Two private detectives had arrived in my absence,
and it was a relief to turn over to them the responsibility
of the house and grounds. Mr. Jamieson, they
said, had arranged for more to assist in the search
for the missing man, and at that time the country
was being scoured in all directions.
The household staff was again depleted that afternoon.
Liddy was waiting to tell me that the new cook had
gone, bag and baggage, without waiting to be paid.
No one had admitted the visitor whom Warner had heard
in the library, unless, possibly, the missing cook.
Again I was working in a circle.
Who is Nina Carrington?
The four days, from Saturday to the following Tuesday,
we lived, or existed, in a state of the most dreadful
suspense. We ate only when Liddy 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. From all over the country false
clues came pouring in and raised hopes that crumbled
again to nothing. Every morgue within a hundred
miles, every hospital, had been visited, without result.
Mr. Jamieson, personally, took charge of the organized
search, and every evening, no matter where he happened
to be, he called us by long distance telephone.
It was the same formula. “Nothing to-day.
A new clue to work on. Better luck to-morrow.”
And heartsick we would put up the receiver and sit
down again to our vigil.
The inaction was deadly. Liddy cried all day,
and, because she knew I objected to tears, sniffled
audibly around the corner.
“For Heaven’s sake, smile!” I snapped
at her. And her ghastly attempt at a grin, with
her swollen nose and red eyes, made me hysterical.
I laughed and cried together, and pretty soon, like
the two old fools we were, we were sitting together
weeping into the same handkerchief.
Things were happening, of course, all the time, but
they made little or no impression. The Charity
Hospital called up Doctor Stewart and reported that
Mrs. Watson was in a critical condition. I understood
also that legal steps were being taken to terminate
my lease at Sunnyside. Louise was out of danger,
but very ill, and a trained nurse guarded her like
a gorgon. There was a rumor in the village,
brought up by Liddy from the butcher’s, that
a wedding had already taken place between Louise and
Doctor Walkers and this roused me for the first time
to action.
On Tuesday, then, I sent for the car, and prepared
to go out. As I waited 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, the gardener, is?”
