For the rest, his chin was firm, perhaps a little pugnacious, and his bearing was that of a man who fully realizes his importance. “This is Mr. Lane A. Griswold, the owner of the _Chronicle and Observer_, you know, Carter,” explained the flustered Cray. “Mr. Griswold, my friend, Nicholas Carter.” Gordon kept his eyelids partially drawn down as he greeted the millionaire. It was a trick of Carter’s when thinking. In fact, the detective often closed his eyes altogether at such times. Gordon had noted this, and was making use of it in order to conceal the color of his eyes, the one weak point about his impersonation, physically considered. Cray was inclined to clip his words short, and leave out as many of them as he could, thereby giving an impression of unusual directness, and a haste that cannot stop for trifles. “Very important case, this one, Mr. Griswold has brought me,” he said. “Delicate matter, too—decidedly. Did little job for him once, so he brought me this. Thought I’d better let you in on it, though.” Gordon nodded slightly, as if all this was quite a matter of course. “I shall be glad to hear what it is about, Mr. Griswold,” he said. “Of course, I’m very busy, as always, but——” “I understand that,” the newspaper proprietor broke in. “I’ll make this well worth while for both of you, though, if you can handle it without publicity.” Green Eye smiled. “That sounds rather strange from the lips of our greatest apostle of publicity,” he commented. Griswold gave a gesture of impatience. “Perhaps so,” he admitted. “I can’t help that, though. Facts are facts, and this would be most embarrassing to me if any of my competitors should get hold of it, or even if it were spread by word of mouth.” He fixed Gordon with his eyes, looking him up and down, as if scrutinizing an applicant for the position of office boy—supposing a millionaire would descend to such trivialities. But the bogus detective stood the scrutiny very well. To tell the truth, Ernest Gordon was really beginning to enjoy himself. Griswold’s first words could hardly have sounded more promising. They suggested all sorts of delightful and golden possibilities. It seemed perfectly plain that this was just the sort of thing he was looking for—the case of a wealthy, prominent man, who had something to hide, and was willing to pay liberally to those who would keep his secret. “I can trust you implicitly, whether you succeed or fail, to reveal no word of what I’m about to tell you?” Griswold asked sharply. The man behind the desk shrugged his shoulders in a way that was characteristic of Nick Carter on occasion. “I’ve been in the confidence of presidents and senators, ambassadors and noblemen—and millionaires,” he returned, tacking on the word “millionaires” as if it were an afterthought. “In fact, I may claim some knowledge of the secrets of royalty.”