Doctor Lord was plainly disappointed at the news, but seemed to have nothing better to suggest. “It’s pretty early,” he admitted. Mrs. Simpson finished dressing, and she and the young physician breakfasted together, after which he returned to Cray’s side, while his hostess busied herself with some of her morning duties. Lord was a practical, unimaginative young man, and therefore, although he was greatly interested in the case from a professional standpoint, he did not waste much time in speculation regarding it. That was for the local authorities to do. He would not have been human, however, had he not pricked up his ears when his patient, after showing various signs of returning life, began to move uneasily, and to mutter. The doctor was able to make out two names, which were repeated over and over again. The names were “Gordon” and “Nick Carter.” “Nick Carter!” muttered the listener. “That’s queer! That must be the well-known New York detective. What the dickens has this fellow got to do with him, though, unless he has done something wrong, and Carter is after him?” Then he remembered the rumors that were flying all about in the neighborhood—rumors which hinted that there was something queer about John Simpson’s unexplained absence. “This is getting interesting!” Doctor Lord told himself meditatively. “Nick Carter!” Cray muttered again, and this time he added: “The eyes—the greenish eyes!” CHAPTER XXX. MRS. SIMPSON LEARNS THE TRUTH. Lane A. Griswold’s big car hummed softly to itself as it climbed the hill from the village of New Pelham, and stopped in front of No. 31 Floral Avenue. The millionaire newspaper proprietor was on a strange errand, and his expression showed that he realized it. Although he was frequently absent from his luxurious suite of private offices in the _Chronicle and Observer_ building for weeks at a time, he had walked in that morning promptly at nine o’clock, instead of ten or eleven, as was his usual habit when in town. Five minutes later, he was in possession of such facts as his general manager and the editor could give him concerning Mrs. Simpson’s phone message. The manager, of course, informed him that no such person was employed in the building, but the description had set Griswold to thinking. “I’ll call her up myself,” was the unexpected announcement which had sent his subordinates about their business. The connection was quickly made, but the conversation which had ensued was very brief. Mrs. Simpson described Jones’ visit of the day before in a very few words, and then told of the finding of the injured man. Griswold wanted to ask her to describe the latter once more for his benefit, but refrained, thinking the request might seem rather strange. “I see,” he answered, instead. “I think I had better come up to the house myself, Mrs. Simpson. I shall start at once, and ought to be there in an hour, I should say.”