"I'm too bewildered to be shocked," said Angela.
"Who could have played such a horrid practical joke on me? It's a little bit like—in a ridiculous way—the play of Adrienne Lecouvreur, where a woman is poisoned by a bouquet of flowers sent by a jealous rival. Only I haven't a jealous rival!"
Nick's face hardened. "I'm going to find out who did send the stuff. While you were in the other room I was looking at the wrapper of the box. I can't make out the postmark; but I reckon there are those who can, and I won't rest till I know."
"What can you do to find out?" asked Angela.
"I can put the best detective in San Francisco on to the job. He shall follow up the clues like a bloodhound, and hang on to them when he's got 'em, like a bulldog."
"Oh, but don't let's put off our journey!" Angela exclaimed. "I feel, if we do that, we'll never go. It has always——" she half-whispered, "seemed too good to come true."
"I'd rather do 'most anything than put off the trip," said Nick. "But there's time for everything. We don't leave the hotel till after nine. Dinner won't be ready for a bit; and if you'll let me, I'll go out now and see a man I've heard of—a very smart detective."
But Angela begged him to wait. She hated the thought of being left alone till she was sure that no ill effect need be feared from the poison. So Nick stayed, not unwillingly, and a simple dinner was ordered in haste.
Kate was sure that after what had happened she would have no appetite for dinner; but, like a true Irish girl, she was romantic to the core of her heart; and because she was deeply in love with her Tim, she had the "seeing eye" which showed her clearly what was in Nick Hilliard's heart for Angela.
Of course, he was not good enough for her lady; no man could be. But Kate had a sneaking kindness for Nick, the splendid giver of the golden bag, and would not, by offering her services as cutter-up-of-food for the queen, rob him of the privilege.