"Ha! Which way was she looking--up--down?"

"Straight ahead, sir,--west. She seemed to be looking at or trying

to see something about on a level with her head."

"On a level with her head, eh? That would be somewhat above our

own." And the Captain involuntarily faced about to the west.

Raising his eyes to an approximate level with those of a person

standing at the window, they encountered nothing but the night sky,

against which were silhouetted in dense blackness the blended

outlines of trees and a gable of the house across Tenth Street. All

sense of perspective was lost. And surely nothing there that a

candle might aid one in seeing: its tiny light would be as

insignificant--if the contrast is not already plain--as a dewdrop in

the crater of Vesuvius. Finally he brought back a questioning eye to

the young man's sober countenance.

"It was queer," McCaleb at once continued. "But I haven't told you

the queerest part. I looked around, trying to see what she could be

after--only I walked about quite a bit; but I saw nothing more than

usual. Everything was perfectly quiet; no one even passed in the

street all the time I was waiting here, and look as I might, I saw no

one to whom she could have been making signals--not an answering

light anywhere."

The speaker stopped with a start. A sudden accession of light caused

both to look up, and Converse perceived the slight, graceful figure

of Joyce Westbrook standing by one of the windows. The blind was now

raised, and all the lights in an electrolier behind the girl threw a

flood of reflected radiance upon the beautiful countenance. The

light cast an aureole about her wealth of hair--ebon tresses which,

if unbound, would dissolve into the fluent blackness of night, like

water into water. Either by a trick of the light, or in reality, her

loveliness was so etherealized as to make this motionless apparition

positively weird.

At last she turned slowly away and disappeared, without drawing down

the shade. A disheartening sense of depression, such as he had

experienced after leaving Miss Charlotte, came over Converse again,

while the detective instinct was uncompromisingly alert to McCaleb's

words. Whether the vision of Joyce evoked any such feelings in the

younger man, it would be impossible to say; his hawk-like gaze

remained riveted upon her while she stood at the window--as if she

were merely an enigma hard to solve--and as soon as she was gone, he

resumed speaking in unaltered tones.

"The incident was mighty puzzling, and I began a quiet, systematic

quizzing of the servants, with an idea of clearing up this

side-mystery. First, I got from Miss Westbrook's woman the fact that

her mistress had for a week or two left a light at that window every

night. Upon being pressed closer, Melissa told me the light was

first placed there on the night of Saturday, the seventh; that it was

always at that particular window, and that it was allowed to burn all

night."

"Do you mean, Mac, that of those two windows so close together the

light is never by any chance left at the other?"

"That's it, sir; it's always the southernmost window."

"And you say these windows can't be seen from the street?"

"No, sir; they cannot."

"Very good. I fancy if a person were on a level with that window

when the candle-play is going on, he could see something off there to

the west that can't be seen from any other point. We'll have to know

what it means, Mac, before the night is many hours older."

As he entered the house Converse was somewhat surprised at being

notified by Sam that Mrs. Westbrook would receive him at his

convenience, in the morning-room. "The mother instead of the

daughter; now, what does that mean?" he observed, mentally. He

reflected that, in the whirl of events, he had taken but small

account of this lady. What little he knew of her--merely such vague

reports as may come to one of any individual's personality--pictured

for him a cold, selfish, distant woman, indifferent to most matters

that did not affect her directly; and so far there had been no

occasion for giving her any unusual attention.

Mrs. Westbrook was a tall, stately woman of a superb figure. Her

mere physical appearance, the unconscious ease of her carriage, the

uncompromising uplift of her head, were all remarkably impressive;

but there was much beyond this. To begin with, she had been

wonderfully neglected by Time. One might fancy that the hauteur of

this grande dame was as discouraging to the harbinger of immortality

as it was chilling to individuals who failed in any of the many

qualities necessary to meet her full approval. Like the General,

there was a repellent frigidity in her customary glance, and her

clear, almost faultless features were marred by the aptness with

which they could emphasize scorn or disdain at the expense of an

ability to reflect any of the softer feelings. If she had ever

possessed any of the illusions common to girlhood, they had been

dispelled--forgotten--long, long since: a woman temperamentally

beyond the influence of the smaller courtesies and amenities of life,

it was quite patent that she could not have lived that life more

alone had it been cast in the midst of a desert isle; and it was

difficult to imagine her so shaken from her aplomb as McCaleb and

Clancy had beheld her the night before. Perhaps Time had indeed

passed her by as needing none of his attentions.

Years ago Louise Shepardson had been much sought after by the

bachelor gentry of her circle. There existed a strange allurement

for the masculine nature in her statuesque beauty, an enticing

incentive to kindle it into flame; but the Pygmalion for whom this

lovely Galatea might have quickened into life never appeared, and one

by one her suitors retired to direct their ardor along paths of less

resistance.

The lady was standing facing the door when Sam ushered in Mr.

Converse. It was plain from her attitude that she intended to remain

standing throughout the coming interview; that she expected her guest

to do likewise; and that the interview itself was to be very short.

It cannot be said that the Captain's susceptibilities were

particularly sensitive; yet he felt the condescension with which Mrs.

Westbrook received him, and all at once his scruples for the

intrusion vanished. He bowed low.

"Madam," he began, his impassive features as free from any emotion as

her own, "I apologize for disturbing you; I have postponed the matter

as long as I could; but there are some ques--"

She interrupted him without the slightest consideration, her

enunciation deliberate and incisive.

"You will please dispense with any preamble," she said, coldly. "Ask

your questions as briefly and concisely as possible."

He did not hurry. It was too patent that, if she did not choose to

answer, she would ignore any interrogation he might frame. Abruptly

his look became as hard as flint, and all of his moving personality

seemed to be concentrated in one steady, piercing glance. But her

pale eyes continued to meet the steely gray ones, boldly, and as

inscrutable as the granite orbs of a sphinx. Nobody had ever seen

behind those eyes.

"Mrs. Westbrook," he presently retorted, his manner calculating and

unsympathetic, "I regret that you meet me in this spirit of

antagonism. You are making a difficult situation infinitely more

diffi--"

She started to interrupt.

"Wait, please!" he peremptorily commanded. He remained silent a

moment with his gaze fixed squarely upon her; then, with a sternness

that would brook no trifling, continued: "Out of a common courtesy I

requested this interview; but do you know, Mrs. Westbrook, if need be

I could enforce it? I want to be as gentle and considerate as it is

possible for me to be, but my patience has its limits. I will choose

my own time and my own questions, and you will refuse to answer them

at your peril."

She shrank from him as if he had struck her in the face.

"Allow me to pass," she demanded; but he neither moved nor spoke. In

a moment her lip curled witheringly. "Am I to suppose that I am

under arrest also?"

"If you insist on leaving the room, yes," was the blunt answer. She

threw a hand to her throat and recoiled another step, overcome with a

blank, horrified amazement.

"Me!" she gasped. "Arrest me!"

All at once she broke into a little laugh of biting contempt. "Why,

I believe you are insane--irresponsible--that must be it. That is

the only way to explain such extraordinary conduct. Now you will

please step aside, and allow me to pass." She confronted him with a

sudden flash of indignation before which any less masterful

personality surely would have quailed. But Converse remained quite

undaunted. His response was to produce his watch, with some

ostentation, and stand holding it in his hand.

"As it happens," said he, easily, "I am in a hurry myself. I shall

give you just two minutes to decide whether you will remain here and

answer a few questions, or answer them at the police station; it is

all one to me."

It is not likely that he was exacting about the time, for more than

two minutes elapsed before Mrs. Westbrook gave any indication that

she was not turned to stone; then slowly her rigidity relaxed, her

pale eyes fell before his, a spot of color glowed on either cheek,

and the man knew he had conquered. He was far from relishing the

necessity for his conduct; he did not exult; but on the contrary, he

responded to her capitulation with an air of deference and gentleness.

"Now then, Mrs. Westbrook," he resumed, in tones vastly altered, "I

trust you have chosen the wiser course. I am asking little of you."

Her back was now turned to him, and she did not meet his regard.

"What is it you want?" she asked over one shoulder, and almost in a

whisper.

"Well, first," becoming abruptly business-like and impersonal, "did

you ever hear General Westbrook mention a certain Don Juan del

Castillo?"

He paused, for the back turned to him betrayed a start.

"Because," he continued at once, "I believe it is through Don Juan

that this mystery may be cleared." He hesitated again, curious to

see her face.

Mrs. Westbrook astonished him. Quite without warning she wheeled

about and took one or two rapid steps toward him. Her eyes were wide

with a terror the existence of which nothing within his knowledge

would account for; but it was plain that he had at last penetrated

her reserve.

"What--what do you know of him?" she demanded in a hoarse, distressed

whisper. "Who--who-- Good God, what are you? What do you know?"

As she awaited his reply her bosom rose and fell tumultuously.

"Mrs. Westbrook--calm yourself--there is no occasion for this

excitement," he returned, sorely perplexed at this unexpected turn.

He hesitated to press this woman whose agitation was so profound, yet

incomprehensible; but she offered him an opportunity which duty

sternly bade him take advantage of. "If you will be seated for a few

minutes--" he added; but she again interrupted:

"Tell me--at once--what wrong has my husband done? My God! my God!

Is his name to be smirched--to be dragged in the mire--now--now that

he is dead?"

He considered his reply.

"Mrs. Westbrook, I have not come here to inquire into General

Westbrook's conduct while he was alive, further than is necessary to

aid me in finding who is responsible for his death. Of still greater

importance than this is the necessity of freeing your daughter from

the cloud of suspicion which now rests upon her--if it be possible."

Something very like a sob escaped from the woman's tightly compressed

lips.

"Can--can--you--you--can you save Joyce," she faltered, "without

dishonoring my--without dishonoring the dead?"

Could he? He weighed his answer carefully, and when he finally spoke

it was to make an attempt at reassuring this agitated woman.

"You know, I suppose, that General Westbrook was a joint

administrator of the Castillo estate?"

"Yes."

"Well, then," he spoke with much earnestness, "so far as my

investigations have been carried into the mutual affairs of your

husband and Alberto de Sanchez, not a circumstance has appeared that

is not strictly honorable. The matter has been gone into fully; the

records are correct in every particular--full and complete--and

nothing whatever points to anything not strictly honest and fair."

Again Converse was surprised. Mrs. Westbrook suddenly sank into a

chair and burst into tears.

CHAPTER VII

A VOICE IN THE NIGHT

The woman who presently turned to Mr. Converse was a very different

woman from the one who had met him but a few minutes previously. As

soon as the brief emotional outburst had exhausted itself her

admirable poise and self-possession returned, and with it all the

frigid reserve, the air of aloofness and apparent unconcern. But

there was this immense difference:--where her attitude had been

condescending and inflexibly hostile, it now conveyed a subtle

suggestion of surrender, by recognizing some tremendous advantage

which this man seemed to possess; she was no longer hard and

unyielding, but ready to comply with any demands he might make; and

he knew that every obstacle which served to seal her lips had been

swept away as by a breath. Such was the potency of a name.

"Please be seated, Mr.--Mr. Converse," she finally said, her voice

tense with controlled passion. There was no attempt at explanation,

no apology,--unless this concession could be counted such,--and she

faced him placidly, wholly at her ease.

"Was it of this," she continued, "that you talked to Charlotte

Fairchild this morning?"

No doubt now why Joyce had inquired for him. So this leaven was at

work.

"Yes, to a limited extent," was the cautious reply.

"You insinuated nothing--nothing--" she hesitated and still further

lowered her voice, in which there was now a dominant note of anxiety,

"you did not allow her to gather the idea that there was anything

discreditable in General Westbrook's--"

"Pardon me," he broke in quietly. "I could hardly insinuate anything

derogatory of the General's character, when I am ignorant that any

such circumstance exists."

She looked at him doubtfully, narrowly, as if she would probe his

thoughts, and presently sighed.

"If I only knew--" she breathed, vaguely.

"What, Mrs. Westbrook? I will tell you if I can."

"Well--" she still hesitated, "if I only knew what your knowledge

amounts to. You say General Westbrook was innocent of any

wrong-doing; how should you know? What reason have you had to

consider the possibility at all, if some suspicion has not been

engendered in your mind? Then, what occasioned that suspicion? You

see, I am torn by doubts and anxieties."

"Yes, Mrs. Westbrook, so I perceive. But it would require half the

night to go fully into this matter; and still, to free you from your

doubts and anxieties, I may tell you this: that the tragedies of

which Señor de Sanchez and your husband were the victims are very

closely connected, and I have many reasons for believing that

whatever light may be thrown upon one will correspondingly tend to

clear the other. The name Castillo--or Del Castillo--bears a close

relation to both; therefore it is essential that every circumstance

bearing upon that relation should be known and understood. It is

evident that you know something of Don Juan of which I am ignorant;

it is also evident that whatever you know troubles you. Now, I may

be able to remove the cause of that trouble, and you to give me some

valuable information."

She pondered quite a while.

"Mr. Converse, I am a proud woman," she announced, simply; "to go

into such intimate family matters--thus openly to discuss topics

which I hesitate to contemplate even in the privacy of my own

thoughts--is to me a very real torture; but for the sake of my dead

husband, I owe you some sort of explanation. When you mentioned that

name it frightened me; it made me suspect that you had the power of

divining what is forbidden my own mind, and I naturally wondered to

what extent that divination was capable of penetrating.

"But, after all, my fears have been based on a mere phantom--a name

spoken in the dark--and in hearkening to it and pondering upon it, I

have allowed myself greatly to wrong my husband. God forgive me! ...

Has not the entire matter become irrelevant?" she abruptly finished,

with obvious reluctance to proceed.

"Far from it--far from it," was the reply, uttered emphatically; "you

must let me be the judge of that. There are so many ramifications to

these two tragedies, that you cannot even remotely realize how

significant and important the most trifling particular may be."

"But it does not affect Joyce--in any way you imagine.... Please be

seated, Mr. Converse."

He obeyed this second injunction, drawing the chair around so that he

directly faced her. He waited quietly for her to proceed.

"Do you still wish to hear?" she asked presently; and when he bowed a

courteous intimation that he was waiting, she continued:

"Well, it is very difficult--it is so like a confession,"--she arose

abruptly, and, walking to the door, bolted it; after which she

resumed her seat and the recital simultaneously,--"that I hope my

husband may hear and know it for an act of penance.

"General Westbrook was never a man to discuss his business affairs

with any one, and there existed many reasons why he should not make a

confidante of me; so I must tell you at the outset that what I heard

of the name Del Castillo came to my ears in more or less of a

surreptitious manner and without General Westbrook's knowledge.

Whether the words themselves or the circumstances under which I heard

them justify my anxiety, you may judge.

"When he finally wound up his affairs in Mexico and returned home, I

noticed immediately that some trouble was weighing heavily upon his

mind. I never showed him by word or sign that I remarked his mental

state; but it was plain, nevertheless, and so unusual as to worry me

not a little. As the days passed this secret trouble deepened rather

than grew lighter, and developed in my poor husband an irascibility

quite foreign to his uniformly courteous manner. Naturally, when I

beheld that this trouble was not diminishing, my worry increased; but

I never questioned him.

"Well, this condition continued for several months without abatement

or apparent change, until one night I was awakened suddenly by

hearing him cry aloud. I was very much startled,--frightened,

indeed,--and I waited to see if I was the victim of my sleeping

senses, or if he had indeed called out." She paused, and her thin

lips momentarily tightened. "Then I experienced the most dreadful

sensation of my life.

"Our apartments, you must know, adjoin and are divided only by

portieres. We had both retired long since; I was dimly conscious of

the lateness of the hour; and I had no reason to believe otherwise

than that the General had been many hours asleep. But as I waited, I

found that I had not been dreaming. I heard him say distinctly, 'I

had rather see her dead at my feet than wife to such as you.'

"Now thoroughly alarmed, I switched on the light and hastened into

his room. My husband was standing in the middle of the floor, and I

perceived instantly that he was asleep. This merely increased my

fright, for in all the years of our married life he had been a

healthy sleeper, though retiring late and rising early.

"I caught his arm and called him by name. He awoke at once and

looked at me in a dazed way; then he became unaccountably angry, and

demanded to know if he had spoken. And when I told him, he explained

his words as the vagaries of a bad dream. Far from satisfied, I

accepted this explanation, scorning to question him concerning any

matter which he did not choose to tell me voluntarily; and I returned

to my own apartment in some chagrin, for his manner had offended me.

I believe neither of us slept much the remainder of that night.

"Well, Mr. Converse, that was merely a beginning--four years ago. It

may be difficult for you to understand my conduct under such trying

circumstances--why I never questioned my husband; why I permitted my

doubts and fears to continue without an effort to remove them; but

General Westbrook and I to a certain extent lived our lives apart,"

the listener fancied he detected a note of bitterness in this

statement,--"and we were not in entire accord upon all matters.

Don't get the idea that any ground for trouble existed between us,"

she hastily added; "no, no,--but there was a certain restraint, a

lack of sympathy, characterizing our entire married life, which led

naturally to a repression of those confidences without which such a

condition cannot be perfect. God help me, perhaps I was to blame;

but so it was. And besides, I did try to remove my doubts--to quiet

my fears, as you shall presently see.

"Two nights passed before I heard other dream vagaries, as he was

pleased to call them, and I first heard the name Del Castillo upon

this second occasion. I failed to catch the sense in which it was

used, but after a long silence he began to say, over and over again,

'Paquita is not dead--Paquita is not dead.'"

Paquita again! Verily, she was not dead,--if her influence over the

destinies of so many of the living signified anything at all.

"I listened until it nearly drove me mad, and again I awoke him.

When I repeated his words he was angry, as he had been before, and at

the same time confused. But he tried to laugh it off, and demanded

that I think no more of the episode. In short, his manner was so

strange and unnatural that I was worried nearly to distraction. How

could I refrain from thinking of it? Of what use was it to bid my

thoughts occupy themselves with other matters when they continued to

circle about this dreadful secret which preyed so heavily upon his

mind? Mr. Converse, you can't imagine the expedients I adopted to

dissipate my fears, the casuistry I employed to banish my doubts. I

would argue that his sense of honor was so exalted, his standard so

high, that a very little thing might grievously trouble him, which

might appear trivial to another man. But how could this idea be

reconciled with his wild words of death?

"The next morning he announced to me that he would thenceforward

sleep in another room. I made no comment, but superintended the

removal of his things.

"I lay awake all that night and most of the next; then--then--"

Once more she paused. She plucked nervously at a fold of her skirt,

manifesting the greatest reluctance to go on. But her nature was not

to be swayed by trifles; if a painful confidence were once

undertaken, it was quite plain she would press it to the end, sparing

neither herself nor whomsoever else it might affect. All at once she

folded her hands with an easy, natural movement and continued:

"Mr. Converse, where I would not openly seek light, I was not above

listening in secret: in dressing-gown and slippers I stole to his

door during the early morning hours, and knelt with my ear to the

keyhole.

"Many times I was rewarded with no spoken words--only the evidences

of a troubled and broken slumber. At other times I heard him say

things that made my blood run cold: 'Man, before you do this thing I

will kill you with my own hands'; again, 'Why did you not tell me

this man is living?' At times he cursed some one in a terrible

voice, and once--once--" She leant suddenly forward and fixed upon

him a gaze moving in its intensity. "Mr. Converse, is this

confidence buried within your own bosom?"

"It is," he replied, with convincing gravity.

"Once," she went on, leaning back again, "I heard him groan, 'Elinor,

I may never look upon your face again; _mea culpa! mea culpa!_'" Of

a sudden she clenched one hand convulsively and struck smartly an arm

of the chair. "Good God! what could that mean?" she cried with a

startling fierceness; then, one quick intake of breath, and she was

again her usual tranquil, collected self. She attempted a little

smile. "You see," she said, in a deprecating way, "that those

confidences to the night have not yet lost their power to disturb

me--and I am not easily moved." She remained silent for a time, as

if collecting her thoughts; presently she resumed the narrative.

"There were certain names mentioned by him times innumerable. I have

heard Castillo, Alberto de Sanchez, Paquita, my daughter's name, and

Fernando--"

"Fernando?" Converse interpellated, sharply.

"Yes. Do you recognize it? I know no more of it than that."

He shook his head. "It is new to me.... But proceed, please."

"Well, at best the names were so confused and uttered in such a way

that I could gather no connection, and oftener than not his words

would trail off into incomplete sentences and unintelligible

mutterings.

"But so it went on. Night after night I would hearken to the

incoherencies of my sleeping husband, overcome with a nameless terror

in the cold dark hall; in the broad glare of day my anxieties and

fears would shrink almost to insignificance--but oh, the night!

"However, as time passed, whatever was preying on General Westbrook's

mind began gradually to abate its evil influence; his sleep became

once more healthy, and abruptly he returned to his regular apartment.

"Naturally, my own fears subsided somewhat; but a suspicion of

unknown wrongdoing had been awakened in my mind, casting a continual

shadow over my thoughts. Oh, that terrible worm of doubt that gnawed

forever at my brain! After this, I believe, my poor husband could

have made no explanation that would have destroyed it utterly.

"Of course, Mr. Converse, slight as was my knowledge of General

Westbrook's affairs, I knew about his association with Señor de

Sanchez. I also knew that Señor de Sanchez was a distinguished

gentleman, of great wealth and excellent family; and when the

question of his eligibility as a husband for my daughter was

broached, I--I--I-- Well, it was an honor of which any mother might

have been proud."

"Mrs. Westbrook, I cannot believe that you are expressing your true

feelings in this regard." The look that accompanied this

announcement was sharp and meaning. "Were you satisfied with such an

arrangement?"

She returned his scrutiny a little doubtfully; but at last asked:

"Can this be of any benefit to Joyce?"

"If you did not sanction Señor de Sanchez's proposal, I could

scarcely overestimate its importance as an aid to clearing up some

matters as they concern the young lady."

"Well, then I shall be frank. At first I did not give my approval; I

had other ideas for Joyce's future; but one morning General Westbrook

sent a request that I come to him in the library. The instant I

entered I comprehended that he was struggling with some recent

trouble. In the course of the conversation which followed he

informed me that a very grave reason existed why we should consider

carefully before definitely rejecting Señor de Sanchez's offer; and

while he did not tell me what that reason was, I was given to

understand that it involved some scandal threatening my husband, and

that De Sanchez had the power to remove it.

"'Otherwise?' I inquired. He turned to a drawer of his desk and

produced a pistol.

"'Otherwise,' he said with a smile, 'I might still escape it.'

"'Do you contemplate murder?' I asked.

"'Louise!' he cried in a hurt tone, as though pained that I could

entertain such a thought; 'is it possible you can so misconstrue my

words?'

"'I do not know how else to interpret them--nor your actions,' said I.

"'Then I shall be more explicit,' he rejoined; 'I would place the

muzzle of this pistol--'

"'You need not continue,' I interrupted. 'Is it so serious?'

"'It is,' said he, very soberly.

"'And do you think now that I could see Joyce go to such a man?' I

asked.

"'You do not fully understand,' he persisted. 'The situation is

this,'--and he repeated that Señor de Sanchez would have the power to

do away with the impending scandal. We concluded by agreeing to

leave the matter with Joyce.

"Her manner of taking it greatly relieved the situation. 'Give me

six months,' was her response. 'If at the end of that time you still

consider it necessary, I will marry him.' She looked at her father

with open scorn. Then she went on, 'You may inform him; but this

promise rests on three conditions: that it be kept a secret; that it

is never referred to in my presence, directly or indirectly; and that

he make no attempt to see me till the six months have expired.'

"The General said, 'I am afraid he will receive the message with a

sour smile, my dear.' But Joyce's manner showed a complete

indifference. 'Moreover,' went on my husband, 'your word once

passed, there must be no backing down--no retreat.' She flashed

another scornful look at him, but merely said, 'Do not forget to

emphasize the three conditions when you see Señor de Sanchez.'

"And such was the arrangement at the time of Señor de Sanchez's

death."

The Captain fixed his regard upon the cold and handsome woman before

him, and strove to harmonize her appearance with the remarkable

marital condition revealed by her most amazing disclosure. Was it

possible she sat as tranquilly as she now was sitting, and discussed

in those arctic tones the chances of her husband committing suicide,

with this same air of easy indifference? It was impossible not to

believe her; yet such utter _sang-froid_ was almost inconceivable.

In a moment Converse pulled himself together.

"With your permission, I will ask you a few questions concerning Miss

Joyce. First, do you know why she remained silent before my

questions this morning?"

She lowered her head, and sat for a time in deep reflection. When

she again turned to him, it was not to reply directly to his question.

"I am not fully in my daughter's confidence in this matter, although

I believe I do know what motives--or impulses, rather--are

controlling her. I may add that they have my reprobation; but the

interests involved are quite serious; Joyce has unexpectedly

developed a phase of character astonishing to me, and for the first

time in my life I hesitate to interfere in her affairs. The matter

does not affect her own welfare alone, and I must refuse to go

further into it with you. She has assumed a terrible responsibility,

and however severely I may condemn her conduct, she has commanded my

admiration. I feel that I must at least coöperate to the extent of

respecting her silence. She wishes to see you, I believe. Hear from

her what she has to say."

"Does your reticence include the interchange of messages between Miss

Joyce and Mr. Fairchild?"

She looked at him with a quick accession of interest. "No," was her

reply. "Why should you ask that?"

He waved the question to one side. "It's immaterial. Possibly there

has been no such interchange.... There is but one more question,

Mrs. Westbrook. While you were returning from Mrs. Farquier's last

night, why did you peer so closely into the darkness? Whom were you

expecting to see?"

A faint flicker of wonder penetrated the mask of her countenance, but

quickly disappeared.

"I suppose all this is necessary?"

"It is, indeed."

"Well, I expected to see one of two young men."

"Ah! Then the one you did see--the fact of its being Mr.

Lynden--removed a cause of worry?"

"You are correct. I could not consider him seriously in any light."

That was all. As she arose, she inclined her head slightly. "Joyce

will see you here," she said.

Had every incident of the past half-hour been a dream? Here was the

identical woman who had given him such a glacial welcome, now leaving

him with the same air of reserve and aloofness. No, not quite. She

was nearly to the door, when of a sudden she faced about and advanced

close to him; and for the third time during this extraordinary

interview he was so taken aback that he was at a loss for words.

She stood motionless for a time, her pale, cold eyes fixed intently

on his serious gray ones. Then she spoke.

"Look closely, Mr. Converse."

He was disconcerted, and made no response. Presently she went on.

"You think I am a strange woman, do you not?--cold, callous,

indifferent, incapable of any feeling?"

Still he was at a loss for words.

"You, who read me so well,--who seemed to divine all of Joyce's

thoughts and actions,--look deep into my eyes. Am I such a woman?"

Then, to him who gazed so earnestly, it was as if a miracle had

happened; as if the icy shell which encased this handsome woman had

all at once melted--vanished from before his eyes--and it was given

him to read the naked soul beneath. It was as swift in passing, but

as vivid, as a flash of lightning.

He retreated a step and bowed low to her.

"Mrs. Westbrook, forgive me; I have misjudged you. I see that your

daughter's welfare is as indissolubly a part of your own as if your

two lives were one." He paused a moment, then concluded earnestly,

"I'll do what I can for her--to free her from this coil. You have my

word."

She moved to the door before making any response. With her hand on

the knob she turned and faced him again.

"God aid you," she whispered, and was gone.

CHAPTER VIII

THE CORONER'S COUP

Possibly ten minutes elapsed before Miss Westbrook entered the room;

had she been a witness of her mother's departure, she would have

known that Mr. Converse had not stirred during that time. His

attention was evidently drawn forcibly back from distant spaces and

fixed upon her with an effort. In seeking this meeting she had

prepared for an ordeal, but now she became sensible of the fact that

other concerns besides her own might occupy his mind, and that those

unwavering, piercing eyes, the scrutiny of which was so

disconcerting, were able to look at and through her without being

aware of her presence. She was reluctant to break in upon a

concentration which so candidly ignored her.

Her appearance was unaltered from what it had presented that morning,

save, perhaps, for a faint tinge of color in the pale cheeks and the

added light of some purpose in the depths of her violet eyes.

Notwithstanding the high spirit revealed in the unconscious flash of

her glance, she was, after all, very slight, very fragile, and very

feminine; and she was soon to have dire need of all the support that

could be rendered her.

Quite suddenly she became aware of recognition in his regard. She

moved impulsively toward him, her hand for a moment tentatively

outstretched; as she spoke, her color deepened.

"Mr. Converse," she began with shy hesitancy, "I--I have come here to

beg your forgiveness." Her voice was low and soft, her manner

winning.

"Well, Miss Westbrook," he retorted, a note of raillery in his

speech, designed to place her completely at her ease, "I am a sorely

wronged person; however, I am not--" But, still impulsively, she

interrupted him.

"Mr. Converse, I was unpardonably rude this morning; I must have

appeared wretchedly mean and ill-bred; but you have no idea what

doubts and anxieties--" But now he stopped her.

"Tut, tut, Miss Westbrook; I do know. I understand perfectly, and

sympathize with you."

"Still," she persisted, "if I had only known this morning! If--"

The talk was becoming a series of interruptions.

"Ah, 'if,'" he took her up. "You are familiar with the saying about

one convinced against his will, eh? This morning I recognized the

necessity of a--er--a softening influence--the ineptness of a mere

man. If you had been in the same mood then that you are now, I

should have missed one of the pleasantest hours of my life. So you

see, that even a young lady's whims and caprices are not without

their compensations. What have you learned that has moved you to

kindlier feelings?" He spoke lightly; but there was an intelligible

purpose in his concluding question.

"About Clay--about Mr. Fairchild," she murmured, shyly. Another wave

of color, deeper than before, dyed her cheeks. "Is it true you do

not suspect him of--of--"

Converse sobered before her earnest, searching inspection.

"My dear young lady," he returned, gravely, "it is entirely owing to

Mr. Fairchild himself and to you, that any suspicion was ever drawn

to him. Between the two of you, each has done about all that could

be done to make me suspect the other. Then the Doctor--well, among

you all, you've succeeded in getting things badly tangled up."

"That would make me very happy were there not so much else to

distress me."

He regarded her with the utmost seriousness. What peculiar

conception did she have of her position? She seemed utterly blind to

its peril--or else was recklessly disregardful. But it was an easy

matter to adapt himself to her present compliant humor.

"Still, Miss Westbrook," said he, "there is much yet that needs

clearing up. After all this delay the situation has become serious

and will require extraordinary deftness in its handling--especially

as concerns yourself. If you and Mr. Fairchild cannot lend me a very

considerable aid, my task will be prodigious. The additional

distress which you may be obliged to endure I hesitate to point out."

She waited while he took a turn up and down the room.

"In the first place," he resumed, coming to an abrupt pause before

her, "I must have absolute frankness from you, from the Doctor, and

Mr. Fairchild. Nothing must be kept back. The older heads are the

wiser, Miss Westbrook. Your mother sees this thing as I do."

"Do you know," she interposed, her voice betraying a sudden awe and

wonder, "that mamma advised me to be perfectly open and candid with

you?" She gazed at him as if trying to fathom what other mysterious

forces lay behind his blank, rough visage. "She came from you to me

with such an admonition."

"I am not at all surprised. Mrs. Westbrook is a very sensible woman,

profoundly interested in what affects her daughter."

She shook her head doubtfully, as if the matter remained an insoluble

riddle.

"However," he continued, "she was right, and I believe her opinion is

in harmony with your own."

"Yes; I shall keep nothing back." The color all at once ebbed from

her cheeks, leaving them white and cold. Her sensitive lips

trembled, yet her voice remained steady and even, and she looked at

him without a sign of confusion, as she made the simple statement: "I

love Clay, Mr. Converse. Does that explain anything?"

He regarded her with undisguised admiration.

"It explains a great deal," he replied, "but not all--not all."

"Well, I hardly know how to begin," she said, slowly and

thoughtfully; "my thoughts seem anchored to that great fact; it is so

sufficient to my own mind--" She paused.

"You are sure you can trust me now, Miss Westbrook?"

"I intend to--freely, fully."

"Then begin at the beginning. Tell me about the afternoon of the

fourth--at what time you went to the Nettleton Building, and what

took place there; just what you saw and heard."

As he spoke, her face clouded.

"Well," was the response, "I--I was--"

But there came an unlooked for interruption. A sudden sound of

hurrying footsteps and excited voices, somewhere in the house below,

broke upon their hearing, expropriating the attention of both. The

girl stood rigid, startled, while the Captain turned hastily toward

the door as the clamor resolved itself into a rapid approach to the

room in which they were.

Before he could lay his hand upon the knob, a loud rap sounded on the

panel, and a shaking voice called aloud Miss Westbrook's name. She

paled, and it forced a little cry from her; the door burst open, and

a strange group poured in upon them.

First came Lynden clutching a crumpled newspaper, his face bloodless

and twitching with intense agitation. He surged forward as though

forcing his way through a mass of obstacles; his usually fastidious

attire was dishevelled. Close behind him followed McCaleb, much

calmer, but plainly showing signs of excitement; and beyond McCaleb

stood Mrs. Westbrook, the placidity of her handsome features

unruffled, her equanimity not at all disturbed by the tumult.

Before Lynden's unceremonious entrance Joyce recoiled, with an

involuntary look of scorn and indignation which engaged Mr.

Converse's interest. Lynden hastened directly toward her, without

the least notice of any one else. He extended the paper, and, in

tones hoarse and tense, cried,

"Joyce! Good God! what does this mean?"

She glanced indifferently at the sheet--shaking in Lynden's hands so

that it rattled--to start next instant and utter a little gasp.

"Tell me," Lynden insisted with furious vehemence, "what does this

mean? Who has betrayed you?"

She quickly recovered herself.

"I can't imagine," she replied coolly, "unless some spy has done so."

There was an inflexion of indignant contempt upon the word, glaring

to every one but Lynden.

"Spy? Spy?" he repeated blankly. "I don't understand." But of a

sudden he did, and in turn recoiled from Joyce. For the first time

he became aware of the presence of others besides himself and the

girl, and he shot over the assembled group a glance at once accusing,

fearful, suspicious, and revealing a sense of shame and embarrassment

too deep for the insinuation alone to account for its existence.

Shame-facedly and abashed, he looked from Converse to McCaleb, and

muttered an unintelligible apology to Mrs. Westbrook.

But Joyce, who had not removed her steady gaze from him, followed his

glance, and in tones that must have penetrated him like

knife-thrusts, said:

"Pray, Howard Lynden, do not attempt to place a misconstruction upon

my words. When I said 'spy,' I did not refer to either of these

gentlemen. Although they are officers of the law and I seem to be in

a miserably compromising position, they have not dogged my every

movement; they have not stood off at a distance and looked suspicion

at me every time I met their eyes; they have not made my condition

more wretched by all sorts of innuendoes and vile insinuations, and

yet--and yet--" for a moment she was almost in tears; her throat

filled, and she had to pause; but the weakness was conquered almost

at once, and she continued, with flashing eyes, her voice quivering

with indignation,--"yet, Howard Lynden, you--you have pretended to be

my friend. As for that"--she advanced a step toward him, and

pointing an accusing finger at the paper in his hand, concentrated

all her feelings in her next words. So scathing were they that

Lynden winced visibly at each syllable, as if it had been the lash of

a whip,---"as for that, I think of it as I do of you--you spy; you

sneak! Go, go! never let my eyes rest upon you again!"

Completely discomfited--overwhelmed by the sting of her words,--he

offered not the shadow of a defence. Abruptly, the girl's mood

changed. It was like the snapping of a string drawn too taut. One

convulsive sob escaped her, she seemed of a sudden to droop, and the

next instant Mrs. Westbrook, moving noiselessly, was at her side.

Calmly and without a word she passed an arm about her daughter's

waist and drew the girl close to her side.

"Mamma, mamma," Joyce faltered, her voice breaking as though she had

reached the limit of endurance, "don't read it! Don't look at it!

Oh!--Oh!--help me!" Shuddering she hid her face upon her mother's

shoulder, her slender form quivering with sobs that could not be

restrained.

With features sternly set, Converse advanced and snatched the paper

from Lynden's passive fingers. It required no search to find the one

important item that it contained. In letters which any who ran might

read, appeared the following headlines:

DE SANCHEZ MURDER

----

Startling and Suggestive Discovery

Made by Coroner Merkel

----

IMPORTANT WITNESS FOUND

----

Saw Lady Running from Scene of Crime at

Time It Happened

----

MYSTERIOUS WOMAN NOW KNOWN

----

She is Prominent in Society and May Also Account

for the Westbrook Tragedy

As might be expected after this scare head, what followed was

sensational enough. The name of neither Joyce nor Slade was

mentioned; but for one familiar with the case it was easy to

comprehend that the abstractor was the witness and Joyce the woman.

For the moment the Captain was overwhelmed with this unforeseen

result of his delay in calling upon the abstractor; and what next

occurred in the Westbrook morning-room is especially worthy of

preservation as constituting the one and only time that John Converse

is known ever to have given a free and untrammelled expression to his

inmost feelings.

"The damned ass!" he ejaculated vehemently; at the same time rending

the paper in halves and tossing the fragments from him with a

violence that caused every one in the room to jump.

CHAPTER IX

THE LIGHT BRIGHTENS--AND DIMS

Added to the tumultuous occurrences of that day, Lynden's advent with

the published evidence of the Coroner's fatuity produced a condition

in the Westbrook household amounting to consternation. For a time

Joyce managed to infuse a semblance of calmness into her mien; but as

the brutality of the narrative impressed itself upon her, as

realization grew in her dazed mind of the callous indifference with

which her own feelings were ignored in the light of the mere

sensation, she seemed gradually to sink as if beneath a crushing

weight; her lips became bloodless and drawn, and the lovely eyes took

on a wistful, helpless expression pitiful to see. She became

strangely quiet, and it was noticeable that no one seemed inclined to

disturb her where she sat, still encircled by the arm of her silent

mother.

Lynden, obviously, was overcome by an intense shame and

mortification; by degrees he managed to arrive close to the open

door, and in the stress of the moment to slip away without eliciting

a farewell of any nature, unless the disconcerting look with which

the eyes of both the officers followed him and somewhat hastened his

exit may be so regarded.

As for the Captain himself, he was angry clear through, and for a

while not a little dismayed. His thoughts flew rapidly during the

few minutes which followed his hurried reading of the article;

presently, when he turned to McCaleb, that young man missed a

flint-like gleam which had been flashing the admonition that it was

not an opportune time for engaging his chief's attention; but now, in

the face of a familiar pucker, and an elevation of the eyebrow, he

did not hesitate to advance toward the older man, who stood with his

hands thrust deeply into his trousers pockets, a massive figure of

grim determination.

"Mac," said Converse, "go at once to Mr. Mountjoy's residence and ask

him to come here immediately--bring him with you. Hurry! ... Miss

Joyce," he continued, wheeling to the two drooping figures in the

corner, "tell me, please, where Mr. Fairchild is."

She looked wildly at him, and all at once her look became vacant.

She made no response. His eyes narrowed as he noted that glance, and

he addressed the two women no more. But as he was on the point of

leaving the room, he was arrested by the elder lady's voice.

"Don't--don't leave us," she whispered, with an appeal that might

have made him smile at another time. Quite without warning, she

clasped the girl to her. "Good God!" she cried despairingly, "they

will be here presently to carry Joyce to--to jail!" She sat panting,

as if she had been running.

"Oh, no, they will not," he rejoined quietly, his inflexion

satisfyingly convincing. "Officers will be here by and by I have no

doubt; but Miss Joyce shall remain beneath this roof to-night. Don't

worry, Mrs. Westbrook; matters are not so bad as they appear just

now."

"How can you prevent it?" she demanded anxiously.

"Leave that to me. Stay here with your daughter until I return. If

I encounter Melissa, I will send her to you."

In the hall he reflected an instant, then made his way directly to

Joyce's bedroom. As he unceremoniously threw the door open, he was

met by a startled cry from the young lady's maid.

"Go to your mistress--in the morning-room," he commanded; and the

woman, meeting his glance, obeyed without a word.

Before the southernmost of the two windows facing the west stood the

small table of which McCaleb had spoken, upon it an unlighted lamp

and a wax taper in a brass candle-stick. A tablet of letter paper

lay beside these.

After first closing and making fast the door, he picked up the tablet

and tossed back the cover, and there, in young Fairchild's hand, was

the code of signals. After studying it at some length, he presently

replaced the tablet on the table, and, leaving the window, switched

off the lights.

But the blackness did not remain long unbroken. He was moving with

an agility which was none the less swift by reason of its being

noiseless, and as soon as the incandescent lights were extinguished,

he struck a match, lighted the candle, and waited, looking intently

through the window into the night.

Almost instantly he uttered a satisfied ejaculation. Straight ahead,

but seemingly as distant as a star, the darkness was penetrated by a

single tiny spark of light. It was so small and feeble that it

certainly would have been swallowed up and lost had there been any

other intervening illumination; but there it glowed, a single

coruscation against the velvet pall of night.

Upon moving slightly to one side, the light at once vanished; but it

again appeared when he resumed his former position. A movement to

the other side had the same result: evidently, through the trees and

buildings of various kinds which stood between the Westbrook house

and the source of the mysterious point of light, there was but one

straight passage free from obstructions and leading directly to the

centre of this window.

He consulted the tablet, and moved his own taper slowly up once and

then down again, to the table. Immediately the distant spark

appeared to rise an inch or so and settle once more to its former

position. Thus was a familiar greeting flashed through the night,

and answered: "Hello!" The manipulator of the distant light, of

course, had no idea that another than Joyce was engaging his

attention by means of this novel wireless telegraphy; and Mr.

Converse resolved to try the effect of the most startling

announcement he could find--not without a clearly defined purpose.

The code contained nothing that could convey an adequate idea of the

close surveillance under which Joyce had been all day, nor of the

events of the past twelve hours; it was impossible to say what

intelligence she had imparted when McCaleb observed her with the

candle earlier in the evening; but after a brief consideration, he

selected the announcement:

"All is discovered."

The effect was instantaneous. The little spark waved frantically,

and at times so vehement were its movements that it disappeared

altogether: it darted about so erratically--stuttered, one might

say--that it was impossible to catch an inkling of what it intended

to convey; and then it abruptly vanished, not to reappear.

After waiting several minutes, he presently chuckled grimly and

muttered: "The old Fairchild homestead! Now, that young man displays

a resourcefulness and cleverness that I admire. I'll wager he and I

are face to face before morning."

He switched on the lights again, extinguished the candle, and quitted

the room.

In the morning-room he was again confronted by the cold light of Mrs.

Westbrook's pale eyes. Her expression of indifference had taken on a

new meaning for him since he had first come face to face with her

there to-night; it hid a history of which the world indubitably would

never scan a page. To him it now afforded an illumination into

hitherto hidden phases of the dead husband's character rather than an

index to her own repressed nature; and his manner toward her remained

gently deferential. Joyce still sat with her head pillowed on her

mother's shoulder, her appearance betraying complete physical

relaxation.

"Now, Mrs. Westbrook," he began, "when to-morrow dawns, matters are

going to be in a far different condition than they are just now. In

spite of my efforts, the cat seems to be out of the bag; but I

believe the worst has happened."

Joyce sat suddenly upright.

"The worst!" she exclaimed, laughing bitterly. "Pray, sir, how long

is this suspense to continue? Why do you delay?" She thrust forward

two little white hands, two slender wrists. "Here! why do you not

place the handcuffs upon me, and drag me to prison? You began your

work this morning--tell me, why do you torture me with this delay?

Is a prolongation of it a part of what I have to endure? O my God!

my God! let my humiliation be complete!" She was quite hysterical,

her manner so wild and unnatural that he felt the futility of

attempting to reason with her.

"The worst!" she repeated. "God knows how bad it is when I am

conscious of a feeling of gladness that papa--cruelly as he died--is

not here to witness it."

"Hush, Joyce!" commanded the mother.

"I will say it," Joyce cried; "it is but the truth. Were poor papa

not dead, this would kill him! What was it he dreaded? What was it

he feared? Mamma, you know! Oh, God help me! God help me!"

Throwing her arms about her mother's neck, she once more hid her face

on the other's shoulder, and burst into a storm of weeping.

"The first time," whispered Mrs. Westbrook, unmoved--meaning,

doubtless, that it was the first time Joyce had found the relief of

tears. She strove to soothe the distressed girl; but her nature,

clearly, had forgotten how to spend itself through the gentler and

more gracious feminine channels, and for the moment she appeared

stiff and awkward.

With manner subdued, as if he were in a sick-chamber, Mr. Converse

addressed the mother, striving through her to reassure the almost

frenzied girl.

"I shall presently know a number of things which have been kept from

me until now,--which I should have known days ago. I hope your

daughter's and Mr. Fairchild's reasons for silence will have been

removed. With the facts known as they should be, Miss Joyce's causes

for anxiety and worry will disappear in a large measure, and she need

no longer fear that I shall misunderstand her or place a false

interpretation upon circumstances over which she has had no control.

There has been too much that is false: her position has been false,

as has been the Doctor's and Mr. Clay's. She had come to a

realization of all this for herself."

"It was Charlotte," Mrs. Westbrook interpellated in a strange, hard

voice. "It was Charlotte Fairchild who influenced Joyce to speak."

Converse eyed her curiously.

"Well, at any rate, she was about to take me into her confidence,

when Lynden appeared. Try to impress upon her that I will do in her

behalf everything consistent with my duty. As soon as she is able to

continue what she started to relate, why, the quicker can we get

things shipshape again. The whole mystery hinges upon what happened

in the Nettleton Building that day. Retire, if you desire; but I

expect the District Attorney here presently, and you will be

interested in what takes place."

On the instant Sam announced that Mr. Mountjoy was waiting below.

Converse cast an inquiring look at Mrs. Westbrook, who inclined her

head.

"Conduct Mr. Mountjoy here, Sam," was the result of the look.

Joyce disengaged herself from her mother's embrace, and sat upright

once more, looking to her disordered tresses with certain deft and

subtle touches. She turned to the Captain with a calmness which

showed that his recent words had not been lost upon her: the deep

violet eyes yielded a faint light of hope; the sweet face became

rapidly more composed.

Mr. Mountjoy paused a moment in the doorway; catching sight of the

two ladies, he hastened toward them.

"My dear Mrs. Westbrook--Joyce," said he, taking a hand of each in

turn. "It is distressing to see you thus." His voice was full of

sympathy and condolence, but he made no further effort to frame his

feelings with words.

Mr. Mountjoy was well past middle age, but not far above middle

height. He was slender and gray, and his thin, handsome features

were saved from asceticism only by the innumerable fine lines of

humor about his eyes. However, he was serious enough now, as he

looked to the Captain for an explanation.

[Illustration: Mr. Mountjoy's Thin, Handsome Features were Saved from

Asceticism Only by the Lines of Humor about His Eyes.]

"I suppose you have seen the extra edition of the _Herald_?" the

latter asked.

Mountjoy nodded affirmatively.

"Did it occur to you that the unnamed lady was none other than Miss

Westbrook?"

The lawyer looked his astonishment, but said nothing.

"Well, it's a fact, Mr. Mountjoy; and I wish to say, first of all,

that that ass--that Merkel--never did a worse bit of blundering in

his life."

"It seems beyond belief," was Mountjoy's commentary, "that he would

give a matter of this nature to the newspapers."

Converse grunted, and cold type cannot express the amount of scorn he

managed to inject into it. "It's done--all that he could do to tie

my hands."

Mountjoy noted that the inscrutable gray eyes were resting upon Miss

Westbrook, as if their owner's thoughts had taken a sudden flight

beyond their present environment; and he in turn looked at her, too,

and considered.

The idea of associating this girl with such a crime was preposterous;

yet the District Attorney had an unbounded confidence in the chief of

detectives, and at the same time he was sensible of a feeling of

dismay and alarm. He knew her for an intrepid, high-spirited girl,

governed largely by capricious impulses, but sane, and at heart pure

and generous; he felt that she was more likely to act upon the spur

of the moment, and cope with consequences afterward, than regard the

consequences first; but all such traits, while they might account for

an ordinary offence, were alone very far from being adequate reasons

for connecting her with a charge of so grave a nature.

"Let us get at it _ab initio_," said he quietly, seating himself.

"Sit down, John."

Converse availed himself of the opportunity, but slowly and with an

unaccountable hesitancy of manner. His brow was knotted, and he sat

pondering.

"After all," he began at length, "it's going to be a hard matter for

me to tell you just what you ought to know."

"Why?" asked the lawyer, surprised at this reluctant confidence.

Converse eyed him narrowly a moment; and then, evidently, his mind

changed.

"No, I am not going to tell you anything--now," he said, grimly. "I

didn't send for you to hear me talk, but to hear what Miss Westbrook

has to say. I can't anticipate how her words will affect you, Mr.

Mountjoy; but whatever their tenor, pray do not forget that I still

have charge of this case, and until I am ready--"

During his last words Joyce had arisen and approached the speaker.

Now she interrupted by laying a hand upon his arm.

"Then let me speak," she said, "while I can. Let me tell what I

started to when I was interrupted." She turned and faced Mountjoy.

"It is true that Mr. Howe and my brother have been keeping something

back, but when you hear what it is, see if you can blame them. When

Mobley testified at the inquest that he had no reason to believe any

other person was in the Nettleton Building besides those known to be

present, he uttered merely the truth; he was assailed by a great

fear; but at that moment he did not know that I had not yet departed.

Oh, dear me!" she suddenly exclaimed; "the truth sometimes is so hard

to tell--so hard! What I have to say seems, even to myself, so wild

and impossible, that I sometimes wonder if I am not the victim of a

wretched nightmare. But, Mr. Mountjoy--Mr. Converse--I trust you

will believe me." She clasped her hands and looked an earnest appeal

from one to the other.

The lawyer now was grave, his thin features yielding no decipherable

expression; Converse's mien was wholly encouraging and sympathetic.

"Pshaw, Miss Westbrook," said the latter, heartily, "don't let such a

doubt worry you for an instant. You have no idea what my credulity

will stand."

Again she glanced from one to the other, and thenceforth, after

returning her hand timidly to the Captain's brawny arm, addressed

herself directly to him.

"I stepped from Mobley's office into the hall that afternoon, leaving

him and Mr. Howe together; and within two seconds thereafter Señor de

Sanchez was killed. Although I saw it done--"

"My God! Miss Joyce!" burst suddenly from Mountjoy. He started

violently at her last words and stared wide-eyed at her. "And you

have kept that back all this time!"

"Wait," she returned. There was a strange ring in her voice, which

was firm and even, although she was visibly trembling. "Although I

saw that man done to his death, I did not realize at the moment what

was happening before my eyes. Please do not interrupt. It is hard

enough to make myself understood when I tell you just what happened

and in the way it happened, and I hesitate to go on. Dear me! dear

me! I know--I know you can't believe my story of that dreadful,

dreadful afternoon."

The lawyer withdrew his concentrated gaze from her white face and

glanced at the expressionless detective. He said easily and with

obvious sincerity:

"Your sensitiveness makes you forget, Miss Joyce, that we could not

doubt a statement made by you. You may be wrong in your conclusions,

but never in intent."

Unconsciously, her hand was yet lying on Converse's arm, and again

she turned and searched his rough countenance earnestly. What she

found there was evidently satisfactory, for she proceeded at once:

"From the moment I crossed the threshold of Mobley's door, every

circumstance seems to have incriminated me. I knew that the poor man

was expected by my brother, for Mobley and I together framed the

letter which you found on his desk."

"You were there--with Howe and the Doctor, eh?" asked Mountjoy. "But

pardon me; please go on."

"We excused ourselves to Mr. Howe, and Mobley wrote it. Next,

glancing at my watch, I saw that it was five o'clock, and I left

right away, for I wished to avoid a meeting with Señor de Sanchez.

But I had no sooner stepped out of the office into the hall than I

heard footsteps on the stairway. I paused one instant. They were

coming steadily up, and the person--whoever he might be--and I would

be face to face in the hall."

Converse felt the little hand tremble on his arm. The girl's eyelids

all at once drooped wearily, but she pressed her other hand lightly

across them, as if to brush away an obstructing veil.

"At that instant," she went on immediately, "I noticed that Mr.

Nettleton's door was ajar. It was but a step to its shelter, and

without thinking twice, I ran to it and--and--"

She faltered with an air of having forgotten what she would say. The

others were hanging upon her words in a silence that was almost

painful: Mountjoy intensely eager; the officer once more impassive;

while Mrs. Westbrook had risen and approached a step or two nearer

her daughter, whom she stood watching strangely, as if puzzled by

something beyond and behind her words.

"You ran to the door--" suggested Converse; again the girl tried to

brush away the persistent intervening veil.

"I feel so queerly," she said; "everything is whirling around so."

"You have been tried beyond your strength," interposed the lawyer;

"perhaps we had better postpone--"

"No, no, no!" She checked him with sudden vehemence. "I must go

on--I must. If I don't tell now, I never may. Where was I?" The

lovely eyes glowed unnaturally bright; unconsciously she lifted her

hand and struck the officer's arm with feverish impatience.

"You hurried to Mr. Nettleton's--"

"Yes--I pushed open the door and got behind it. My sole idea then

was to escape a meeting with that man. I didn't close it entirely.

I wheeled about and peeped down the hall, realizing that I was none

too soon; for, sure enough, Señor de Sanchez was coming toward my

brother's office.

"I watched him with a sort of fascination, and for the first time I

experienced a strange, shrinking dread of the man--a fear I had never

known before. For the first time I seemed to be looking at the man

himself,--not at a handsome animated mask,--and what I saw made me

shudder."

And so did the bare recollection. Once more the persistent veil had

to be swept aside--this time with a nervous, agitated hand--and the

recital was taken up again, precipitately, in a veritable rush of

words. As the crisis was gradually approached, the suspense became

almost unendurable; the effect of what the actuality had been upon

the tender, thoughtless witness thereof became more and more

manifest--undoubtedly a shock and a horror too deep and far-reaching

for expression. The gravity of the situation could scarcely be

overestimated. The issue now hanging in the balance was so vital, so

momentous, that at least two of the auditors were in a state of

anxious, doubtful eagerness which blinded them to the girl's true

condition.

"As Señor de Sanchez came nearer between the two doors--Mr.

Nettleton's and Mobley's--I was obliged to widen the crack somewhat,

or else the man would have passed from my view. So great was the

spell in which his undisguised self held me, that I did so without

being aware of the act until too late. But I need not have feared

that the movement would attract his attention--" The little hand

clutched the unyielding arm convulsively, another shudder swept over

the slight form, and her voice all at once lowered and became hoarse.

"I had no thought at all," she continued, receding from the one point

for which they were all so eager, yet feared to interrupt the recital

of to hear. "I was aware of nothing but a blind, unreasoning

instinct to escape. I ran wildly toward the door opening into the

next office, where I almost ran into Clay. But I did not pause; his

speechless astonishment made no impression upon me; I thought nothing

of it when he hastened by me into the room I had just quitted, as if

to learn the cause of my agitation and unceremonious intrusion upon

his privacy--I was simply wild to escape, and I ran on to the other

hall door, where I stopped again. Other footsteps! I thought that

terrible man would be for ever in passing, and I crouched there,

clinging to the door-knob and whimpering like a terrified child.

Then, quite suddenly, through the crack of the door, I caught a

glimpse of Howard Lynden; he too was going towards my brother's--"

She paused and placed a hand to her throat, and all at once Converse

became sensible of the fact that the pressure of the hand on his arm

was increasing; that now, instead of lying there to hold his

attention, it was in reality supporting the speaker. It seemed as if

her will were putting forth its last effort to bear her up until she

had finished.

"But what you saw--" he demanded. "Hurry, Miss Westbrook; what was

it you saw before you fled?"

"As--as Señor de Sanchez got between me and--and Mobley's door,

Howard--"

"Lynden?" sharply, from the detective.

"No, no. What was I saying? Howard was not there. Why do you draw

so far away from me?"

The veil was becoming more persistent, the effort to remove it weaker

and more unavailing. Unnoticed by Joyce, Mrs. Westbrook glided to

her side, and for the second time that night passed a supporting arm

about her daughter's waist. At the same time Converse clasped the

trembling hand on his arm; he felt its hold loosening.

"Just one word more, and this thing must end," he said, with abrupt

authority. "De Sanchez got between you and the Doctor's door," he

prompted. "What then?"

"Why--why--he all at once became terrified at something in front of

him. Oh, the dreadful expression of his face! He--he--"

"Which way was he facing?"

"Straight ahead--toward the end of the hall. At that moment his face

became frozen with a nameless terror; he threw up a hand to ward off

the blow; but--but--"

"Yes, yes--then?"

"Then I--I--saw-- Mamma, what ails the lights?--they are becoming so

dim."

"Good God, Miss Joyce, hasten! You saw--"

She turned a hazy look toward him.

"I--I--saw--" one more futile effort to brush away the veil--"I--I

saw--" and the girl, her face like wax, hung limp and silent between

the Captain and her mother.

It had indeed ended.

With a movement that disengaged the motionless figure from Mrs.

Westbrook's encircling arm, Converse lifted Joyce lightly and

deposited her upon a couch. The look which he bestowed upon the

white, pinched face was one of concern, and for an instant he laid

one hand lightly upon her marble-like brow, then felt her pulse.

"I was afraid of this," said Mountjoy. "How insensibly a man can be

a brute. Poor child, she has fainted; the strain--" He paused

suddenly, catching a peculiar look from the Captain.

The latter shook his head.

"Telephone for her brother," said he to the motionless mother, his

manner free from any quality that might alarm; "send for Doctor Bane.

Don't be frightened," he added, hastily, noting the startled

attitudes of the other two; "it is simply a matter of not assuming

any unnecessary responsibility. What this poor child has experienced

deserves the best medical care at command."

As he had some knowledge of all things under the sun, he was also

something of a physician, and knew that this coma was more than a

simple lapsing into unconsciousness.

In silence the detective and the lawyer descended the stairs, and

that silence was not broken until they arrived at the sidewalk.

"What do you think?" asked Mountjoy.

"Brain fever," was the laconic reply.

BOOK III.

SLADE'S BLESSING

_The evil spirit of a bitter love

And a revengeful heart._

--CLAUDE MELNOTTE'S APOLOGY.

CHAPTER I

OPENING WAYS

Before Converse and the District Attorney separated that night they

had come to an agreement that considerably mystified Mr. Mountjoy.

It was no less than the assertion of a determination by the former to

disappear for a time, and an assurance by the District Attorney that

he would keep the Captain informed about affairs local during the

latter's absence.

"Ah, and I am to provide the red fire?" inquired the lawyer, mildly,

in his precise way, "to see to the braying of the trumpets and the

clashing of the cymbals?"

"There is to be no red fire. I wish to vanish as inconspicuously as

possible, my absence to remain unnoted; but while I am gone I should

like to feel sure that matters here will remain just as they are."

"How long is this absence to continue?"

Converse shook his head. "That I can't say: a month, possibly--maybe

two; at any rate, until I get what I'm going after," he ended grimly.

This determination was noted with silent approval; but the lawyer at

once said:

"Since it is not your custom to furnish material for that pavement

which is made up of good intentions, I will refrain from touching

upon your objective. I suppose I must take you as heretofore, on

faith. All right.... And how am I to keep you informed on the march

of events?"

"Communicate with No. 18 Ash Lane, care of Abram Follett, junk

dealer."

For a moment Mr. Mountjoy's astonishment was quite frank and

decidedly patent.

"Abram Follett!" he cried, "junk dealer! Who the devil is Abram

Follett, junk dealer! John, I must admit that behind your adamantine

front there exist depths which I despair of ever sounding,

and--and--" he finally stammered, "confound it! do you suppose me

absolutely devoid of curiosity?"

But the reply was given imperturbably.

"Well, sir, Abram Follett is--Abram Follett; his address is No. 18

Ash Lane."

The attorney looked up at the whimsically elevated brow, the pursed

lips, and, with a hopeless shrug of the shoulders, wrote the name and

address in his memorandum-book. In a few minutes they parted.

Converse went directly to a large and imposing structure which stood

close by the City Hall,--the headquarters of the local telephone

system.

The lower story, given over to the offices of various departments,

was at this hour of the night dark and apparently untenanted; but the

soft glow of many shaded incandescent lights from the upper floors

indicated the nucleus of an endless activity.

Without hesitation, Mr. Converse entered the dimly lighted lower

hall, passed the ornamental iron cage of the elevator, now bearing a

card which announced with direct brevity, "Not running," and ascended

a wide marble stairway. He arrived presently before a glass swinging

door and into an atmosphere so quiet that it made a conversation

which was then in progress somewhere farther on to his left come to

him with unusual distinctness.

His attention was held by the voices, emanating, apparently, from a

lighted room farther along the hall. The subject of the colloquy was

so singularly in harmony with the object of his present visit, that

he came to an involuntary pause.

"But about Miss Carter, Henty," said one of the voices; "sure she

didn't dream it after reading the papers this morning?"

"Oh, no. She called me over some time after midnight and said the

line had been open a long time--told me then."

"Well, I sure would tell the police, Henty,--or Captain Converse.

He's the fellow to see."

"You may tell me now, gentlemen, if it is your pleasure," said a

quiet, peculiar whisper from the doorway; and the two occupants of

the room sat petrified with astonishment.

The two young men had been seated comfortably with their feet on the

flat-topped desk between them; one, it appeared, had been pursuing

the somewhat exacting undertaking of coloring a meerschaum pipe, upon

which he bestowed many a solicitous glance. The other puffed

nervously at a cigarette.

"I believe you and your friend were discussing the very matter that

brought me here," Converse began pleasantly, advancing into the room.

"I couldn't help overhearing something of what you were saying, and I

should like to talk with that young lady--Miss Carter, didn't I hear

you say?"

One young man now arose abruptly, and after proffering the Captain

his chair, departed.

Converse sat down. His stolid composure was not without a suggestion

of affability, which was perhaps the more effective by reason of its

being reserved rather than brought into play.

"First of all, Mr. Henty, when a receiver is taken down from its

hook, Central pretty soon asks what number is wanted, don't she?"

"Well--yes."

"And whatever's going on at the other end of the line--whether some

one asks for a number or not--is pretty likely to be heard, isn't it?"

Henty nodded.

"And Miss Carter, I take it, heard something unusual last night--must

have, to hold her attention, eh? Now, I want to see the young lady

that answers night calls coming in on Main two-one-two-four."

"Operator Twenty-two," said Henty. "That's Miss Carter, all right.

I'm night manager, Captain, and--" he hesitated, "er--our strictest

rule--"

"You need not fear that I will divulge any matter that may be

repeated to me," suggested Converse, seeing the young man's quandary.

"But if you anticipate any ill results from what you or the young

lady may say, I can assure you it will be all right with your general

manager. Mr. Patterson and I have a little unwritten agreement

covering contingencies of this kind."

In the end the young man departed from the room, returning presently

with a young woman.

"This is Miss Carter," said he by way of introduction. "Miss Carter,

Captain Converse."

She proved to be very fragile appearing, very blonde, very small and

slender, and, moreover, very tired and uninterested.

"Captain Converse has called in regard to what you heard last

night--you know, Miss Carter. It will be proper--perfectly--to

repeat it."

She directed her faded blue eyes to the officer and began at once to

speak in a quiet, colorless little voice, as if the matter were of

the commonest every-day occurrence--a familiar part of her regular

routine.

"About midnight last night, the signal-lamp of Main

two-one-two-four--"

"Signal-lamp?" Converse queried, vaguely; "you mean the signal

indicating that some one had taken down the receiver?"

"That's it," the night manager interpellated; "a small incandescent

lamp lights up, you know--that's the signal to Central."

"Very good. Proceed, Miss Carter."

"Well, before I had time to ask what number was wanted, I heard

something that made me forget to ask at all; or at any rate, for a

minute or so. I heard some one saying in a loud voice--" She

hesitated and looked at Henty, uneasy under the piercing gaze with

which the caller was insensibly regarding her.

Converse was leaning forward, an elbow upon one knee, the clenched

fist of one hand supporting his chin. He was absolutely motionless,

impassive, save for that wonderful look of the eyes, which played and

scintillated like live fire.

Quite suddenly Mr. Henty realized the tenseness of the situation, the

magnetism of the silent force which dominated them both.

"Go on, go on," he said, a trifle nervously. Dropping her glance to

her thin clasped hands, Miss Carter did so.

"The voice said, 'You miserable hound! How dared you make this thing

known to that--' then came a word that I failed to catch. Next the

voice, still very loud and angry, said, 'Take that!' and two pistol

shots followed in rapid succession. The whole thing happened in a

second."

The ensuing silence was presently broken by Mr. Converse's sibilant

voice, and it was obvious that the others were measurably relieved

thereby.

"Did you then ask what number was wanted?" he inquired.

"No, sir," came the reply, in the same colorless, even tones. "It

was so remarkable--I was so overcome--that I simply sat there

listening."

"Did you hear anything more?"

"Well--yes, sir." The words came haltingly. "But I can't tell what

it was."

"Try to describe the nature of the sounds. Take your time, Miss

Carter; think hard."

She pondered.

"Well," she began after a moment, "I should say that what I next

heard was made by some one pounding the transmitter with a hammer,

and at the same time rubbing it with sandpaper; that is the best way

I can describe it."

"You know," the night manager again interposed, "a very loud sound

close to the transmitter sometimes becomes indistinguishable; it

produces simply an ear-piercing noise that is mighty trying upon the

operators."

"It was nothing like that," the young woman added, confidently.

Converse asked:

"If you had been familiar with the sound, could you have identified

it?"

"Yes, sir. But I never heard anything like it before."

Converse considered, regarding Miss Carter thoughtfully. Presently

he stirred and sat upright.

"Like being rubbed with sandpaper, and pounded with a hammer," he

mused aloud; then became attentive.

"Are you familiar with many of the voices--of the old patrons, that

is?" he inquired.

"Yes, a good many of them. Some voices I recognize immediately; but,

of course, to me the great majority are merely voices, and no more."

"I see.... Could you recognize General Westbrook's voice?"

She smiled slightly, as though the question were amusingly

reminiscent. "Yes, sir," she said; and again the gray eyes kindled.

"That's good--very good. And was the voice you heard last night

General Westbrook's?"

"I don't know."

"Don't know? ... How's that?"

Miss Carter bestowed a hasty side-glance upon the night floor-walker.

"Well, you see, sir," she replied, with some hesitation, but also

with a certain air of gratification, as though she were glad of the

opportunity for making the confidence, "that while his voice and

manner were well-known to most of the girls--very cranky and

supercilious he was, and they all detested him--he was not very close

to the transmitter last night."

Mr. Henty coughed, deprecatingly, behind his hand.

"Undoubtedly," he again supplemented, "the unfortunate gentleman--I

understood you to say so, Miss Carter?--spoke in a very loud voice--

"That is correct," Miss Carter broke in. "It was only because he

spoke so loudly that I was able to catch such words as I did."

Mr. Converse rewarded the girl with a nod of comprehension and

approval. "Your graphic description will be of incalculable

benefit," said he in a tone of quiet cordiality that brought the

faintest of pink flushes to her pale cheek. And then he turned to

the night manager.

"Mr. Henty, I should like to try an experiment; I believe I can

duplicate the sounds which Miss Carter described so vividly. May she

go to a 'phone in an adjoining room while I make the effort with this

desk instrument, here?"

"Sure--if you don't intend to pound it with a hammer or rub it down

with sandpaper," he added lightly..... "Miss Carter, go into Mr.

Bascom's office, and answer over his 'phone. The light is burning."

"Give me half a dozen or so sheets of paper," Converse now said;

"then get the young lady for me, and I'll do the rest."

Henty complied with an alacrity born of curiosity.

"All right, Captain; she answers."

"Tell her to listen carefully, so she may compare what she will

presently hear with the sounds she heard last night."

Converse laid the several sheets of paper on the table, and after

overturning the desk telephone--but gently, in this instance--he

placed the instrument just as he had found the one on General

Westbrook's desk and so that it reposed on the sheets of paper.

Holding it with his left hand, he hastily drew the papers from

beneath it with his right. The action produced a slight hissing

sound when the sheets of paper rubbed together and as they slipped

from between the telephone and the desk surface. At the same time

the instrument itself rattled somewhat on the desk.

"Those are the sounds, precisely," answered Miss Carter.

It was only a step to headquarters; but before turning his face in

that direction, Mr. Converse paused on the sidewalk and stood for a

time in deep meditation. Rousing himself at last, he muttered, "Now

for you, Mr. Clay Fairchild," and set off briskly for the City Hall.

Did he expect to encounter the young man there? Was this the meaning

of his muttered confidence, when he had signalled from Joyce's window

some hours earlier?

It would seem that he now had sufficient insight into the motives and

impulses governing the puppets in this double tragedy, to feel rather

secure in determining his own movements according to their probable

future conduct.

He entered the building in his customary silent manner, and at once

occurred one of the many incidents that caused his colleagues to

regard him with a sort of awe. He walked directly to the Sergeant's

desk.

"Send Fairchild to my office," said he, quietly, and possibly he

smiled somewhere within the cryptic chambers of his mind at the

picture of blank astonishment confronting him. How should any

faculty short of clairvoyance divine that Clay Fairchild had appeared

less than an hour previously and asked to be locked up?

The Captain of detectives was tilted back in his swivel-chair when

the young man was ushered in a minute or two later; he proceeded

candidly and leisurely to take an inventory of Mr. Clay Fairchild,

who, considering that he had been an object of diligent search by the

police, bore an attitude of admirable unconcern.

Tall and spare, his features somewhat sharp in outline, he was far

from imparting an unfavorable impression. The dark, intense eyes,

the determined, lean jaw, all suggested Charlotte in many striking

details. Although he was slender, an observer could not miss the

strength and virility of his individuality. He was undoubtedly a

strong, resolute young man, who thoroughly knew his own mind, and was

determined not to be awed or moved by Captain John Converse or any

one else.

Fairchild contemplated the Captain's huge figure with some show of

interest--as if at a loss to surmise what might come forth from a

source so doubtful and uncertain. He noted suddenly that the gray

eyes were remarkably keen, that they possessed a glint like the

surface of polished steel, and that they seemed to be searching out

the inner-most recesses of his mind. But after he had detected it,

he returned their scrutiny steadily until the enigmatic figure spoke.

"Sit down," said Converse, pleasantly, shoving a chair toward the

young man. "I am glad to see you, Mr. Clay Fairchild."

"I don't doubt it," was the dry, drawling response. Nevertheless he

accepted the tendered chair, and waited.

"Yes; I'm glad to see you, young man; perhaps, after all, you'll do."

The Captain was not displeased at Fairchild's self-possession and

apparent determination to remain non-committal.

"Thanks. Is it permissible to inquire what particular purpose you

think I may serve?"

The inquiry was ignored. Converse sat quietly appraising the young

man; and at last he abruptly said:

"Would you like to go home?"

"I! Go home!" his amazement was extreme. "Do you mean that I'm not

wanted?"

"Not here, at any rate. But I'll have to lock you up, whether or no,

if I can't count on your keeping yourself out of view a while longer.

I'm half inclined to think I did wrong in stirring you from your

hiding-place."

Fairchild gasped.

"Some explanation is due you, however," the other went on calmly;

"but I have neither time nor inclination to go into it. Your

sister--"

"Charlotte? What have you to do with Charlotte?"

"A good deal, young man. You will learn a lot before you are many

hours older. Miss Joyce and I have come to a pretty good

understanding, and it was I who signalled you to-night. Oh, you

don't need to look so astonished; the sooner you realize that I am

sole boss of this affair, the less trouble you will cause yourself.

You go and talk with your sister. You will be glad enough to talk to

me afterwards."

"Do you--do you--mean that Joyce--that Miss Westbrook has voluntarily

told you--"

"Exactly. She has voluntarily taken me into her confidence. But it

chanced she suddenly became ill, and some things which she fully

intended to tell--well, she will not be able to tell them for a

while. Otherwise you could still be roosting undisturbed in your old

garret. Clever idea, that."

Fairchild was dazed. He looked at the Captain blankly, as if his

mind was seething. Talk to Charlotte?--go home?--this extraordinary

man had signalled to him with his and Joyce's secret code? From out

the whirl of ideas but one presented itself in the shape of a clearly

distinguishable fact: somehow his carefully laid plan--his ultimate

resource for turning the tide away from Joyce and her beloved

brother--had evaporated; this unusual individual, moving silently and

invisibly behind the scenes, had discovered the wires, and now he

seemed to have them well in his own hand. Then, how was it with

Joyce? At the thought he became suddenly icy--frozen with a terror

that put his manhood, for the moment, utterly to rout. But abruptly

he became sensible again of the sibilant voice, of a note of kindness

in it, and he managed to direct his attention once more to what the

man was saying.

"But the result of your and Miss Westbrook's conduct," Converse was

proceeding quietly, "has been to make her position one of the utmost

peril. Heaven knows, it's bad enough. Now, you've got to help her."

"Good God! anything, anything!" The reply was a groan.

"Very good. Do as I say, then, and go home. There will be no charge

against you here; nothing to show that you've been here at all. Stay

at home till I arrive--some time to-morrow forenoon--when I wish to

see you and Miss Charlotte together; and, above all, keep yourself

out of sight for a time."

Still laboring with his emotional storm, Fairchild followed the

Captain docilely enough; yet he had himself pretty well in hand. A

hundred questions surged to his lips; questions of such vital

importance to his peace of mind that it was an acute distress to keep

them back unasked and unanswered; but the manner in which the big,

impassive man had terminated the colloquy was so decisive that he

could only manage to blurt out one of them.

"Stay a moment!" he cried. "I'll go crazy if you leave me in this

way. You tell me to talk to Charlotte: do you mean that she--that

Charlotte--can explain the turn affairs seem to have taken?"

The gray eyes, expressionless, met his for a moment.

"Exactly."

Fairchild departed from headquarters like a man walking in his sleep.

CHAPTER II

FAIRCHILD REDIVIVUS

On the morning of the day on which the Captain of detectives chose to

efface himself from the stage of the "Westbrook-De Sanchez Drama" to

a position behind the scenes, two things came to his notice that had

for him more than a passing interest. The first we may present as it

appeared, set in modest and inconspicuous agate type, among the court

notes of a certain newspaper.

No. 26004. In re Estate of Peyton Westbrook, deceased. Report of

appraisers approved and filed. The report shows that there are no

assets under the will except the homestead, which is reserved to the

widow.

The other matter was embodied in a communication which lay on his

desk at headquarters. It was the resignation of one of his

subordinates--the man Adams, him of the shifty eyes and stealthy

ways, whose manner the night of the De Sanchez affair had made Lynden

so uncomfortable.

The fact that General Peyton Westbrook was actually penniless came

like a bombshell to a community that had so long looked up to him as

a leading citizen, a man of affairs and affluence, whose very name

was a synonyme for business acumen and success; but the fact became

only more certain with the passing days, though the public learned

little more of it than was contained in the notice quoted.

Converse sat musing for a time, then he tossed Adams's letter into a

pigeonhole. "Going to start a private agency, eh? Very good; I wish

you luck. Now there's a place for McCaleb." He dismissed the matter

from his mind, and at once remembered the morning's chief engagement.

It was time to keep tryst with Miss Charlotte and her brother.

When he arrived at the cottage Charlotte welcomed him cordially,

while Clay turned to him with a new interest, acquired overnight, and

frankly extended a hand.

"We nearly made a mess of it, didn't we?" were Clay's first words

after greeting. He laughed at the whimsical look with which he was

being regarded.

"But I am afraid I am going to disappoint you," he continued. "I

fear things will appear more puzzling and perplexing than ever.

After hearing what Charlotte had to say, it seems marvellous--I am

more at sea than ever."

The other nodded a brisk comprehension. "We are all at sea, more or

less," said he. "But being at sea in a rudderless craft, without a

navigator, and off the usual routes of traffic, is one thing; to have

a stanch bottom beneath you, a stiff breeze off the quarter, and your

course well marked off, is quite another.

"I take it, then, that after you and Miss Joyce passed each other in

Mr. Nettleton's office,--after you went into the private office to

see what had occasioned her bursting in upon you so

unceremoniously,--you were more puzzled than ever; that you saw

nothing whatever to explain the occurrence?"

Was it prescience that prompted this conclusion? for hear the answer:

"That is correct."

And again:

"There was no one there?"

"No one; no evidence that anybody besides Joyce had been in the

private office."

Where, then, had the assassin been?

But Converse, though his mien became a little grimmer, did not pause.

"After you had ascertained that Miss Westbrook was indeed gone, you

seated yourself once more at your desk--but not to resume your work.

Your mind was engrossed by the recent episode; presently you noted

that a very familiar perfume was still conspicuous, as if in passing

she had left a pleasant evidence of herself loitering about your

desk, and you fell to searching for it. You scattered the papers on

your desk; you looked to the floor--all about you--but did not locate

the source of that delicate fragrance."

Noting the young man's frank amazement, he chuckled silently.

"No; I was not there," he went on,--"not until later. But I found

it. In her agitation, she had dropped her handkerchief into your

waste-paper basket."

"And that," gasped Charlotte, "was what directed you to Joyce!"

"Miss Fairchild," said the Captain, soberly, "it was a clue that

could not be ignored. You have seen the Countess Zicka in

'Diplomacy.'

"Go on," urged Fairchild, while his sister nodded her comprehension.

"Very well. You remained at your desk ten or fifteen minutes longer,

but never got your mind fixed upon your work again. At last you

donned your overcoat and hat and passed over to the Doctor's office,

with a vague idea of finding an explanation there. As you opened his

door, you were still trying to account for Miss Westbrook's transit

through Mr. Nettleton's offices, and when your eye fell upon the form

of De Sanchez, no idea was at first conveyed to your brain; it was so

far beyond anything that you possibly could have imagined. Next

instant a concept of what had happened burst upon you; a false one,

to be sure, but quite natural under the circumstances. I can see

that it was a tremendous shock to you; for the moment you were dumb,

paralyzed with terror; then like a flash your faculties were startled

into an abnormal activity, and you realized that you had become an

important factor in a deed of blood. There sat Doctor Westbrook, and

Howe--a stranger to you--in an ominous silence, their own faces

reflecting something of the deed's horror; Alberto de Sanchez lay

dead at their feet and at yours, and with electric swiftness you

reviewed the facts as you knew them,--the ground of contention

between the Doctor and the dead man, the still bleeding body, the

familiar weapon lying conspicuously on the floor,--all told an awful

story. You did not try to reason it out or give a name to what you

beheld; you were simply dismayed, overwhelmed by a consciousness that

in some way the situation was fraught with the gravest peril for some

one very dear to you,--some one whose well-being and happiness were

of far more importance than your own,--and you acted upon the

blindest of impulses. No one but yourself knew that Miss Joyce had

been there; no one would ever ascertain it from you, and you fled

madly, with no definite aim but to get away--to hide yourself safe

from all pursuit."

Clay sat watching the speaker, rapt by the recital.

"This is truly remarkable," he now said, with a quietness born of

deep feeling. "You relate the conditions as if you had experienced

them yourself. Could I have imagined for a moment that the

investigation was to be conducted with such insight and

comprehension, why, I should never have fled. What slaves we are to

impulse!'

"Aye, to the young it is the refinement of wisdom, as my friend Mr.

Follett would say."

"There was yet another element augmenting my feelings at that

moment," Clay went on; "do you care to hear?"

"Assuredly. I should like to hear any conclusions you may have

formed."

"Well, that very morning Miss Westbrook and I had had a conversation

concerning Señor de Sanchez, to which his sudden taking off and the

manner of it were an awful climax. Never, never again will I lightly

consider the chances of a person's living or dying; the _dénouement_

was like an answer to an unexpressed wish."

"But now, then, Mr. Fairchild," interpellated Converse, but stopped

to ask, "You know, of course, about Miss Joyce's illness?"

"I do; but I am miserably in doubt regarding its seriousness."

"The conditions are all in her favor: youth, health, splendid

constitution; so you need not worry about that. What I started to

say is, that I wish to direct your attention to the mainspring of the

whole matter. To-night I must leave the city for a time, and before

I go I want to know what it was she saw in the hall. It was while

striving to tell this that she collapsed. Poor girl; I hope that

some time she may find it in her heart to forgive my persistence."

For a bit the natural seriousness of the young man's countenance was

deepened by the evident care with which he was framing a reply. The

visitor awaited that reply with his customary impassiveness; but

Charlotte, who had been following the conversation with rapt

interest, now suddenly leant forward and watched her brother with

some anxiety.

"Captain," Clay began at length, "if Joyce--if Miss Westbrook and I

had had better opportunities of discussing the matter since the death

of De Sanchez, we might have come to a better understanding; but I

was haunted with an abnormal fear of discovery, and I shrank from

exposing myself unnecessarily, because I didn't know what dire

disaster it would mean for her and the Doctor." Of a sudden his eyes

kindled. "I saw her but three times," he concluded, "and then only

briefly."

"Three times?"

"Yes--"

But Charlotte's gentle voice interrupted. "Let me explain," said

she, directing a glance of sympathy toward her brother; "it will give

you an added insight into Joyce's character, which will not injure

her in your estimation, I am sure. Dear, brave, impulsive girl! Mr.

Converse, can you imagine Joyce going alone at night to Clay's

hiding-place, that dismal, forsaken house that was once our home?"

"I can believe anything of her courage, Miss Fairchild."

"Well, she did--so soon as she learned where Clay was and why he was

there. I have it from Mobley, Mr. Converse; the transformation which

this intelligence worked in her amazed him and Mrs. Westbrook. That

night, unknown to any one, she went through the darkness, through

those wretched, creepy halls and silent, deserted rooms, to tell

Clay--But I shall not relate what she said or what occurred."

Indeed, it was not necessary that she should; a glance at the young

man's glowing countenance was sufficient.

Converse laughed knowingly.

"That was on--let me see, what night was it?" he inquired.

"The next night after De San--Thursday night," Charlotte replied.

The Captain nodded appreciatively.

"That clears up the code," said he.

"The code went to Joyce in a returning lunch-basket," observed

Fairchild.

"By way of the Doctor?" the Captain added.

"Doctor Westbrook, do you mean?" said Clay, surprised. "Oh, no; Mr.

Nettleton's negro, President, was the happy medium, the manna-bearing

raven in my wilderness, always."

"Did Mr. Nettleton know of this arrangement?" asked Converse.

"Why, yes," was the perplexed reply. "I don't know what idea you

have, but this is the way of it. When I first left the Nettleton

Building, I went rushing through the streets like one distracted. I

was, I suppose. But presently I came to myself and realized, if I

wished to expunge myself quietly, that I must get my wits together

and think out a plan. So I walked on more composedly, penetrated the

depths of the East Side to a small hotel conducted by a Mexican of

whom I know. Oh, I was terribly upset--clean knocked out; for while

I was in the dingy office a most remarkably beautiful girl entered.

I uttered a cry that frightened her, and sat staring at her with open

mouth. She was the living image of De Sanchez--or so my distraught

brain fancied.

"Well, there I managed to frame a note to Mr. Nettleton, in which I

explained the circumstances as best I could, dwelling upon the

imperativeness of my resolution, and trusting to his honor for

secrecy. I pointed out how useless it would be to involve Joyce;

that if I was not called upon to testify, the matter would be cleared

up without her ever being brought into it at all--in short that if my

absence would spare her any scandal, why, I would remain absent as

long as it might be necessary. I don't believe the Doctor at any

time knew where I was; for at the very start we all agreed to keep

our own counsels, on the theory that a secret is best kept when

shared by the fewest people. The searching inquiry that was to

follow was anticipated, and the fact was pressed home to Joyce by

both Mr. Nettleton and myself, that it would prove far more expedient

for the Doctor honestly to plead ignorance than to attempt evasion;

so he was told nothing, and not even Charlotte was given a hint of my

whereabouts. Joyce was to be saved at all hazards."

"Dear boy!" softly interposed Charlotte.

"Lottie, don't distract me that way, please," protested her brother;

"you make me forget where I am."

"And Mr. Nettleton entered into this mad scheme, did he?" asked the

Captain, much interested.

"He agreed with me that,--for the time being, at any rate, or until

something developed to give an idea which way the cat was likely to

jump,--it was just as well that I exile myself; offering the one

objection, that I was likely to direct suspicion to myself. That was

a contingency encouraging rather than deterring, and he promised,

finally, to lend me every aid.

"Next day he confided the plan to Joyce, who immediately elected

herself the guiding spirit of the enterprise: President might be the

intermediary, but no other hands than hers could prepare the food.

God bless her!"

"But we have wandered far from the point," the Captain remarked

tersely. "What did Miss Joyce see in the hall?"

"To be brief, Mr. Converse," returned Clay, "I don't know. I was

trusting, before you came, that you yourself would know. The little

time we were together she would not speak of it. Whatever it was, it

had affected her profoundly, filling her with a horror she could not

banish. But I do know that she did not see the assassin: she said as

much."

"Ah-h-h! Did she say directly that she had not?" The gray eyes

suddenly narrowed.

"Yes. I asked her if she had."

"And her answer?"

"Was no."

A gleam shot between the contracted lids, which obviously was

irrepressible.

"I am glad the situation yields you something, at any rate," said

Clay; and Charlotte added anxiously, "What is it, Mr. Converse?"

He made a grimace of deprecation.

"Have I permitted my feelings to show themselves?" he asked, and

shook his head mournfully. "I told Mr. Mountjoy last night that I

was aging; I reckon it is only too true. I have a trifle laid by,

and when it amounts to enough to purchase a little home--like

this--say--where I can have plenty of flowers, you'll never hear of

me interfering with any more such cases; no, indeed. You may laugh,

my boy, but it is a fact.... I should say now, as a guess, that one

of the three times when you saw Miss Joyce was night before last, eh?"

"Yes, sir," was the reply.

And so it may be seen that, however old the Captain might be, he had

not forgotten the wisdom of Polonius's admonition to "give every man

thine ear, but few thy voice." Their eager questions remained

unanswered, and they failed to note.

"I wish you would tell me what you were doing in the Westbrook yard,"

Converse continued; "what you saw and heard while there."

"Did Joyce speak of that?" was the unnecessarily cautious response.

"In a way, yes; but I want impressions at first hand."

The young man considered a while before proceeding.

"Well, you know about our code of signals," he said at length, "mine

and Joyce's. I arranged that code, and was very proud of it until we

attempted to use it; then a difficulty arose: Joyce's inability to

read half the signals, and mine to read the other half. Still, the

chief object was attained: nightly we assured each other of our

well-being, and I was enabled to glean pretty well how affairs were

progressing.

"But there were one or two occasions when I was left in a perplexing

doubt. I became intolerably anxious and impatient, and throwing

caution to the winds, I met Joyce in her yard. Our signals of

meeting, fortunately, were never difficult of interpretation.

"So it was on Monday night. Of course I was anxious to be with her

at all times, but then the whim seized me all at once, and--well, I

went. I heard the shots--just as I was leaving--but had no idea they

came from the house, and neither had Joyce. We differed about their

exact location, but that was all; we heard no more nor saw anything.

I did not approach close to the house at any time."

"Shortly after hearing the shots--just before you left--did you hear

no sound, as of some one approaching from the house?"

Clay shook his head. "Not a thing," he said.

The next question, "Did you see Howard Lynden Monday night?" caused

his face to darken.

"Howard?" he asked, uncomprehendingly. "No. What of him?"

"You did not know that he was near you Monday night--" The speaker

stopped in the face of the other's expression. Clay's brow knotted,

his lips compressed, and he watched Converse intently through

half-closed lids. He glanced swiftly at his sister. It was quite

plain that Lynden, as a topic, was extremely distasteful.

But Clay merely said:

"So Mr. Howard Lynden followed her from Mrs. Farquier's, did he?

What have you to say to that, Lottie?"

"Maybe not, Clay, maybe not. Don't be--"

"No; he did not," interposed the Captain; "but started out to look

for her as soon as he missed her from the company."

"It's the same," said the young man; and again he fixed an intent,

half-veiled scrutiny upon the visitor.

"I believe you understand," he abruptly resumed. "Charlotte is

inclined to stand up for him,--she would for anybody, for that

matter,--but he is a little-- Well, I regret that I can't express

myself to him. If you only knew how he has watched her, how he has

made her life a weariness--"

"I do know something of it." Converse laughed dryly. "If her word

carries any weight with him, he knows it too."

As his auditor's look became inquiring, the Captain narrated what had

occurred at the Westbrooks'.

Clay put a period to the recital with a satisfied "Good!"

"Does Lynden regard Miss Joyce with any unusual warmth of affection?"

"Does he!" with an indignant stare. "Why, he's head over heels in

love with her. Did you ever hear of such presumptuous conceit?"

Very soberly, Converse replied that he had not.

"That's what makes his conduct all the more annoying," this

confidence went on; "it is as if he suspected her of something. Why,

he might even think she had something to do with the De Sanchez

business."

"Sure enough." The idea was illuminating. Presently Converse

inquired how much the young man knew of De Sanchez's determination to

marry Joyce.

"I knew that De Sanchez came here for the express purpose of marrying

her," was the reply. "That could mean only a resolution formed when

Joyce was a mere child." He abruptly paused. "What is it?" he asked.

Converse had suddenly become electrified into a tense alertness. He

grasped the chair-arms, as if imminently upon the point of springing

up. Quite suddenly, again, his normal impassiveness reasserted

itself.

"Go on, go on," said he, with a haste not altogether free from

eagerness.

"Do my words suggest anything?"

"They do. But go on."

"Well," resumed Clay, "when Joyce took that trip to Mexico, she was

too young and inexperienced to appreciate a fact that later became

susceptible of interpretation. Looking back to that time, she could

not fail to see that his conduct was then directed toward herself;

that it greatly annoyed her father, although General Westbrook seemed

to handle the situation easily; and that the subsequent severance of

all relations between the two men, which presently followed, was not

entirely without an explanation. Joyce was blind to the man's

attentions, except now and then when some incident of unusual ardor

instinctively struck a note of warning, causing her to wonder dimly,

then it passed and was forgotten. The fact is, that De Sanchez must

have been struck all of a heap, for he seems to have inaugurated a

campaign of wooing of characteristic Latin warmth, ready to override

all other considerations. Joyce is of the impression that her father

discouraged this design of the other man's in no uncertain manner."

The speaker paused. It was obvious that he was arranging his

thoughts, and Converse waited without moving.

"Next, De Sanchez appears here, and soon events begin to shape

themselves in a way that, seemingly, can't be explained. For

instance, when you consider what happened in Mexico, and the hiatus

between that time and De Sanchez's appearance, how can you account

for the endeavors in his behalf which gave him an immediate social

prestige locally? How can you account for the fact that his suit was

not only favored, but that pressure was brought to bear upon Joyce to

gain her consent? Knowing that she regarded the man with especial

dislike, how can you explain her hovering on the very verge of giving

in?"

"Did she never enlighten you?" The Captain was regarding the young

man curiously.

"No." A tinge of bitterness crept into his reply. "She merely said

her father had convinced her that it was her duty to marry De

Sanchez."

"You did not know, of course, that Slade witnessed her departure from

the Nettleton Building?"

"Did he? It is he, then, who has caused all this recent trouble?"

"In a way, yes. He furnished the material. I want to ask you

something about that. Shortly after you disappeared he addressed an

unsigned note to me, saying, in effect, that, if I found the

woman--then much of a mystery--I should know who killed De Sanchez.

He also said that you were innocent. Why should he make so obvious

an attempt to divert suspicion from you?"

"I can't imagine. While I do not share with mother and Lottie the

bitterness which the name of Slade arouses, yet I know very little of

him; merely enough to nod in passing. The father was, doubtless, an

unconscionable scoundrel; but William, in spite of his repulsive

qualities, is in no wise to blame for that. I've always felt a sort

of sneaking pity for him. The old fellow eyes me often in a

peculiar, ruminative way--somewhat as he did when bestowing his

'blessing' upon General Westbrook. But he's a harmless crank."

"'Slade's Blessing,'" mused the Captain.