In short, he belonged to the traditional clerk or bookkeeper type, and seemed to be one of those men whose chief object in life is to hold down some poorly paid position, and to cheerfully make hypocrites of themselves in order to do so. With that pictured face before him, Ernest Gordon found it very difficult indeed to credit Simpson with the cleverness and resourcefulness which had been so conspicuous in Griswold’s account of the theft. Still, he knew that such men sometimes had flashes of brilliancy. “Let’s hope it’s nothing more than a flash, though,” he told himself. “If he were to keep up that pace, it might not be such a cinch to corner him—but he won’t. He’ll have a relapse, and when it comes, he’ll be an easy mark.” He continued to examine the face in detail. “You feel sure his wife does not know of his crime?” was his next question. “Certainly not,” was the prompt answer. “That would have been unwise, under the circumstances, for, in her distress, she would probably blurt it out to her relatives and friends, and, before we knew it, the whole thing might get into print. I have inquired about him, of course, and she may suspect, but that’s all.” “Her address, please.” “No. 31 Floral Avenue, New Pelham.” Gordon jotted it down on one of Nick Carter’s pads. “Now, will you kindly answer a question that has been puzzling me for some time?” he went on. “If we catch this man for you—or, rather, when we catch him—what are you going to do with him? You can’t prosecute, you know, without letting the cat out of the bag.” CHAPTER XI. CRAY GETS HIS ORDERS. “Unfortunately, that’s only too true,” admitted the millionaire newspaper proprietor. “Secrecy is the prime requisite in this case, and that precludes the possibility of arrest. I want you to catch John Simpson, though, scare him as much as you can, and force him to disgorge. He’ll be dropped from my staff, of course, but, beyond that, we can do nothing.” “Compounding a felony—accessory after the fact!” Cray pronounced disapprovingly. “Bad business—very bad!” “I can’t help that,” Griswold persisted, “and I’m willing to take full responsibility. If any trouble threatens, I think I have enough influence to fix things up.” Green Eye’s face was grave and thoughtful, but inwardly he was fairly chuckling with glee. He could have asked nothing better than this extraordinary case, and his only regret was that the amount involved was not much larger. Everything seemed to play into his hands in the most unbelievable way. Here was a man, who, despite the surprising adroitness he had shown, was plainly a novice in crime—a novice with something like eighty thousand dollars in gold in his possession. And here, on the other hand, was a man to whom eighty thousand dollars was only a drop in the bucket, a trifle hardly worth mentioning.