He was studying Mrs. Simpson’s face intently, and trying to decide whether it were worth while to continue the deception or not. Surely, if she had any intelligence, she must have suspected long before that there was something very queer about her husband’s disappearance. Still, so long as she did not insist upon the truth, he thought it best not to be too definite. “I hope Mr.—er—Jones isn’t badly injured?” he said. “He’s still unconscious, sir, and the doctor seems to be afraid that his skull may be fractured. If he has any relatives, Doctor Lord thinks that they should be notified at once.” “I know nothing about his family affairs,” Griswold said, a trifle impatiently. “My impression is that he’s alone in the world, but I may be mistaken. May I see him?” “Of course. He’s here on the first floor. They did not wait to take him upstairs. This way, please, Mr. Griswold.” And she led the way to the room in which the battered detective lay, drawing back, however, at the threshold. The young doctor was still there, largely, perhaps, for want of something better to do. Mrs. Simpson had said that the patient was unconscious, thereby giving Griswold a somewhat mistaken idea. Certainly Cray had not returned to normal consciousness, but he was by no means in the motionless stupor the newspaper proprietor had looked for. If his informant had told him that Jack was delirious, he would have been better prepared. Nick’s burly friend was tossing restlessly to and fro—at least, his head and arms were—and just as Griswold came to a halt and looked down at him, he uttered two words which had come frequently to his lips that morning. “Nick Carter,” he muttered, in a somewhat muffled, but perfectly distinct voice. “He has been repeating that name at intervals for hours,” the young doctor remarked. “It must be the detective, don’t you suppose?” Griswold was under the impression that Mrs. Simpson had withdrawn, but even that did not entirely explain the slip that followed. He who had desired secrecy above all things must have forgotten himself for the time being. “Yes, it’s the detective,” he answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “This man is himself a detective, and they were working together on——” He stopped abruptly as a cry from the doorway reached him. Mrs. Simpson had heard what he said. CHAPTER XXXI. THE MILLIONAIRE PLAYS SLEUTH. As we have seen, the missing man’s wife had always had an uncomfortable feeling that all was not as it should be. Her husband had not been himself for some time before his disappearance, and the sudden fit of extravagance which had led him to take the new house on such short notice, and to talk about buying a car, had aroused suspicions, which she had loyally tried to tread under foot.