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[209] <h2>CHAPTER XLI. WAITING FOR A NIBBLE.</h2> Nick Carter hardly knew what to do about the members of his household. They had not yet been informed of the way in which they had been taken in, and it was difficult to decide whether they should be or not. After some reflection, however, the detective decided to say nothing about it, for the present. They accepted his presence as a matter of course, just as they had done in the case of the impostor, and if he told them the truth, they would be plunged into a state bordering on panic. Moreover, if Gordon should take a notion to return to the house, after such a revelation, it would be almost impossible for the butler, housekeeper, and the rest to be their natural selves in his presence. If they betrayed their knowledge, they might scare him off just when Nick wished him to be most at his ease. Nick entered his study, and, after walking up and down for a few minutes, seated himself in his desk chair. There was a tenseness about his look and every movement he made. He was like a perfectly trained athlete, crouched for a start of some record-breaking dash. The famous detective was well acquainted with danger,[210] and to risk his life was an easy matter of everyday occurrence. He took up the most serious and dangerous cases without a thought of the possible consequences to himself. Here, however, was something different. This came nearer home, perhaps, than anything else had ever done, for, through him the honor and peace of mind of numbers of persons—conspicuous targets, all of them—were threatened. Too late the detective recognized that his reputation was not enough to protect his house and his private safe from violence, and that he had no right to keep such records there. They should all be in a safe-deposit vault. The reports of his ordinary cases might continue to be kept in his steel filing cabinets, where they were available for ready reference, but those concerning persons of wealth and position—men and women who were tempting prey, and whose secrets, if revealed in the newspapers, would cause a widespread sensation—must be better protected in future. That, however, would not help the present situation which Nick was now forced to face. He actually shrank from going over the disarranged papers which Green Eye had left behind, but after a little delay he forced himself to open the safe, empty the remaining pigeonholes, et cetera, and dump their contents on the desk. That done, he sat himself down and went to work. Fortunately, there was a comparatively small number[211] of papers of that description in the safe, therefore it did not take very long to go through them and check off those which remained—for the methodical detective had a list of all of them. In this way, by a process of elimination, Nick quickly learned the ones which had been stolen, and his expression grew grimmer than ever as he realized the shrewdness of Gordon’s choice. Most of the missing papers concerned individuals or families in and around New York, which seemed to imply that a quick clean-up was contemplated. Some few, though, involved persons farther away, and these appeared to have been selected because they had offered particularly tempting bait to the blackmailer. It needed only the brief entries in the index to bring back to Nick’s mind all of the important details of each case, and he ground his teeth as he pictured the scoundrel gloating over those same details, and cleverly scheming to demand the top price for their suppression. “What a haul!” he murmured aloud. “All those papers, and seventy-five or eighty thousand in gold, to boot! If it’s really Ernest Gordon with whom we have to deal—and I’m morally certain it is—he must be drunk with joy, for he has made blackmailing an art, and he could not ask anything bigger or more promising of that sort. In his calmer moments, though, he must realize that he won’t have the chance to hold up many of these people. “Doesn’t he know that the first man he approaches[212] will in all probability come running to me to demand an explanation, if nothing more? And hasn’t it occurred to him that I would receive an urgent summons home under such circumstances? Well, if it has, he’ll see all the more reason for striking while the iron is hot.” He had put the papers away temporarily, intending to find a safer place for them at the earliest opportunity, when the butler entered the study with a telegram. It proved to be from the warden at Clinton prison, and was a long one—sent “collect,” of course. It contained certain new and significant, though minor, details concerning the supposed death of Green-eye Gordon, and the escape of the yegg from Buffalo, which served to confirm Nick’s suspicions, but the most striking thing about the message was the tone of it. It gave the impression that the warden had been doubtful, or was doubtful now concerning the identity of the man who had been burned. He did not say so, of course, but Nick could read doubt between the lines. Obviously, the identification had been a very careless one, or else the prison authorities had deliberately winked at the misleading statement which had found their way into the newspapers. Very likely they took it for granted at first that the partially burned body was that of Gordon, and afterward preferred to hush the thing up rather than let it be known that there was any reason to believe that the redoubtable Green Eye had escaped. “Well, that settles it, I think, for all practical[213] purposes,” the detective told himself. “Cray’s identification was a very hasty one, made under very unfavorable circumstances, but when it’s taken in connection with this transparent telegram, and especially in connection with the nature, daring, and adroitness of the crime itself, it seems safe enough to conclude that Ernest Gordon is the man I must look for—and find.” Which would be the best course, though? To warn those who might be expected to be approached by the criminal, or to wait until they came to the detective? After some thought, Nick decided on the latter course. Naturally, he did not wish that every one concerned should know what had happened, for that seemed unnecessary. He believed that Gordon would concentrate on a few intended victims at first, and if the detective could discover who those persons were, he ought to be able to trap the rascal without allowing the others to know what had threatened them. It was his confident belief that practically every one who might be visited or written to by the blackmailer would try to get in touch with him—Nick Carter—at once. That made him willing to play this waiting game—at least, for a time. “The first one who communicates with me,” he thought, “should give me a line on the fellow’s methods and plans. No one is likely to yield to his demands on the spot, and if I can learn of a proposed rendezvous or two, the rest should be fairly plain sailing—unless the scoundrel learns of my return and plays dead for a while.” [214] He had reached this point in his musings when he heard a furious ring at the doorbell. “Possibly that’s the first of the victims now,” he thought. “If it is, I must prepare myself for some more or less well-grounded reproaches. I can stand them, though, if in addition I’m put on the track of the man I want to lay my hands on more than I ever wanted to lay them on any one else.” <hr class="chap" /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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