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[130] <h2>CHAPTER XXVI. NOT ON THE PROGRAM.</h2> Simpson gave a startled gasp and tried to turn, but Cray’s weight bore him down, and in a trice they were on the ground. Gordon showed himself, and approached as they flopped about for a few moments in that confined space. Suddenly he turned without warning and ran around the corner behind which he had just been hiding. He quickly circled about the tiny garage and approached the struggling men from the other direction. The space had been so narrow that it would have been awkward for him to get at Simpson’s head. Now, however, he could do so without difficulty, and, as he stooped, he had a handkerchief all ready to gag the prisoner. Cray, he found, had Simpson by the throat, and was effectually preventing any outcry, while his great bulk kept the prisoner from squirming out from under him. “Now, give it to him!” Jack muttered, breathing heavily. “He can’t let out a peep.” Green Eye forced the wretch’s jaws apart, and, inserting the handkerchief, tied it tightly in place; whereupon, Cray rolled Simpson over and handcuffed his wrists together behind his back. [131] The capture had been completed in record time, with no battle to speak of, and without a sound that could have been heard in the front of the house. Neither of the victors was inclined to congratulate himself very much on that achievement, for whatever might be said of John Simpson’s cleverness in gaining possession of that snug little fortune in gold, the treasurer was far from a desperate character to deal with. “Now, keep still!” commanded Cray. “If you don’t, you’ll wish you had, I can promise you!” The warning seemed entirely superfluous, but Jack Cray knew that gagged men have sometimes managed to make sounds in their throats which have been loud enough to bring assistance. With Gordon’s help, the captive was jerked through the doorway and into the garage. One man had already been disposed of, and Gordon was now secretly turning his attention to Cray, but the latter did not dream of that. Jack’s interest at the moment was confined to the helpless man whose face he desired to see to better advantage. Accordingly he drew out his flash light and turned it upon Simpson’s features. The treasurer’s face was very pale—ghastly, in fact—and his lips were working convulsively on the gag, while his eyes were those of a cornered animal. To an inexperienced person, he bore little resemblance to the descriptions of the missing treasurer, and certainly he did not look like the manager of the Hattontown Observer, whose character he had assumed at the bank. As a matter of fact, his disguise was a[132] rather effective one, in view of his inexperience, for he had been wise enough not to attempt too much. A rather straggling little mustache, grayish, and too long, with a tendency to “weep,” had been transplanted to his upper lip, and proved to be unusually in keeping with his somewhat weak features. He wore a wig of an expensive sort, very difficult to detect, and the rest of his disguise consisted of a few inconspicuous lines, by which he had managed to change his expression to a surprising extent. Cray made short work of the mustache and wig. “Well, my friend,” he announced, “here we are! You didn’t look for us, did you? Here are Nick Carter and old Jack Cray, at your service.” He shook his head as he contemplated the shrinking man. “You’ve certainly a lot of misdirected ability in a number of ways, Simpson,” he remarked. “If you had exhibited half as much when you were holding down your job on the Chronicle and Observer, you might have made something of yourself. There’s a big streak of incompetency in you, though. Queer mixture you are—very.” He paused for a moment, while Simpson quailed under his glance and looked the picture of misery. “Got any more of the stuff buried, or did you dig it all up?” Cray demanded, jerking one stumpy thumb toward the place where his prisoner had been digging. Simpson nodded despairingly. “All in the car, eh?” There was another nod. [133] “Well, I’m inclined to believe you,” Jack announced, “but we don’t intend to let it go at that, you know. Have to do a little digging on our own account to make sure.” He stepped aside and reached for the spade. “What are you doing, Mr. Carter?” he called out softly. But in a moment the other’s occupation was evident enough, for Gordon was leaning through the open door of the coupé and working, with trembling fingers, at the straps of one of the suit cases. The weight of the case left little or no doubt concerning the nature of its contents, but his greed had compelled him to take a look at the gold at the first opportunity, especially when he had found that both cases were only strapped, not locked. “I wanted to be sure this was the stuff,” he replied to Cray’s question, and continued feverishly until the cover was raised. It was gold beyond question—a great quantity of it. Much of it was still done up in packages, just as it had come from the bank in Hattontown, but many of the packages had been broken open, either by accident, or because Simpson had wanted to feast his eyes on the thousands of bright, newly minted coins. Cray looked over Green Eye’s shoulder for a moment. “Looks like the real stuff,” he commented indifferently. “Got to dig and see if there’s any more, though.” “Go ahead, then,” his companion said impatiently. [134] Gordon also wished to be sure that all of the stolen gold that remained was in the car, but he could not tear himself away from the sight and touch of those gleaming coins just then. Besides, he was quite willing that Cray should do whatever dirty work might be involved. While the perspiring Cray was again removing the dirt which Simpson had shoveled back into the hole, the master criminal fondled the gold in the two suit cases, then grudgingly closed and strapped them. He had hardly done so before Cray announced: “He told the truth. At any rate, there’s no more of it here.” Green-eye Gordon took his revolver from his pocket and clubbed it. “Just leave everything as it is, and let’s get out of this,” the supposed Nick Carter said impatiently, stepping aside, so that he was not directly in front of the garage door. “Come out here a moment, though, before we put this fellow into the car. I don’t want him to overhear.” At that, the unsuspecting Cray threw the spade aside and came out, mopping his forehead. “Where are you?” he asked, looking about uncertainly from beneath the folds of his handkerchief. For the time being, his big hand was protecting his forehead, but the moment he withdrew it, in order to see better, the blow fell. <hr class="chap" /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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