“No, no, Mary!” the wretched man protested weakly. “Not—not yet! I wish to surprise her.”
Griswold had not told Simpson that the injured detective was in the house, but now he led the thieving treasurer to the room in which Cray lay. He said nothing about his object, because he wished to see if Simpson would recognize the patient at once.
If he did so without hesitation, and spoke of him as Cray, that would go far to indicate the truth of his story, for if Cray had been struck down under other circumstances, this unexpected sight of him might well cause a momentary confusion.
The spectacle was, indeed, unlooked for, but though surprised, Simpson did not appear to be in the least embarrassed.
“Yes, that’s the fellow who called himself Cray,” he said, with a nod. “He was the one that jumped on me first, and the other, Carter, gagged me. He certainly seems to be in pretty bad shape.”
The doctor looked at him in the greatest surprise. He had never met Simpson, for the latter had moved to the hill very recently. He knew him by sight, however.
“You may or may not know that this is John Simpson himself, Doctor Lord,” the newspaper proprietor said bruskly. “I found him locked up in the garage just now. I’ll make it worth your while, however, to keep a discreet tongue in your head.”
The young physician’s shoulders went back proudly.
“I accept remuneration for professional services only, Mr. Griswold,” he said crisply. “I hope I can be trusted not to blab anything I may learn while attending a case.”