“He cannot, not knowing its real cause. Carmel fell ill before the news of her sister’s death arrived at the house, you remember. Some frightful scene must have occurred between the two, previous to Adelaide’s departure for The Whispering Pines. What that scene was can only be told by Carmel and for her account we must wait. Happily you have an alibi which will serve you in this instance. You were at the station during the time we are speaking of.”
“Has that been proved?”
“Yes; several men saw you there.”
“And the gentleman who brought me the—her letter?” It was more than difficult for me to speak Carmel’s name. “He has not come forward?”
“Not yet; not to my knowledge, at least.”
“And the ring?”
“No news.”
“The nurse—you have told me nothing about her,” I now urged, reverting to the topic of gravest interest to me. “Is she any one we know or an importation of the doctor’s?”
“I did not busy myself with that. She’s a competent woman, of course. I suppose that is what you mean?”
Could I tell him that this was not what I meant at all—that it was her qualities as woman rather than her qualifications as nurse which were important in this case? If she were of a suspicious, prying disposition, given to weighing every word and marking every gesture of a delirious patient, what might we not fear from her circumspection when Carmel’s memory asserted itself and she grew more precise in the frenzy which now exhausted itself in unintelligible cries, or the ceaseless repetition of her sister’s name. The question seemed of such importance to me that I was tempted to give expression to my secret apprehension on this score, but I bethought myself in time and passed the matter over with the final remark: