Not far from the
west wing lay the blackened ruins of the stables. I felt like a
ruin myself, as I paused on the broad veranda before I entered
the house.
Two private detectives had arrived in my absence, and it was a
relief to turn over to them the responsibility of the house and
grounds. Mr. Jamieson, they said, had arranged for more to
assist in the search for the missing man, and at that time the
country was being scoured in all directions.
The household staff was again depleted that afternoon. Liddy was
waiting to tell me that the new cook had gone, bag and baggage,
without waiting to be paid. No one had admitted the visitor whom
Warner had heard in the library, unless, possibly, the missing
cook. Again I was working in a circle.
CHAPTER XXVII
WHO IS NINA CARRINGTON?
The four days, from Saturday to the following Tuesday, we lived,
or existed, in a state of the most dreadful suspense. We ate
only when Liddy brought in a tray, and then very little. The
papers, of course, had got hold of the story, and we were
besieged by newspaper men. From all over the country false clues
came pouring in and raised hopes that crumbled again to nothing.
Every morgue within a hundred miles, every hospital, had been
visited, without result.
Mr. Jamieson, personally, took charge of the organized search,
and every evening, no matter where he happened to be, he called
us by long distance telephone. It was the same formula.
"Nothing to-day.
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