Lane Griswold had telephoned to the detective’s house only once, and then had been told that the detective had not returned since the previous evening. It might be, however, that Nick was there by this time. Nothing in Simpson’s story indicated that Nick had met with any mishap, and it was improbable that a man of his daring and resourcefulness would take to his heels at once simply because he had become a thief. It was much more probable that he would return home and bluff it out to the end. In that case, Griswold hoped to corner him, and, under threat of country-wide exposure, force him to confess—after which an exposure would be likely to follow, anyway. The millionaire’s face was flushed and determined as he strode up the detective’s steps and pressed the electric button in peremptory fashion. Joseph, the butler, opened the door. “Is Mr. Carter in?” Griswold demanded. “No, sir,” was the prompt reply. “I can’t say when he’ll be back, either.” “I telephoned from New Pelham a couple of hours ago,” Griswold went on. “I was told then that he had left the house last evening, and had not returned. Is that correct?” “Yes, sir.” “Don’t you know where he is?” “No, sir. He was going to New Pelham on the seven-thirty train, however.” “He was, eh? That’s significant.” He had sized up the butler, and decided that he was telling the truth. If necessary, he would try diplomacy. If he could get hold of Nick’s assistants, he told himself, he might obtain some valuable pointers. To be sure, if the detective had been playing the wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing part for any length of time, it was quite conceivable that his assistants, or some of them, at least, were as bad as he. If this were the first offense, however, it might be possible to get one of his staff to turn against him, and assist in his capture, in the hope of stepping into his shoes. “I’m Mr. Griswold, the owner of the _Chronicle and Observer_,” he told the butler. “Perhaps you’ll remember that I was here yesterday with Mr. Cray? I’m very anxious to see Mr. Carter himself, but one of his assistants might do.” “None of them is here now, sir,” Joseph told him. “They’re all away from the city for one reason or another. Mr. Carter’s chief assistant, Mr. Chickering Carter, left for the Adirondacks with him just the other day, and stayed up there when he returned unexpectedly.” “Carter’s leading assistant! He would be the best one!” thought Griswold. Aloud he asked for Chick’s address. “Something has happened,” he explained. “Cray has been rather badly injured, and I can’t seem to locate Mr. Carter. Under the circumstances, I feel compelled to telegraph for this young man you speak of, or else to call in some outsider.” In view of this explanation, it is not surprising that the butler gave him the desired information, especially as he and Mrs. Peters had been worrying somewhat over Nick’s unexplained absence.