Of course, Gordon did not know that this was all a put-up job. Nick, by seeming to play into the rascal’s hands, had worked out this scheme, in order to get Chick out of the way, so that Gordon would not feel compelled to take strong measures to accomplish the same object. As a result, Green Eye had slept alone at Nick’s house that night—except for the servants—and now, after a good breakfast, looked forward to a day of undisturbed peace and freedom to do whatever circumstances might require. First, however, it was necessary for him to absent himself temporarily, in order to make up as Nick once more. Therefore, he made a flying trip to One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, and there disguised himself, returning as fast as the taxi could carry him. When he reëntered the detective’s residence, it was in the character of the owner. “Has any one called up or been to see me?” he asked the butler. “No, sir,” was the reply, a welcome one to the scoundrel, for it meant that none of his victims had yet sought the detective. He did not have long to wait, however, for hardly more than half an hour later the butler entered the study, and presented a card, which bore the name of ex-Senator William Deane Phelps. “Show him up,” the supposed detective said. The butler turned on his heel to obey, and if Green-eye Gordon grinned behind his back, his face was serious enough in expression as the ex-senator nervously entered and closed the door behind him. In the few hours that had passed since he had received the threatening letter, a great change had come over this man, whose name was known from one end of the country to the other. It was plain that he had not slept, and there were heavy, loose bags of skin under his eyes. His face was almost gray in hue. “I feared that you would feel compelled to come here before long, senator,” the impostor said gravely. “Then you know?” his visitor asked, in surprise. “Yes,” Gordon answered. “Some one knows the facts in regard to—well, we need not go into the case—and is attempting to blackmail you.” Phelps sank into a chair and drew a sheet of paper from his pocket. “The infernal scoundrel demands one hundred and fifty thousand—no less!” he said hoarsely. “It isn’t so much the money, but I—I naturally assumed that you alone held my secret.” Green Eye rose to his feet, and his face was very solemn. “Until a short time ago that was the case,” he answered, and crossed to the safe. “The records were here, and you will see that it has been burgled. If it’s any comfort to you, though, I’ll tell you that you are not the only one who will suffer.” “I care nothing about that,” Phelps said angrily. “It’s my own plight that interests me to the exclusion of everything else. Do you wonder? This is terrible, Carter, terrible! I thought I could trust you, and now, after all this time, I find that I’ve been living in a fool’s paradise.” The criminal interrupted him with a dignified gesture.