The woman did so, and Griswold nodded once or twice during the description.
“That’s the man,” he admitted. “The name has caused some confusion, however, and the rest was due to the fact that he isn’t regularly employed at the office, but works for me personally.”
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.