the greatest broadside of publicity that was ever fired will be hurled at your crime of the night before last! Oh, you need not glower at me! I’m not in the least afraid of you, and what I say, I mean, as you will learn to your cost.”

Any one who knew Nick Carter well would have seen that he was growing dangerously warm, but the increasing tension was much more noticeable in Chick.

That young man wore his “fighting face,” and was bending forward longingly, with twitching hands on his knees.

Nick, seeing his assistant’s attitude and look, laid a restraining hand on Chick’s arm.

“Easy there, my boy!” he murmured, then turned again to Griswold.

“I fear you are a little hasty, and will soon regret it, Mr. Griswold,” he said as quietly as he could. “If I were not sure of your identity, and inclined to believe that you are laboring under a very serious misapprehension, I should not be so patient. I have been in the Adirondacks for several days, and know nothing whatever of the circumstances to which you allude.”

“You lie!” replied the millionaire, his face purple. “You went to the Adirondacks several days ago with your assistant, but you came back alone. I have your own butler’s word for that. What’s more, I saw you with my own eyes yesterday at your home, whither Cray took me.”

Again Nick and his lieutenant exchanged glances. It was beginning to look more and more serious. Had Nick not recognized the newspaper proprietor at once, they might have supposed the man to be irresponsible, despite his references to Cray, but that explanation seemed out of the question in Griswold’s case.

Yet, the alternative appeared to be just as far beyond belief.

Had some one passed himself off as the detective under any ordinary circumstances, it would have been easy enough to believe, for such things had happened often enough in the past. The millionaire’s statements, however, seemed to imply that some person had been passing as the detective in his own house, and had done so in such a skillful and thoroughgoing way that not only the servants, but even Jack Cray, had been completely deceived.

It was unbelievable, and yet what else were they to think?

Chick had often seen the skin over his chief’s jaw and knuckles tighten ominously, but he never remembered such a set, tense look as this one.

Nick was beginning to realize that something unparalleled had happened—something which struck directly at his honor and prestige—and he was rising to the emergency.