Doubtless, he had his own ideas as to the proper methods of procedure, but he was revealing, as usual, deference where Nick was concerned. His manner of exaggerated respect made it difficult for the masquerader to keep his face straight. “I’m having the time of my life, without a doubt,” thought Gordon. “I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. Here I am in Nick Carter’s house, monarch of all I survey, with Cray fawning on me like a faithful dog, and a multimillionaire for a client already. Soft, soft!” The accomplished rascal had really given a very creditable performance while Lane A. Griswold was on the scene, but now, in spite of his contempt of Cray, he decided to give the latter his head for the time. It would be safer so, and, besides, Gordon was not one to exert himself unnecessarily. He helped himself to another of Nick’s cigars, and threw himself into a chair. “You have had more time to think about it than I have, Jack. Let’s hear how you would go about it.” Cray found this very flattering. “Well,” he said, with assumed modesty, “I had thought of one or two little things. Of course, there are two ends to be picked up, two places to cover. One’s Hattontown—tracing the electric machine, and all that.” Green Eye made a gesture of indifference, as if he did not think much of that suggestion. “The other’s this end,” Cray went on, somewhat less confidently, meaning the fellow’s home. Gordon gave a slight nod. “That’s more likely to yield something, I should say,” he declared. “Of course, an electric car is comparatively uncommon, and might be traced without a great deal of trouble. Several days have passed, however, and that will make considerable difference. Suppose we consider the situation at New Pelham. Much depends on that. Of course, if Simpson is tired of his wife, and has decided to abandon her, we may not be able to get a single clew there.” He gave another glance at the photograph which Griswold had left on the desk. “The fellow’s face is against that supposition, however,” he went on; “I don’t believe he has spunk enough to cut himself off absolutely from his wife.” “Had spunk enough to swipe a fortune,” Cray pointed out skeptically. “I know, but there’s a difference. I don’t know where he got the nerve to do what he did, but I’d like to wager a tidy little sum that a man with that weak chin and mouth would be too much a slave to habit to cut his domestic bonds with one slash. He’s probably foolishly fond of that wife of his, no matter how much of a fright she may be, and, if I’m right——” “He’ll write her sooner or later, or try to sneak an interview,” Cray burst out excitedly, with the air of one who had just arrived unaided at the most astounding conclusion.