“Good!” ejaculated Nick. “You and I will go there at once, Chick. How about you, Mr. Griswold? Will you come along?” “Certainly,” was the prompt answer. CHAPTER XXXIX. CRAY’S LIPS ARE UNSEALED. Despite his eagerness to see his friend Cray, and to get on the fugitive’s trail, Nick remained at the house long enough to draft a telegram to the warden of Clinton Prison, asking for further details concerning the supposed death of Green-eye Gordon, and the escape of one of the prisoners on the night of the fire. The message was given to the butler, who was asked to phone it at once to the telegraph office. “They may have facts up there which they have been keeping from the public,” Nick explained. “Even seemingly valueless facts may assume great importance in the light of what has happened down here, for that matter.” Meanwhile, one of Nick’s fastest cars had been ordered around, and now the familiar honk-honk was heard. “There’s the machine,” Nick announced. “Come on.” It was plain to be seen that both Nick and his assistant were laboring under unusual excitement. The chauffeur was instructed to push the car to the lawful limit, and although he did so, with his usual skill, the detective seemed to think the car was creeping. For miles and miles they had to traverse the streets of the city which stretched out northward to the confines of the Bronx, and not until these were passed, did they feel free to risk a faster pace—and even then they had to slow down through the frequent villages. It was not in reality a long drive, however, and in less time than Griswold had made the trip the morning before, they had covered the distance. The chauffeur had slowed down considerably before entering the village of New Pelham, but they were still going at a rapid rate, and Griswold was obliged to raise his voice for his final instructions to the chauffeur. “The top of the hill!” he called out, leaning forward and pointing, while he held his hat on with the other hand. The usually easy-going millionaire was having some unusual experiences, and had been pretty thoroughly shaken up in more ways than one. Straight up the hill that led from the heart of the village, the great car raced, and Griswold added that it was the last house. A few moments later the machine came to an abrupt, but quiet, stop in front of No. 31 Floral Avenue. Quickly the three men alighted and hurried through the gate. The door was opened almost immediately by the maid, and behind her stood Doctor Lord, who had evidently been impatiently awaiting Griswold’s arrival. The doctor looked inquiringly at the others. “Carter, shake hands with Doctor Lord,” he said informally. “Doctor, this is Nick Carter and this is Chick Carter, his assistant.” “I’m very glad,” the young physician said heartily, as he acknowledged the detective’s greeting. “Frequently during the patient’s long stupor, Mr. Carter, he mumbled your name.”