Mary Roberts Rinehart

“ As I waited at the porte-cochere I saw the under-gardener, an inoffensive, grayish-haired man, trimming borders near the house. The day detective was watching him, sitting on the carriage block. When he saw me, he got up.
"Miss Innes," he said, taking of his hat, "do you know where Alex, the gardener, is?"
"Why, no. Isn't he here?" I asked.
"He has been gone since yesterday afternoon. Have you employed him long?"
"Only a couple of weeks."
"Is he efficient? A capable man?" ”

“ I know much more about boxes of roses than bushes of them."
"This man," pointing to the assistant, "says Alex isn't a gardener. That he doesn't know anything about plants."
"That's very strange," I said, thinking hard. "Why, he came to me from the Brays, who are in Europe."
"Exactly." The detective smiled. "Every man who cuts grass isn't a gardener, Miss Innes, and just now it is our policy to believe every person around here a rascal until he proves to be the other thing." ”

“ The papers, of course, had got hold of the story, and we were besieged by newspaper men. From all over the country false clues came pouring in and raised hopes that crumbled again to nothing. Every morgue within a hundred miles, every hospital, had been visited, without result. ”