The clever scoundrel felt he was making headway.
“Now we can go ahead with a little more assurance,” he soliloquized, after he had hung up the receiver. “If New England is unknown to the fellow, or known only in a superficial way, it doesn’t seem reasonable to suppose that he would think of hiding the yellow boys there. Besides, he must have them where he can obtain access to them at frequent intervals—for he would be almost certain to be arrested if he presented a quantity of gold at any bank, either for deposit or to be exchanged for paper. That’s his hoard, therefore, from which he must draw.”
He grinned to himself.
“Tastes differ, of course,” he went on mentally, “but New England isn’t the place I’d choose if I had eighty thousand to spend. I would want a little more action than I could get there.
“Then what? Well, something tells me that the chap has headed back in this direction. New York would attract that money as surely as a magnet attracts iron filings. What’s more, Simpson is on his own ground here. And the electric car? It’s a tempting theory, confoundedly tempting! Why would a stay-at-home shrimp like Simpson think of hiding his treasure if not somewhere on his own bit of land? That’s it, I’ll wager! Not a bad idea, either, for, ordinarily, no one would think of looking there for him or his loot. The police, for instance, would spend a few years going over the rest of the world with a fine-tooth comb before it would ever occur to them to look for the fugitive at home.
“But apparently the wife is straight, and doesn’t know of her husband’s fall from grace. He can’t show himself to her, but he might safely pay visits to the place at night, thanks to the silence of his little electric. By George! What if I’m right? What a cinch for your Uncle Ernest! I’m almost tempted to go there at once, and see if I can locate the good old stuff. But, no, that won’t do. I’ll keep on playing a thinking game as long as I can, and leave the legwork to the worthy Jack Cray.”
He threw a glance in the direction of Nick Carter’s safe.
“Besides,” he continued inwardly, “eighty thousand isn’t so much, after all. If I find what I hope to in that safe, and play my cards right, I ought to make several times eighty thousand, and I mustn’t let the grass grow under my feet, for Carter may come home in a very few days.”
He got up, and was about to approach the safe, when there came a knock at the door, and, in response to his somewhat surly invitation, Mrs. Peters, the housekeeper, appeared on the threshold. She was dressed for the street, and had a strap wrapped about the knuckles of one hand.