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.  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 glass, 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 embarrassed, 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.”