“I understand that,” the newspaper proprietor broke in. “I’ll make this well worth while for both of you, though, if you can handle it without publicity.”
Green Eye smiled. “That sounds rather strange from the lips of our greatest apostle of publicity,” he commented.
Griswold gave a gesture of impatience. “Perhaps so,” he admitted. “I can’t help that, though. Facts are facts, and this would be most embarrassing to me if any of my competitors should get hold of it, or even if it were spread by word of mouth.”
He fixed Gordon with his eyes, looking him up and down, as if scrutinizing an applicant for the position of office boy—supposing a millionaire would descend to such trivialities.
But the bogus detective stood the scrutiny very well. To tell the truth, Ernest Gordon was really beginning to enjoy himself. Griswold’s first words could hardly have sounded more promising. They suggested all sorts of delightful and golden possibilities.
It seemed perfectly plain that this was just the sort of thing he was looking for—the case of a wealthy, prominent man, who had something to hide, and was willing to pay liberally to those who would keep his secret.
“I can trust you implicitly, whether you succeed or fail, to reveal no word of what I’m about to tell you?” Griswold asked sharply.
The man behind the desk shrugged his shoulders in a way that was characteristic of Nick Carter on occasion.
“I’ve been in the confidence of presidents and senators, ambassadors and noblemen—and millionaires,” he returned, tacking on the word “millionaires” as if it were an afterthought. “In fact, I may claim some knowledge of the secrets of royalty.”