Yet the magic of four days ago was dead.
Carmen, sitting between Nick and Angela, had killed it. Neither rivers nor
trees sang their old song; and the white witch of the Bridal Veil had
turned her face away.
XXVII
SIMEON HARP
Nick's detective in San Francisco had no news; at all events no news with
which he could be induced to part. "Wait a few days longer," he said.
"That's the only favour I ask. Maybe by that time we shall both know where
the poison-oak came from, who posted the box, who sent it, and why, and
all the rest there is to know."
"Haven't you any suspicions yet?" Nick asked impatiently.
"I don't go so far as to say that."
"What--that you have, or you haven't?"
"That I haven't."
"You mean you do suspect some one?"
"Well, my mind's beginning to hover."
"Tell me where."
"No. I won't tell you that, Mr. Hilliard."
"You won't----"
"Not while I'm hovering. Not till there's something to light on. I may be
doing an innocent person a big injustice."
And Nick could squeeze no more hints from Max Wisler. Herein lay one
secret of the man's success; he had his own methods, and no one could
persuade or bribe him to depart from them. This caused him to be
respected. And Nick had to leave San Francisco with Mrs.
Pages:
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389