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[158] <h2>CHAPTER XXXI. THE MILLIONAIRE PLAYS SLEUTH.</h2> As we have seen, the missing man’s wife had always had an uncomfortable feeling that all was not as it should be. Her husband had not been himself for some time before his disappearance, and the sudden fit of extravagance which had led him to take the new house on such short notice, and to talk about buying a car, had aroused suspicions, which she had loyally tried to tread under foot. Naturally, therefore, his actual flight, and the strange attitude of those connected with the newspaper—their unwillingness to have her go to the police, for instance—had worried her greatly, although she had succeeded again and again in arguing herself into a belief that there was some other explanation. Now, after hearing Lane Griswold’s unguarded statement, there was no longer any room for doubt in her mind. She staggered forward half blindly, and, forgetting the doctor, or ignoring him, she laid both trembling hands on Griswold’s sleeve. “My—my husband!” she stammered. “Then he—took——” The newspaper proprietor lowered his head. “Yes,” he answered soberly. “I’ve tried to keep the truth from you as long as I could, Mrs. Simpson. I thought you were out of earshot. You must try to[159] bear up under it. If I had had any intention of prosecuting Simpson for making away with the relief fund he was handling, this whole affair would not have been conducted with any such secrecy. I have hired private detectives to investigate, because I wished to keep things quiet, in order that the reputation of the Chronicle and Observer might not be tarnished.” “Then, if they catch John, he’ll not be arrested? Is that what you mean?” “Exactly,” he answered. “I must confess, Mrs. Simpson, that I shall not approve in every way of such an outcome. I believe in just punishment. As it happens, however, we’re not in a position to punish your husband without starting a lot of injurious gossip about the way we handle public contributions. Therefore, when Simpson is found, he’ll merely be forced to disgorge. His discharge is already awaiting him on his desk, of course. Beyond that, I shall do nothing.” As may be imagined, Mrs. Simpson’s emotions were chaotic. Her horror at the certainty of her husband’s crime had been succeeded by loving anguish, as she pictured his arrest and punishment. Now she was greatly relieved to hear that there was no danger of this; but, on the other hand, her heart bled as she realized what it would necessarily mean to them both, at best. He was no longer a young man, and had been able to save very little. His disgrace and the loss of his position would almost certainly age him greatly, perhaps cause a complete breakdown. Nothing but misery seemed in prospect. [160] “I—I thank you, but I’m in—in no condition to remain!” the poor woman sobbed, and, turning on her heel, precipitately left the room and fled upstairs. Griswold and the doctor exchanged glances. The former was as sorry for Mrs. Simpson as he could be in his own way. “You’ll treat this as strictly confidential, I’m sure,” the millionaire said. “You must see the importance of secrecy to us, and so long as there can be no prosecution, there’s no use in making that poor woman’s life more of a burden to her than is unavoidable. There’ll be a lot of gossip here, anyway, I suppose, but we must do all we can to minimize it.” “I agree with you perfectly, sir, and you may count on me,” Doctor Lord declared sincerely. “Thank you. Now, tell me, please, what you make of this man’s injuries, and what you know of the circumstances?” The doctor’s reply was a rather lengthy one. “There must have been several blows, and they were very severe,” he concluded. “I should say that they were delivered by a man of unusual strength.” “That’s interesting,” Griswold said, with a change of expression. “You don’t believe, then, that a man of slight build, who had spent practically all of his life in an office, could have perpetrated the assault?” Doctor Lord shook his head emphatically. “That’s extremely unlikely,” he replied. “In fact, I venture to say that it’s quite impossible.” “Then, it’s hard to explain,” Griswold muttered. “Apparently Cray found some reason to hang about[161] here last night, presumably to catch Simpson, or to recover the missing gold. If he was knocked out by an unusually powerful man, the only reasonable conclusion, it seems to me, is that the fellow in question must have been an accomplice of Simpson’s.” The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “That’s the way it looks to me offhand,” he answered. “I don’t pretend to be a detective, though.” “Neither do I. Such problems interest me, though. Can you tell me where the phone is?” The doctor informed him, and Griswold left the room in search of it. After a little more delay than usual, owing to its being a suburban call, the millionaire was connected with Nick Carter’s house in New York. He was informed, however, that the detective had left there shortly after seven o’clock the evening before, and had not yet returned. Furthermore, nothing had been heard from him. This information was a great disappointment to Griswold, for he had hoped to get in touch with Nick at once. “Very likely he has gone to Hattontown,” he decided. “If both of them had been watching this place, Cray would hardly have got the worst of it to such an extent, and would certainly not have been left to be found by accident—unless there’s a whole gang involved. In that case, Carter himself must have met with foul play. But it doesn’t seem likely that Simpson could have enlisted any strong-arm assistance.” He reëntered the room where Doctor Lord was. “I think I’ll have a look around myself,” he announced.[162] “Will you tell me just where this man was found?” Three minutes later, he approached the pile of lumber, having quietly left the house by the front door and walked around by way of the graveled drive. He was looking for signs of a struggle, but had found none. The arrangement of the lumber had been changed when the boards had been hastily thrown from on top of Cray’s form, and the sod had been badly trodden by the rescuers. Having decided that he was not capable of reading the signs there, if there were any to be read, the newspaper proprietor stepped rather aimlessly toward the little garage. Passing around it, he tried the door, and found it locked. While he was tugging at it, however, a sound came to his ears from within, and he paused abruptly, holding his breath. “What was that?” he thought. <hr class="chap" /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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