Green Eye forced the wretch’s jaws apart, and, inserting the handkerchief, tied it tightly in place; whereupon, Cray rolled Simpson over and handcuffed his wrists together behind his back. The capture had been completed in record time, with no battle to speak of, and without a sound that could have been heard in the front of the house. Neither of the victors was inclined to congratulate himself very much on that achievement, for whatever might be said of John Simpson’s cleverness in gaining possession of that snug little fortune in gold, the treasurer was far from a desperate character to deal with. “Now, keep still!” commanded Cray. “If you don’t, you’ll wish you had, I can promise you!” The warning seemed entirely superfluous, but Jack Cray knew that gagged men have sometimes managed to make sounds in their throats which have been loud enough to bring assistance. With Gordon’s help, the captive was jerked through the doorway and into the garage. One man had already been disposed of, and Gordon was now secretly turning his attention to Cray, but the latter did not dream of that. Jack’s interest at the moment was confined to the helpless man whose face he desired to see to better advantage. Accordingly he drew out his flash light and turned it upon Simpson’s features. The treasurer’s face was very pale—ghastly, in fact—and his lips were working convulsively on the gag, while his eyes were those of a cornered animal. To an inexperienced person, he bore little resemblance to the descriptions of the missing treasurer, and certainly he did not look like the manager of the Hattontown _Observer_, whose character he had assumed at the bank. As a matter of fact, his disguise was a rather effective one, in view of his inexperience, for he had been wise enough not to attempt too much. A rather straggling little mustache, grayish, and too long, with a tendency to “weep,” had been transplanted to his upper lip, and proved to be unusually in keeping with his somewhat weak features. He wore a wig of an expensive sort, very difficult to detect, and the rest of his disguise consisted of a few inconspicuous lines, by which he had managed to change his expression to a surprising extent. Cray made short work of the mustache and wig. “Well, my friend,” he announced, “here we are! You didn’t look for us, did you? Here are Nick Carter and old Jack Cray, at your service.” He shook his head as he contemplated the shrinking man. “You’ve certainly a lot of misdirected ability in a number of ways, Simpson,” he remarked. “If you had exhibited half as much when you were holding down your job on the _Chronicle and Observer_, you might have made something of yourself. There’s a big streak of incompetency in you, though. Queer mixture you are—very.” He paused for a moment, while Simpson quailed under his glance and looked the picture of misery.