Warner came up with the car then, and the conversation stopped. As he helped me in, however, the detective said something further.
“Not a word or sign to Alex, if he comes back,” he said cautiously.
I went first to Doctor Walker’s. I was tired of beating about the bush, and I felt that the key to Halsey’s disappearance was here at Casanova, in spite of Mr. Jamieson’s theories.
The doctor was in. He came at once to the door of his consulting-room, and there was no mask of cordiality in his manner.
“Please come in,” he said curtly.
“I shall stay here, I think, doctor.” I did not like his face or his manner; there was a subtle change in both. He had thrown of the air of friendliness, and I thought, too, that he looked anxious and haggard.
“Doctor Walker,” I said, “I have come to you to ask some questions. I hope you will answer them. As you know, my nephew has not yet been found.”
“So I understand,” stiffly.
“I believe, if you would, you could help us, and that leads to one of my questions. Will you tell me what was the nature of the conversation you held with him the night he was attacked and carried off?”
“Attacked! Carried off!” he said, with pretended surprise. “Really, Miss Innes, don’t you think you exaggerate? I understand it is not the first time Mr. Innes has—disappeared.”
“You are quibbling, doctor. This is a matter of life and death. Will you answer my question?”
“Certainly. He said his nerves were bad, and I gave him a prescription for them. I am violating professional ethics when I tell you even as much as that.”
I could not tell him he lied. I think I looked it. But I hazarded a random shot.
“I thought perhaps,” I said, watching him narrowly, “that it might be about—Nina Carrington.”
For a moment I thought he was going to strike me. He grew livid, and a small crooked blood-vessel in his temple swelled and throbbed curiously. Then he forced a short laugh.
“Who is Nina Carrington?” he asked.
“I am about to discover that,” I replied, and he was quiet at once. It was not difficult to divine that he feared Nina Carrington a good deal more than he did the devil. Our leave-taking was brief; in fact, we merely stared at each other over the waiting-room table, with its litter of year-old magazines. Then I turned and went out.
“To Richfield,” I told Warner, and on the way I thought, and thought hard.
“Nina Carrington, Nina Carrington,” the roar and rush of the wheels seemed to sing the words. “Nina Carrington, N. C.” And I then knew, knew as surely as if I had seen the whole thing. There had been an N. C. on the suitcase belonging to the woman with the pitted face. How simple it all seemed. Mattie Bliss had been Nina Carrington. It was she Warner had heard in the library. It was something she had told Halsey that had taken him frantically to Doctor Walker’s office, and from there perhaps to his death. If we could find the woman, we might find what had become of Halsey.
We were almost at Richfield now, so I kept on. My mind was not on my errand there now. It was back with Halsey on that memorable night. What was it he had said to Louise, that had sent her up to Sunnyside, half wild with fear for him? I made up my mind, as the car drew up before the Tate cottage, that I would see Louise if I had to break into the house at night.
Almost exactly the same scene as before greeted my eyes at the cottage. Mrs. Tate, the baby-carriage in the path, the children at the swing—all were the same.
She came forward to meet me, and I noticed that some of the anxious lines had gone out of her face. She looked young, almost pretty.
“I am glad you have come back,” she said. “I think I will have to be honest and give you back your money.”
“Why?” I asked. “Has the mother come?”
“No, but some one came and paid the boy’s board for a month. She talked to him for a long time, but when I asked him afterward he didn’t know her name.”
“A young woman?”
“Not very young. About forty, I suppose. She was small and fair-haired, just a little bit gray, and very sad. She was in deep mourning, and, I think, when she came, she expected to go at once. But the child, Lucien, interested her. She talked to him for a long time, and, indeed, she looked much happier when she left.”
“You are sure this was not the real mother?”
“O mercy, no! Why, she didn’t know which of the three was Lucien. I thought perhaps she was a friend of yours, but, of course, I didn’t ask.”
“She was not—pock-marked?” I asked at a venture. “No, indeed. A skin like a baby’s. But perhaps you will know the initials. She gave Lucien a handkerchief and forgot it. It was very fine, black-bordered, and it had three hand- worked letters in the corner—F. B. A.”
“No,” I said with truth enough, “she is not a friend of mine.” F. B. A. was Fanny Armstrong, without a chance of doubt!
With another warning to Mrs. Tate as to silence, we started back to Sunnyside. So Fanny Armstrong knew of Lucien Wallace, and was sufficiently interested to visit him and pay for his support. Who was the child’s mother and where was she? Who was Nina Carrington? Did either of them know where Halsey was or what had happened to him?
On the way home we passed the little cemetery where Thomas had been laid to rest. I wondered if Thomas could have helped us to find Halsey, had he lived. Farther along was the more imposing burial-ground, where Arnold Armstrong and his father lay in the shadow of a tall granite shaft. Of the three, I think Thomas was the only one
