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[179] <h2>CHAPTER XXXV. A TRAP IS SET FOR NICK.</h2> Lane Griswold had telephoned to the detective’s house only once, and then had been told that the detective had not returned since the previous evening. It might be, however, that Nick was there by this time. Nothing in Simpson’s story indicated that Nick had met with any mishap, and it was improbable that a man of his daring and resourcefulness would take to his heels at once simply because he had become a thief. It was much more probable that he would return home and bluff it out to the end. In that case, Griswold hoped to corner him, and, under threat of country-wide exposure, force him to confess—after which an exposure would be likely to follow, anyway. The millionaire’s face was flushed and determined as he strode up the detective’s steps and pressed the electric button in peremptory fashion. Joseph, the butler, opened the door. “Is Mr. Carter in?” Griswold demanded. “No, sir,” was the prompt reply. “I can’t say when he’ll be back, either.” “I telephoned from New Pelham a couple of hours ago,” Griswold went on. “I was told then that he[180] had left the house last evening, and had not returned. Is that correct?” “Yes, sir.” “Don’t you know where he is?” “No, sir. He was going to New Pelham on the seven-thirty train, however.” “He was, eh? That’s significant.” He had sized up the butler, and decided that he was telling the truth. If necessary, he would try diplomacy. If he could get hold of Nick’s assistants, he told himself, he might obtain some valuable pointers. To be sure, if the detective had been playing the wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing part for any length of time, it was quite conceivable that his assistants, or some of them, at least, were as bad as he. If this were the first offense, however, it might be possible to get one of his staff to turn against him, and assist in his capture, in the hope of stepping into his shoes. “I’m Mr. Griswold, the owner of the Chronicle and Observer,” he told the butler. “Perhaps you’ll remember that I was here yesterday with Mr. Cray? I’m very anxious to see Mr. Carter himself, but one of his assistants might do.” “None of them is here now, sir,” Joseph told him. “They’re all away from the city for one reason or another. Mr. Carter’s chief assistant, Mr. Chickering Carter, left for the Adirondacks with him just the other day, and stayed up there when he returned unexpectedly.” [181] “Carter’s leading assistant! He would be the best one!” thought Griswold. Aloud he asked for Chick’s address. “Something has happened,” he explained. “Cray has been rather badly injured, and I can’t seem to locate Mr. Carter. Under the circumstances, I feel compelled to telegraph for this young man you speak of, or else to call in some outsider.” In view of this explanation, it is not surprising that the butler gave him the desired information, especially as he and Mrs. Peters had been worrying somewhat over Nick’s unexplained absence. Armed with the address, Griswold lost little time in reaching the nearest telegraph office, and in drafting a message to Chick Carter. It read: “Unusually important case on. Am badly injured. Come at once.” And it was signed “Cray.” He had decided to send it in the injured detective’s name, believing that it would have more force than if dispatched by a third party. The absence of any specific directions for finding Cray was intentional. Griswold had neglected to make any inquiries concerning the injured man’s relatives, and did not even know where he lived. He had been to his office, that was all, and he knew that to be a business building. He did not care to give the New Pelham address, because he hoped to have a very confidential interview with Chick, and he did not care to have it take place under Simpson’s roof; therefore, he had decided to say nothing about it, and to meet Chick’s train—for he had[182] estimated the time required for the telegram to reach its destination, and could easily look up the trains when he reached his office. It was then nearly one o’clock in the afternoon, and Chick could not be expected before morning. Meanwhile, Griswold hoped for a summons from New Pelham, but none came. Growing impatient, he telephoned late in the afternoon, and was informed by the new nurse that there had been no change in Cray’s condition, except one for the worse. He had sunken into a deep stupor. “Hang it all! I hope he isn’t going to die,” Griswold muttered. “If he does, without recovering consciousness, I may not be able to fasten this thing on Carter, after all, for I’m certain Simpson’s testimony would not have any great weight, unless corroborated.” Later, the millionaire called up Cray’s office. He did not believe the injured detective had any one to keep the place open during his absence, but he wished to make sure, if possible, whether a message had been received from Chick Carter or not. As he had expected, he found the place closed. It then occurred to him to return to Nick’s house. The detective might have put in an appearance; if not, it was possible that Chick had sent a reply there, trusting that it would reach Cray indirectly. In this latter respect, his surmise was correct. Nick had not returned, and Joseph’s worry had grown. On the other hand, a telegram had arrived for Jack Cray,[183] and Joseph was holding it; not knowing what else to do with it. Griswold promised to deliver it, and took it in charge. In this way he learned that his guess as to Chick’s train was correct. The young detective wired that he would arrive in New York at eight-thirty the following morning. Nothing developed in the interval, and a few minutes before eight-thirty the next morning, Griswold took up his position at one of the gates leading to the tracks in the great Forty-second Street terminal. The train from the Adirondacks arrived at schedule time, and began to disgorge, while the millionaire, who had obtained a description of Chick from the butler, narrowly scanned the faces of the passengers as they hurried through the gate. The newspaper proprietor did not have to wait long. He soon caught a glimpse of an erect, keen-eyed, athletic young man, striding down the platform, and carrying a heavy suit case, as if it were a featherweight. “That must be Chick Carter!” he told himself, with a nod of satisfaction. But the next moment he gave a gasp, and a look of utmost bewilderment spread over his face. He had caught sight of the man at Chick’s side, and feature for feature it was the man whom Cray had called into consultation—was, in other words, Nick Carter himself! <hr class="chap" /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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