Green Eye’s decision had been an immediate one when he heard the second man’s name, for Lane A. Griswold was several times a millionaire, and the owner of the New York _Chronicle and Observer_, one of the biggest and most influential of the country morning papers—the first and most conspicuous link in the chain of daily publications which now stretched all the way across the continent. Millionaires were worth cultivating, according to Gordon’s philosophy, and he reasoned that if he could get any sort of a hold upon this one, it might mean the greatest stroke of luck in his life. It was well to be on the safe side, however, and he knew that Cray sometimes exhibited an unexpected degree of intelligence. In the light of that thought, he took an automatic from one of the open drawers, examined it to make sure that it was loaded and in first-class condition, and then dropped it into the right-hand pocket of his coat. After that he closed the drawers, darkened the room, took up his cigar, and leaned back in his chair. “Nick Carter” was ready for another case—as ready as a spider is for a fly. The face of the man was calm, his expression indifferent, but it is probable that his heart was beating at an unusually rapid rate, and that more or less fear was lurking behind that noncommittal exterior. It would have been strange, indeed, had it not been the case, for, with all his daring, this was no commonplace, everyday affair for Ernest Gordon. He might remind himself as much as he pleased that he was “officially” dead, burned in the fire at Clinton Prison, and that no one would be looking for him for that reason, but the many months he had spent within those grim walls had told upon him physically and mentally. In other words, he was not yet his old self. The unnatural conditions of prison life so lately left behind had incapacitated him to a certain extent for this abrupt plunge into the life outside, especially a plunge of such an interesting character, yet he gave no sign of all this, and, unless something unforeseen developed, he would doubtless gain confidence and ability as time went on. For that matter, he had already planned and begun to carry out a scheme which would have daunted any other criminal in the country. The supposed detective regarded his visitors with lowered eyes as he rose languidly from his chair. Jack Cray’s red face was redder than usual with excitement, and there was something about his manner that suggested he had brought the famous newspaper owner there for no trivial reason. The latter was a man rather over medium height, dressed in the very latest fashion, but with a trace of untidiness that suggested a careless valet. His face was inclined to be sallow, and the light eyes, prominent and rather jerky in their movements, had heavy bags under them, despite the fact that their owner must still have been under fifty.