CHAPTER XII

A DOOR IS OPENED

As Mr. Converse entered the library he stopped short almost on the

threshold, conscious of a sudden shock. Could that nonchalant,

self-possessed girl be the innocent--

Before the thought was complete his feelings took a pendulum sweep

backward: from extreme surprise and acute disappointment that his

sympathies had been wasted, to admiration and pity, and a satisfying

conviction that, after all, his sympathies were greatly needed. He

bent upon her a keener, more discerning look, and all at once

comprehended that a wealth of profound and conflicting emotions were

possible behind the marble exterior presented to him.

Joyce cast at him a look of such dumb terror that for once he was at

a complete loss how to proceed. He realized the many and varied

potentialities for evil with which her imagination must have invested

him--what a terrible monster he must appear to her--and felt keenly

the disadvantage of his vocal infirmity, anticipating that it would

further prejudice him in her estimation. Yet he must speak, and she

must be made to hear him.

With the revulsion of feeling he advanced into the room. And as he

did so he perceived a tremor pass over the slight frame; she groped

an instant, blindly, with her left hand until it found and

interlocked with her brother's.

The Doctor was seated in the Morris chair, while his sister stood

close by his right side. Now that she required its support, his

stronger masculine nature had asserted itself, and, save for the

haggard visage, Doctor Westbrook was quite his natural self again.

Whatever had passed between them during the last half-hour, they had

undoubtedly arrived at an agreement to brave out the present

interview together.

She was robed in a simple morning-gown of a dead and dull black. The

hint of fragrance, which seemed an aura of her presence, had

apparently lost its interest for Mr. Converse.

"Miss Westbrook," he began, and beheld his fears justified by another

shudder at the first sound of his sibilant voice. But he went on as

evenly and as gently as his vocal defect would permit. "Miss

Westbrook, I have asked for this interview out of a consideration for

you and your family, which the Doctor understands, I believe, and

which you will understand also, no doubt before we are through. As a

detective I am often called upon to do things that are distasteful to

myself, and this is not the least disagreeable task I have ever found

before me. But I can't shirk a plain duty, Miss Westbrook; so if I

attempt to perform that plain duty in a manner that will be the least

distressing to yourself, may I count upon your coöperation and

approval?"

Without altering her attitude, or the slightest change in her pale

countenance, she slowly and silently inclined her head the merest

trifle in acquiescence.

"Very good, Miss Westbrook; thank you. You make it lighter for all

of us. Now, may I suggest that you be seated? At best we shall be

engaged for some time."

Her left hand was still clasped in her brother's; but further than to

indicate with her free hand a chair in which Mr. Converse was at

liberty to seat himself if he chose, she made no response. He took

advantage of the opportunity to the extent of resting one knee on the

chair-seat and his elbows on the back--the straight-backed chair

which had stood by the veranda window.

"Now then, Miss Westbrook, let us go back to the evening of November

fourth," Converse proceeded. He found no encouragement in her frozen

attitude; but his own manner could have been no more cheerful, yet

tempered by a sense of his surroundings and the occasion, nor have

betrayed more of an easy confidence, had he known that the locked

lips were to open, and by a word exorcise the spell of mystery which

held them all. "During the evening of November

fourth--Wednesday--were you not in the Nettleton Building?"

So promptly that it would have staggered a man less used to

surprises, came the reply:

"I refuse to answer."

Even the Captain was taken aback, although it was not in his immobile

features to yield a hint of the fact. As he put the question, he

noted a convulsive tightening of the hand that still clasped the

Doctor's; but the soft eyes did not waver nor the beautiful face

alter its expression. The words were faintly spoken; nevertheless

they were vibrant with a determined and set purpose, and Converse was

overwhelmed with that sense of helpless impatience which is apt to

assail one in the face of mistaken obstinacy.

"This is very unfortunate," he observed with deepened gravity. "Miss

Westbrook, I would not presume to advise you, but you are wrong,

wrong--and how can I convince you?" He regarded the still figure, as

unresponsive as a waxen image. No assistance there. He glanced at

Doctor Westbrook, only to meet another pair of eyes showing an

unalterable purpose.

"This conversation might as well end here and now," he at length

concluded, addressing the Doctor; and added with pointed

deliberation, "You know what that means."

Doctor Westbrook glanced at the silent, motionless figure beside him,

and moved uneasily. Was is possible that the uncompromising attitude

of this mere girl, and it alone, was responsible for the deadlock?

To a certain extent she was herself a mystery, an enigma, and what

with her immobility and silence, her dimness of outline in the

darkened library, she was as intangible and inscrutable as Paquita.

Out of the shadow that marked where she stood the violet eyes glowed

like two stars, the beautiful features, surrounded by their halo of

ebon hair, now only a denser shadow, loomed as pallid as death, and

the Captain was irritatingly aware of his inability so far to grasp

at anything definite by which to frame his speech. At any rate,

whether or no she was the controlling spirit, it would seem the

Doctor endeavored to temporize.

"Mr. Converse," he began presently, "you have called our attention to

the fact that you are simply performing a duty,--that you are doing

so with a delicate consideration for our feelings which perhaps we

don't deserve,--but I assure you, sir, we do appreciate your tact and

thoughtfulness, and it must appear that we are making a poor return

for such kindness. But consider this: there are possible issues to

this crisis that may prove disastrous to persons entirely

unblameworthy. Can you not imagine the possibility of a situation in

which we should be compelled to move with the utmost caution, wherein

we must rely solely upon our own judgment? Good God!" he suddenly

exploded, "think of Joyce--my sister--think of a fair young girl

being entangled in anything so damnable!"

[Illustration: Joyce Was Herself a Mystery, an Enigma, as Inscrutable

as "Paquita."]

Converse cast a covert glance at the girl, to note the effect of this

outburst; but her manner revealed not the slightest alteration. It

was plain that such determination would betray nothing by either a

word or sign. But why? Speculation upon this question led swiftly

and surely to the darkest possibilities--nay, probabilities--that

might elucidate her conduct.

He made another effort.

"If you would but dismiss the idea that I am an enemy--"

"Ah," interrupted the Doctor, quickly; "I understand your impersonal

attitude exactly, Mr. Converse. You are not an enemy. If the way

were clear before you to do so, I think we could count on you as a

trustworthy friend to extricate us from our difficulties. On the

other hand--well, to be brief, it is this impersonal attitude which

may prove inimical to us. I--I--pardon me, I can't be more explicit."

"I might construe such a statement to mean that, were I to perform my

duty in the light of actual facts, the operation would be--well,

disagreeable to you."

The response was a lifting of the brows and a shrug of the shoulders,

which said quite plainly--perhaps more plainly than the Doctor

intended,--"I cannot prevent your placing any construction upon my

words you may see fit."

"If you will permit the observation, Doctor," Converse remarked,

dryly, "your words are contradictory to come from a man entirely

innocent."

A flash from the physician's eyes gave warning of an angry rejoinder;

but another unconscious movement of the hand which held his so

tightly brought his sister sharply to mind, it would seem, and the

words, when uttered, betrayed a note of helplessness.

"My God!" he exclaimed, "don't I know it? But what do mere denials

amount to in the face of this suspicion?"

"Yet there is something within your knowledge, and arising out of

these crimes, which you unequivocally refuse to tell me."

"I have nothing to say, Mr. Converse."

"Not even in the face of evidence seriously compromising Miss

Westbrook?"

Of a sudden the alert Captain became aware of a change in the

statue-like girl. It was slight, indefinable--telepathic rather than

openly perceptible,--but he fancied the fixed look with which she

regarded him assumed an added intentness at this stage. He even felt

for one brief instant that she meant to speak; but if such had been

her purpose, a second thought prevailed, and she remained motionless

and silent. He turned abruptly to her.

"Miss Westbrook," said he, "is it of any use for me to make another

appeal to you?"

Although he waited for an answer, she made no sign that would

indicate she had heard. With an air of finality, he presently pushed

back the chair and stood upright.

"Well," he went on, "after the course this talk has taken there

remains but one thing for me to do. I regret that you feel you would

be conferring a favor instead of accepting an opportunity--which

happens to be the situation; but I--"

Doctor Westbrook raised a protesting hand.

"Just a moment," he interposed with anxious haste. "You assert that

my sister's situation is critical." Again the Captain had the

feeling that Miss Westbrook's impassivity cloaked a strained

attention; but, as before, if the emotion existed, her frozen

attitude yielded no token of it. Was she anxious for an expression

of his views upon this point? "Suppose," the Doctor continued, "the

least admission on our part would lead to complications which would

hopelessly involve her, is it our place to speak? If the situation

is such that a full explanation cannot be given,--tell me, is not our

position onerous--unbearable? ... Now then, Mr. Converse, be candid,"

he concluded, with an abrupt, confidential dropping of his voice, "is

it not the truth that you would not have asked her if she was present

that evening, if you could prove that she was? And tell me, what has

all this to do with last night's crime?"

For a moment Converse felt a tide of anger rising within him; he all

at once realized that, as an officer of the law--as a mere machine

operating in a fixed routine--he had made a mistake; he had allowed a

generous impulse to interpose and thwart an end of great importance;

and now, when it was too late, he must make an effort to remedy his

error. Without the least warning, he fastened his compelling,

probing regard full upon Joyce. It was a look that had made hardened

criminals tremble, and at last the girl's impassiveness gave way.

With an involuntary clutching of the clasped hand she shrank closer

to her brother. For a moment she returned the look; then her glance

wavered--fell; the sooty lashes swept her cheeks, where two spots of

color began slowly to appear, and the statue was quickened into life.

"And would you really care to know, Miss Westbrook, what I think of

it?" he asked, with a significant quietness that startled her into

speech.

"Yes--I--I--" she faltered and stopped. She looked wildly from the

Doctor to the terrible figure confronting her; then with a mighty

effort she regained control of herself, and concluded in a voice

firmer, but very low, "It is of no interest to me."

Mr. Converse acknowledged the reply with a bow of exaggerated

deference.

"You overlook Mr. Clay Fairchild," he remarked, dryly.

Another tightening of the clasped hands, and another tremor through

the girl's slight frame, were the sole responses to this final chance

shot, until Doctor Westbrook's voice broke in.

"Pardon me, I have not," said he. "But I wasn't aware that he was

under consideration."

"Perhaps not," was the crisp retort, "openly. He is an important

factor, however." His glance swerved to Joyce with a light that

asked quite plainly, "Is he not?"

But only the Doctor replied. "Indeed?" with ingenuous surprise.

"But he seems quite effectually to have effaced himself."

Converse shot another glance at Joyce.

"Well, as for that," he said, slowly, "I have reason to believe that

I might have laid hands upon him, if I had been in this neighborhood

last night between--h-m-m-m--between ten and twelve o'clock." If he

expected this avowal of what he imagined the circumstances to be to

make any impression upon the girl he was disappointed; for she was

again the frozen image, not to be swayed by any influence under his

control.

But not so the Doctor. He looked at the detective, with knitted

brow, for a moment; then, after a hasty side-glance at his sister, "I

see," he said; "I am merely a peg upon which to hang references to

things of which I am entirely ignorant. Come, Mr. Converse, you

expect frankness from us; be open yourself."

The Captain shrugged his shoulders. "My attempt at frankness met

with rather a cool reception"--with some sarcasm--"but I will adopt

your suggestion, and have done.... Miss Westbrook, at what time last

night did you leave Mrs. Farquier's?" The abruptness of the address

startled her again momentarily; but somewhat to Mr. Converse's

surprise, she answered almost at once.

Her recital agreed in all essentials with what Mr. Converse already

knew of her movements. She had heard the shots, but had been unable

to locate them; and it was but a minute or two thereafter that she

had come upon her father's stark body in the library.

At this juncture a knock sounded upon the library door.

"Allow me," the Captain interposed, quickly, addressing the Doctor;

"I think it is one of my men."

He opened the door, disclosing McCaleb, who appeared much less ornate

in the more sober garments of the ordinary citizen.

"Wait just outside the door until I call you, Mac," said Converse, in

an aside clearly audible to the Doctor and Joyce; "I think I shall

need you in a minute." He unceremoniously closed the door in the

young man's face.

"Now then, Miss Westbrook," he resumed, turning again to her, "will

you tell me what you were doing on the premises--in the yard--between

ten and twelve o'clock at night?"

"See here, Mr. Converse," the Doctor broke in, rather sharply; "I

don't know what this is all about, but I protest against the personal

nature of this question. My sister is neither on the witness-stand

nor accused--"

With a single imperative gesture, the speaker was silenced.

"Tell me, Miss Westbrook, were you alone?"

The lovely, subdued eyes flashed forth a startled look; but Joyce

made no reply.

"Miss Westbrook, I will go further in offering you this opportunity:

I will say that I know you were not alone. Come, now, who was with

you?"

Still silence. The mention of Fairchild's name had produced no

effect; it might be well to try another.

"Was it Mr. Lynden?"

The girl responded precisely as she had to the first question, the

same words uttered in the same tone:

"I refuse to answer."

Another shrug of the shoulders signalized the end of Mr. Converse's

forbearance. He strode hastily to the door, but turned and paused

with his hand upon the handle.

Was it a stifled cry that had reached his ears? The girl was now

standing with the back of her free hand pressed tightly to her lips,

and in her eyes was a look of despair that smote him to the heart.

Great heavens, what did she mean? Was man ever confronted by such

perverseness, or beset by a more irritating perplexity! Why did she

not speak?

"I make one more appeal to you," he said, after regarding her a

moment. "Do not misconstrue this. If you do not speak, my

alternative is to arrest you. Do you comprehend that? When I open

this door, it will be to introduce an officer who will become your

custodian. Will you not believe that my motives in thus appealing to

you are prompted solely by a desire to spare you the distress that

will be inflicted if you do not open your lips? Consider before you

answer; will you give me your confidence? Shall the door remain

closed--or shall I open it?"

For one brief moment Joyce had all the appearance of some hunted

thing hopelessly cornered. She looked wildly from the officer to her

brother, who sat with set and rigid features, and back to the officer

again. All at once, it seemed, her resolution was made; or, if she

had hesitated, strength was given her to maintain her purpose. Her

agitation vanished, and she returned Mr. Converse's look fearlessly

and half defiantly.

"I have nothing to confide," was the response, uttered with firmness

and the quiet of a determination not to be swayed.

With a bow, Converse threw open the door.

"Come in, McCaleb," he said, his manner now brisk and business-like;

then, turning to the Doctor: "This man is an officer who, for the

present, will be responsible for Miss Westbrook's movements. Now

then, Doctor, hear my final word. I have made one mistake in

allowing consideration for your sister--young and inexperienced as

she is--to come between me and my duty. I am going to assume the

risk again by offering you another opportunity. I see that you feel

the matter keenly, but this issue of our conference is the fault of

you two. Still, it is terrible thus to thrust the stigma of such a

crime upon a mere girl--little short of the crime itself,--and in the

hope that I can soon clear up this fog of mystery, I am going to be

guilty of a dereliction. Give me your word that Miss Westbrook will

neither attempt to leave the house nor communicate with anybody

outside, without first reporting to McCaleb, and for the

present--until it becomes unavoidable to act otherwise--she may

remain here."

With a sudden movement, Doctor Westbrook released Joyce's hand, and

pressed his own hand to his brow.

"Good God!" he groaned, "this is intolerable. Joyce--dear

sister--tell--"

But he got no further. The final word acted like the touch that

releases a taut spring, and she fairly precipitated herself upon him,

sending one look of such utter terror and desperation at Mr. Converse

that his perplexity deepened into blank amazement, and at the same

time she clapped a hand over her brother's mouth.

"You swore you would not," she whispered, almost fiercely. "Mobley,

you swore. If they were to tear me limb from limb before your eyes I

would not consent to have you tell."

The Doctor's head dropped, and with a gentle movement he took the

small hand from out his beard, kissed it tenderly, and sat

abstractedly caressing it.

Joyce's lovely countenance grew beatific in its exultation.

"Converse," despairingly, "I give you my word."

"Unless you or the young lady cause it to be otherwise," said the

Captain, softly, "the matter may remain private among us

four--unless, of course," he supplemented, "the next day or two fails

to reveal something substantial to lay before the District Attorney.

I do not extend any false hopes. The seriousness of Miss Westbrook's

position can scarcely be magnified.... McCaleb, you have heard; act

accordingly until you receive other instructions."

"May my sister retire?" asked Doctor Westbrook.

"Certainly. Her movements are not to be restricted or spied upon, or

interfered with in any manner or degree--within the house, of course.

You understand this, Mac."

The young man nodded. His manner was extremely sober; it was quite

patent that he was not insusceptible to the beauty of his charge.

Joyce started slowly toward the door, close by which McCaleb yet

stood. She was probably half-way between the group of two--her

brother, old and haggard in the chair, the other as menacing and

inexorable as Fate,--and the younger man who looked at her with frank

pity, when she paused and turned to her brother. There was a faint

smile upon her lips; her eyes were soft, and it appeared as if she

were about to speak. But before any one of the three could offer her

the least assistance, she sank quietly to the floor, unconscious.

BOOK II.

CHARLOTTE FAIRCHILD

_She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies,

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meets in her aspect and her eyes,

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress

Or softly lightens o'er her face,

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,--

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent._

--BYRON.

_This is as strange a maze as e'er men trod;

. . . . . . some oracle

Must rectify our knowledge._

--THE TEMPEST.

CHAPTER I

MISS CHARLOTTE WAITS IN THE HALL

Somewhat more than a score of years before the opening of this story,

Richard Fairchild, after quietly contemplating the parcelling of his

once fair estate among a horde of clamoring, quarrelling creditors,

chief of whom was his erstwhile overseer, William Slade, the

elder,--strolled leisurely into the country, as quietly placed a

pistol to his head and blew out his brains. He did not leave behind

property of sufficient value to defray his modest burial expenses.

This succession of disasters at one stroke transformed the wife from

a famous and envied beauty into a broken invalid, petulant,

querulous, and exacting, living only in the memory of her days of

happiness, and made of her daughter Charlotte a strangely quiet and

sedate woman, bound to her helpless mother's side as with hoops of

steel. Clay was then but a babe.

The tiny cottage that received the invalid mother, the dark-eyed

daughter, and the infant son was part of a slender legacy bequeathed

Charlotte by a maiden aunt; and with the passing years the old

homestead became merely a melancholy ruin, half hidden by weeds and

underbrush, infested by owls and bats, and an occasion for wonder at

the probable motives which prompted the present Slade so to neglect

it. Nothing stirred now beneath the crumbling roof-tree but rats and

mice--and shadows.

If those persons who marvelled at Slade's parsimony or queer ideas of

economy could have been present at a scene which occurred at the

cottage on the evening of the night General Westbrook was

assassinated, they might have found an answer to their mental

queries. Yet we may only know what Miss Charlotte herself saw and

heard.

To begin with, she was startled by a sound of unfamiliar footsteps on

the front porch, an uncertain movement toward the door, and finally

by a knocking upon the door itself.

She took up a lamp and advanced down the narrow hall to the small

reception-hall. Without any hesitation she unlocked the door and

opened it wide at once; and it is probable that no apparition of any

person, dead or living, could have affected her so profoundly as what

she then beheld in the light of the lamp. She was so astonished at

sight of the crusty abstracter that she stood quite speechless. On

the other hand, it is noteworthy in estimating Mr. Slade's character

that he snatched off his hat and ducked his head, much as he might

have done in the old days when he stepped aside from the road to

allow the family coach to roll by. Plainly, he was uneasy, out of

his element, and the shallow, jet-like eyes at once became shifty

before the unfathomable ones which regarded him with such frank

surprise and displeasure.

But her expression rapidly altered: her eyes darkened, their light

hardened--if the expression is permissible--and her lips compressed;

never before had a Slade stood in the doorway of the cottage. The

brightly glowing flame of hospitality was extinguished before this

unexpected blast.

This silence was something more than Slade could endure. Nervously,

he emitted a dry, deprecatory cough behind his knuckly fingers.

"Miss Charlotte, is it not?" he finally ventured.

"What do you want?" was the blunt reply.

Propitiation was difficult for Slade, especially in the face of such

obvious, uncompromising antipathy. His nervousness measurably

increased, and he replied, rather incoherently

"Pardon me, Miss Charlotte, I know it seems strange--why I am here, I

mean; but I must see--dear me, I can't explain.... Can't you hold

the light a little more out of my eyes? Oh, very well.... Your

mother--Mrs. Fairchild--I must see her on business--very important,

Miss Charlotte."

Her amazement only deepened.

"Business with mamma!" she cried, incredulously. "Why, that is

ridiculous--absurd; mamma has transacted no business for years. What

in the world do you mean?"

He seemed to be painfully aware of his awkward, ungainly, and untidy

appearance, and of the harshness of his voice; he was overcome by a

sense that this woman, who looked him through and through as if he

were transparent, would regard any misfortune that might befall him

with precisely the same expression. He made a strenuous effort at

composure, with the result that his naturally sour and churlish

disposition was given an opportunity to assert itself.

"My business goes behind those years," he said; "and if you please,

it is none of yours."

"Indeed?" The rising inflection soared to glacial heights. "If you

will excuse me I will close the door. When my brother returns--"

A sudden look of cunning in the little jet eyes checked her.

"Hear me a moment," he presently said. "My errand affects--" He

paused briefly and looked at her with a slightly different

expression, as if determining how far to trust her; but he uttered no

confidence. "Come, Miss," he at last finished, "if you don't admit

me you--your mother--your brother--your brother, eh?--will suffer for

it."

Still inflexibly barring the entrance: "Do you mean that your errand

concerns Clay?" she asked. Unconsciously, a note of anxiety had

crept into her voice, which, in spite of his deafness, Slade caught,

and he was quick to take advantage of it.

Doubtfully, still a little bewildered, but her hostility for this man

not in the least abated, she stepped aside at last, and coldly bade

him to enter. She placed the lamp upon a table in the tiny hall.

"Wait here," she enjoined, briefly, without offering him a seat, and

so left him.

Charlotte Fairchild was one of those very tall women, with whom we

rarely meet, who are not awkward. Instead, when she walked every

movement seemed to flow in graceful ripples from feet to shoulders,

beginning without abruptness and dying gradually away like the

wavelets on the surface of a disturbed pond. A couplet of Herrick's

pictures her:

"Then, then (methinks), how sweetly flows

The liquefaction of her clothes."

And yet her step was firm and swift, giving her a bearing exquisitely

impressive.

Her hands and feet were beautifully formed, long, slender, and

tapering, as becomes a tall woman; and her voice was one of those

rich, liquid contraltos, always effective because always subdued. It

was in accord with her habitual repose; but it hinted at unlimited

possibilities of elemental strength, and the presence of many and

varied forces behind her calm exterior.

Her command to Mr. Slade was imperative, and he stood uncertainly

watching her as she walked down the hall. At its end she opened a

door, and even the man's faulty hearing could catch the high,

impatient voice in the room beyond; a voice which had an odd effect

upon him, too, for the lean, irascible visage actually brightened,

and a light very like eagerness shot from the jetty eyes.

"Child, who was it?" the voice was saying. "What kept you so long?

Is there any news of--" And the door closed again.

Mr. Slade was obliged to stand there many minutes, fingering his

rusty felt hat, before Charlotte reappeared and, with a single

queenly gesture, beckoned him to approach. But when he finally

advanced into the room, Mrs. Fairchild, paralyzed from the waist

down, might have been a chatelaine, and he the overseer, the steward,

seeking audience on affairs concerning the estate. So did the

inherent and ineradicable traits of relative breeding naturally and

unconsciously manifest themselves. Although he had secured the

coveted admission, the manner of his reception was undoubtedly

discouraging to his purpose. Mrs. Fairchild's first words and her

mien were a further check to approaching his object.

"Well, Slade," she began, with unconscious but none the less galling

patronage, "what can I do for you? Dear me! You do not favor your

father in the least.... Daughter, hand me my glasses.... Thank

you.... He was such a large, florid man. But probably your health--"

"Mamma," Charlotte gently interrupted, "Mr. Slade has come on

business. Perhaps he cannot be detained." She had taken a position

behind her mother's chair, and had leant down until her lips were

close to the lace cap. As she stood upright again, Mrs. Fairchild

protested petulantly:

"Yes, yes, child; I know. I do not mean to detain him..... What

were you saying, Slade?"

That individual presented a spectacle of overwhelming embarrassment.

He had not opened his mouth since entering the room, and now, when he

did, it was to appeal to the daughter.

"For God's sake, Miss Charlotte," he whispered hoarsely, as if he did

not intend the mother to hear, "for God's sake, leave us. What I

have to say is very private; indeed it is. I will have done as soon

as possible."

Charlotte remained motionless behind her mother's chair, returning to

this astonishing outburst a look of wonder. The older woman also

regarded the man with an expression of surprise.

On rare occasions--especially under any sudden mental shock or access

of feeling--Mrs. Fairchild's intellect assumed something of its

old-time activity and brightness. Slade was sensible of such a

change now, though unable to define it; he felt the personality

manifesting itself in her look, and he turned from Charlotte to her

with whom lay his first interest.

"I cannot imagine the occasion for such an extraordinary demand,

Slade," the afflicted lady said at length; "but if it may be of any

advantage to you my daughter shall retire."

"No, no, mamma," Charlotte protested, quickly. "I fear to leave you

with this--this man. I shall be deaf and blind, but I cannot leave

you."

Never before had such a request been made of her, and a growing dread

had awakened in her bosom that Slade's errand boded ill for her

mother. Whence come these premonitions of impending evil? To what

mysterious depths of our being do they owe their source, and why is

it customary to deride them? Experience certainly justifies that we

bestow upon these inward promptings a serious consideration, yet we

almost invariably ignore and ridicule them. And now the silent

warning cries, "Stay!"

With a design quite patent, Charlotte again addressed her mother.

"Do not forget Clay," she remarked; and the vagrant memory instantly

fastened upon the name.

"I remember perfectly that we were discussing Clay," was the petulant

retort, "when I was directed away from the topic. Pray do not

intimate that I am forgetful, Charlotte. I hope you do not so far

forget the duty and respect you owe me that you can entertain such a

ridiculous idea, to say nothing of uttering it. Proceed, Slade, with

what you were saying about my son."

He fixed his beady eyes upon Charlotte, and coughed dryly behind his

knuckly hand.

"When the girl goes," said he, recovering in a measure his composure.

"Remember, I asked for and you granted an audience--private."

"An audience?"--the word caught--"a conference? Why, certainly,

Slade." The request was granted with a sudden assumption of

dignity--a fleeting, simple remnant of other times--that caused the

daughter much concern. Charlotte feared the result of a refusal to

withdraw quite as much as she feared to leave her mother alone with

Slade; but with many misgivings she reluctantly turned away and

departed from the room, closing the door behind her.

No earthly interest was powerful enough to allow her to remain where

she might overhear one word not intended for her ears; still, the

feeling of dread, in spite of Mr. Slade's assurances, was real and

insistent; above all things she wanted to linger within sound of her

mother's voice.

What powerful motive had dictated to-night's intrusion? For,

earnestly as she despised the man, she could not imagine him pushing

his way into the house upon a mere whim, or for any trifling matter.

She cast back over the past as far as her memory could penetrate, but

no circumstance appeared to afford the slightest explanation of the

mysterious visit, unless--unless it had, indeed, to do with her

brother. And here her thoughts faltered, for there were many reasons

why the idea should increase her anxiety.

She glided noiselessly to the front door, and throwing it open,

looked out into the night. An overwhelming sense of her loneliness

and isolation fell upon her. The feeling was but momentary, however,

since she attacked such encroachments of depression with as much

ardor as she could muster forth from her dauntless spirit.

Occasionally the black humor mastered her, but it would not do to

give way to-night. What did William Slade, son of a treacherous

steward, want of her mother--the poor wreck of womanhood who could

bestow nothing? But Atropos, in severing the past from the present,

was cutting with her shears a strange pattern, the outlines of which

neither Charlotte's nor any eye could perceive.

The faint murmur of voices came to her where she stood, and although

she strove not to permit her interest to acquire listening ears, it

was unavoidable that she should hear and note certain things: that

the caller was doing most of the talking; that, while the words were

wholly unintelligible, he seemed to be speaking with vehemence, and

that her mother's share in the conversation was apparently limited to

occasional ejaculations of surprise. This continued for many

minutes, during which Charlotte stood motionless, her tall, willowy

form drawn into a rigid erectness. Under the tensity of her anxious

expectation, her sensitive nostrils distended and contracted, and her

eyes glowed, in the dimly lighted hall, with an unnatural brightness.

Of a sudden the voices ceased, and she heard Slade take a step or

two. Next, the faint crackling of paper, the inadvertent snapping of

a rubber band, were barely distinguishable--and silence.

Her stretched imagination insensibly portrayed a vivid picture of the

scene: the man probably had handed her mother some document, and was

awaiting her perusal of it; he stood awkwardly fumbling that

ridiculous hat, while her mother searched vainly--no, she had her

glasses. Possibly, under stress of the excitement, her faculties

were quite normal. If so, she was reading the document--and what was

its effect?

But if Mrs. Fairchild was indeed reading, she did not read far. A

sudden horrified exclamation almost caused Charlotte to hasten into

the room; but it was followed so quickly by the voices again that she

paused. Now her mother was talking volubly. Charlotte even fancied

she could detect contempt and scorn in the tones. Such being the

case, the usually clouded faculties must now be abnormally active.

Slade was by turns protesting, pleading, and giving way to his

peevish temper. The spirited colloquy came to an abrupt end in a

single piercing cry:

"Charlotte!"

For an instant her heart ceased beating; a benumbing chill paralyzed

her power of volition; then she rushed to the door and threw it open

with a crash.

What she beheld explained but little to her alarmed senses. Her own

appearance must have been awe-inspiring, for simultaneously with her

advent, Slade recoiled in obvious alarm. She could see that her

mother had been powerfully moved by some recent agitation, the

exciting influence of which had by no means subsided; and whatever

the different phases of that emotion might have been, they had

undoubtedly crystallized into a violently active antipathy for Mr.

William Slade. Her right hand was extended toward Slade, palm

outward, as if to ward off an expected attack; or was it to guard the

papers crushed so convulsively in her left hand and pressed so

fiercely against her laboring bosom?

As for the man, it was patent that the situation was an unexpected

and deeply disappointing outcome of his visit. More than that, he

appeared overwhelmed, stunned, crushed, as if the issue involved an

essential to his being. Nevertheless, however, whether his conduct

had been intentional or not, an anger, terrible in its quietness,

gushed from the deep well of Charlotte's passionate nature, stirring

the man from his despondency by its very intensity.

"Go!" she commanded, her flexible voice striking its deepest note;

and Slade stepped back as though he had been slapped in the face.

With a swift, lithe movement, Charlotte stooped and gathered her

mother's head to her own heaving breast. Slade opened his mouth, as

if to speak, but the words were stopped by a repetition of the

inexorable, compelling, low-voiced command:

"Go!"

He retreated nearer the door, and all at once his malignant nature

was reflected in his face. He regarded Charlotte with a look of

mingled malevolence and fear, and had his been the stronger

personality he might have done her violence. But as it was, his

bloodless lips were drawn back in a snarl of hate and baffled

purpose, although he was plainly cowed by the wrath blazing in the

eloquent eyes. He made an effort, nevertheless.

"My papers," he hissed. One hand was extended, the bony fingers

crooked like a vulture's claw. "My papers--Elinor, you have no

right--"

"Go!"

Slade was not an Ajax to defy the lightning of that glance; without

another word, with but one more glance of malice and fruitless hate,

he slunk from the room--from the house--beaten and confounded.

The busy little clock on the mantel--with which time was indeed

fleeting--at once became the most conspicuous object in the room;

falling embers on the hearth told of a dying fire, but to unheeding

ears; a gust of cool, moist air swept in through the unclosed front

door, and the two women maintained unaltered positions--ten

minutes--fifteen--until Charlotte felt a tremor pass through her

mother. Her expression softened rapidly, and her look and tones were

all gentleness and solicitude as she bowed her head to the invalid's

face.

"It's all right, mamma," she said, coaxingly. "He's gone. He could

not have hurt you, dear; he is too contemptible a coward." In spite

of the soothing voice, her expressive upper lip involuntarily curled.

"Think of something else," she went on; "think of being here--in my

arms--safe." But she was distressed to see that her words and calm

manner made not the least impression; that her mother was utterly

deaf to them. The invalid was plainly laboring under a fixed idea

which neutralized every other influence; and suddenly she thrust

Charlotte away from her. It did not relieve the daughter to know

that the action was involuntary; that the mother was oblivious of her

presence; instead, her fears were rapidly intensified by a biting

doubt of the probable result of this extraordinary excitement. The

expression of fear and horror had not faded from the distended eyes,

and the papers were yet clutched to her breast with a grip that left

the knuckles white and bloodless.

"Mother! Don't--don't look like that!" Charlotte cried in sudden

alarm. "What is it? What has that horrible man done to frighten you

so? Come, dear; lay your head here, and tell me all about it.

There, there; nothing can harm you, mamma dear."

Quite as abruptly as she had pushed Charlotte from herself, Mrs.

Fairchild now suddenly extended toward her daughter the papers still

clutched so closely by a trembling hand. Even in her nervous anxiety

Charlotte remarked that there were quite a number of them, and that

they were typewritten and bound, after the manner of legal documents.

"Here--child--take these!" The words came convulsively, in quick,

nervous gasps. "The fire--hold them down--until the last vestige is

destroyed." Her utterance rose to such a mad vehemence that the

words became almost incoherent. "Don't look! Don't look at them!

Burn them!--burn them!--_burn them!_"

Charlotte's heart was throbbing with a maddening terror, her thoughts

whirling aimlessly, like a flock of frightened birds. Without

warning, Mrs. Fairchild reached out and clutched both her daughter's

hand and the papers together.

"Swear, child," she went on, in the same frenzied manner; "swear to

your helpless mother that you will not look at them; swear that you

will burn them here before my eyes--now. Swear!"

"Mamma!" Charlotte protested, with a fleeting idea of possible future

consequences,--again, the inward prompting,--"Mamma, have I the

right? What may happen if I obey you? Oh, mother dear, wait! Wait

until you are calmer; you are overwrought now; you do not know what

you are exacting. Dear--dear mamma, I shall not look at them; but

let me place--"

But this earnest though gentle opposition so fanned the fire of

excitement that Charlotte instantly regretted her words.

"Child, obey me!" the mother commanded, with almost savage

fierceness. "Hesitate one instant longer, and I shall hurl my

worthless body to the floor and drag myself to the fireplace with my

two hands." Then, in a quick transition, "O, God!--Charlotte!--my

daughter!" she moaned; "to think I am helpless in this awful hour!"

"Hush, hush, dear; I will do as you say, instantly. I will hold them

down to the coals until nothing remains but ashes. See--"

But stay your hand, Charlotte! What if you now hold the only

existing evidence--the only barrier that stands between dear ones and

disaster! Is it some premonition of the truth that causes you to

hesitate?

Alas, the papers flutter to the coals!

"See, mamma; they burn."

When the last flame had expired, when nothing but flakes of black

ashes were arising on the draught and vanishing up the chimney, Mrs.

Fairchild began to laugh--violently, dreadfully.

It was a night of horror for Charlotte. Quite ignorant of the cause

of her mother's fearful condition, she was obliged to tend the frail

body through alternating fits of hysterical laughter and weeping, and

to hearken to wild, disordered monologues, in which the names of

Peyton Westbrook, William Slade, and her own dead father were

repeated over and over again, incoherently, in a grotesque,

unintelligible association.

However, out of the incomprehensible jumble of words and scraps of

sentences, Charlotte began at last to construct a meaning--very vague

and unsatisfying, to be sure, and exciting an almost unbearable

curiosity to know more; but still a meaning. The three names seemed

to be mingled in her mother's distraught mind, intimately interwoven

with some nameless horror; and the poor shattered intellect was

struggling beneath an obsession that a dire calamity threatened

General Westbrook.

And also, as she listened, there came presently to her a most

peculiar fancy--woven of such stuff as dreams are made of, but

sufficiently tangible to cause her to wonder; a fancy that caused her

to murmur incredulously, "Mamma and General Westbrook!" and to

contrast the woman as she now was with a certain portrait of Elinor

Clay which graced the daughter's chamber; to picture the General as

he appeared when a young man. A great feeling of newly born pity for

her helpless mother stirred in her bosom. How incredible that this

querulous, and in many ways childish, invalid could have retained

such a secret so many years. Indeed, what a strange coupling of

names! What tragedy of starved romance lay hidden here!

But what threatened General Westbrook?

Charlotte was destined never to hear from her mother. When the

clamorous little clock told her that dawn was near, Mrs. Fairchild

began to grow quieter, and at last to doze; and from that sleep she

can scarcely be said to have awakened, unless to be deprived of the

least volition of every member, to be unable to utter an articulate

sound, to be more helpless and dependent than a babe newly born, is

to be counted among the quick instead of the dead.

CHAPTER II

MISS CHARLOTTE ENTERTAINS A CALLER

It will be remembered that when Mr. Converse's last _tête-à-tête_

with Mr. Follett was interrupted by the summons to appear at

headquarters, he had just terminated a long period of reflection with

the announcement that he at last knew the means of finding young Mr.

Fairchild. Despite the night's turbulent events, when he left the

Westbrook home in charge of McCaleb and another plain-clothes man

detailed from headquarters, it was in pursuance of a plan that had

been incubating in his mind during the hours when other matters were

apparently occupying his exclusive attention. Immediately after his

unsatisfactory interview with Joyce and her brother, he went as

directly to the Fairchild cottage as the street cars would carry him.

The humble abode of the Fairchilds nestled snugly in a covering of

climbing roses, honeysuckle, and feathery-fronded cypress. Flowers

bloomed everywhere; for upon her garden Charlotte lavished a love

otherwise denied expression, and Mr. Converse's eyes kindled when

they caught this riot of blossom. Should a human analyst attempt a

dissection of this man's character, he would be very much astonished

to find an inborn love for beautiful flowers among its other unusual

traits.

A certain aged fragment of the old family _ménage_, known familiarly

as Polly Ann, ushered the Captain into the tiny entrance-hall; and

when Miss Charlotte appeared he seemed somewhat startled. He had

never seen her, that he knew of, and from the account the man Adams

had given of his experience on the night of the De Sanchez affair,

while trying to find Clay, he had come prepared to deal with a sour,

crabbed female of uncertain age and an uncompromising manner. The

quiet entrance of this handsome, graceful woman left him disconcerted

for an instant. A woman with such an air, with such remarkable eyes,

was no ordinary woman, and she could not be dealt with in an ordinary

way. One might as well try to move a mountain as to intimidate a

person who regarded one so fearlessly; who met the sharp, compelling

glance with a look of polite inquiry which clearly indicated that it

knew not how to falter.

Converse's plans to find the young man suddenly evaporated; but

another idea, vastly farther reaching, arose in his mind instead.

"Converse?" Charlotte repeated when he had announced his identity;

and after a slight hesitation she asked, "The detective engaged in

the De Sanchez case, are you not?" Her dark eyes continued to regard

him steadily; there was not the faintest play of expression in her

face, which seemed merely sad and worn and white; but during the

brief hesitation he noticed that she laid one hand above her heart.

"I am either going to have plain sailing here," the caller mentally

observed, "or in about two minutes there begins the devil's own time

for John Converse." To her question he answered:

"Yes, Miss Fairchild; and I hope my unceremonious call does not

startle you. While you must grant me your indulgence, let me assure

you at the outset that there is not the slightest occasion for

alarm." The keen gray eyes became all at once fixed and compelling,

giving a forceful meaning to the concluding words. "I have come here

to give you an opportunity to help a friend out of a very serious

trouble."

For an instant she regarded him blankly; then quickly her

countenance, her glance, became fairly electrified.

"A friend?--trouble?--whom?" she demanded, briefly and directly.

As we know, it was not Mr. Converse's custom to take strangers into

his confidence, to express theories, nor to yield up motives; but if

he was certain of anything at this moment, it was a conviction that

whatever success was to come from this meeting depended entirely upon

his sincerity and absolute frankness. If such eyes and such a manner

did not mean constancy and unshakable loyalty to friends, then these

virtues did not exist. If he concealed anything at all, it would be

to spare her feelings.

There was a pause after her question. The cold, masterful gray eyes

returned the look of the fearless, lovely dark eyes during a silence

wherein each sought to read the other's purpose. Then he replied:

"Miss Fairchild, it will take some time to answer your question; it

involves so much, and I shall have to tell you so much before you can

understand, that I fear your patience will--"

"But a friend," she interrupted; "you said a friend was in trouble.

Who? I do not understand."

He bowed. "That is what I wish to tell you. Am I to take it that

you will hear me; that I may tell it in my own way?"

Charlotte contemplated him a moment longer, while he returned the

look earnestly and gravely; then, apparently satisfied, she indicated

by a gesture the front room.

And suddenly he fell to scratching his head with an air of comical

embarrassment.

"If you will pardon me, Miss Fairchild," said he, "allow me to

suggest the porch this pleasant morning. I want to enjoy those

lovely flowers while I may. I declare, I never saw anything like

them in my life. I noticed a variegated chrysanthemum--very large

bloom--remarkable! Some time--that is, if the occasion ever presents

itself--I should like to ask--to ask you--" He stopped, as if

overcome by the smile which all at once illumined her features. He

had struck a responsive chord; for Charlotte was undisguisedly,

girlishly pleased at any honest admiration of her cherished

possession. To the porch, by all means.

The Captain filled his prodigious chest with the sweet air. "It is

like wine, Miss Fairchild," he said, quietly; "you can't imagine what

this means to a city man like me. It's hard to think of evil at such

a time."

"Oh--don't!" she protested, still smiling; "think of the flowers

instead. I am glad you like them. Any one who loves flowers

sincerely can think of evil only to hate it."

"Very true," he returned, looking gravely at her; "very true. But

hating the evil does not affect it.... Ah! a mocking-bird!"

If this one touch of nature did not quite make the whole world kin,

it at least brought the spirits of these two into so much closer

harmony that it was comparatively easy to plunge into confidences.

"Hating evil does not affect it," Converse went on, after a bit.

"When it encompasses and threatens our friends, we must even step

forward and tackle it--that is, of course, if we wish to aid them."

"Ah, to be sure," she said, in her tranquil way, which nevertheless

had become serious. "You said that a friend was in trouble. I

suppose you mean to tell it, as you say, in your own way; that it has

to do with this dreadful murder--or with my brother. Very well, I

will hear you; go on."

Covertly, he studied the stately woman who sat so few paces from him.

She was beautiful this morning; a tinge of color had crept into her

cheeks since his coming; the expressive eyes, now half veiled by

abundant curling lashes, glowed with a look of tenderness in their

depths as they turned again and again toward the vista of roadway

which led to the city. If she was expecting somebody, it behooved

him to hasten.

"Miss Fairchild," he began, with a concentration of purpose, the

unexpectedness of which made her turn to him with a little start, "I

have endeavored to reassure you regarding my call here this morning,

and I wish to repeat that there is no reason why you should feel any

alarm. But what I have to say will distress you; it will fill you

with anxiety, for I know you are quick to feel for your friends and

those dear to you, and that you feel strongly. Yet, if you will hear

me out--if you will lend me your aid--if we put our two heads

together, I am confident we can evolve some sort of plan that will

work for the good of more than one person in whom you are

interested." He looked at her intently while speaking, and before he

had done her cheeks went white again; her eyes dropped, and the slim

fingers began plucking at a spray of honeysuckle. But her voice was

steady when she rejoined:

"I suppose your coming here has to do with my brother," she said

without looking up,--"with Clay?"

"Primarily, yes. But my errand involves a deal more.... However,

before I begin I want to make a confession. When I started here it

was with a determination to resort to every method known to my

calling to secure the information I am seeking; to bully you if

necessary; to frighten you if I could--in short, to use every art and

device that expediency might justify. Those methods are often cruel;

they are not always honest--but in my calling you have to meet craft

with craft, Miss Fairchild; cunning with cunning--and they are not

such as you would associate with the word 'gentleman.'"

"And now?" She looked at him inquiringly.

"Well, now--I have considerably revised that determination."

"Thank you." Once more her face was illumined by the winning smile.

"No, no; don't thank me; thank yourself. If more of the people who

are tangled up in this business considered it less a game the object

of which is to conceal as much as possible, and, instead, exercised a

grain or two of common sense, we might have been out of the woods

before this. As it is--" He paused and frowned at the denuded spray

of honeysuckle.

"Well?" queried Charlotte, looking up once more and casting the spray

from her. He faced her abruptly.

"Well," he went on, "as it is, there are one or two individuals who

are well on the way to losing themselves entirely--that is, if some

well-intentioned person doesn't step in and show them the road out."

Again he paused.

"And so you have come to me?" she asked.

He nodded. "But before we can show them the way out we have to be

pretty sure of it ourselves. As a game of hide-and-seek, you would

be surprised at the ingenuity displayed in keeping things hid from

me.... Miss Fairchild, I am going to be blunt. Your brother has

acted very foolishly. The different factors in this game have been

suddenly thrown into a panic; like a crowd at a theatre when the cry

of fire is raised, they impede each other, and do not help

themselves. Mr. Fairchild's move was as silly and uncalled for as

any I have yet encountered."

"You do indeed make me anxious," said Charlotte; "but I am very

ignorant of this wretched affair."

"Yes; I do not doubt that now," he quietly interposed. "But I also

know that you can be a very powerful factor in clearing up the

mystery."

She regarded him incredulously. "Oh, no," she protested; "what can I

do?" Then, after waiting a moment, she faltered: "But tell me, Mr.

Converse, do--do you believe him--my brother--"

He laughed. "Do you?"

"Mr. Converse," her dignity was impressive, "I have his word."

Again he laughed. "Miss Fairchild," said he with an abrupt

transition to seriousness, "at this moment the idea of bullying or

frightening you would strike me as being absurd were I not humbly

contrite for ever having entertained such a thought; but the

emergency is so urgent--a certain person is threatened by so lively a

peril--that it is really imperative that something be done for that

person immediately. If you and I should get at cross-purposes--why,

I believe now that I could only step to one side and let events take

their own way. To prove that I am contrite, I am going to warn you

against myself."

Charlotte said nothing.

"You have been in communication with your brother since he

disappeared. No," he went on hastily, as she seemed about to speak,

"I am not going to take any unfair advantage of you. Instead, with

your permission, I intend taking you into my confidence; go over the

ground from my knowledge of the facts; and then lay before you my

deductions therefrom, together with the immediate motives for my

intrusion. Afterward I shall ask you what I wish to know."

He waited with his gaze fixed sharply upon her. She sat for some

time thoughtful.

"As I have told you, I am very anxious. From your manner I know the

occasion to be serious, and that you are striving to temper its

seriousness. You say that a friend is in trouble, Mr. Converse;

well, that is enough to spur my interest, were any such spur needed.

But I can only repeat that I am very ignorant of this matter. Still,

I will say this, in the hope that it will cause you to speak freely.

You have somehow inspired my confidence; I feel sure you have come,

led by a tender consideration for somebody's feelings, and that now

you are governed by a consideration for my own feelings. It would be

a poor return, indeed, if I withheld any aid that might lie within my

power. I will pledge myself to lend you every assistance I can; but

it cannot be much. From what I have heard of you, I consider it

quite a compliment that you should thus tender me your confidence."

In scornful deprecation he exclaimed against the attributes with

which her words invested him. "I never sincerely complimented

anybody in my life,--unless, perhaps, I was after something; so you

had better take care. Seriously, though, the things I have told you

are merely necessary statements of fact. I am not secretive by

nature, Miss Fairchild, though you could find a good many people whom

it would be hard to make believe that. That I am at all is far from

complimentary to those with whom I daily mingle. The bright spots in

my life are when I meet with somebody with whom I can be as open as

the day.

"But I haven't answered your question yet: Do I believe your brother

guilty of any participation in De Sanchez's death? No. Nor of any

participation in last night's affair."

Charlotte stared. "Last night's affair!" she cried. "Do you refer

to--to Mr. Slade?"

"Slade?" he repeated,--and reflected. Here was a consideration

which, the instant it flashed into his mind, caused him to wonder why

it had not occurred to him before; but that everybody who could read

or was not stone-deaf knew of the Westbrook tragedy was to be taken

as a matter of course. Yet it was impossible that this woman could

be so at ease--her manner so tranquil--and at the same time have

knowledge of the recent assassination. But Slade--what is this of

Slade?

"Miss Fairchild," he asked at length, "don't you get a morning paper

here?"

"No. We have never taken one at the house; Clay usually brought the

papers home from the office."

"And your relations with the Westbrook family are very close, are

they not?"

At first she blushed slightly; then suddenly the last vestige of

color ebbed from her cheeks, and for the second time the slender hand

rested upon her bosom.

"Yes," she whispered with bated breath. "Why?"

"Then, Miss Fairchild, I am afraid I am the bearer of very sad--"

As a leopardess might have sprung, she stood quivering above him, her

eyes tragic, her slim fingers interlocked in a convulsive clasp

before her.

"Quick!" she demanded in a tense whisper, "has anything happened to

Mobley?"

"No, no; be assured. It was--"

"Oh, not Joyce?"

"General Westbrook."

She caught her breath sharply, and seemed unable to speak; and like a

blind person, returned to her seat. But in a moment she was more

tranquil and very earnest.

"Tell me plainly, Mr. Converse--is this the--the trouble?"

"It is bad enough, Miss Fairchild; the General is--dead."

"Dead! General Westbrook dead! Oh--" she checked herself, the back

of one hand upon her lips, and waited.

"Yes. It looks very much as though he had been--" he hesitated,

doubtful whether to tell her; but the plain truth being unavoidable,

he concluded, "assassinated."

With an exclamation of horror, she clasped her hands. There was a

moment of tense silence, during which she regarded him with wide,

startled eyes--a look which told piteously that this abrupt

announcement had penetrated her susceptible heart, searching out,

with callous cruelty, each tender spot that could be lacerated and

hurt.

At last she cried aloud, in blank, utter dismay: "Mr. Converse! Oh,

this is awful! Joyce! poor child!--and Mobley!" She buried her face

in her hands, and, rising, rushed precipitately into the house.

The Captain sat motionless, in a dilemma whether to depart or to

wait; wondering what Charlotte herself wished him to do; deeply moved

by her distress, which was so much greater than he could possibly

have expected.

But Polly Ann immediately set his doubts at rest. The face she

presented to him was both troubled and wrathful.

"Miss Cha'lotte she say fo' you ter wait," she said with

unaccountable severity. The announcement had much the nature of a

peremptory command.

"All right, Aunty," responded the Captain, absently.

"Don' yer 'aunty' me." Her voice rose rapidly. "I hain't no aunty

er yo'n. All yer has ter do is ter des wait--heah." She designated

the porch with a stern and accusing finger. "Mon, whut yer do ter

Miss Cha'lotte?"

At last the reason for this anger became plain. "I brought her some

very sad news," he replied.

"La! is dat whut's de matteh?" Then, in a hoarse whisper, "Anything

happen ter Docteh Mobley Wes'brook?" she asked.

"His father was killed last night."

Incredulity and astonishment overspread the black face, and Polly Ann

threw aloft her hands. Mr. Converse was obliged, briefly, to detail

the particulars. Polly Ann inquired, anxiously:

"Is you a docteh?"

"No, Aunty. Why?"

She advanced nearer and lowered her voice. "Kase I'se worried 'bout

Miss Elinor, seh. Miss Cha'lotte done send fo' Docteh Mobley already

dis mawnin'; but I don' spec' he come now wid he pa daid."

Polly Ann shook her head dubiously as she moved slowly back into the

house. "Hit don' look right," she muttered, "'bout Miss Elinor, an'

I'se nowise satisfied in my min'.... An' de General daid! Lawd!

Lawd! Hit sho' do look lak er jedgment; hit sho' do!"

CHAPTER III

"PAQUITA--WHAT DO YOU SPELL?"

Presently Charlotte reappeared, composed and listless, her pale

countenance subdued with sorrow.

"You must pardon my having left you so unceremoniously," she began,

her quiet voice even quieter than usual; "but your news was so

shocking--my rest has been so broken--that I was not strong to bear

it. It is appalling, Mr. Converse; I don't fully realize it yet. It

troubles me greatly to be so situated that I cannot go to Joyce."

"I, too, regret that you cannot," he returned, with a meaning hidden

from Charlotte.

She wanted to hear the particulars, and after he had complied,

briefly, she turned to him and asked:

"What do you make of it?"

Before replying, he ran a hand thoughtfully through his gray hair.

"There are two or three questions I should like to ask you before

going into that," he returned, "if you please." After a slight

pause, taking her silence for consent, he proceeded:

"In my investigation of the two cases I have encountered several

coincidences so striking and suggestive that they require the fullest

elucidation. Whenever I set my mind to working upon any phase of the

duplex problem, one mystic word immediately becomes the pivot about

which everything else begins to circle; whatever reasonable theory I

may begin to develop, it sooner or later encounters 'Paquita,' and I

am unable to get beyond her, or to see anything very clearly for the

shadow she casts. And now, in the face of evidence all pointing

quite another way, I have become possessed of a conviction that

'Paquita' embodies the crux of the entire problem. Paquita--what do

you spell? Silence is the only answer." Suddenly he caught the

intent look with which she was following him, and he laughed in a

deprecating way.

"Heaven knows, I am prosaic enough myself, Miss Fairchild," he

continued, "but I overlook no possibilities, however slender they may

be; and it is particularly aggravating to have a circumstance like

this remain so completely inexplicable--so insusceptible to the most

determined efforts. It is as if the minx were mocking me. I have

spent a number of years in Latin America, and am tolerably familiar

with their customs; but everything I have endeavored to ascertain of

the shadowy Paquita has been as barren of results as my father's old

Connecticut farm. That mysterious name suggests an element of

romance which appeals to the average individual; but the romance is

not forthcoming."

"Does the name appear elsewhere besides on Doctor Westbrook's

paper-knife?"

For answer he drew forth his pocket-book, and producing therefrom the

bit of paper he had found in the Westbrook ash-hopper, handed it to

her.

"This is all that remains of a letter received by General Westbrook

day before yesterday, and burnt by him some time during the same

night. I was searching for something altogether different--a writing

upon which he was engaged shortly before his death--and was led to

this.

"The newspapers, as you know, made the most of the 'Paquita' on the

dagger-handle; you are familiar with the unknown and mysterious

señorita of the press, betrayed and revengeful, striking from the

grave through the medium of Doctor Westbrook's paper-knife; but in

reality she is not only unknown, but there is not the slightest

evidence that any such person ever existed. I could imagine a secret

enemy of the General's choosing that name behind which to mask his

identity, especially at a time when it is fresh in everybody's mind;

yet the fact that the letter itself is written in Spanish is strongly

against this idea. That letter was concluded in such a manner that

the signature was an important part of the context."

"You have heard the story of the dagger, have you not?"

"Yes. But the truth is far from being so romantic; it is quite

sordid, in fact."

"The truth? I fail to understand."

"Yes. You know that we police in the different cities all over the

civilized world work together to a certain extent, and assist each

other whenever we can; complete and systematic records are kept of

each detail--no matter how unimportant or trivial it may seem--of

every matter coming to us in an official way, and those records are

always at the disposal of the police in any city.

"I dislike spoiling the pretty romance of the dagger," with an

apologetic smile; "but the facts are these: A Mexican girl, of the

peon class, went to Mexico City some six or seven years ago from the

United States. She was accompanied by her brother, also an ignorant

and extremely dirty peon--what we call a 'greaser' here. They had no

money, apparently were animated by no greater desire to acquire any

than usually inspires the average peon, and they lived in a hovel in

the poorest quarter of the capital. Now, if it hadn't been for that

rather remarkable dagger they would have been forgotten long ago.

They were both dead within a month after their arrival,--smallpox.

She killed herself during delirium; he died a few days later in a

pest-camp. It is sordid enough, you see. It is that very unusual

weapon alone that has saved them from oblivion. How did they come by

it? It is impossible to say--stole it, probably; but if so, it has

been advertised enough of late, in all conscience, to attract its

owner if he be alive anywhere on the face of the earth. But there

are enterprising newspapers also in the City of Mexico, and

enterprising dealers in curios; so there you have the genesis of the

story of the Doctor's paper-knife. So much for it.... Now then,

question one: Did you ever hear of any other Paquita?"

Charlotte's answer was a decided negative. "If you are trying to

establish such a person as ever having been a living reality, and as

ever having had interests involved with the past of the Westbrook

family, I believe it will lead to nothing; unless--unless--"

"Well?"

"Well, unless it can be found in General Westbrook's life in Mexico.

But think of his character, his integrity, his extraordinary family

pride--are they not incompatible with the existence of such a secret?"

Converse nodded. "And I might add," he said, "that here again the

pretty complete facts do not warrant the slightest ground for such a

theory."

"But--" Charlotte hesitated, "what has all this to do with a friend

in trouble?"

"Patience, please; I shall get to that in good time. I want you to

know certain facts first, for without this preamble the name will

occasion a shock that all the after-assurance and reasoning may not

remove. You must be prepared for the name before I blurt it out."

"Very well, I am resigned," she returned with a faint smile. Since

her return to the porch all the brightness had left her face and

eyes; the caller noted that she looked no more down the roadway

toward the city, and even her smile was colorless and without the

least spark of animation. "May I ask you a question?" she concluded.

"Certainly, Miss Fairchild; certainly."

"How about that man--the Mexican--Vargas? Even though I know but

little of these dreadful affairs, I have thought a great deal. And

that man: what do you know of him?"

"I am glad you asked this question, because it touches upon a point

about which I wish to speak fully."

The Captain then recounted Vargas's testimony at the first inquest,

adding that it had since been fully corroborated and amplified by

exhaustive inquiries in Mexico.

"But still," continued the speaker, "there is a point where Señor

Vargas comes into our mystery. He is shrewd and aggressive, and has

more than doubled his wealth since taking up his residence in Mexico.

He has only one relative--a niece. She is merely a child who has

spent all her life in a convent; as commonplace, as ignorant of the

world, and as innocent as only such a child--and especially a Spanish

child--could possibly be. Bear in mind, Miss Fairchild, that these

are established facts. I am relating them as briefly as possible;

but they are necessary in leading up to my next question. Here is a

point I wish you also to remember; you will see why as I proceed. A

year or two ago Vargas purchased a hacienda from the administrators

of the estate of one Don Juan del Castillo, which he so lavishly

remodelled that it is now a veritable palace. Don Juan had been a

very wealthy man at one time, having a vast estate; but his decease

disclosed the fact that his affairs were in a chaotic condition, and

that he was practically bankrupt. This man had never married, and

all the formalities, besides a diligent search, failed to bring

forward any authentic heirs. In short, none have ever appeared.

"These facts concerning Don Juan are interesting for four reasons:

first, the banking house of De Sanchez and De Sanchez--of which

General Westbrook was at that time a partner--was administrator of

the Castillo estate; second, last night and shortly before his death,

the General was engaged in the compilation of a document headed

'Memorandum of Castillo Estate,' which document was taken from his

desk before the officers arrived; third, that while the county

records have been carefully searched for the purpose of ascertaining

if any of these foreigners had ever held any property interests here,

it was not until a day or two ago that a single thing was found to

justify the trouble. What that was is queer enough.

"In November, eighteen fifty-nine, a mortgage was filed for record by

one John S. Castle."

"Castle!" Charlotte became suddenly alert.

"Ah, I see the name is not unfamiliar to you; but let me finish. The

property mortgaged, among other parcels of realty, included your old

family homestead. Of course the mortgager was your father. Now,

with the name of John S. Castle to guide us through the index to the

mortgage records, we find the next item of interest just three years

later--namely, in November, eighteen sixty-two--when the mortgage was

renewed. In another three years--that is, in November sixty-five--it

was again renewed; then, in November, eighteen sixty-eight, an

assignment of mortgage was filed, transferring this particular one to

William Slade, senior, your old overseer. Here John S. Castle

disappears for good and all; what followed concerning the mortgage is

irrelevant; but the point I wish to make is, that the name John S.

Castle is the English equivalent of Juan S. Castillo. This is the

fourth reason why Vargas interests me. I have been unable to find

any other trace of Castle. And now, can all this be mere coincidence?

"My next question to you is: Have you any knowledge of Castle, or

Slade, or is there any event in your family history that may by any

chance throw light into these dark places? Or could either your

mother or Mr. Clay do so?"

"Mr. Converse, this is all so marvellous that I am a little

bewildered. I never should have imagined that these dreadful

tragedies could involve so much. How ever in the world did you

discover so many details? But I am unable to tell you much. As to

mamma, I cannot say. Her memory, of course--such as it is, Mr.

Converse--goes back farther than mine. But Clay--I am certain he

could be of no assistance; he is always impatient of dwelling upon

our more prosperous days; mamma, at times, is rather inclined

to--to--well, to contrast our present circumstances with what they

were before papa died, and Clay invariably leaves the room on such

occasions. John S. Castle was always considered a fiction in our

family, behind which the elder Slade masked his treachery; or,

perhaps, it is more exact to say that he came to be regarded as a

fiction. It is very certain that he never appeared at all. Slade,

senior, in his younger days was of a roving disposition. During the

Mexican War he enlisted in the army, I believe, and was with General

Scott in Mexico. He learned to speak the Spanish language, I know;

and that might explain John S. Castle; they actually may have met in

Mexico."

"That is true; it may be merely one more of the coincidences,

signifying nothing at all. But I am not of a disposition to dismiss

them thus." He fell into a thoughtful silence, from which he roused

himself presently to say:

"It has occurred to me, Miss Fairchild,--to digress a moment,--that

all these details of the man Castle, and the manner in which his name

was utilized by the elder Slade, might hide some sort of chicanery.

Everything about that old mortgage may not have been perfectly

straight and aboveboard; and if that is the case--why, there is no

telling what interest may be due you out of the property. Some of it

is very valuable now, and the matter is worth looking into."

"Indeed?" returned Charlotte, without interest. "To find a fortune

for us would be a strange ending of a search for the assassin of a

man so completely a stranger."

"Oh, I merely mentioned it as a result of my delving into musty

records. I do not wish to inspire any hopes that may be

disappointed."

"Truly," with more warmth, "I thank you. My lack of enthusiasm arose

from the impossibility of inspiring any such hope at all. I shall

tell Clay, though, what you have just told me. Should we be entitled

to any such interest, he would assuredly exert an effort to regain

it."

He bowed a dismissal of the topic.

"But now, Miss Fairchild, does it not occur to you as a bit

remarkable that out of all the developments not one circumstance has

appeared tending to throw any light on the mysterious Paquita?"

Of a sudden she threw the back of one slender hand to her

lips--obviously a characteristic gesture; her look assumed an

expression of startled surprise. Charlotte's customary repose of

manner was so placid that the involuntary movement was doubly

impressive and significant.

"Ah," said Converse, quietly, "something has recurred to you."

"That is true," she at last returned, "and perhaps I should not have

mentioned it. But you certainly have enlisted my sympathies, even

though I might have no personal interest in these tragedies; and God

knows I am anxious enough to see Clay, Mobley, all my friends freed

of this wretched nightmare. What struck me so abruptly was this:

ever since Joyce's trip to Mexico, and the presentation of the dagger

paper-knife to Mobley, he has playfully addressed his sister as

'Paquita.' I had forgotten it; but the nickname spread among her

intimates, and she subscribed her letters to them usually in that

way. The name appealed to her, and I suppose I have notes now from

Joyce signed 'Paquita.'"

"This is certainly very interesting," said he with marked gravity;

and Charlotte continued with increased animation:

"It just occurred to me that the circumstance may have become known

to some one who has used it with a special significance, at present

unknown to you."

"Possibly. But I was not thinking of it in that way."

Although she waited, he vouchsafed no further explanation. Instead,

he remained, for possibly a minute, in quiet reflection; then turning

to Charlotte, he asked in a matter-of-fact way:

"Do you think you could lay your hand upon any of those notes? I

should like to have a glimpse of Miss Joyce's penmanship."

She brightened as at a sudden pleasant thought. "If so, they are in

my escritoire. Just a moment, please." She glided into the house

and returned in a few moments with a half-dozen or so heavy,

cream-tinted envelopes. Without comment she handed them to Converse,

eyeing him expectantly as he took up one at random.

It was inscribed, "Miss Susan Sunshine,"--evidently a playful

sobriquet designating Charlotte,--and a bit of violet-hued wax bore

the Westbrook crest. He merely glanced at the legible and flowing

characters; noted that, as it bore no stamp, it had obviously been

delivered by private messenger, and then shook his head. "I have

never seen that handwriting before," was his only spoken observation

as he handed the parcel back to Charlotte. It is impossible that she

could have imagined the feeling of anticipation, almost if not quite

anxious in its intensity, that stirred within him in the face of the

rapidly forming pattern into which immediate events were patently

shaping themselves.

But the curiosity now animating her had not yet been satisfied.

"Look at this," she persisted, hastily selecting another envelope

from the lot. "I have read of marvellous feats of a detective

reading a person's entire life from a scrap of that person's

chirography. I have a curiosity to know what you make of this."

"I have read of such things, too," with a little laugh; "but I am

afraid they are mostly confined to fiction. Still a fragment of

one's handwriting is often a great aid in--" He stopped, and his

brow shot into a pucker as his glance fell upon the envelope now in

his hand. "This is by another hand," he concluded, sharply.

"You are correct; yet--yet--"

He glanced up quickly, giving Charlotte a rapier-like look. "Miss

Westbrook wrote it?" he completed her sentence.

She nodded brightly.

"Then she is--" He searched his memory for a word which the District

Attorney had suggested to him on a similar occasion; and as Mr.

Mountjoy supplied it then, so did Charlotte now.

"Ambidextrous," said she. "Her left hand is reserved for the 'Susan

Sunshine' letters and all such whimsical correspondence, while this

last is her individual handwriting. Equal facility in the use of

either hand is a hereditary Westbrook trait."

He remained still so long that she began to manifest some impatience.

"You attach no importance to it, do you?" she asked with some

misgiving.

He did not respond immediately. Now was an occasion when his ability

absolutely to conceal all feeling could serve him admirably. Looking

at Charlotte he had not the heart to tell her that she was innocently

supplying such serious connecting links to the chain of evidence

tightening about her beloved friend. While the handwriting on the

second envelope in no wise resembled the writing on the charred

fragment of the "Paquita" letter, further than that both were

feminine, yet that circumstance of Joyce's ambidexterity--how

portentous it was!

So, when he finally responded, he plunged into another phase of the

subject, as if he had not heard her question.

"Miss Fairchild," briskly, "I must progress toward the final and most

important matter which I came here to present to you, and again I

take occasion to warn you that this part of my recital will require a

great deal of your fortitude. You must believe, now, that I have

worked untiringly--unceasingly--in this matter?"

"I believe that, Mr. Converse."

"Very good. Now, endeavor not only to keep before you what I have

already told you, but please follow me as closely as you can....

First, however, assure me upon one point, though it may seem

inconsequential and even presuming in me to speak of it; but before I

am done you will understand. Is there any attachment between your

brother and Miss Westbrook?"

She regarded him with serious eyes.

"Mr. Converse," she began, with a sudden assumption of reserve and

restraint, "that is a very delicate and, to me, sacred matter; but

I--" She checked herself, and once more regarded him gravely; her

manner quickly changed, and again she became frank and open. "I do

not believe you would ask it were it not important that I answer you

frankly. Never have Clay and I exchanged a word upon the subject;

but I am a woman--his sister--and I love him dearly; I see a great

deal more than he would ever suspect. Mr. Converse, please respect

this confidence: I believe there has never been a time when Clay did

not love Joyce, dear, darling, beautiful girl that she is. As for

her, I do not know. She has a warm attachment for Clay; she admires

him; still, she is so young--her life has been so gay and

light-hearted, so entirely free from any care and

responsibility--that it is pleasant to think no strong emotion has

yet laid its touch upon her heart. To her, Clay has been a playmate,

a loved comrade, a friend; whether he is destined ever to be more, I

cannot say. But I believe I have told you the exact status of their

intimacy, for it has occupied my thoughts often, often, often."

"This confidence has not injured your brother; and you have my word

of honor that it is as sacred with me as with yourself."

"That will do; I can now hear anything you have to tell me."

He paused a moment. He knew he must hurt her, however carefully he

might unfold the intelligence he had come to convey, and so why

prolong the anxiety by trying to temper it? So he said, slowly,

deliberately:

"Miss Fairchild, the one person that we have so far been unable to

account for, to whom we must look for the explanation of these crimes

is--a woman."

A slight gasp from his hearer caused him to pause again. Briefly he

gauged her strength.

"That woman was alone with your brother about the time of De

Sanchez's death. In short, the assassin could have been no place but

in Mr. Nettleton's office; and no one was there besides those two."

"Merciful God! Clay!"

"Wait!" hastily. "Your brother is innocent--I am sure of that--but

the woman--"

Charlotte sat quivering as if with an ague, deadly white.

"Who?--who?" she gasped, huskily, when he paused.

"The facts all say--Joyce Westbrook."

"Oh, don't--don't!" She arose and stood unsteadily confronting him.

"I can't--I will not listen to this. It is abominable. You have

stumbled into some terrible error that may be explained. Why, Mr.

Converse, this will kill Joyce. Oh, how horrible! how horrible!"

"Error?" said he, with extraordinary gentleness. "Ah, Miss

Fairchild, I hate to pain you so, but somebody must be stirred to

action. I cannot reach to the Doctor's or his sister's sensibilities

in their morbid state of mind; and if she will not unlock her lips, I

cannot speak of the result. Error? I admit its possibility. I

spent an exceedingly bad half-hour this morning trying to persuade

Doctor Westbrook and Miss Joyce that I was more than willing to meet

them on this ground. But no. If I have, as you say, stumbled into a

bog of error, they left me to get back to terra firma again as best I

could. If we can agree upon this point, we have an excellent

position from which to operate; and for the young lady's sake I would

so agree."

"Mr. Converse, Mr. Converse," moaned Charlotte, as if a mortal

physical wound had been dealt her. "Wait! I can't bear it! The

idea is so hideous--so monstrous--"

"With all respect, dear lady, I sincerely hope that she is the victim

of an extraordinary concurrence of circumstances--and no more. But

her position is even far more desperate and dangerous than you could

possibly imagine."

Charlotte sat down again, and quietly--very quietly--watched her

interlocutor. She appeared stunned. Presently she asked with bated

breath:

"What will happen? My God! do you wish to lead me to answering your

unanswered question? Do you wish me to say that Paquita--oh, that

wretched name!--spells disaster for those that are dearest to me?"

She uttered a laugh of bitterest scorn. "If my loyalty amounted to

no more than that," with a slight emphatic gesture of one clenched

hand, "I would be the most despicable creature on the face of the

earth. Now--"

"I am not responsible for the existing condition, Miss Fairchild; I

only want to convince you of the extreme urgency of the situation. I

have told you a friend was in trouble, and that you would have an

opportunity to succor that friend; but it is more than a trouble;

that friend is menaced by the gravest peril imaginable."

Rapidly he laid before her, one by one, his reasons for suspecting

Joyce Westbrook; and as his hearer saw how deadly serious the

cumulative facts were, she gradually grew outwardly composed,

yielding no hint of how his words were impressing her.

Next he told of Joyce's movements the preceding night, concluding:

"And now, Miss Fairchild, the most damaging feature against her is

her refusal to deny or admit anything at all. I need only an

eye-witness who saw her in or about the Nettleton Building, and--" A

grim tightening of his hard-featured face put a sufficiently obvious

period to the thought.

"Mobley must tell me what he knows," she said presently, her voice

trembling. "I do not promise to repeat it, for I am ignorant of its

nature; but if I can see in this secret the way to finding light upon

the deed of which it is a child, you shall know." She fairly

startled the Captain by springing from her seat and grasping his arm.

Some sudden joyous thought had evidently flooded her intelligence,

and her manner imparted its quickening impulse to him.

"Mr. Converse--where you are wrong--your error--" she cried, in

disjointed phrases. "Why did you never think of it? Joyce was not

in the Nettleton Building that day. The--"

"But, my dear lady--" he sought to interrupt; but her new-born

enthusiasm bore him down.

"The fact that no one can be found who saw her--why, she was not

there. She is involved in something else of a very personal nature,

and she shrinks from explaining. That must be it."

Converse's attitude was very dubious.

"You say you have no eye-witness--no one who actually saw her?" she

persisted.

"Yes--that is true; but--" He stopped. "Wait, please," he concluded

in an altered tone, as he suddenly recognized Mr. Follett's servant,

Joe, approaching from the trolley-line. "If I am not mistaken, here

comes a messenger for me."

CHAPTER IV

MISS CHARLOTTE BECOMES A FACTOR

That Joe's errand had carried him to the Westbrook home in search of

the Captain, and thence to the cottage, could signify only a matter

of the utmost emergency; so Converse watched his approach with some

curiosity, wondering why his friend, Mr. Follett, should be in such

haste to find him. He thought of the advertisement seeking

information concerning the unknown woman.

The negro approached and handed him a much-soiled envelope; and this

is what he read:

Slade was here this A.M. Claims to have seen and recognized woman in

Nettleton Bldg. at time of De S. murder. Holds out for more money,

so be careful. He is up to some game; but I think he really knows.

It was indeed from Abram, and had been hurriedly penned at No. 18 Ash

Lane.

After the message was delivered, and while it was being read,

Charlotte noted that it had the effect of producing a peculiar change

in the countenance of the reader: his mouth puckered, as if for a

whistle, though none was emitted; while his right eyebrow lifted in a

manner that left a queer, quizzical expression on his weather-beaten

visage.

He pocketed the missive without comment; scratched a word of

acknowledgment on the envelope, which he handed to Joe--temporarily

an ebon-hued Mercury--with an injunction to return at once to Mr.

Follett.

For a time he sat in a silence that was pensive, even though his

inflexible frame and countenance were not. How strange that the

message should come to hand just at this juncture!--at the moment

when he was obliged to admit the absence of a witness that had seen

the woman. And that witness Slade! Was Joyce Westbrook the woman?

There was that in the bare fact of Slade's being the person who was

possessed of this knowledge which made the Captain feel that the coil

was tightening irresistibly about the girl, for he was beginning to

acquire his own idea as to what "Slade's Blessing" might signify; an

idea utterly different from the more universal one. But he would say

nothing further to harrow this much troubled lady beside him. After

a while he turned to Charlotte with some abruptness.

"Now then, Miss Fairchild, you pretty well understand the status of

both the cases. The main thing is, now, do you"--he emphasized the

pronoun--"appreciate the seriousness of Miss Westbrook's position?

If you do not, if this hour spent with you is barren of results, I

shall be obliged openly to take her into custody, put Mr. Mountjoy in

possession of the case, and let the law take its course. If I do

not, some one else will. I dislike being so blunt, but these issues

must be met squarely."

"I cannot be further shocked, Mr. Converse. I will do all that lies

in my humble power. If Joyce was in the Nettleton Building that

afternoon, it had been far better for Mobley to have announced it at

once, whatever the result might have been."

Her hearer considerately refrained from again mentioning the possible

reason for silence. Instead he said:

"You are now prepared to hear the main object of my call. The early

part of last night I spent in going carefully over all that I have

set before you, but more particularly as it concerns your brother's

disappearance. It has become plain that, whatever our attempts to

locate him may have failed in, they have at least proved one

thing--that he never left the city. Who should know better where he

is than his sister?"

"Believe me, Mr. Converse," she began quickly; but he held up a

restraining hand.

"Wait," said he. "Let me finish. This is when I resolved to bully

and frighten you--to get the information from you willy-nilly,--and

behold to what that resolution has come! Now, I am not going to

embarrass you at this time by asking you where Mr. Clay is, or even

if you know where he is; but I do expect that by to-morrow night," he

gave her a look full of meaning, and repeated, "that by to-morrow

night, Miss Fairchild, some result will come from this interview;

either that I shall hear from your brother, Doctor Westbrook, Miss

Joyce, or all of them."

"What I started to say when you interrupted me is, that I do not know

where Clay is. There is where I have been kept in ignorance."

"The reason being," he added, "that something very like this

interview was foreseen--not because you couldn't be trusted--no, no:

it was to spare you from ever being obliged to refuse divulging your

knowledge. Knowing of his whereabouts, you could never have met an

examination, such as you might have been subjected to, with a plea of

ignorance."

"I can only act as you have suggested," she returned; "and I will

make my arrangements accordingly as soon as I possibly can. While

Clay is absent it is very inconvenient communicating with the city."

"I shall be glad to convey any message you wish to send."

"Thank you. It is Doctor Westbrook that I wish to see. I sent him

word this morning regarding mamma's illness; but I expect now that he

will not come--soon."

"Well, Miss Fairchild," the Captain arose briskly, "I have

accomplished my errand, and if nothing else ever comes of it, I shall

always retain a delightful remembrance of these flowers. I shall

call here again Thursday morning early--that is, if I have to come to

you for results. That will be day after to-morrow, and I shall make

no open move until after I have seen you. Now write your note, and I

will see that the Doctor gets it. I shall wait in the garden."

When, after a few minutes, she reappeared and handed him the

envelope, he said, as if the matter had just occurred to him:

"By the way, Miss Fairchild, when I first mentioned last night's

affair a while back, you spoke of William Slade: why?"

Immediately she became grave and thoughtful.

"Because," after an appreciable pause, "he called here last night to

see my mother, and his visit had to do with General Westbrook." She

stopped in sudden alarm at an abrupt change in the Captain's manner.

"What is it?" she asked.

The response was a string of ejaculations.

"Slade!--Here!--General Westbrook!" he cried in utter astonishment.

Charlotte was startled at this surprising manifestation of interest.

"It is very remarkable," she presently resumed, "and I cannot in the

least understand what it means. That it was extraordinarily serious,

mamma's condition this morning testifies to. Does the circumstance

tell you anything?"

The detective was regarding her in a most peculiar manner. His

expression seemed to say that nothing in the whole gamut of possible

disclosures touching upon the two mysteries could take him more

unawares than this simple statement of Charlotte's; but she had by no

means told him all, and his face at once became impassive again.

"Please finish," said he, quite calmly; "I don't know--yet."

She obeyed, narrating at length her experience of the preceding

night. He listened with attentive silence until the burning of the

papers was mentioned. The look of the gray eyes brought something

like consternation to Charlotte.

"Miss Fairchild!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, I knew it was very, very wrong," she cried, sorely troubled at

his obvious dismay; "but what could I do? Mamma was not herself; she

wanted me to swear that I would not even look at them--to burn them

instantly. She was so excited--'

"Never mind--never mind," he broke in with a reassurance he did not

in the least feel; "don't distress yourself. I see--I will take it

for granted that you could not have done otherwise than you did; that

your excellent common sense bade you pause--"

"Indeed, indeed, that is true," fervently.

"You had no alternative, and I will not blame you; but--" and his

mouth closed grimly.

"'It is unfortunate, nevertheless,' you would say. Is the loss

irreparable?"

"How can I tell now? But you must appreciate the importance of those

papers in the light of what occurred after Slade's call.... By the

way, what time did he depart?"

"About half-past nine or ten o'clock.... And to think, had I

disobeyed mamma, I might have averted--" She shuddered and did not

finish.

The Captain made no response. The subject afforded too wide a field

for speculation to indulge idly in probabilities. The papers being

irretrievably gone, the salient facts upon which his mind fastened

were, that Slade had some knowledge that the General's life was

threatened, and for some reason--another mystery in a veritable

network of mysteries--he had imparted the intelligence to Mrs.

Fairchild. But why?--why, of all persons, to her? Mr. Slade had at

last assumed a position that was susceptible of scrutiny.

After a number of questions, to which Charlotte could return no

satisfactory replies, Converse said:

"If it is possible, I must see your mother as soon as she is able to

bear the strain of an unpleasant interview. Try to prepare her

against my next coming, Miss Fairchild."

Charlotte promised to do her best.

The talk was broken in upon by an abrupt change in her countenance.

All at once she became beautiful; a warm tide of color mounted to her

cheeks; her head became regally erect; and she shot a look down the

pergola of locusts and elms that lined the roadway, such as an eagle

might flash from one mountain-peak to her mate upon another.

Instinctively Mr. Converse turned and descried in the distance an

approaching horse and buggy. So the Doctor was obeying her first

summons, after all. The Captain handed the note back to Charlotte,

and at once took his departure.

[Illustration: At Times Charlotte Became Beautiful; a Warm Tide of

Color Mounted to Her Cheeks; Her Head Became Regally Erect.]

When the Doctor drove up to the gate, Mr. Converse, moving with long,

rapid strides, was well on his way across the common to the car, and

feeling (if his unemotional nature would admit the charge) more than

a little depressed.

Before Doctor Westbrook arrived at the porch steps, he noted the look

of tenderness with which he was being regarded, and halted abruptly.

"You have heard, then?" said he.

"Yes," Charlotte softly replied, holding forth both her hands.

With pleased eagerness he took them into his own and gazed hungrily

into the beautiful eyes. Her demonstrations were unusual, and he

found therein more relief from his grief and anxiety than could have

been contained in any spoken homily. But he drank from those liquid

pools of truth and steadfastness as one who drinks for the last time.

For a moment they stood so; then--

"Your note said that your mother was suffering," he remarked, walking

toward the open door. But Charlotte checked his movement.

"Wait, Mobley. I was not very exact. Mamma sustained a severe shock

last night; but she has been sleeping all the morning.... Before you

go in I wish to ask you a question."

He evinced some surprise at her constraint.

"Mobley, have you any reason to believe that a particular person was

instrumental in the death of Alberto de Sanchez?"

Amazement grew in his countenance.

"Have I any reason--" he repeated, blankly. "I don't understand; who

has been talking to you?" But light suddenly broke, and he

concluded: "So that was that confounded detective fellow who just

left here."

"Mobley, you are unjust." It was quite plain to her why he should

think with irritation of Mr. Converse. "Although a stranger, he has

treated me fairer than you have: he has given me his confidence."

The Doctor's eyes, yielding a sudden light of apprehension, became

glued to Charlotte's; but he remained silent.

"I know you have been terribly troubled," she went on, evenly; "but

have you been afraid of me, Mobley?"

"My God, Charlotte, no! I have simply wanted to spare you. There

has been no reason why you should be drawn into this damnable mess,

nor is there any more reason now. That man will have to answer to me

for this."

"No, no, he will not, Mobley. I believe he has told the truth. I

think that Joyce--oh, poor, darling girl, how my heart bleeds for

her!--I think that innocent dear is the victim of the most diabolical

set of circumstances I ever heard of. They will inevitably ruin her

if she is not freed from them; and if it lies within our power to do

so--do you hear me, Mobley?--if it lies within our power to do so, we

must find a way."

"Dear, dear girl," he groaned. "If I had told him this morn--"

But she calmly interrupted him.

"You must drive down to Mrs. Florian's and bring her here in your

buggy; I am going home with you. Your entire course in this matter

has been wrong,"--firmly. "Joyce is innocent, of course, and the

truth can't hurt."

"But you don't know," he still persisted.

"No; that is very true," she returned, looking steadily at him; "but

I will shortly.... Come--let us go in now." And together they

entered the house.

At once the condition of the sorely stricken mother drove everything

else temporarily from their minds. John Converse nor any other

person would ever again hear a sound issue from those moveless lips.

So another door was closed.

CHAPTER V

A DECISION AND A LETTER

If Mr. Converse departed from the cottage with a feeling of

depression, it was based, as we know, upon a formidable number of

reasons. If the sensation was incompatible with his profession, it

at least proved that, as a human being, he was not so utterly devoid

of feeling as his grim exterior continually indicated; and when the

irresistible logic of the present investigation singled out again and

again a beautiful girl as the author of a monstrous assassination;

when the amorphous figure of Paquita--that featureless, shadowy

phantom--presented itself between his mental vision and Joyce

Westbrook--it was with a sense of relief that he asked, "Paquita,

what do you spell?" There was always the hope that sooner or later

an answer would be returned clearing Joyce beyond peradventure.

That he did not consider Fairchild accessory to either crime was a

belief resting upon a very sound foundation of reasoning, although

such a conviction must needs be an additional point adverse to Joyce.

The testimony delivered by Doctor Westbrook and Mr. Howe of Georgia

at the inquest, relating to Fairchild's strange behavior when he

beheld the body of De Sanchez lying on the Doctor's reception room

floor, and a careful analysis of this evidence--although it certainly

left the young man's conduct something to be explained--would not

admit the idea of a guilty knowledge on his part, or of an active

participation in the crime itself. Before he entered the

reception-room he must have known that the Doctor or some other

person was there, for a light was burning brightly therein; that the

deed had been discovered; and it was certain that even then the

police were on their way thither, if they had not already arrived.

Yet he entered the office unhesitatingly. Again, no powerful

emotions were betrayed by him until after he had seen the body, and

then his first change of expression betokened surprise and

bewilderment. The rapidly succeeding horror and terror were present

while he was looking at Doctor Westbrook, and not at the body. "I

was quite as much astonished by his behavior," was Mr. Howe's

testimony hereof, "as by anything that had happened before.... The

mere sight of the body did not, to my mind, account for the extremity

of emotion depicted on his countenance, which seemed completely to

overwhelm him." There was a quality about the look with which he

regarded Doctor Westbrook so dreadful that it spurred the Doctor from

his own preoccupying excitement and agitation to demand an

explanation.

Did Clay Fairchild, puzzled over Miss Joyce's excited and unexpected

appearance, go to Doctor Westbrook's office seeking enlightenment,

and were his unspoken questions there answered by the dead body of

Alberto de Sanchez?

And now there was a witness who could establish the identity of the

unknown woman.

Possibly the last consideration had as much weight in influencing Mr.

Converse to a decision which he made while riding back to the city,

as the reasons therefor which he gave in his own mind; but, trifling

as that decision may appear to be, it was destined to entail

consequences of the utmost moment--it was the thread-like fissure in

the dam. He shrank from hearing Joyce Westbrook's name on the lips

of Slade; but yet, if that individual was possessed of such important

evidence, it was clearly the Captain's duty to secure it as early as

possible. However, he was beginning to feel acutely the need of both

rest and nourishment; he realized, what with his own infirmity of

speech and the other's deafness, the difficulties that would arise in

the course of an interview with the abstracter; therefore he would

defer his call until he had snatched a few hours' sleep, and could

secure the aid of McCaleb to act as his mouthpiece.

He was ignorant alike of Merkel's ambition to engineer a coup, and

the motives controlling the crusty Mr. Slade. Otherwise it is more

than likely, after he received Mr. Follett's message, that he would

have repaired with all haste to the offices of the Guaranty Abstract

Company, instead of first eating a substantial breakfast, and

afterward of composing his immense frame upon a certain leathern

couch which formed a part of his office furniture at headquarters.

But such was the nature of his decision; and when he awoke late in

the afternoon no earthly power could have changed the result of his

procrastination.

At five o'clock Mr. Converse arose from his leathern couch, mentally

decided to glimpse at the late afternoon mail, and then look up Mr.

Slade.

But the mail brought one letter which, even before he opened it,

banished all thought of the sour abstracter from his mind. The

envelope bore in its upper left-hand corner the return address of

"The Guadalupe Transportation and Construction Co.," and had been

postmarked at Monterey, Mexico.

The missive was very long, and as it entered into a number of matters

quite foreign to this narrative, it will be condensed. It purported

to be written by one Morris A. King, now a civil engineer in the

employ of a Mexican construction concern, and the author asserted

that he and Clay Fairchild had been schoolmates, and that a warm

friendship yet existed between them. The letter ran:

"My parents reside in New York and on the first of last October I had

leave of absence to pay them a visit. On my return I shortened that

visit by a day in order to surprise Clay, and I stopped with him two

or three hours on November fourth." Here the reader's interest

suddenly quickened. "The mysterious sketch of the dagger mentioned

by the papers was made on that day solely for my benefit."

The writer went on to say that Clay had confided his literary

ambitions to his friend, and that the latter had urged him to come

with him to Mexico, "the land of romance, love, fighting, tinkling

guitars, and sloe-eyed _señoritas_." He held out many inducements to

Fairchild in the way of material for stories; but the young man

persisted in his inability to accept the invitation.

One of the plots suggested was indeed extraordinary. The letter went

on:

"The heroine of my yarn was a certain Paquita. Does that strain your

credulity? Well, it's a fact which you may easily verify when you

come up with Clay. In my veracious legend Paquita stabbed herself

with a magnificent jewelled dagger, the same having been the gift of

a false lover. Could it have been your 'Silver Blade,' I wonder?

.... I had this story from a certain Ignacio Monterde, who related it

as a fact. He was once under me in a construction gang; but his wife

came into some money,--according to his account, as a reward for her

kind offices to Paquita during a time of stress and vicissitude."

Then followed Monterde's address, and the assertion that the story

had held Fairchild "spellbound."

Which was not surprising, considering his knowledge of Doctor

Westbrook's paper-knife. Indeed, Fairchild seems to have mentioned

it immediately to his friend, volunteering to secure it for the

purpose of confirming his statements concerning its existence. The

weapon could not be found in its customary place, hence the sketch as

an effort to convey some idea of its appearance.

The writer concluded by offering to appear in his friend's behalf, at

any time, should the exigencies of the case demand it of him.

Mr. Converse laid the letter to one side, with a long-drawn "Ah-h-h!"

expressive of extreme satisfaction. He carefully made a note of

Ignacio Monterde's address.

After the unexpected intelligence had been properly digested it was

time for dinner; Mr. Slade and the woman he had seen could very well

wait until the following morning. Besides, Mr. Converse's other

business had become much in arrears during the past few days, and

there were a number of matters demanding immediate attention. He

smiled grimly as he turned to the accumulation of letters and papers

on his desk, and mentally contrasted his recent anxiety to run this

same mysterious woman down, with his present dilatoriness--his

admitted reluctance to hear her name from the lips of a witness whose

testimony would be irrefutable.

The manner in which the name of Slade wound in and out of this maze,

indefinitely and apparently without cause or purpose, had excited Mr.

Converse's attention to such an extent that even now two subordinates

were burrowing into the abstracter's past in an effort to unearth

something that might clear up this distracting and irritating

side-issue; but their efforts had been abortive in so far as the

results aimed at were concerned, although--as he had informed Miss

Charlotte--a number of seemingly irrelevant facts had been brought to

light, which only made this phase more perplexing than ever. And

now, Mr. Slade's remarkable visit to the Fairchild cottage, and what

had happened there, were only added knots in an already badly tangled

skein.

He next rang for the departmental stenographer, and for two hours was

busy dictating letters and going over reports, with an energy that

made his pale young amanuensis marvel. But as the Federal Building

clock began to toll off eight strokes, he noted the impatience with

which the young man consulted his watch.

"Julius, you are tired," he said, in a matter-of-fact way. "This is

the last letter."

It was not to be written that night, however. His statement was

punctuated by the telephone bell, and, shoving the desk instrument

toward the stenographer, he said:

"Talk for me." Without such aid, he was shorn of this device's

convenience in long-distance communication.

The stenographer presently announced that Mr. McCaleb desired to talk

with Captain Converse.

"What does he want?" sharply demanded the latter.

It required a minute's maltreatment of the telephone to elicit the

further information that Captain Converse's presence at the Westbrook

home was urgently desired.

Wondering much what this summons might portend, he donned his hat and

overcoat, and strode forth to intercept a street-car.

At the same time Mr. William Slade, wrapped in a dingy and much

frayed dressing-gown, with a ghoulish light of exultation smouldering

in his mouse-like eyes, sat in his dingy hole of a room, and went

over again in his mind a recent conversation between himself and Mr.

Merkel. What he had told the Coroner that evening had caused the

worthy official to stare in speechless amazement--a feeling which

rapidly grew into one of eminent satisfaction after Mr. Slade, with

much precision and circumstantiality, had embodied his statements in

a written affidavit.

So Mr. Slade now reviews this colloquy.

"What's twenty-five dollars!" he mutters, laughing noiselessly and

without mirth, and cracking his knuckly fingers. "What is any money

to this! You may have defeated one purpose, my dear; but, to a man

of talent and resource, there exist an infinite variety of ways. To

be sure, what's twenty-five dollars to this!" And he glances at an

open paper displayed conspicuously on the table.

"GEN. PEYTON WESTBROOK THE

VICTIM OF AN ASSASSIN."

By the feeble illumination of the candle could yet be read, in

letters an inch high, this "scare head" extending across the entire

front page.

CHAPTER VI

FAINT RAYS FROM STRANGE SOURCES

Meanwhile the Captain narrowly escaped missing a car, and as he ran

for it he fancied he heard a newsboy crying an extra edition of some

evening paper. Idly wondering what could call forth an additional

issue so soon after the regular evening edition, he took his seat,

and straightway forgot the incident.

His cogitations in a little while assumed the form of a resolution to

avail himself of the present opportunity to ask Mrs. Westbrook

several questions which had been restrained only by the circumstances

of her bereavement. He disliked obtruding himself upon her privacy

at such a time; but he felt that, since the morning, she had had

occasion within which to compose herself and to become expectant of

the entrance of the police into the tragedy of her husband's death.

Upon arriving at the Westbrook home, he was met at the wide veranda

steps by McCaleb himself.

"Sorry to have troubled you," whispered the latter, hurriedly. "I

will tell you why I sent as soon as I get a chance. But wait; if my

reason is not good, Miss Westbrook gave me one that is."

McCaleb paused. He seemed with only indifferent success to be

curbing an inward excitement, and his manner lent a special

significance to his next words.

"She has been inquiring for you," he added.

Converse did not appear at all surprised; but knowing his chief as he

did, neither did McCaleb seem surprised at the reception of his

pregnant announcement.

"Come with me; I have something mighty queer to show you." And after

word of the Captain's arrival had been sent to the ladies, McCaleb

led the way around to one side of the house, coming to a halt in the

dense darkness beneath the _porte-cochère_.

"After I 'phoned, Miss Westbrook came to me and asked if there was

any likelihood of your coming to the house soon. She was a good deal

confused and embarrassed; but the question so stumped me--after what

happened this morning, you know,--that I forgot my good manners, and

asked her 'Why?' But she replied that she had something to tell you

alone, which she thought you would be glad to hear--that it was of

such importance that you would doubtless pardon a summons to come at

once. Then I told her you were probably on your way here now; and

with that she turned away, apparently satisfied."

McCaleb caught the other's arm and drew him onto the lawn, away from

the house and from beneath the _porte-cochère_. Again lowering his

voice to a whisper, he said:

"Look up at those two windows, there, right over the roof of the

carriage-entrance."

Converse did so, and noted that the carriage-entrance roof formed a

balcony upon which the two windows gave, and that the room beyond was

evidently brightly illuminated, for faint rays of light found their

way through minute interstices in the curtains:

"Well?" he queried at length.

"That is Miss Westbrook's bedroom."

"Yes? And what's queer about that?"

McCaleb considered a minute.

"Well, sir, I saw her at that window to-night, waving a lighted

candle about, as though signalling some one."