“Easy there, my boy!” he murmured, then turned again to Griswold.
“I fear you are a little hasty, and will soon regret it, Mr. Griswold,” he said as quietly as he could. “If I were not sure of your identity, and inclined to believe that you are laboring under a very serious misapprehension, I should not be so patient. I have been in the Adirondacks for several days, and know nothing whatever of the circumstances to which you allude.”
“You lie!” replied the millionaire, his face purple. “You went to the Adirondacks several days ago with your assistant, but you came back alone. I have your own butler’s word for that. What’s more, I saw you with my own eyes yesterday at your home, whither Cray took me.”
Again Nick and his lieutenant exchanged glances. It was beginning to look more and more serious. Had Nick not recognized the newspaper proprietor at once, they might have supposed the man to be irresponsible, despite his references to Cray, but that explanation seemed out of the question in Griswold’s case.
Yet, the alternative appeared to be just as far beyond belief.
Had some one passed himself off as the detective under any ordinary circumstances, it would have been easy enough to believe, for such things had happened often enough in the past. The millionaire’s statements, however, seemed to imply that some person had been passing as the detective in his own house, and had done so in such a skillful and thoroughgoing way that not only the servants, but even Jack Cray, had been completely deceived.
It was unbelievable, and yet what else were they to think?
Chick had often seen the skin over his chief’s jaw and knuckles tighten ominously, but he never remembered such a set, tense look as this one.
Nick was beginning to realize that something unparalleled had happened—something which struck directly at his honor and prestige—and he was rising to the emergency.