"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

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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!




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