“I am about to discover that,” I replied, and he was quiet at once.  It was not difficult to divine that he feared Nina Carrington a good deal more than he did the devil.  Our leave-taking was brief; in fact, we merely stared at each other over the waiting-room table, with its litter of year-old magazines.  Then I turned and went out.

“To Richfield,” I told Warner, and on the way I thought, and thought hard.

“Nina Carrington, Nina Carrington,” the roar and rush of the wheels seemed to sing the words.  “Nina Carrington, N. C.”  And I then knew, knew as surely as if I had seen the whole thing.  There had been an N. C. on the suit-case belonging to the woman with the pitted face.  How simple it all seemed.  Mattie Bliss had been Nina Carrington.  It was she Warner had heard in the library.  It was something she had told Halsey that had taken him frantically to Doctor Walker’s office, and from there perhaps to his death.  If we could find the woman, we might find what had become of Halsey.

We were almost at Richfield now, so I kept on.  My mind was not on my errand there now.  It was back with Halsey on that memorable night.  What was it he had said to Louise, that had sent her up to Sunnyside, half wild with fear for him?  I made up my mind, as the car drew up before the Tate cottage, that I would see Louise if I had to break into the house at night.

Almost exactly the same scene as before greeted my eyes at the cottage.  Mrs. Tate, the baby-carriage in the path, the children at the swing—­all were the same.

She came forward to meet me, and I noticed that some of the anxious lines had gone out of her face.  She looked young, almost pretty.

“I am glad you have come back,” she said.  “I think I will have to be honest and give you back your money.”

“Why?” I asked.  “Has the mother come?”

“No, but some one came and paid the boy’s board for a month.  She talked to him for a long time, but when I asked him afterward he didn’t know her name.”

“A young woman?”

“Not very young.  About forty, I suppose.  She was small and fair-haired, just a little bit gray, and very sad.  She was in deep mourning, and, I think, when she came, she expected to go at once.  But the child, Lucien, interested her.  She talked to him for a long time, and, indeed, she looked much happier when she left.”

“You are sure this was not the real mother?”

“O mercy, no!  Why, she didn’t know which of the three was Lucien.  I thought perhaps she was a friend of yours, but, of course, I didn’t ask.”

“She was not—­pock-marked?” I asked at a venture.  “No, indeed.  A skin like a baby’s.  But perhaps you will know the initials.  She gave Lucien a handkerchief and forgot it.  It was very fine, black-bordered, and it had three hand-worked letters in the corner—­F.  B. A.”

“No,” I said with truth enough, “she is not a friend of mine.”  F. B. A. was Fanny Armstrong, without a chance of doubt!