“Got any more of the stuff buried, or did you dig it all up?” Cray demanded, jerking one stumpy thumb toward the place where his prisoner had been digging. Simpson nodded despairingly. “All in the car, eh?” There was another nod. “Well, I’m inclined to believe you,” Jack announced, “but we don’t intend to let it go at that, you know. Have to do a little digging on our own account to make sure.” He stepped aside and reached for the spade. “What are you doing, Mr. Carter?” he called out softly. But in a moment the other’s occupation was evident enough, for Gordon was leaning through the open door of the coupé and working, with trembling fingers, at the straps of one of the suit cases. The weight of the case left little or no doubt concerning the nature of its contents, but his greed had compelled him to take a look at the gold at the first opportunity, especially when he had found that both cases were only strapped, not locked. “I wanted to be sure this was the stuff,” he replied to Cray’s question, and continued feverishly until the cover was raised. It was gold beyond question—a great quantity of it. Much of it was still done up in packages, just as it had come from the bank in Hattontown, but many of the packages had been broken open, either by accident, or because Simpson had wanted to feast his eyes on the thousands of bright, newly minted coins. Cray looked over Green Eye’s shoulder for a moment. “Looks like the real stuff,” he commented indifferently. “Got to dig and see if there’s any more, though.” “Go ahead, then,” his companion said impatiently. Gordon also wished to be sure that all of the stolen gold that remained was in the car, but he could not tear himself away from the sight and touch of those gleaming coins just then. Besides, he was quite willing that Cray should do whatever dirty work might be involved. While the perspiring Cray was again removing the dirt which Simpson had shoveled back into the hole, the master criminal fondled the gold in the two suit cases, then grudgingly closed and strapped them. He had hardly done so before Cray announced: “He told the truth. At any rate, there’s no more of it here.” Green-eye Gordon took his revolver from his pocket and clubbed it. “Just leave everything as it is, and let’s get out of this,” the supposed Nick Carter said impatiently, stepping aside, so that he was not directly in front of the garage door. “Come out here a moment, though, before we put this fellow into the car. I don’t want him to overhear.” At that, the unsuspecting Cray threw the spade aside and came out, mopping his forehead. “Where are you?” he asked, looking about uncertainly from beneath the folds of his handkerchief. For the time being, his big hand was protecting his forehead, but the moment he withdrew it, in order to see better, the blow fell. CHAPTER XXVII. GORDON MAKES HIS GET-AWAY.