Nick went in
search of Max Wisler now, in a taxi, and found him at the old address; a
queer little frame house, in a part of San Francisco which had been left
untouched by the great fire.
Wisler was at home, and remembered Hilliard. He was fair and fat, with a
manner somewhat cold; unlit by enthusiasm; yet as he listened a gleam
flashed out from his carefully controlled gray eyes, which hinted at
hidden fires. He heard Nick to the end of the story, in silence, playing
always with the leaves of a book which he had been reading--a volume of
Fenimore Cooper's. Still he went on fingering the pages for a minute, when
Hilliard paused expecting questions. Then he looked up suddenly, seeming
literally to catch Nick's eye and hold it by force.
"What woman is jealous of this lady--Mrs. May?" he asked.
"I don't think she knows any woman in California, except Mrs. Falconer's
sister--and a Miss Dene from England, an authoress who is travelling about
with Mrs. Harland in Falconer's car."
"Ah! Mrs. Harland's out of the running. And that Miss Dene's gone East. I
happened to see her start, yesterday. She had a collection of people
giving her a send-off. Of course, she could have employed some one else to
do the job, and keep out of the way herself.
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