The Circular Staircase

  CHAPTER XXVII

  WHO IS NINA CARRINGTON?

  The four days, from Saturday to the following Tuesday, we lived, orexisted, in a state of the most dreadful suspense. We ate only whenLiddy brought in a tray, and then very little. The papers, of course,had got hold of the story, and we were besieged by newspaper men. Fromall over the country false clues came pouring in and raised hopes thatcrumbled again to nothing. Every morgue within a hundred miles, everyhospital, had been visited, without result.

  Mr. Jamieson, personally, took charge of the organized search, andevery evening, no matter where he happened to be, he called us by longdistance telephone. It was the same formula. "Nothing to-day. A newclue to work on. Better luck to-morrow."

  And heartsick we would put up the receiver and sit down again to ourvigil.

  The inaction was deadly. Liddy cried all day, and, because she knew Iobjected to tears, sniffled audibly around the corner.

  "For Heaven's sake, smile!" I snapped at her. And her ghastly attemptat a grin, with her swollen nose and red eyes, made me hysterical. Ilaughed and cried together, and pretty soon, like the two old fools wewere, we were sitting together weeping into the same handkerchief.

  Things were happening, of course, all the time, but they made little orno impression. The Charity Hospital called up Doctor Stewart andreported that Mrs. Watson was in a critical condition. I understoodalso that legal steps were being taken to terminate my lease atSunnyside. Louise was out of danger, but very ill, and a trained nurseguarded her like a gorgon. There was a rumor in the village, brought upby Liddy from the butcher's, that a wedding had already taken placebetween Louise and Doctor Walkers and this roused me for the first timeto action.

  On Tuesday, then, I sent for the car, and prepared to go out. As Iwaited at the porte-cochere I saw the under-gardener, an inoffensive,grayish-haired man, trimming borders near the house.

  The day detective was watching him, sitting on the carriage block.When he saw me, he got up.

  "Miss Innes," he said, taking of his hat, "do you know where Alex, thegardener, is?"

  "Why, no. Isn't he here?" I asked.

  "He has been gone since yesterday afternoon. Have you employed himlong?"

  "Only a couple of weeks."

  "Is he efficient? A capable man?"

  "I hardly know," I said vaguely. "The place looks all right, and Iknow very little about such things. I know much more about boxes ofroses than bushes of them."

  "This man," pointing to the assistant, "says Alex isn't a gardener.That he doesn't know anything about plants."

  "That's very strange," I said, thinking hard. "Why, he came to me fromthe Brays, who are in Europe."

  "Exactly." The detective smiled. "Every man who cuts grass isn't agardener, Miss Innes, and just now it is our policy to believe everyperson around here a rascal until he proves to be the other thing."

  Warner came up with the car then, and the conversation stopped. As hehelped 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 thebush, and I felt that the key to Halsey's disappearance was here atCasanova, 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 hismanner; there was a subtle change in both. He had thrown off the air offriendliness, and I thought, too, that he looked anxious and haggard.

  "Doctor Walker," I said, "I have come to you to ask some questions. Ihope you will answer them. As you know, my nephew has not yet beenfound."

  "So I understand," stiffly.

  "I believe, if you would, you could help us, and that leads to one ofmy questions. Will you tell me what was the nature of the conversationyou 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 thefirst time Mr. Innes has--disappeared."

  "You are quibbling, doctor. This is a matter of life and death. Willyou answer my question?"

  "Certainly. He said his nerves were bad, and I gave him a prescriptionfor them. I am violating professional ethics when I tell you even asmuch as that."

  I could not tell him he lied. I think I looked it. But I hazarded arandom shot.

  "I thought perhaps," I said, watching him narrowly, "that it might beabout--Nina Carrington."

  For a moment I thought he was going to strike me. He grew livid, and asmall crooked blood-vessel in his temple swelled and throbbedcuriously. 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. Itwas not difficult to divine that he feared Nina Carrington a good dealmore than he did the devil. Our leave-taking was brief; in fact, wemerely stared at each other over the waiting-room table, with itslitter of year-old magazines. Then I turned and went out.

  "To Richfield," I told Warner, and on the way I thought, and thoughthard.

  "Nina Carrington, Nina Carrington," the roar and rush of the wheelsseemed 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 suit-case belonging to the woman with the pitted face. Howsimple it all seemed. Mattie Bliss had been Nina Carrington. It wasshe Warner had heard in the library. It was something she had toldHalsey that had taken him frantically to Doctor Walker's office, andfrom there perhaps to his death. If we could find the woman, we mightfind what had become of Halsey.

  We were almost at Richfield now, so I kept on. My mind was not on myerrand 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 upbefore the Tate cottage, that I would see Louise if I had to break intothe 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 theswing--all were the same.

  She came forward to meet me, and I noticed that some of the anxiouslines 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 behonest 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. Shetalked to him for a long time, but when I asked him afterward he didn'tknow her name."

  "A young woman?"

  "Not very young. About forty, I suppose. She was small andfair-haired, just a little bit gray, and very sad. She was in deepmourning, and, I think, when she came, she expected to go at once. Butthe 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. Ithought perhaps she was a friend of yours, but, of course, I didn'task."

  "She was not--pock-marked?" I asked at a venture. "No, indeed. A skinlike a baby's. But perhaps you will know the initials. She gave Luciena handkerchief and forgot it. It was very fine, black-bordered, and ithad 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 toSunnyside. So Fanny Armstrong knew of Lucien Wallace, and wassufficiently interested to visit him and pay for his support. Who wasthe child's mother and where was she? Who was Nina Carrington? Dideither of them know where Halsey was or what had happened to him?

&nb
sp; On the way home we passed the little cemetery where Thomas had beenlaid to rest. I wondered if Thomas could have helped us to findHalsey, had he lived. Farther along was the more imposingburial-ground, where Arnold Armstrong and his father lay in the shadowof a tall granite shaft. Of the three, I think Thomas was the only onesincerely mourned.