There were times, of course, when I was
disposed to throw all those suspicions aside, and fix definitely
on the unknown, whoever that might be.
I had my greatest disappointment when it came to tracing Nina
Carrington. The woman had gone without leaving a trace. Marked
as she was, it should have been easy to follow her, but she was
not to be found. A description to one of the detectives, on my
arrival at home, had started the ball rolling. But by night she
had not been found. I told Gertrude, then, about the telegram to
Louise when she had been ill before; about my visit to Doctor
Walker, and my suspicions that Mattie Bliss and Nina Carrington
were the same. She thought, as I did, that there was little
doubt of it.
I said nothing to her, however, of the detective's suspicions
about Alex. Little things that I had not noticed at the time now
came back to me. I had an uncomfortable feeling that
perhaps Alex was a spy, and that by taking him into the house I
had played into the enemy's hand. But at eight o'clock that
night Alex himself appeared, and with him a strange and repulsive
individual. They made a queer pair, for Alex was almost as
disreputable as the tramp, and he had a badly swollen eye.
Gertrude had been sitting listlessly waiting for the evening
message from Mr. Jamieson, but when the singular pair came in, as
they did, without ceremony, she jumped up and stood staring.
Winters, the detective who watched the house at night, followed
them, and kept his eyes sharply on Alex's prisoner.
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