Nick Carter, while a visitor at the house of Gabriel Leonard, had a fair opportunity for studying the man. The result did not leave a favorable impression. Leonard's cynicism, his occasional exhibition of a plastic conscience, his at times brutal way of putting things, repelled friendship. Still he might be like many business men engaged in large enterprises, case-hardened in respect of the nicer notions of morality, and yet possessed of no really vicious instincts. But Nick, in looking at Leonard now, was not certain whether his former deductions had not been too favorable. The manufacturer was uneasy in mind, had shifted his gaze as if he were afraid to look an honest man squarely in the face. What did this strange absence of John Dashwood mean? And had Leonard any connection with it?
Nick closed the door, and deliberately took a seat. Leonard, still at ease, paced the floor.
"I suppose you made an unfortunate discovery last night," said Nick tentatively.
"I"—giving the detective one sharp glance and then letting his eyes fall again—"I made a discovery, certainly. But how did you learn of it?"
"From Luke Filbon, whose death, by suicide, is the feature of the local news in this morning's papers."
"You saw him before he died?" asked Leonard eagerly.
"Yes."
"Then perhaps he told you where he had secreted the stolen money?"
The detective stared at the manufacturer.