A telegram had reached Laurence early in the afternoon, informing him that "Nurse arrives nine to-night," and at precisely the hour specified in the message a cab drew up at the outside gate of the Manse, and presently a tall cadaverous individual in sombre garments, that somehow suggested the undertaker, was ushered into the dining-room, where supper and Laurence awaited him.
"The—ahem—gentleman from Burton's!" said the young man as the nurse-detective stepped briskly into the room.
"Between yourself and me, yes; to others simply Potter, a qualified nurse," was the new-comer's reply.
"Ah, then your name is Potter?"
"Yes, Oliver Potter, formerly of New Scotland Yard. And the matter requiring my help?"
Laurence proceeded to explain, first motioning to the man to seat himself and try his hand at the viands. Not only did he describe the attempts on his father's life, but detailed his visit to the Dene, his adventure in the barn, and the incidents of the bicycle, which had been taken and eventually returned, and of the appearance of Meadows in the yard on the previous night.
"Ha! quite a nice little mystery," the detective remarked, with his mouth full, when Laurence had finished his narration of the events that seemed to have any bearing on the case in point; "a nice little mystery, apparently somewhat tangled, but no doubt quite superficial."
"I warrant that you will find it anything but superficial," responded Carrington, somewhat nettled at the remark, which seemed a reflection upon the efforts of Lena and himself to obtain some clue that might lead to the detection of the would-be murderer of the Squire. He went on to sketch briefly Miss Scott's undoubtedly ingenious manner of accounting for the various mysterious circumstances.
The detective smiled sarcastically.
"Ingenious, as you say, but most improbable. There must certainly be a simpler solution," he said. "But what of the patient—is he progressing as could be expected? Yes. That is good. It will leave me more time to work in my investigating capacity. By the way, Mr. Carrington, I suppose you don't know if your father belongs to any societies—of an unusual kind, I mean? Nihilistic, for instance, or of a secret nature?"