smooth.

"It seems to be written that you shall save me always from horrors--ever
since the night of the burglar," Angela said, when Kate had gone to the
next room to dispose of the lint.

"I shall be like a child learning to walk alone when my journeyings with
you come to an end."

There was his chance to say, "_Must_ they come to an end?" But Kate was
near; and besides, a snub from Angela might stop the "journeyings" then
and there. So he answered with a mere compliment, as any man may, meaning
nothing at all or a great deal. To save her from danger, it was worth
while to have been born, he said. And he remembered, as he had remembered
many times, how clear had been the call he had heard to go East; a call
like a voice in his ears, crying, "Nick, I want you. Come." He was tempted
to be superstitious, and to believe that unconsciously, in some mysterious
way, Angela had summoned him to be her knight. To be even more, perhaps,
in the end. Who could tell--yet?

It was a good sign, at all events, that she was reluctant to give up the
trip; and Nick decided not to risk confiding in the police. Put the affair
of the poison-oak into their hands, and they would lasso every one
concerned, with yards of red tape! In that case, he and Mrs. May might be
detained in San Francisco. No! A private detective would do the trick; and
Nick had the name of one pigeon-holed in his brain: Max Wisler, a shrewd
fellow, once employed with success by "old Grizzly Gaylor" when there had
been a leakage of money and vanishing of cattle on the ranch. Nick went in
search of Max Wisler now, in a taxi, and found him at the old address; a
queer little frame house, in a part of San Francisco which had been left
untouched by the great fire.

Wisler was at home, and remembered Hilliard. He was fair and fat, with a
manner somewhat cold; unlit by enthusiasm; yet as he listened a gleam
flashed out from his carefully controlled gray eyes, which hinted at
hidden fires. He heard Nick to the end of the story, in silence, playing
always with the leaves of a book which he had been reading--a volume of
Fenimore Cooper's. Still he went on fingering the pages for a minute, when
Hilliard paused expecting questions. Then he looked up suddenly, seeming
literally to catch Nick's eye and hold it by force.

"What woman is jealous of this lady--Mrs. May?" he asked.

"I don't think she knows any woman in California, except Mrs. Falconer's
sister--and a Miss Dene from