In particular, he recalled one set of records relating to the doings of a young man of sporting inclinations. The young man in question was the only son of one of America’s richest men, and the sporting tendencies referred to had once got him into a very awkward position.
Nick Carter had extricated the foolish youngster without injustice to any one, and without the slightest hint of publicity. If Green-eye Gordon had his way, however, the young man and the young man’s father would soon learn how it feels to have youthful indiscretions return to roost.
“That alone ought to be worth a tidy fortune,” the schemer told himself.
In addition there were the Walsh papers, the Gravesend case, all the tempting possibilities of the Lindley matter, and, coming nearer home, there were a number of documents dealing with men within easy reach—with Chester J. Gillespie, for instance; ex-Senator Phelps, Bertie Craybill, Harold Lumsden, the actor, and others.
Yes, there were endless possibilities—money to be wrung from men who would be forced to keep their mouths shut, and their banking accounts at his command.
In the darkness, the criminal gave vent to a chuckle, which choked as he felt Cray turn and glance at him inquiringly.
“I was just thinking of the surprise in store for our friend,” he whispered. “Why doesn’t he come?”
But John Simpson seemed in no hurry to arrive, if he intended to do so at all. One o’clock came and passed, and the waiting men were still in their cramped positions beside the pile of lumber.
It began to look as if Cray had been wrong in his theory, or else that, discouraged by Mrs. Simpson’s new hobby of sleeping at the rear of the house, the missing man had decided not to visit the place that night—for surely Simpson must have known that everybody had been in bed for hours.
Even the ex-police detective, usually so stolid, began to fidget. Suddenly, however, his body grew rigid, and his left hand closed upon the arm of the man beside him.