The Port of Adventure Part 31

"Does this mean that we aren't to go to-night?" she asked mournfully.

"I hope it doesn't mean that. But we can't be dead certain yet," answered Nick. He looked at her searchingly, his face drawn and anxious; but it relaxed as if he were suddenly relieved from some great strain as his eyes travelled over the smooth, pure features, and met her questioning gaze at last with a.s.surance.

"If we are not certain soon, it will be too late to start, and I can't bear to put off going. I'm looking forward to the trip so much!" she said.

"Shall we dine here? You'll have to feed me, I'm afraid." She laughed; but a slow flush crept up to Nick's forehead.

"Would you let me?"

"Yes. Why not? If you don't mind. Anything rather than miss our train--unless some horrid symptoms are coming on that you haven't the courage to tell me about. Ring for dinner, Kate. And you can go and have yours. We'll do everything exactly as if we expected to start."

"Sure, ma'am, don't make me leave the room till I've heard what Mr.

Hilliard has to say. I'm that worried till I know the worst," Kate pleaded.

Angela smiled. "I'm just beginning to learn," she said, "that it's a mistake to think of the _worst_. I used to make a point of doing it, and it generally happened. Now--I expect the best!" She spoke to Kate, and looked at Nick. "But tell me what poison-oak can do."

Nick shivered. For an instant, a picture of that adored young face hideously disfigured turned him sick. And even her little white hands--no, it did not bear thinking of! But he controlled himself and tried to speak coolly.

"Why, it affects some people so their faces and hands swell up, and--and get red and spotted. Of course, that doesn't last many days: but--it isn't nice while it does last, and I--couldn't bear the thought of its happening to you. I just couldn't bear it! It isn't going to happen, though," he added hastily, seeing the colour leave her lips. "By this time you'd have begun to feel mighty bad, if you were in for trouble. You can't be easy to affect, for if you were, the poison might have gone to your face, without your even touching the leaves. Your hands don't burn, do they?"

"Only a little--from the ammonia."

"That saved them. If you feel all right in an hour more, you can have the bandages off, and the danger'll be over for good. Then we can start, unless the shock's been too much for you?"

"I'm too bewildered to be shocked," said Angela.

"Who could have played such a horrid practical joke on me? It's a little bit like--in a ridiculous way--the play of _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, where a woman is poisoned by a bouquet of flowers sent by a jealous rival. Only I haven't a jealous rival!"

Nick's face hardened. "I'm going to find out who did send the stuff. While you were in the other room I was looking at the wrapper of the box. I can't make out the postmark; but I reckon there are those who can, and I won't rest till I know."

"What can you do to find out?" asked Angela.

"I can put the best detective in San Francisco on to the job. He shall follow up the clues like a bloodhound, and hang on to them when he's got 'em, like a bulldog."

"Oh, but don't let's put off our journey!" Angela exclaimed. "I feel, if we do that, we'll never go. It has always----" she half-whispered, "seemed too good to come true."

"I'd rather do 'most anything than put off the trip," said Nick. "But there's time for everything. We don't leave the hotel till after nine.

Dinner won't be ready for a bit; and if you'll let me, I'll go out now and see a man I've heard of--a very smart detective."

But Angela begged him to wait. She hated the thought of being left alone till she was sure that no ill effect need be feared from the poison. So Nick stayed, not unwillingly, and a simple dinner was ordered in haste.

Kate was sure that after what had happened she would have no appet.i.te for dinner; but, like a true Irish girl, she was romantic to the core of her heart; and because she was deeply in love with her Tim, she had the "seeing eye" which showed her clearly what was in Nick Hilliard's heart for Angela.

Of course, he was not good enough for her lady; no man could be. But Kate had a sneaking kindness for Nick, the splendid giver of the golden bag, and would not, by offering her services as cutter-up-of-food for the queen, rob him of the privilege.

So Kate slipped out un.o.btrusively, and the privilege in question became Nick's. It was a joy, even a delirious joy, but it was also an ordeal; for as he fed her, Angela smiled at him. Each time that he proffered a spoonful of soup or a morsel of chicken she met his gaze with laughing eyes, roguish, under dark lashes, as the eyes of a child. The difficulty when this happened, as it did constantly, was to keep hands steady and mind calm, as if for the performance of a delicate surgical operation; because to drop a thing, or aim it wrongly, would have been black disgrace. And to ensure perfection of aim, attention must be concentrated upon the lady's lips as she opened them to receive supplies. It was to watch the unfolding of a rosebud into a rose while forbidden to touch the rose. And even monks of the severest brotherhoods may pluck the flowers that grow beside their cloisters.

Nick did not leave Angela until Kate had come back; then he and the Irish girl together unwound the bandages. There was a moment of suspense, but the hands were satin-smooth.

"It seems to be written that you shall save me always from horrors--ever since the night of the burglar," Angela said, when Kate had gone to the next room to dispose of the lint.

"I shall be like a child learning to walk alone when my journeyings with you come to an end."

There was his chance to say, "_Must_ they come to an end?" But Kate was near; and besides, a snub from Angela might stop the "journeyings" then and there. So he answered with a mere compliment, as any man may, meaning nothing at all or a great deal. To save her from danger, it was worth while to have been born, he said. And he remembered, as he had remembered many times, how clear had been the call he had heard to go East; a call like a voice in his ears, crying, "Nick, I want you. Come." He was tempted to be superst.i.tious, and to believe that unconsciously, in some mysterious way, Angela had summoned him to be her knight. To be even more, perhaps, in the end. Who could tell--yet?

It was a good sign, at all events, that she was reluctant to give up the trip; and Nick decided not to risk confiding in the police. Put the affair of the poison-oak into their hands, and they would la.s.so every one concerned, with yards of red tape! In that case, he and Mrs. May might be detained in San Francisco. No! A private detective would do the trick; and Nick had the name of one pigeon-holed in his brain: Max Wisler, a shrewd fellow, once employed with success by "old Grizzly Gaylor" when there had been a leakage of money and vanishing of cattle on the ranch. 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 auth.o.r.ess 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. But--I guess we must look further. Now see here, Mr. Hilliard, a patient has got to be frank with his doctor if the doctor's to do any good. Are you engaged to marry Mrs.

Gaylor, the widow of my old client?"

"Good Lord, no!" exclaimed Nick, scarlet to his forehead. "Such an idea never entered my head."

"Humph! Rumour's wrong, then. But that isn't to say it never entered her head. Does she know Mrs. May?"

"No," said Nick. "Surely you're not hinting----"

"I'm not hinting anything. I'm feeling my way in the dark."

"It isn't quite dark. You've got the paper that was round the box. I saw you looking at it, through a magnifying gla.s.s, just now."

"That postmark means the longest way round that we can take. Do you think any one with an ounce of brains would send poison from a place where she--or he, if you like--was known? No. She--or he--would go a long way, and a roundabout way. Or send a trusted messenger. Tell me straight, Mr.

Hilliard, has Mrs. Gaylor got in her employ a confidential maid, or man?"

Nick, distressed and embarra.s.sed, angry with the detective, yet unwilling to offend and put him off his work, knew not what to answer. There was Simeon Harp, of course, who would do anything for Carmen. But Nick could not, would not, play into Wisler's hands by mentioning the name of Harp, or telling of the old man's doglike devotion to his mistress. It was a detestable and vulgar suggestion which connected Mrs. Gaylor with this affair--detestable for every one concerned; for Carmen, for Nick; above all, for Angela.

"Mrs. Gaylor hasn't a servant who isn't loyal," he returned at last, evading Wisler's eye. "But you'd better get this notion out of your mind, to start with, or you'll find yourself on the wrong track. Mrs. Gaylor and I are good friends, no more. She doesn't know anything about Mrs. May; and if she did, there's nothing to make her jealous, even if--if we were warmer friends than we are."

"Sure she never heard of the lady?"

Nick hesitated. "I don't see how she can have heard. I haven't written to her since I--met Mrs. May."

"Ah, you haven't written to her since then. H'm! Does Mrs. Gaylor know Mr.

Falconer and his sister, and their auth.o.r.ess friend Miss Dene?"

"Not Miss Dene. Come to think of it, I heard Miss Dene say she'd like to meet Mrs. Gaylor. She asked questions about her. But that's nothing."

"Perhaps they've been visiting back and forth since then."

"If they have, it hasn't come to my knowledge."

"Women do a lot of things that don't come to men's knowledge. That's one reason detectives exist. Well, you don't seem much inclined to help me, Mr. Hilliard, though you say you're anxious to get to the bottom of this little mystery as soon as possible."

"I am anxious. And if I don't help you, it's because I can't. I don't want you to lose yourself in the woods, and have to find your way back, to begin all over again."