“I meant no offense, I assure you, doctor,” Griswold hastened to say. “I merely——”
“Wished to remind me of something you should have taken for granted,” the doctor cut in. “Please say no more about it, though.”
Then Lane Griswold did another unexpected thing. He held out his hand with an apologetic smile, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Doctor Lord gripped it firmly.
A moment later Griswold led Simpson into another room and closed the door.
“Look here, Simpson,” he said, without preliminaries, “I’ve been grievously disappointed in you, but we’ll let that pass. I’m done with you, and your dismissal is waiting for you at the office. I want to hear no excuses. As for prosecution, however, you have doubtless counted on immunity from that, and I regret to say that you haven’t counted in vain—unless this new complication makes it worth while to air the whole thing for the sake of a supreme newspaper sensation. For your wife’s sake, I’ll let you know about that as soon as possible. Meanwhile, I shall see that you are under observation all the time. You can’t get away, for I may want you locked up. If I don’t, you’ll soon be free to do what you please and go where you please.”
“I—yes, sir,” was all Simpson was able to say, and he had to swallow more than once before he could utter those words.
“Now you had better go to your wife.”
“But these handcuffs, sir!” Simpson again protested.
“You should have thought of the possibility of such adornments before you made away with that fund,” Griswold told him sternly. “Don’t imagine that your wife doesn’t know what you have been up to, for she does. Still, it isn’t her fault, and I would not like to see her needlessly distressed. Perhaps there’s a key to the handcuffs in Cray’s pockets.”
There was, and Simpson was freed from the humiliating shackles before he went upstairs to face his wife.