Later, the millionaire called up Cray’s office. He did not believe the injured detective had any one to keep the place open during his absence, but he wished to make sure, if possible, whether a message had been received from Chick Carter or not. As he had expected, he found the place closed.
It then occurred to him to return to Nick’s house. The detective might have put in an appearance; if not, it was possible that Chick had sent a reply there, trusting that it would reach Cray indirectly.
In this latter respect, his surmise was correct. Nick had not returned, and Joseph’s worry had grown. On the other hand, a telegram had arrived for Jack Cray, and Joseph was holding it; not knowing what else to do with it.
Griswold promised to deliver it, and took it in charge. In this way he learned that his guess as to Chick’s train was correct. The young detective wired that he would arrive in New York at eight-thirty the following morning.
Nothing developed in the interval, and a few minutes before eight-thirty the next morning, Griswold took up his position at one of the gates leading to the tracks in the great Forty-second Street terminal.
The train from the Adirondacks arrived at schedule time, and began to disgorge, while the millionaire, who had obtained a description of Chick from the butler, narrowly scanned the faces of the passengers as they hurried through the gate.
The newspaper proprietor did not have to wait long. He soon caught a glimpse of an erect, keen-eyed, athletic young man, striding down the platform, and carrying a heavy suit case, as if it were a featherweight.
“That must be Chick Carter!” he told himself, with a nod of satisfaction.
But the next moment he gave a gasp, and a look of utmost bewilderment spread over his face.
He had caught sight of the man at Chick’s side, and feature for feature it was the man whom Cray had called into consultation—was, in other words, Nick Carter himself!