“Let’s hope it’s nothing more than a flash, though,” he told himself. “If he were to keep up that pace, it might not be such a cinch to corner him—but he won’t. He’ll have a relapse, and when it comes, he’ll be an easy mark.”
He continued to examine the face in detail.
“You feel sure his wife does not know of his crime?” was his next question.
“Certainly not,” was the prompt answer. “That would have been unwise, under the circumstances, for, in her distress, she would probably blurt it out to her relatives and friends, and, before we knew it, the whole thing might get into print. I have inquired about him, of course, and she may suspect, but that’s all.”
“Her address, please.”
“No. 31 Floral Avenue, New Pelham.”
Gordon jotted it down on one of Nick Carter’s pads.
“Now, will you kindly answer a question that has been puzzling me for some time?” he went on. “If we catch this man for you—or, rather, when we catch him—what are you going to do with him? You can’t prosecute, you know, without letting the cat out of the bag.”