“Poor Rose! no doubt she has wept herself into a headache over losing me. I wish she had not loved so well! It makes me feel badly because I know I don’t deserve one of her tears.”
He was interrupted here by a visit from the detective who came, as he had done several times before, to report that he had made no headway with the case.
“The old Indian seeress has covered up her tracks completely. I cannot get the slightest clew to her whereabouts or her identity, and I almost believe that some disguised person played the part of fortune teller, and may be laughing in secret at our fruitless search,” he exclaimed.
While the young man stared at him in startled wonder, he added:
“I have made up my mind that we can do nothing more until Miss Vane, the actress, is able to speak for herself. Doubtless she might tell us something that would furnish a clew. What do you think?”
“It may be so, but I doubt it. She is fast regaining strength, and I hope may soon be interviewed on the subject, although the physician interdicts such conversation now,” Charley answered.
“In that case I will wait before I take any further steps. If she cannot furnish any further clew it will be useless for me to go on, as the murderer or murderess, as the case may be, is securely entrenched behind a disguise we cannot penetrate,” reluctantly owned the detective.
Charley Bonair, after a moment’s meditation, agreed with him that it must be so.
“One more question,” said the baffled sleuth: “Do you know of any malignant enemy Miss Vane can have?”
In his masculine obtuseness, Charley quickly answered: