“You have questioned him as I suggested?” the millionaire put in, as they moved toward the door of the room in which Cray was lying.
“Yes,” was the answer, “but he’s stubborn. He refuses to tell me anything—said he would do so if he felt himself losing consciousness again, but that he wanted to say what he had to say directly to Mr. Griswold, if possible.”
They had reached the door of the room by that time, and Lord stepped aside to allow the others to enter.
A nurse in a trim, crisp uniform was sitting beside the couch, but rose and effaced herself quietly, thus giving Nick his first unobstructed view of his friend.
The burly detective seemed to fill the narrow couch, and yet he appeared, somehow, shrunken. His face was still very pale, and the big, hairy hand that lay on his chest had a suggestion of helplessness about it.
Cray turned his head slowly, and looked toward the door. Instead of seeing merely the millionaire, as he had anticipated, he beheld two other visitors, and identified them after a moment or two.
“Mr. Carter!” he exclaimed weakly. “And Chick, too! Is it really you this time, Carter? This is more than I hoped for.”
He tried to raise himself on one elbow, but sank back faintly.
“Lie still, old fellow!” Nick said, quietly stepping forward and taking Cray’s hand. “You are gaining, and must hold on to what you have gained. Take your time, though, about——”
“I can’t take my time, Carter,” Cray said, feverishly clutching at his friend’s hand with both of his. “This isn’t the worst yet. It was Gordon—Green-eye Gordon—who did this to me, and he’s made off with two suit cases crammed full of gold coins.”