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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.
It seemed too hideous to be true that Wisler had telegraphed because there was danger for Angela, and yet Nick did not wait to finish out the sentence in his mind. The Japanese servant, who was cook and valet and chamberman, had brought the telegram and the last luncheon dish at the same time. Now he was providing Billy the chauffeur with something to eat.
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.
And Nick could squeeze no more hints from Max Wisler. Herein lay one secret of the man's success; he had his own methods, and no one could persuade or bribe him to depart from them. This caused him to be respected. And Nick had to leave San Francisco with Mrs. Gaylor and Angela, tingling with unsatisfied curiosity. Mrs.
Loyal as he was by nature, and as he had shown himself to Wisler, modest as to his own deserts, and slow to fancy himself valued by any woman, he could not now help seeing, as Wisler had seen the one motive which could have tempted Carmen Gaylor to send Angela May a box of poison-oak.
It was from Max Wisler, the San Francisco detective, and it said laconically, "Don't let A. M. visit C. G." As Nick read, the blood rushed to his forehead, and he sprang to his feet, knocking over the chair in which he had been sitting. Max Wisler had not been told by him that Mrs. May was to visit Mrs. Gaylor; but that must be what he meant.
And if I don't help you, it's because I can't. I don't want you to lose yourself in the woods, and have to find your way back, to begin all over again." "No. I don't want that, either," said Wisler, smiling his slow smile. "It's a long time since I got lost in the woods, and I'll do my best not to lose my reckoning this time. I must worry along without you, I see. But I'm not discouraged.
It had not occurred to Nick that it could be necessary to mention Angela's brief stay, in telling Wisler that he himself was "running up to Lucky Star." The detective must have found out in some ferreting way of his own. And he had telegraphed, "Don't let A. M. visit C. G." What could be his reason?
Then suddenly a dreadful explanation flashed into Nick's head; flashed there and stayed, as if printed in letters of blood on his brain. Wisler had been right after all. He had found out who sent the box of poison oak. Those hateful questions of his, so much resented, had been justified. There could be no other explanation. Nothing else could excuse this warning.
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