Clay nodded and went on: "You've heard of it, I see. He's a little

touched, I believe. He sometimes mumbles when he looks at me,--a way

he has; but pshaw! I never paid any attention to it; his

incantations are harmless. In the early eighties, when the elder

Slade closed in on dad, and dad died, William was still struggling

with the law. Lord knows, I have reason to sympathize with him.

Next, his father died, and he gave it up."

The young man asked how Slade came to see Joyce.

"In the most natural manner in the world," replied Converse. "Five

o'clock is his customary hour for quitting work, as you probably

know; he was just in the act of emerging from Room 6 when Miss Joyce

ran past him. In fact, he had to step back to avoid a collision.

This was immediately after she had surprised you, and she was so

intent on getting away that she did not observe him at all, it would

seem. She was running on tiptoe from the direction of the upper end

of the hall and toward the stairs. That is the substance of an

affidavit made by him before the Coroner."

Though the two talked some time longer, the discussion yielded

nothing more until Converse was in the act of departing. He was

standing on the veranda, when he said:

"By the way, it would be a good idea if you could make yourself

inconspicuous for a while longer--until you hear from me, at any

rate. If the reporters get a line upon what you happen to know,

there will be the devil to pay."

"I can remain in the house indefinitely," Clay suggested.

The Captain shook his head. "That will merely add stimulus to their

efforts. I wager that somebody who knows you saw you last night.

Isn't there some friend upon whom you can impose temporarily?"

The young man pondered a moment, and presently his face brightened.

"Yes," said he. "I know of the very place--Mr. Nettleton's

plantation. It is only about seven miles beyond here, and I can walk

it easily."

"Very good." Then, as if the matter had for the first time occurred

to him, Converse added:

"By the way, who is the proprietor of the East Side hotel where you

wrote your letter to Mr. Nettleton?"

The question seemed of trifling importance.

"Ramon Velasquez. Mr. Nettleton has done some legal work for him."

"Very good. Whatever you do, keep yourself out of sight. You seem

to know how, so I'll not offer any suggestions. Good-bye."

But Mr. Converse was still to be much in evidence that night. He

found a number of things to detain him, and it was not until the

afternoon of the next day, the nineteenth, that he quietly

disappeared from his customary haunts.

CHAPTER III

"THE THUNDERBOLT HAS FALLEN"

The next Sunday morning was bright and frosty. Mr. Mountjoy was

early abroad; his footsteps rang out, sharp and metallic, as he

passed briskly down the artificial stone walk of the Mountjoy

residence; ignoring clanging trolley cars, he set his face toward the

city, striding along with the firmness and ease of one whose vitality

is in entire accord with the crystalline day.

As he walked, he meditated.

What would Mrs. Westbrook and Joyce do, now that they were

impoverished? Would this news prove of any value to John? Would

Mobley, as head of the family, continue on at the mansion which had

for years been the Westbrook home? Mobley himself did not know. It

was true that he could afford to maintain the establishment; it had

seemed natural for him to step in upon his father's demise; but it

would mean a complete readjustment of his mode of life, and he was

too old to change readily, to adapt himself to new and unfamiliar

conditions.

And what had become of General Westbrook's fortune, anyhow? The

circumstance presented a condition so extraordinary, that experience

strove in vain for a solution.

And so on until, quite unexpectedly, a familiar name caught his eye:

Abram Follett.

Glancing from the faded, dust-encrusted sign, he took in the details

of the dingy, square, two-storied building that seemed to be sleeping

in the Sunday calm of Ash Lane. It was very quiet, and he advanced

doubtfully to the closed double door and rapped loudly upon its

begrimed panels.

He was not entirely devoid of curiosity as he awaited the issue; so

when the door opened to reveal a negro of gigantic proportions, his

countenance reflected something of the surprise which the encounter

afforded.

"Mr. Follett?" he queried vaguely.

The huge darkey grinned.

"No, seh," was the reply. "De boss's in de yahd."

Joe regarded Mr. Mountjoy's Sunday attire with uncertainty. "If

you'll step to de otheh doah," with tones respectfully lowered, "I'll

fetch him; dis yere's de stoah-room."

As he was bidden, Mr. Mountjoy stepped to the other door, a single

one at a corner of the structure, and after some minutes of waiting,

footsteps within told that it concealed a stairway; then it was

opened by the negro, who invited the visitor to ascend.

Mr. Mountjoy had no sooner entered the front apartment than he

mentally ejaculated: "Why, of course! An ancient mariner like John

would live just so, with some battered and weather-beaten shipmate,

comrade of many an adventurous cruise; nothing more natural." He

experienced a sudden admiration for the feeling which prompted the

big, taciturn detective to keep his vocation from intruding upon his

private life. The lawyer's glance was scrutinizing when it rested

upon the twisted, limping figure which presently entered. He had

deposited his hat and coat upon a locker-like box, noting as he did

so that its surface was scrupulously clean, and he now stood

expectant, with his back to one of the white-curtained front windows.

The visitor's inspection was only momentary.

"I am Mr. Mountjoy," said he, advancing and holding out his hand,

"the District Attorney; no doubt you have heard of me."

A light of recognition and welcome, together with an underlying

expression of more than usual interest, instantly broke over the

shrewd, kindly countenance.

"Mr. Mountjoy!" repeated Mr. Follett, extending a gnarled and

distorted hand, with which he grasped the other's. "Well, lawyer, I

am real glad to meet you. Set right down there--that's Captain

John's chair--an' make yourself comf'table."

The Morris chair was comfortable, as Mr. Mountjoy instantly

discovered.

"A bright, clear, frosty morning," Mr. Follett went on with cheerful

garrulity, as he slowly seated himself in his own chair. "Yes,

John's spoke o' you often--often. We're old shipmates, him an' me,"

he concluded, with an explanatory wave about the room.

"So I understand," said Mountjoy, easily; "and bound by many enduring

ties, I have no doubt."

Presently he assumed an attitude extremely business-like. Arising

and going to the chest where lay his overcoat, he produced from one

of the pockets a long, legal-looking envelope.

"Here I have some very important items of news, gleaned, since John's

departure, from the columns of the local press. There is also a

letter from myself setting forth a good deal of matter concerning a

case which now occupies his exclusive attention and endeavors; having

the requisite postage attached, all that is now necessary to forward

this envelope upon its way, is--the address." He tossed it upon the

table. "There, I leave it to your care."

"It shall go to John to-day," quietly remarked Mr. Follett. His face

assumed a thoughtful expression as he slowly filled and lighted a

pipe.

"Lawyer," he went on after a puff or two, "I'm glad you come just

when you did. There's a matter I want to talk to you about; John

would want that you know it."

"Very well," the guest acquiesced; and with much difficulty Mr.

Follett arose and made his way to the mantel, where he extracted a

letter from a mother-of-pearl box standing there.

"Look at that," handing the missive to the lawyer and resuming his

seat. "Read that an' tell me what you make of it."

The envelope, very much soiled and crumpled, bore the simple

superscription, in pencil, "La Señorita Dolores," and nothing else.

One end had been torn open, and there appeared a portion of a sheet

of note-paper upon which was written, also in pencil, four words, "El

rayo ha cáido."

"Well," said Mr. Mountjoy, presently, "I make very little of it.

Spanish, I suppose?"

"That means," was the impressive reply, "that means, 'The thunderbolt

has fallen.'"

Mountjoy made no effort to hide his curiosity and wonder.

"Tell me about it," said he, settling himself more comfortably.

For a time Mr. Follett smoked in silence; then, ignoring his pipe

further, he confronted his caller with the suddenness of one who sees

his way clear before him, and began:

"There's a machinist, Hunter by name, who works nights at the

compress. Him an' his wife an' a half-dozen or so o' children live

in one o' them little cottages near by, just off Ash Lane. Well,

last night Hunter an' a dago friend o' his 'n stopped one o' the

night men on this beat, sayin' they had a matter that was a-puzzlin'

them mightily, an' they wanted to have a talk about it--not that the

dago could make himself understood to any great extent, but Hunter

had him along to kind o' back 'im up. Hunter said what he had to

say, an' the policeman, knowin' that John lived near by, brought the

two o' them here. O' course he didn't know about John bein' away;

but enough was said for me to ask a question or two, an' I finally

got the hull story.

"Hunter has a boy nine years old, who sells papers mornin's an'

evenin's, an' when he sells out he never has more 'n thirty or forty

cents, or thereabouts, to show for it. Every night the boy brings

this money home an' turns it over to his mother. A good lad, you see.

"Well, two or three days ago the mother found a silver dollar tucked

away under a little vase that stands on a shelf in one o' their

rooms. She knew that none o' the family had lost a dollar; she knew

she hadn't put it there herself--they're not so plentiful in the

Hunter home--so it worried her a hull lot. She took all the children

to task, one by one, an' to make a long story short, she finally got

it out o' the nine-year-old that he'd put the dollar under the vase.

He was so back'ard in ownin' up an' in talkin' about it, that she

just natcher'lly kep' at him until she drew out a bit at a time the

boy's story o' the dollar."

The speaker paused and seemed to be much interested in the nodding

head of his auditor. Mountjoy sat with the tips of his fingers

pressed lightly together and his thin lips tightly closed.

"I follow you," he now said; "pray continue."

"Not very excitin' so far, but necessary," said Mr. Follett. "Now,

hear the rest. This here's the way the boy's yarn went.

"One evenin', a week or so before the findin' o' the money, he saw a

man step from the Palace Drug Store--"

Mountjoy's eyebrows suddenly shot upwards, and he sat up straighter

in his chair.

"--which, as you know," the other went on at once, "is catty-cornered

across from the Nettleton Buildin' on Court Street. He ran up to

this man to sell him a paper an' the man stepped up in the shadow of

a doorway an' asked the boy would he deliver a letter if he--the

man--bought all the papers. The boy hung back; then the man pulled

out a dollar, sayin' he'd give that too if the boy'd only hurry. The

little lad then agreed to take the letter which the man handed him,

together with the dollar, an' twenty cents for the four _Expresses_

he still had. The man then told the boy to listen sharp while he

learned where the letter was to be delivered. After bein' satisfied

that the boy understood, the man hurried away.

"It seems that the more the boy thought about it, the less he liked

the job. The address told him was in a part o' town the boy didn't

know much of, an' it begun to loom pretty prominent in his mind that

he was scairt to go there after night. So it ended in him a-goin'

home an' hidin' the letter an' money, gettin' rid o' the hull thing

easy, like a boy can, you know.

"But when Hunter himself heard about it, he went into the matter

further an' found out a bit more.

"What did the man look like? The boy couldn't tell, as he had not

only been in the shadow, but his coat collar was turned up an' a soft

hat was pulled down over his eyes; but he had been mighty polite an'

soft spoken, an' the lad knew that his clothes were extra fine--a

'swell dresser,' as Hunter put it.

"Next, what night was it? This soundin' by an' by struck deep water

an' a clear way ahead: the night o' the murder in the Nettleton

Building.

"What time that night? The boy couldn't say exactly, but it was

about half an hour before he got home. A little figgerin' fixed this

time at somewheres 'round five o'clock. Do you see?"

Mountjoy, very grave now, merely nodded.

"Hunter thought right off he'd found a clue. He opened the letter,

an' o' course couldn't make head nor tail of it. He puzzled over it

days when he'd ought to been asleep, an' nights when he'd ought to

been attendin' to his work; an' at last he calls in his dago friend

for a conference. Funny, warn't it?

"The friend thought it looked like dago writin' all right, but he

couldn't read this particular kind. Queer how them furriners can

talk an' read some outlandish lingo an' not know good plain English,

ain't it?

"Well, the dago thinks the thing to do is to take it to the policeman

on this beat, though how he ever made Hunter understand is beyond me.

They does it, as I have told you."

The interest with which Mr. Mountjoy followed this recital mounted

rapidly to absorption. After the speaker had quite finished, he sat

for a time still regarding him, evidently considering the

possibilities of the incident.

"Well!" he exclaimed, finally. "This is a remarkable development.

Undoubtedly it is of importance. It is a pity that John was not

cognisant of it before leaving the city. He must have this brief

note and the story of it as soon as possible. I should like to

question that boy myself. Do you think you could get him and Hunter

here this afternoon--say, at three o'clock? If so, I will be on hand

with a stenographer, and the matter may go forward to-night."

"I will try," rejoined Mr. Follett. "Yes, I think I can. I will go

after 'em right away."

Mr. Follett did succeed in securing the attendance of Hunter and the

boy at No. 18 Ash Lane; and while the statement prepared by the

lawyer, added to the newspaper clippings and sent that night to the

captain of detectives, differed considerably in form from Mr.

Follett's narrative, it contained but one particular which the latter

himself had not related: the cryptic note had been destined for the

hotel of one Ramon Velasquez.

CHAPTER IV

SOME LOOSE ENDS

As may be imagined, Captain John Converse, in the steady,

unostentatious performance of his duty, was not the only one to whom

success signified a reward as large as the twenty thousand dollars

offered by the De Sanchez estate. About the time of his quiet leave

taking there was a great gathering of soi-disant specialists,

investigators, and detectives, like corbies to a feast. But they

only created, for a time, a distracting tumult, and were soon

forgotten--with a single exception. The man Adams, also working

quietly and unostentatiously, is still to be heard from.

In the early part of January three incidents happened, bearing more

or less directly upon the two tragedies, each of them attended by

circumstances that caused more than one individual to regard a

probable clearing up of the mysteries with the gloomiest doubt. We

may not know how they impressed Mr. Converse, for he had not yet

returned, but Mr. Mountjoy, and Miss Charlotte especially, viewed the

outlook with dark forebodings.

First of all, after hovering between life and death for many weeks,

Joyce one morning quite suddenly looked again upon the world with

eyes in which shone the light of intelligence. Doctor Westbrook

chanced to be present, and the mother heard them whisper a while

together; and presently the Doctor came to her, his face pinched with

worry.

It was characteristic that she did not question him; but as he left

the room, she immediately followed him into the hall, closed the door

noiselessly behind her, and placing her back to it, waited.

"We must be extremely careful," said he. "Any sudden shock may kill

her.... Mother, she has forgotten--all."

The woman seemed to shrink; but she said nothing.

"It may be only temporary," the Doctor hastily added. So far he had

talked quite as if he were discussing the condition of some chance

patient with a member of that patient's family; but now a groan burst

from him. "God grant it!" he cried tensely, under his breath. "God

grant that the past may come to her gradually as she grows strong to

bear it. But up to the moment of her waking her memory is a complete

blank; it is like a slate sponged clean."

The mother tried to whisper a question: 'You--you don't think her

mind--' The Doctor showed that he had been thinking of it, by the

quickness with which he read his mother's thoughts, and hastened to

deny.

"No, no," he insisted vigorously. "The condition is common enough in

such debilitating diseases. Were I not so upset myself--were I free

of any personal interest--I should say it was a benefit for the time

being. But I can't bear any abnormal conditions in Joyce. Merely be

careful not to shock her. Please speak to the servants."

Mrs. Westbrook simply bowed her head, and did not raise it again

until her son had departed.

But if the Doctor's words were reassuring, he was by no means so

sanguine himself: it was also not uncommon that memories so lost were

never recovered.

During a black night of tempest and pounding sleet without, of

high-leaping fires assaulted by gelid gusts within, Mrs. Elinor

Fairchild's spirit winged its flight from the poor earthly frame that

had enchained it. So imperceptible was the transition, that

Charlotte, star-eyed and sibylline, brooding by the glowing hearth,

marked it not.

Some hours later, when bestirring herself to retire, she laid her

slim fingers for a moment upon her mother's forehead, withdrawing her

hand with a suddenness that marked the swift quickening of

questioning dread. But after all, if the Spectre be really

confronting us, how certain is his presence! Instantly her

intelligence was submerged by conviction.

With a thought of Mr. Converse flitting incongruously through her

mind, it occurred to her that the closed door was locked for ever.

CHAPTER V

MR. SLADE RESIGNS

The third incident has to do with Mr. William Slade. With the cold

days of January, there came over him a noticeable change; quite

suddenly--in a day--he seemed to have aged, to have shrunk and become

doddering. It was an effort for him to climb the one flight of

stairs to Room 6, and when once there, a still greater effort to go

about his business. He began to be late of mornings and to commit

trifling irregularities which, it was obvious, were due to a failing

memory; the beady eyes--though with a waning brightness--regarded

impartially and with open suspicion and hostility all who approached

him--eyes unmistakably like a mouse's when that diminutive animal

debates the chances of getting safely from one cover to another under

the supervision of an alert cat.

The change was observed and commented upon in the main office across

the hall. After much idle speculation one morning on the part of a

clerk and the book-keeper as to the extent of Slade's wealth and its

probable disposition in the event of his death, the book-keeper said:

"And there's another thing. Have you ever noticed him--" he cast a

hasty, covert glance toward the entry door, and leaning suddenly

forward, lowered his voice to a whisper,--"have you ever noticed him

when he comes in or goes out of the abstract room--lately, I mean?"

The clerk shook his head.

"Well," impressively, "it makes me wonder if he didn't know something

about that murder. You know, he was here that night. He never

passes through his door now that he don't stop and look down the hall

toward Doctor Westbrook's office. I bet nobody else has noticed it.

That shows what it is to be observant; it's just little things like

that that Sherlock Holmes worked out his wonderful cases by. I've

seen Slade do it--look down the hall, I mean--many a time. He stands

there just as if he heard or saw something. Queer, isn't it? And if

any one comes up on him suddenly, he acts as though he had been

caught doing something crooked, and hurries away."

If there's any virtue in old wives' saws, Mr. Slade's ears should

have burned. Beyond, in the front office, overlooking Court Street,

the abstracter was again a topic of discussion; but this time between

personages no less important than the president, the secretary, and

the treasurer of the Guaranty Abstract Company. At this conference

it was decided that the company could thenceforth dispense with

Slade's services, and it fell to the secretary so to inform him.

A few minutes later, when Slade comprehended the intelligence, he got

unsteadily to his feet. He tugged aimlessly at his untidy collar a

time or two, as if it were too tight, and when he again spoke a whine

crept into his harsh utterance.

"You won't hurry me, will you? Say you won't hurry me. Give me

another month; time to--to adjust myself to the new conditions. You

are right: I am old; I--I sha'n't last much longer. I've received a

mortal blow,--not this, though, not this."

But the secretary hardened. "We're not hurrying you," said he. "You

have till February first--practically a month--and in the meantime

you can do pretty much as you please. Understand?"

During the rest of that day Slade conducted himself like a man dazed.

There was a forward droop to his knees, to his shoulders, and to his

head; and altogether he presented a most unlovely spectacle of

irresolution and helplessness.

From long force of habit he did not leave Room 6 until five o'clock;

but at that hour he got slowly into his overcoat--once black, but now

plum-colored where the light struck upon it--and donned his hat,

preparatory to departing for the night. The clerks across the hall,

the occupants of the other offices, passed out one by one or in

couples, their brisk homeward-bound footsteps clattering cheerfully

in the hall; and when he finally turned off the light the building

was deserted save for himself and one other. As he slowly descended

the stairs, clinging tenaciously to the railing, Doctor Westbrook

passed him--also descending,--and as he did so, bent a keen look

toward the meagre, tottering form and the parchment-like countenance,

drawn by acute physical pain and overcast by an unhealthy pallor. He

nodded as he went by, but Slade did not observe it; neither did he

see that the physician paused at the foot of the stairs and looked

back at him.

Somehow Slade arrived at his single cheerless, disordered apartment.

It was dirty, damp, and fireless. He lighted a candle--so primitive

were his conveniences--which with some difficulty he stood upright on

a corner of the table, where it was held steady by its congealed

drippings.

And all that night, and until well into the next forenoon, Slade left

the bare table only once or twice: once to get from a shelf a bit of

bread and a tin box of sardines. The latter, after several vain

attempts to open, he cast aside and contented himself with the crust.

The rest of the night he wrote sedulously, though slowly and with

much labor; and when he had finished, a considerable pile of numbered

pages reposed by his hand. About ten o'clock in the morning the cold

enveloped him like an icy mantle; the pen slipped from his nerveless

fingers, and he allowed it to remain where it fell; he dropped upon a

cot which stood against the wall, pulled the covering closely about

him, and slept immediately. In the afternoon he was awakened by a

vivid dream and sat suddenly upright, his eyes once more jet-like

with the light of a newly formed purpose.

The drifting shadows of the old Fairchild homestead were destined to

behold strange sights and to hear strange sounds before being finally

banished from beneath the crumbling roof.

Within the roomy dining-hall a heavy table has lost its identity

beneath a thick coat of dust and a heap of plaster, sometime fallen

from the ceiling; yet it is of solid mahogany, with legs richly

carved, and hides a warm, brilliant lustre under its coat of dirt and

neglect.

The shadows deepen. The chilly mist without becomes a rain, dripping

mournfully from the decaying, moss-covered eaves, and filling the old

house with strange, hollow echoes, weird and fantastic.

Without warning, these quiet, melancholy sounds are disturbed by

another, loud and startling. It is like a groan, dominating all

other sounds and awakening its counterpart in every portion of the

building.

Immediately uncertain footsteps, marked by many shufflings, as of

some person laboring beneath a burden, approach the dining-room door;

a load of some nature is eased to the floor without; next, the door

itself turns on screaming hinges to reveal a dim form. The form

enters, drags a prodigious bundle after it, upon which it collapses

as if its endurance were quite spent, and discloses the sallow,

marasmic countenance of Mr. William Slade.

He presents a spectacle of utter physical exhaustion as he sits all

huddled together on his recent burden. But after a while he gets

unsteadily to his feet and busies himself about the apartment.

Strange is this final scene upon which the shadows, marshalled in

wonder in the farthest corners, are destined to look to-night;

stranger still and more weird are the sounds that echo and re-echo

through the empty, dark rooms. In all its history of comedy and

tragedy the mouldering roof has never sheltered an act so incongruous

as this.

Behold the heavy table spread for a feast and lighted with the soft

glow of many wax candles; behold the flames on the cluttered, mossy

hearth struggling for access up the choked chimney; and above all,

behold the solitary figure seated at the board, fingering a

wine-glass and seeking with rheumy eyes to penetrate the darker

limits of the vast room--indeed, a spectre at the board. Mad, mad,

clearly mad!

Yet, look closer still and this madness reveals a certain method: a

ghastly significance may be traced in the details, in the man's

actions and the words he mutters ceaselessly; and although the

spectacle remains incongruous, it ceases to be ludicrous. The fire

on the hearth and the wan light of the tapers only accentuate the

cheerlessness and squalid ruin of the place--of Slade himself, and of

that spread table which is a thing to shrink from.

There are two covers laid--even a bouquet of hothouse roses, somewhat

wilted and crushed from having been too tightly packed in the bundle.

But where is the guest of this eerie banquet? Has one of the shadows

been summoned forth from the dismal chambers to share it?

The second chair is oddly decked with fabrics of faded hue and

ancient design, inasmuch as they are plainly articles of feminine

apparel marking a mode dead these twoscore years. Most conspicuous

of these decorations is a faded lavender skirt of silk with many

flounces, cut long, long ago, not to fit any woman's shape, but with

the prodigality demanded by the wide hoop of the period. The

garments were arranged on the chair with an obvious attempt to

suggest a human occupant; but the effect is ghostly and repulsive,

the semblance pitiful.

It is unlikely that Mr. Slade could have found anything with which he

was less familiar than champagne, unless indeed it were the art of

presiding at such a feast as this one pretended to be; for,

witness!--merely two spoons and forks and glasses served all

requirements. Mere ghost of a dinner--a shadow among the innumerable

other shadows of the place Slade's gaucherie was not even relieved by

a hint that he had ever been present at an actuality of the kind.

The wine mounted quickly to his head and infused a temporary vitality

into his dry frame; the lack-lustre eyes became jet-like once more;

even a tinge of color glowed feverishly in his sallow cheek; more

wonderful still, his tongue was loosened to an unwonted loquacity.

But his voice remained harsh and rasping, his movements stiff and

awkward, and no slumbering trace of amiability was quickened into

life.

Clumsily he opened the bottles, losing half their contents as he

dodged to escape the flying corks.

"Drink, my dear," he said, nodding to the draped chair with a sorry

attempt at joviality. "That's right. Great thing, champagne; sorry

I didn't know it before." He leaned across the table and tried to

fill the second glass, already full many times over, and gave the

sopping cloth, which had been spread regardless of the dust, another

libation. "Drink. Drink and be merry, as the old saying

is--Epicurus, eh? Wonderful how it warms your heart.... And to

think I never knew how champagne could fire one!" He tossed off the

contents of his own glass and clacked his tongue.

"But I have been working," he went on with sudden cunning; "working

for you, Elinor. This is our homecoming; all my life, my dear, I've

pictured you and me sitting here and facing each other, and the

niggers waiting on us. Niggers 'fraid to come, damn 'em! But's all

yours--within bounds, of course--within bounds. I'm rich, I

am--moderately so--perhaps not rich, but enough; with economy, enough

for comfort." He waved the glass about at arm's length, noticed that

it was empty, and refilled it. "All yours--and mine. And here we

are! I forget the past--'s all wiped out--your children shall be my

God, and my children your-- You know; 's in the Bible. Wherever I

goest you goest--"

There was a phonetic allusion in the repeated verb that cast a sudden

damper over his exuberant spirits.

"Ghost!" he muttered, bending a dark look upon the lavender skirt,

the time-stained cashmere shawl, the yellow bit of lace that adorned

the chair facing him. Sitting so, he fell into a long, brooding

silence.

The fire slowly sank upon the hearth, and the candles guttered

unheeded down on the table. Without, the rain had settled into a

steady downpour, its unbroken roar being intensified, in a muffled

way, by the vast, empty house; a cold, penetrating wintry rain, such

as drives the belated wayfarer to shelter however scant, and early

empties the drenched streets of every living thing. And with a

frequency growing more insistent as the minutes pass, the chill and

the damp strike to Slade's very heart. Often now he fumbles with

bottles and fills his glass--never forgetting the one opposite him,

though it is never emptied--and at length the black mood is driven

forth, only to stand once more at his elbow. Of a sudden he laughs

harshly--a laugh that certainly would have startled any occupant of

the room, had one been present to hear, for the laugh was both bitter

and malignant.

"Come, drink up, m' dear. You're no ghos'--not you! Ha!" The glass

rattled upon his teeth. "That damn' Peyton Wes'brook; he's a ghos',

hey? Well, he is. Here's to the ghos'. Thought he'd get you,

Elinor; but you're no ghos'--'s lie, tha's what 't is--lie. You're

mine. All mine--house--money--you--all mine, at las'. We'll show

'em, curse 'em!" His unsteady hand overturned the brimming glass,

but he poured on just the same; and when presently he noticed that

the bottle was drained, he threw it with a wild laugh to a far dark

corner, where it splintered against the panelling with a crash of

sound that awed and frightened even him. But the vapors of the wine

had too firm a hold on his brain for the feeling to remain. He

laughed again, and went on with his mad monologue.

"Happy at las', too, El'nor. Been savin' all for you, m' dear. Ever

hear me sing, hey? Remember this? Listen."

And, _mirabile dictu_, in a voice cracked, quavering, and harsh,

William Slade burst into song.

It is needless to linger over this horrid banquet. It ended

abruptly, with a jar of breaking glass. In the midst of a wild,

discordant song something like intelligence flashed for a moment in

the beady eyes; the singer paused, as if his drugged sensibilities

had suddenly awakened to a distant call; then came that dreadful

laugh again.

"It's a farce!" he muttered, bitterly, his eyes roving wildly about,

as if he felt and feared another Presence. "You're dead! dead! and

as far from me as everything I ever wanted in my life.... God!"

He was standing then, and attempted to hurl the glass at the empty

chair.

"Curse you!" he shrieked in a frenzied outburst, and again, "Curse

you! Curse you all!"

He dropped, his face striking upon the table with a thud; his arms

were stretched straight in front of him, across the board, and he

remained so, breathing stertorously. After some minutes he began to

hiccough with such violence that his shoulders heaved spasmodically

and his foot scraped on the floor. But these convulsions, by and by,

came to be marked with longer intervals between them, and finally his

shoulders lifted once and subsided in a single, long, slow exhalation.

The rain still reverberated from the roof; the candles flickered out

one by one; occasionally the dull embers in the fireplace crackled

faintly until they too became cold--nothing but gray, sodden ashes.

Then it was that the wan light of day began to show through the

boarded windows; the shadows once more to flit through the chambers

and the echoing halls; then it was that a venturesome mouse advanced

to the centre of the floor, where, in the untouched comestibles of

last night's feast, he discovered enough to maintain himself and his

colony royally for many weeks.

And encountering nothing to alarm him, he remained.

CHAPTER VI

AN ARREST

It is in life's supreme moments that destiny calls the loudest.

Miss Charlotte stands in the Westbrook morning-room, her demeanor

plainly indicating nervousness and irresolution. From time to time

she looks in a hesitating way at Doctor Westbrook's broad back, as he

stares out of the window. Presently she speaks, as if with an

effort; but her deliciously soft and gentle voice in its free and

expressive play falls upon the listener's ears so like a harmony

struck from silver strings, that to say it breaks the silence is to

use a phrase too harsh.

"I don't consider our age--that is, seriously," she is saying; "but,

Mobley, there are other things."

She paused and contemplated his back a moment.

"If what you see from that window is of more consequence than what I

am saying," she observed, "I will--"

The Doctor wheeled about instantly, before she had done.

"Believe me, Charlotte," he made haste to protest, "you had my

undivided attention. I saw nothing out of the window--or elsewhere;

I was conscious only of your words."

His obvious sincerity satisfied her. She smiled and proceeded, the

man watching her with sober, thoughtful eyes.

"I will confess something to you, Mobley, and perhaps you will

understand better--why--why I hesitate." She paused again, and the

Doctor could see that she was trying to overcome a nervousness and

embarrassment quite foreign to her nature. But she conquered this

feeling at once, and went on.

"Mobley," with added earnestness, her lustrous eyes bravely meeting

his, "I am possessed of a pride so strong that I am afraid it is

greater than my love. What a poor, miserable, wretched affection my

love for you must be! I am ashamed of it."

"Oh, dear girl," he commenced with abrupt impetuosity; but she

stopped him.

"No, no; let me finish. All my life, Mobley, I have lived more or

less in the past. In my fancies we have not been poor; to me the

poor little cottage we have called home has indeed been a home; and

the dear old home that is sinking so rapidly into irremediable ruin

only a phantasm of what might have been. But when I think of home,

Mobley, the old place rises in my mind. It has been my constant

yearning that it may be rehabilitated; that mamma, Clay, and I might

once more foregather beneath its roof in the circumstances which I

cannot help feeling are ours by right; and for this consummation I

have looked to Clay with an unfaltering faith. Perhaps it is wicked,

Mobley, but I cannot help it. If you take me, I want it to be from

such a station; not like a mendicant creeping to shelter. Oh, I

could not bear that!"

The man was profoundly affected, shaken to the very depths of his

nature; but he felt that he understood her; and so great was his

respect for this unexpected confidence, that, chaotic and fanciful as

its tenor might be, he exerted a mighty effort to restrain a swelling

tide that threatened to sweep him from his feet and leave him pouring

out his passion in fervid incoherences, kneeling there before her.

"Charlotte, I can only repeat that I love you. I have waited. But,

dearest, now--now," he came quickly close up to her, "now can you

make this confession and still hesitate? Can you look at me and

still say that any obstacle stands between us? Oh! Charlotte,

Charlotte! My love can no longer be denied!"

Her eyes were downcast, her bosom rose and fell tumultuously; but

when he would have taken her in his arms, she stopped him.

"Oh, don't--don't, Mobley," in a whisper. "There are--there are

other things." Although he obeyed her, he stood with arms

outstretched, his attitude an impassioned appeal from which the woman

turned away her eyes.

"Since you have been here with Joyce," he resumed, after a moment,

"it has been a delight to watch you go about the house; for it made

it so easy to fancy that you would come and go thus always.

Charlotte, dear heart, look at me."

Slowly the beautiful eyes, suffused with wonderful softness and

light, rose to the appealing hands, to his own eager orbs, and

straightway dropped again.

"Charlotte, will you not stay? Dear?"

"Mobley, I--I can't."

Quite suddenly she clenched her slim fingers together in a little

gesture of helplessness. Her next words were inconsequential.

"Oh, why does not Mr. Converse return? Where can he be? Has he

abandoned us?"

The Doctor, being ignorant of the connecting links of thought, may be

pardoned if, at this momentous juncture, he mentally consigned the

Captain to the limbo of eternal darkness. His arms dropped, and he

asked, wonderingly,

"What has he got to do with it?"

"Mobley, can't you understand?" She laid a hand lightly upon his

broad chest, regarding him now with a look of anxious seriousness.

"I said there were other things," she went on; "that there was

something else we must consider before we think of--of our own

happiness. This awful cloud still hangs over us, and until it is

cleared away, I am afraid. It is selfish--wrong--for us to consider

our own happiness at such a time. He is the only one who can clear

that cloud away, Mobley. Oh, why doesn't he come? It is time! It

is time!"

Doctor Westbrook's impatience evinced itself only by a shrug of the

shoulders.

"I have no such hope," said he. "He's like all the rest of them;

unless a thing's as plain as a pikestaff, he can't do any more than

an ordinary mortal,--unless, again, it's further to complicate

matters and cause more trouble. Why doesn't he come, indeed! He

will, perhaps, when the whole affair has had time to die of

inanition."

Now, neither of them had heard footsteps in the hall, so deeply were

they engrossed, and when a sudden knock was struck upon the door,

both started. Charlotte sat down in some confusion, and, after a

second's hesitation, the Doctor called, "Come in," his tone betraying

his vexation at the interruption.

The door opened barely wide enough to admit a tall, slender man, a

stranger to Charlotte, but one whose features were somehow familiar.

The movement was silent and stealthy. His look shot about the entire

apartment, apparently without noting its two human occupants. He

noiselessly closed the door again, and placed his back against it.

Charlotte glanced at the physician and perceived that he was

regarding the intruder with frank disfavor and an annoyance he did

not attempt to conceal.

"Your name's Adams, is it not?" the Doctor sharply asked.

The man ducked his head in a swift bow of acknowledgment. When he

stood upright again he held a card in his hand. The action was like

a sleight-of-hand performance, so quickly was it done; for Charlotte

was entirely unable to see where that card came from.

The Doctor ignored it; while Adams, in nowise abashed, said:

"Yes, sir, Doctor Westbrook,--Adams. Septimus Adams; Magnolia

Investigating Agency." He discomfited Charlotte by turning abruptly

and thrusting the card at her.

"Here, never mind that," said Doctor Westbrook, with a brusqueness

that caused Charlotte to wonder. "How did you get in here? What do

you want?"

Adams ran a finger around the inside of his collar, an action which

betrayed an astonishing limberness of neck.

"Well, Doctor," he began, casting rapid side-glances at Charlotte,

and not looking at his interlocutor at all, "you see, what I have to

say had best be said in priv--"

"Say it here and now or not at all," the Doctor demanded. "Had I

known who was knocking, you would not have intruded, I tell you

candidly; but since you are here, state your business as briefly as

possible."

Adams made a peculiar sound with his tongue and accompanied it with

an expression of protestation.

"Don't take that way with me, Doctor," said he; "you'll regret it

presently, I'm sure. If you don't care about the lady being present

I'm sure I don't. It was only out of a consideration for her

feelings--and yours, too, Doctor--that I threw out the suggestion."

"And once more, I tell you there is nothing privy between you and me,

Adams. Be brief."

"Very well."

With a movement that was again almost like prestidigitation, Adams

had the door open, and there appeared the familiar, now puzzled,

countenance of McCaleb.

"That's the man," Adams went on, pointing to Doctor

Westbrook,--assuredly, direct enough now. "I charge Mobley Westbrook

with the murder of Señor Alberto de Sanchez." With extraordinary

adroitness, he placed McCaleb between himself and the physician.

For a moment the silence could almost be felt, tense and breathless

as it was. McCaleb was the only one present who evinced any

embarrassment; he had every air of a man suddenly and unwillingly

thrust into a ridiculous position. Charlotte was too dazed to

comprehend at once what was going forward, and she simply sat

motionless and stared at Adams with a blank look. That individual,

by his recent manoeuvre, had placed himself near the open door, and

he was, moreover, again smiling and flashing his teeth. As for the

Doctor, he seemed for the time being overcome with astonishment; then

he laughed harshly and unnaturally; and what he said was quite

unaccountable:

"So it has come at last. Well, I have been expecting it."

He sat down suddenly and fell to stroking his beard. His glance

seemed to pass casually to Adams, who, when his shifting eyes caught

it, swallowed hastily and edged still nearer the door.

A sudden anger burst from the Doctor.

"Close that door!" he thundered. "Don't let that rascal slip away

till we see how far he means to push this thing."

With the Doctor's first enigmatic words McCaleb seemed to recover his

_sang-froid_. Briefly he regarded the other with a startled look, as

if the words were unexpected and surprising; now he turned to Adams,

his surprise very manifest.

He closed the door.

"I must warn you, Doctor," said he, "that anything you say may be

used against you; yet, if you wish to make a statement, you are at

liberty to do so. It is true that you have been charged with

this--this crime; I have the warrant here, sworn to by Adams."

The Doctor had not moved his look from Investigator Adams, who now

betrayed every sign of uneasiness. Once or twice that wonderfully

flexible right hand stole toward the region of his hip pocket, but

each time it came stealthily back again, to pluck uncertainly at his

prognathous chin.

"McCaleb, do your duty!" said he.

"When I get good and ready," McCaleb returned, without looking at

him; he was still waiting on Doctor Westbrook. The latter now spoke.

"Oh, I have no statement to make; why should I? The whole wretched

business has been such a nightmare that I haven't the heart to

attempt a defence."

Once more he turned to Adams.

"So this is your revenge, is it?" he asked. "This is your way of

getting back at me for the old Civic Reform League; it's a pity I

didn't stay with it until I had smoked you out, you scoundrel."

He looked again to McCaleb. "Well, I suppose I must go with you; I

am ready."

But there came an interruption from an unlooked-for source. Before

any one was aware of it, Charlotte had arisen and was between the

Doctor and the other two men. She faced them magnificently--like a

tigress at bay.

"You touch him if you dare!"

The words were uttered with ominous quietness. If a look could

convey any physical effect, McCaleb and Adams would have been seared

and scorched and blasted by the lightning-like fire of wrath that

blazed about them. All of her moving personality showed plainly in

that look, dominating the situation as if the other actors therein

were no more than wooden marionettes. McCaleb recoiled; Adams

cowered behind him.

"Mobley, tell him that he lies--there, that wretched creature hiding

behind the other."

She levelled a potent finger at the abject Adams.

"Charlotte," Doctor Westbrook whispered in her ear, "this is only

making matters worse; believe me, this is not the place to correct

whatever mis--"

Charlotte stamped her foot with fierce impatience.

"Tell him that he lies; make him swallow those vile words before

either of you leaves this room."

That terrible, menacing finger was to Adams like an iron spit upon

which he, impaled, was being held up to a threatening multitude.

McCaleb essayed a diversion.

"This is unfortunate, Miss Fairchild. You know me pretty well; you

know that I must serve this warrant; you know I would never do it

were it not--" But she was not paying the slightest attention to

him. He turned helplessly to the Doctor.

At last the awful look in Charlotte's eyes, the menacing finger,

became unbearable. Adams, like the well-known worm, turned. He also

squirmed, worm-like, and was heard to mutter something.

"What does the creature say?" demanded Charlotte.

"He says that he has an eye-witness to the murder," McCaleb

interpreted.

Two regal strides, and she was standing above Adams, an incarnation

of outraged womanhood, of implacable, devastating wrath.

"Who is your witness?"

For once his eyes had ceased to rove; they were held by

Charlotte's--hypnotized by their compelling magnetism.

"Who is your witness?" she repeated, sternly--not to be denied.

"Don't--don't touch me," he hissed. "Keep away!"

"Touch you, you filthy thing? Ugh! Who is your witness?"

Of a sudden McCaleb sprang toward them.

"Here, none of that!" he cried through clenched teeth. Something

flashed for an instant between the two men, and when he stepped back

again he was holding a pistol in his hand and regarding the

unfortunate Adams with anger and contempt.

"Who is your witness?" She was apparently oblivious of the little

by-play.

There was no escaping it. In the end he stammered something, to

Charlotte unintelligible, but McCaleb started and came on a step

nearer.

"Who?" asked Charlotte.

"How--How--Howard Lynden."

Now it was her turn to recoil. The sternness of her countenance gave

way to a mingled look of amazement and incredulity. She laughed a

little wildly.

"How ridiculous! I see now; it is merely a vulgar joke--some spite

which this wretched creature is trying to vent upon you, Mobley."

Now that the tension was broken, McCaleb felt that he could again

make himself heard.

"Indeed, Miss Fairchild, it is no joke," earnestly. "If Adams, here,

should try such a game, he would find it the worse for him, as he

knows very well."

"You'll see how much of a joke it is," muttered Adams, with a

malignant look at the Doctor. But McCaleb went on, ignoring him.

"However unpleasant it may be, I have the warrant issued in proper

form, and, one way or another, I must serve it."

What next occurred banished from the minds of all everything that had

preceded it.

The door noiselessly swung open and revealed the large figure and the

impassive features of Captain John Converse.

While they stared at him in speechless surprise, he nodded briefly to

the Doctor; long afterward, when Charlotte looked back at the scene,

she became possessed of a conviction which is with her to this

day--that he deliberately winked at her.

He turned to McCaleb, to whom the familiar sibilant voice was

inexpressibly welcome.

"I will relieve you of your unpleasant duty, Mac," said he, smoothly.

The young man passed over the warrant with an alacrity which

demonstrated that the Captain had correctly characterized his task.

"Pardon me for intruding, Doctor," Converse continued, "but it seems

you were so absorbed in here that you didn't hear me knock.... Miss

Fairchild, you--"

Something in her manner bade him stop. He glanced significantly at

Doctor Westbrook; but before either had time to do or say anything

further, Charlotte had risen hastily from the chair into which she

had sunk upon the Captain's unexpected entrance, her every movement

betraying a suppressed excitement, an agitation imminently upon the

point of mastering her self-control.

"No, no!" she said, laughing somewhat hysterically, "I am not going

to faint; but oh! Mr. Converse, I am so glad you have come!" She

sank to her knees, buried her face in her hands, and sat on the

floor, laughing and crying together.

The Doctor went over to her, raised her gently, and led her to the

couch, where he sat beside her and held her head on his shoulder.

There was something exultant in his look, as if he enjoyed being

arrested; for the woman now clung to him as though she had never

refused the caress of those sheltering arms.

The Captain stood silently watching them with expressionless eyes,

turning the warrant over and over in his hands. At last he thrust it

carelessly into his pocket and turned away.

Adams and McCaleb slipped unobserved from the room.

Some time later, when Charlotte was again calm, Mr. Converse said to

her, "Miss Fairchild, I have an answer to our riddle."

"Then, thank God! the mystery is solved!" she said; and the Doctor

burst forth eagerly:

"Is that true?"

Converse ignored both inquiries.

"Come nearer, Miss Fairchild," said he; and when, wondering, she had

obeyed, he leaned forward and whispered one word into her ear....

"That's what our riddle has for its answer," he went on in a louder

tone. "'Paquita--what do you spell?' is a riddle no longer."

Charlotte started back.

"Revenge--but that tells me nothing," she said, blankly. Converse

smiled knowingly and shook his head.

"Perhaps you will not press me with questions which I haven't time to

answer; it cannot be told in a word. It's a long story, and a

remarkable one too; but we will hear it soon. It is not for me to

tell it. I am waiting for Mr. Nettleton, Mr. Mountjoy, Clay, and

Howard Lynden--though I don't believe that last gentleman will come

now--and one or two others.... Ah, here are Clay and Mr. Nettleton

now. You got my message, I see,"--this last to Clay.

"Yes," returned the young man; "but I'm dashed if I understand it.

What's it all about, anyhow? Where have you been? When did you--"

"What?--where?--when?" Converse interrupted. "Pray make allowance

for my age. Better yet, don't ask any questions at all. You will

soon have enough to occupy your mind fully."

Mr. Nettleton merely spoke a word or two of greeting; otherwise he

remained silent until Mr. Converse now abruptly addressed him.

"Did you bring it?" he asked.

For answer the lawyer drew a manuscript from his pocket. His manner

was sober, and unconsciously it foreshadowed the gravity of what was

about to transpire. A spirit of expectancy animated everybody

present; a dawning realization that at last the crisis was at hand,

that the veil hiding the mystery was about to be rent. So far as

this is concerned, they were soon to learn that the rending of one

veil was to disclose but a single one of many complexities and yet

another concealing veil beyond; that while the enveloping mists were

surely dissipating, they passed but slowly, revealing only a little

at a time.

"While we are waiting for the others, Mr. Nettleton will read this

aloud," said the Captain.

"What is it?" from the Doctor.

"I suppose you might call it the 'Ante-Mortem Statement of William

Slade, Deceased,'" Mr. Nettleton replied; and Converse interjected,

"'Slade's Blessing.'"

"Good," the lawyer rejoined. "That would not be an inept title. It

came to me this morning through the mail, and evidently was only

lately written."

Again Converse spoke. "How is Miss Joyce? Could she be present?"

He proceeded no further, when he noticed the Doctor shaking his head

in a decided negative.

"She is rapidly regaining her strength," the latter added; "but of

everything that happened up to the time of returning consciousness,

she remembers nothing."

"Dear me!" ejaculated the Captain; "that is unfortunate. Is this

blank likely to be permanent?"

"God knows that I hope not. It is too early to hazard a positive

opinion."

"Well, well," Converse repeated, thoughtfully; "yet,

perhaps--However, Mr. Nettleton, go on; read."

"But, Mr. Converse," Charlotte interposed, "this is all so

incomprehensible; we are tossed about in such a turmoil of

bewilderment that my mind is incapable of understanding anything, and

I am sure that Mobley is no better off. When did you return? Where

have you been so long? Have some mercy upon us, for I feel as though

I were going mad."

"Dear lady," he returned, "try to have a little patience; you shall

know all, quickly."

"But, about Mobley--what did that man mean by accusing him? by saying

that Howard had witnessed the--the murder? My God! when will this

end?"

The Captain spoke soothingly.

"Let this manuscript be read, and everything else will fall in

naturally. I have already said that the story cannot be told in a

word. It is a strange tale, and we must take one thing at a time if

we hope ever to comprehend it. Now go ahead, Mr. Nettleton."

The lawyer appeared to consider.

"I question the advisability of reading this," he said at length;

"but Mr. Converse thinks otherwise. I wish to say first, however,

that many things in this manuscript will prove to be exceedingly

painful to you, Mobley, and to you, Charlotte and Clay. So much so,

that it will be impossible for you to hear them unmoved. I have read

it, and I know. It is contemptible. It brings grave charges against

your two fathers; yet, if you wish ever to understand the mystery

that so entangles you, a perusal of this will be necessary. Each one

of you could take it alone and go through with it as you may; but to

read it here aloud will be a terrible ordeal. What are your wishes?"

"Bob," the Doctor returned, "we have all borne so much that the fact

of this being an additional ordeal weighs but little against the

assurance that we are to see this web of mystery and suspicion

untangled. I think the three of us most concerned will agree to

that?" He looked to Charlotte and Clay, who nodded acquiescence.

Converse also nodded his head vigorously, adding: "My idea, exactly.

You will hear the dead vilified and yourselves damned roundly; but,

dear me, what of that?" he asked, cheerfully. "Slade was as cracked

as a brick sidewalk, and he couldn't do anything else."

Mr. Nettleton smiled. "It wouldn't do to go too far into that,

Converse; remember the will."

"Well," the other retorted, "that is the most sensible thing he ever

did. He was sane enough when that was drawn. You must remember, it

is fourteen years old."

Now the lawyer turned to Clay and Charlotte. "It is agreed, then,

that I shall read this aloud?" he asked, looking from one to the

other.

"Fire away," from Clay; and his sister supplemented, "If we can't

bear it, we can stop you."

Although there were times during the reading when she hid her face in

her hands and wept softly; when Clay or the Doctor or both sat with

white set faces, with clenched hands and rigid jaws, to the credit of

their self-control may it here be set down, that there was no

interruption until Mr. Nettleton had quite finished.

That which follows is merely a _précis_ of what constituted a

remarkable document. Those portions deleted, comprising quite a half

of the writing, are nothing more nor less than a manifestation of

Slade's arrant egotism, his innate selfishness, an almost fiendish

vindictiveness, and a seemingly inborn malevolence that was baffled

at every turn. Indeed, the one bright spot in the entire

writing--his professed affection, if so tender an emotion can be

associated with his nature--is all the more extraordinary because it

stands alone among all the man's ungenerous impulses and thwarted

ambitions. Those portions may well be dispensed with; they are

simply unpleasant reading. Otherwise the document is given as he

wrote it.

CHAPTER VII

"SLADE'S BLESSING"

To begin with, I was unfortunate in being born the son of an

overseer. The generation that has come since the war recks little

how pregnant this simple statement is. It bestowed upon me an ethic

value somewhat lower than that possessed by the meanest nigger on

Richard Fairchild's plantation. They had a place; I had none.

Besides, my father was a rascal and a thief, possessing not a single

leavening trait or characteristic; for he was without any refinement

or culture, impenetrable to any noble sentiment--coarse and vulgar to

the end. God! Could human effort come to aught in the face of such

overwhelming odds? Yet, one helping hand, an occasional encouraging

word from those who usurped position and authority, one sympathetic

soul to spur my honorable aspirations, and I had been a better man.

But, with one exception, that helping hand, the encouraging word,

were withheld; the sympathetic spirit did not exist. God bless

Elinor Clay, and reward her with a saint's crown of glory; may He

everlastingly damn the rest! ...

Most vicious of all--proud, stiff-necked, sick in his self-esteem,

overweening, and malicious--was Peyton Westbrook. From the first he

stood in my path, thwarting and despising me, looking upon William

Slade as something less than the dirt beneath his aristocratic feet.

What was Peyton Westbrook that I was not? We were man and man. Had

our positions been reversed, his would have been a wretched lot,

indeed. Small of soul, narrow of mind, regardless of any interest

that did not harmonize with his own, he would have remained the

overseer's son, to live unhonored, and, dying, to pass into an

oblivion merited by his worth; while I, William Slade, endowed with

intellect and fine sensibilities, might have risen to greatness, the

limits of which I hesitate to define. But no; he was born to the

purple; it was given him to make such futile and petty uses of his

father's fortune and position as his little mind and mediocre

abilities could devise; while I, not lacking in all those naturally

inherent qualities which made me in every way his superior--except

the one of position--must stand in the background of obscurity and

console myself as best I could for Life's cruel arbitrariness in the

selection of her favorites....

Peyton Westbrook loved--nay, I cannot prostitute the word to such

base use; he coveted Elinor Clay and her acres. I loved Elinor Clay.

So did Richard Fairchild, poor creature that he was....

Peyton Westbrook's nature was so mean that he could applaud his

conduct in turning from her to Louise Shepardson. The world

marvelled at the time; but the truth, like all puzzles of simple

solution, was never hit upon. Louise Shepardson, when the Judge, her

father, died, became possessed of more acres than would ever come to

Elinor Clay. Good, broad acres constituted the only bait to which so

cold-blooded a fish as Westbrook would ever rise. Did gracious

Elinor ever suspect this simple explanation? No; her gentle soul

never could comprehend such infamy. She wedded Richard Fairchild,

believing she had driven Peyton Westbrook from her--blaming her pure

self for his heartless baseness. Were I to attempt a writing of the

curse which rises to my lips when I think of this soulless, bowelless

nature, its scorching fervor would dry the ink on my pen. "Slade's

Blessing" it has been called! "Blessing," indeed! Heaven grant that

it may land him in the midst of the torment whither it has consigned

him again and again, and is at last made eternal by the ineffaceable

record which preserves forever the prayers of dying men!

Did I aspire to Elinor Clay's hand? God help me, if I did! I was

young and ambitious; I was full of the dreams of youth--the young

blood pulsed hotly in my body; and this was sweet--the one incident

in my miserable past that I can look back upon and feel a shadow of

pleasure's glow mount to my withered cheek. Even now, soured as I am

by adversity, that beautiful name stirs a warmth in my heart; and I

can pity myself and her in tears, and not by curses for those who

wronged us. So does it soften the heart of bitterness. My sentiment

was a matter of repression, my adoration silent; Elinor was as far

from me as the stars. Because I was son of an overseer I was lonely

enough; besides, what had I to do with boys of my own age, their

foolish sports and inane pastimes? We had nothing in common.

But Elinor Clay never spoke aught to me but gentle words; and in the

end I came to set her up in the shrine of my thoughts as the object

of an adoration which, could she but have had a glimpse of it, surely

would have melted her tender heart to pity. To have lived for her;

to have toiled and laid up year by year, that in the end she might

alone benefit; to have done this with a singleness of purpose that

never faltered--does this signify selfishness or meanness? Then I am

the meanest and most selfish that ever encumbered the earth....

I realized in my love-madness that I must have patience; that I must

toil and labor unceasingly to attain to the place merited by my

talents and intellect; for naturally I was superior to them all,

being possessed of mental gifts of no mean order. I knew that with

the advantages I could acquire I could rise above them; then I could

take what to ask for then would have brought forth only derision and

mockery. But here again the world was against me; I was only the

overseer's son. But they feared me, and every hand was extended to

keep me down....

Although my father was a rascal, he was a far-seeing one. Long

before war's dire besom swept our fair land, he had a sure knowledge

of the outcome, and with commendable enterprise laid his plans

accordingly. He had put by a little money, and, as opportunity

offered (and such opportunities were by no means lacking), he would

lend a bit here and a bit there to the planters about our

neighborhood, that they might be able to stem the rising tide of

misfortune. Richard Fairchild was a poor weakling, and my father

kept him from going under. There are those who may term it

ingratitude to speak thus of my "benefactor." Bah! Benefactor!

Fool! I pen the epithet in scorn and contempt. I can select no

better evidence to support my opinion of him than that he should have

opened wide the fast-emptying Fairchild purse, to take thence the

gold that was exchanged for my education. The act was prompted by no

spirit of kindness, but was animated by the same foolish vanity and

love of ostentation that marked the wasting of all his substance.

How carefully I could have husbanded it! Even at this late day the

thought of the small fortune that he wasted upon his niggers alone

makes me quiver with indignation. No; such learning as I have was

come by through sore labor. His mean gift was thrown to me as a bone

is tossed to a vagrant cur.

But no mortal could have saved that man. My father's error lay in

taking payment twice, and somewhat over, for the money he had lent

him. The highest tribute I can pay to Richard Fairchild's astuteness

is that he never suspected this, although, during a period covering

many years, he made many payments to my father, and probably had

continued doing so had not every resource become exhausted.

My father used to say, in his vulgar way: "I fit for my country

against the greasers,"--meaning thereby the Mexicans,--"and while I

am too old to fight now, I may save some of these broad acres. But

old association cannot be ignored; so long as my poor neighbors have

a chance of keeping up their brave show, my small means are at their

service. If they go down--well, I shall not." And not to place upon

them any sense of obligation to an overseer, they never knew whence

the money came. I might observe that, had they known, they would not

have touched a penny of it. But thus my father went about his

charitable work, with his tongue in his cheek, and one eye knowingly

closed.

Also, I may say here that my father was a conscienceless liar. He

never fought anything but occasional virtuous impulses, the same

being ever put to an inglorious rout; for during the Mexican War he

was nothing more nor less than a sutler, although there is much to be

commended in providing nourishment, raiment, and refreshment to those

who are battling for their country's honor. But he prospered, and in

Mexico became connected with a certain young hidalgo of Spain who had

moneys to invest. Why this partnership was severed I can only

conjecture. My father was wont to accuse him of ingratitude, saying

that Don Juan del Castillo was an ungrateful creature, who turned

upon those that befriended him; but at the same time my parent would

loudly forgive him for certain dim and unspecified wrongs, the which,

I shrewdly suspect, were of my father's doing rather than the Spanish

gentleman's. However that may be, it was largely the latter's money

that went to Richard Fairchild as a loan for such of his acres as

remained unincumbered. My father could well be the agent of Don Juan

in these transactions, even though the gentry would not tolerate him

as a principal. My father was a shrewd rascal.

As I have already stated, the money advanced to Richard Fairchild was

repaid more than twice over. (A schedule will be found in the

envelope with my will.) Hence, I have been no more than a trustee--a

faithful one--of Richard Fairchild's property. Take it, Clay and

Charlotte; I ask nothing for my lifetime of toil and care, because I

know it will not be granted me. It is yours, freely and joyously

bestowed. I have added to it many fold; but that is of no moment. I

seek no credit for this generous impulse. I could not have the

desire of my heart: Elinor has gone from me for ever. I want nothing

else. Heaven give you happiness in the property that I, William

Slade, the overseer's despised son, have laid up for you....

Only one single time did fate, or Providence, favor me, and then only

to turn in the end and discomfit me. But for Elinor's sake, I may

not tell all thereof.

On a night shortly after the Mexican man was overtaken by a most

righteous wrath in the Nettleton Building, certain evidences that

Peyton Westbrook had for once gone a step too far in his villany came

to my hands. I gave thanks to God that I should have been the one

chosen as the humble instrument of that man's undoing. The testimony

was irrefragable--as we lawyers say, conclusive--and I held him in

the hollow of my hand. Here, my lifelong affection led me into error

of judgment--something that I am not often guilty of; my tenderness

of heart blinded me to my hatred of this man, and instead of

stripping him of his smug and gaudy trappings of virtue, and showing

him up to be the scoundrel he was, I ended by allowing that evidence

to be taken from me--I standing by complaisant--and the opportunity

to unmask him to be destroyed. So did gentle Elinor reward him for

his base heartlessness of other days! What is the use for me to say

that Peyton Westbrook was a scoundrel, if I cannot prove it?

Although it is the bare truth, I will refrain from telling it.

Besides, sweet Elinor has begged me not to....

For a time I thought of that snip of a girl who bears the Westbrook

name with about as much dignity as really invests it--

But enough of her. I was wrong, and I bear her no ill will for being

a witless butterfly. Butterflies, I dare say, have their uses in the

vast scheme of creation.

To return to my error of judgment. When I had satiated my senses by

gloating over this evidence, I was possessed of an idea. Never had I

breathed a word to any living soul of my love for Elinor Clay; it was

a secret locked safely in the treasure-house of my heart; and now I

could overwhelm her with gratitude. I would go to her--now that her

foolish girl sentiment for the bowelless Westbrook had long been

dead--and at once show her what a hypocrite he was, how basely he had

treated her, and then present the immense contrast offered by my

lifelong devotion and generosity. Could any mortal--especially a

woman--resist such an appeal? I pride myself on my knowledge of the

sex; to the intelligent, observant mind they are as open books; and I

unhesitatingly answer, No. But alas for human frailty! When I

appeared to my beloved Elinor, I had not taken into account her years

of enervating illness; I failed to consider that she was not the

woman she had been; but I did not hesitate--to me she would ever

remain unchanged.

When she comprehended the tenor of my errand, the shock was too much

for her gentle nature; she was quite overcome and rendered

irresponsible, and all unconsciously she reviled me,--she who had

ever been all gentleness and tenderness,--and treated me with a

harshness that was very, very painful. What could I do but deliver

my testimony over to her? How could I refrain, when her delirium or

hallucination was so great that it actually led her to defending

Peyton Westbrook! to calling him by many endearing names! And

presently, her daughter--who, I make no doubt, had been listening at

the door--entered, and I thoughtfully and considerately desisted in

my importunities for the testimony's return (for my beloved Elinor

had it at the moment); and I decided to leave her until a more

propitious time. Alas! that time was destined never to come.

But enough. I reap from my trust no material benefit. The envious

call my conduct Miserliness; I spell it differently; Fidelity.

Charlotte, Clay, dear children of my beloved Elinor, take what is

yours. I ask for no meed of thanks. My reward is the consciousness

of a duty well accomplished, of a trust faithfully guarded. But

never forget that William Slade, son of an overseer, despised and

spurned by an unfeeling and heartless world, ever had your interests

near to his heart. If the reader in his soul does not say that my

unselfishness is sublime, then are you inhuman, cold, and bloodless;

for I end my trust with the firm conviction that the _cestuis que

trust_ are in no wise worthy or deserving of this magnificent gift of

fortune.

BOOK IV.

THE DANCER AND THE MOUNTEBANK

_The tongues of dying men

Enforce attention like deep harmony.

Where words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain,

For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain._

--RICHARD II.

CHAPTER I

"THAT IS PAQUITA"

When Mr. Nettleton came to the end of the extraordinary composition

from the hand of William Slade, his listeners were sitting in a tense

stillness that was fairly galvanic with many mingled emotions.

Doubtless, Converse realized the conflicting feelings animating the

three individuals most concerned; he arose immediately, and began

speaking with an assumption of brisk determination designed to hold

their attention to the programme as he intended it should be carried

out.

"I have taken the liberty of ordering two carriages," said he,

addressing the Doctor; "and as Miss Fairchild is to accompany us"--he

bowed to Charlotte--"let me beg that you hurry. Time is of some

moment now."

"I am to go?" she returned, wide-eyed. "Where?"

"To hear the final chapter; to be present at the lifting of the veil."

And at once she gave a satisfying example of how rapidly a woman may

make herself presentable under the spur of excitement and

irresistible curiosity.

What with the introduction of the man Adams into the enigma, the

Doctor's arrest, the assertion that Lynden had been an eye-witness of

De Sanchez's murder, Converse's abrupt and unexpected advent after so

long an absence, Slade's confession, and--to cap each of these

climaxes--an assurance that the mystery was a mystery no longer, it

may be believed that Charlotte's tranquil exterior belied the tumult

of thought and emotion which presently came to possess her,

increasing the more as she pondered. Added to the other agitating

influences was a lively apprehension of what form the pending

disclosure would take--upon whom it would now fasten its fangs of

accusation. But her habit of self-control came admirably to her aid;

to a certain extent she was able to busy her tired brain with other

matters, although patience had become a virtue forgotten.

Naturally, Converse had assumed the role of master of ceremonies, and

the others watched him with curiosity. Into the first of two waiting

carriages he ushered Charlotte, her brother, Doctor Westbrook, and

Mr. Nettleton; and as soon as the door was banged to, the vehicle

started with an assurance and speed signifying foreknowledge on the

part of the driver. The two officers entered the other conveyance,

which, just as it emerged from the driveway, was met by the Coroner

and Mr. Mountjoy in the former's buggy.

Aside from the fact that it was taken without a word being uttered by

any of her companions, Charlotte retained but the most nebulous

memory of that ride.

In a little while the carriage was penetrating a neighborhood wholly

unknown to her, and presently it swerved to one side and drew up at

the curb.

Charlotte looked out with some interest. The building before which

they had stopped stood on a corner; it was two-storied, of stuccoed

brick, and made gloomy by wide galleries resting on brick and stone

arches. It exhaled a strong odor of cooking onions and garlic, of

wine from the wine-room at the corner, and she insensibly drew back.

Almost at once Converse and McCaleb, Mr. Mountjoy and the Coroner

appeared before the carriage door.

The first-named shot a quizzical look at her, but still vouchsafed no

explanation more than the fact that they were at their journey's end.

After stepping under the balcony which roofed the walk, she was

enabled to read on one of the door-panes the words, "La Posada

Mejicana, R. Velasquez," which she did with a little start. It was

the place whither Clay had fled upon that memorable day, and where he

had written to Mr. Nettleton. She glanced at the latter now, but he

appeared unwontedly sober. The Doctor's curiosity was frank, though

speechless; he doubtless had resigned himself to await the issue.

The door was opened by a short stout man, whose features were broad

and dark. His hair was very black and straight and coarse, and to

this man Converse spoke a word or two in Spanish. He responded

volubly, and smiled a bright welcome upon the remainder of the party.

"Coom een," he said, cordially; "_entre Ustedes_--ah, Señor

Nettletone--_como esta Usted? Entre! Entre!_" To which the lawyer

responded gravely.

"Eet ees a fine day--_si_?" vociferated the stout little man,

cheerfully; and when the last of the party had entered he closed the

door once more and placed himself beside Mr. Converse.

"Lead on," said the latter with a gesture; "you know."

"Dees way." He piloted them down a chilly, dark corridor to a flight

of stairs.

The party presently arrived at the second floor, Charlotte holding

the Doctor's arm tightly, and the way led through another dim

corridor to a door, before which the guide paused. His manner had

become all at once comically mournful.

"Ah, _el póbre señor_--he ees un seeck _hombre--mucho malo_," he

whispered hoarsely. "I must go." He departed on tiptoe, and

Converse tapped lightly upon the door.

Full of wonder, his companions waited in silence. They heard a soft

fall of feet on the other side, a softer swish of feminine skirts,

and the door opened.

Both Clay and the Doctor uttered low exclamations of astonishment,

for the open portal revealed a vision of dazzling loveliness. But it

was not the remarkable, melancholy beauty of the young girl that

moved them so powerfully; not the faultless, ivory-tinted features,

nor the wealth of silky tresses--black and wavy, like Joyce's; nor

yet the liquid black eyes which were almost a counterpart of

Charlotte's: they were wonderful eyes, but oh, so sad! Instead, it

was the unexpectedness of the apparition, a conviction of having seen

that beautiful face before--the unparalleled incongruity of

associating it with its present setting--that occasioned such intense

surprise. Clay at once identified her with the girl he had seen

while in this same building on the day of his flight; to the Doctor

the fancied resemblance was fleeting, incapable of being fixed. But

he succeeded in doing this later on.

Beyond this lovely girl with the sad, heavy-lidded eyes could be seen

a large room with whitewashed walls, lighted by two high, barred

windows which overlooked a paved court strewn with bottles and empty

wine-casks. The room's furnishings were austere and uninviting: a

high wooden bed, a plain table beside it, another on which were a

ewer and basin, and a long bench extending around two sides of the

apartment constituted all the conveniences. They might have served a

monk, but scarcely a sick man.

Still wondering, the party followed Mr. Converse into the room, and

as they did so, they received another shock.

A wild, terrifying figure reared up in the bed, and, supporting

itself on an elbow, glared at the intruders like some fierce animal

of the wild disturbed in its den.

"Good God!" burst from Doctor Westbrook as he recoiled from this

spectacle. "How came you here and in this plight?"

It was Señor Vargas. The Doctor's countenance was eloquent with

horror and amazement, and he stood petrified--unconscious of

Charlotte clinging to his arm, blind to all else except the wretched

creature, fever-flushed and emaciated, now staring at him from the

bed. Suddenly he read aright; he recalled the significant cough

while the man was in his office, and again at the inquest; an

unconscious exposure to the rigor of an unfamiliar climate, and a

severe cold, had forced the issue of life and death.

Converse drew near to Charlotte and glanced at her with a whimsically

lifted brow.

"And this is what you discovered?" said she.

"Here is where I have spent the last few weeks. As soon as Vargas

became ill he had himself removed here--to be with the girl."

"Oh, there are so many things I cannot understand," she returned.

"What did that creature Adams mean by saying that Howard Lynden--"

A quick alteration in his manner made her pause and regard him

anxiously. At once Converse made a little grimace of disgust.

"It was very simple," said he. "Lynden was a poor weakling, without

any will of his own. Adams merely bent him to his own purposes.

Lynden saw the Doctor standing over the dying De Sanchez; Adams made

him think he had seen the rest. It presents a peculiar psychological

condition, fortunately rare, but by no means unprecedented. That

young fellow has very wisely effaced himself. You will never see him

again."

At this moment Charlotte caught the melancholy eyes of the beautiful

girl directed toward her.

"How superb!" she murmured. "She is like a breath from the Orient;

she fills the mind like Coleridge's 'damsel with a dulcimer.' Who is

she?"

"That," whispered Converse, "is _Paquita_."

CHAPTER II

THE SERPENT STRIKES

As in its last outburst a dying volcano is said to vomit forth its

hottest flow of lava, so did the perfervid words pour from the lips

of Vargas. But the malevolence and implacable hate revealed in the

man's look and tone, in the bitter denunciation of his utterance,

were so intense that the scene amounted at times to an almost

unendurable ordeal.

The tale he unfolded was one of wrong and betrayal, of a

heartlessness unbelievable, and it was plain that years of brooding

had made of revenge an obsession, a fixed idea that gave him the

cunning to work out his ends, patience to abide his opportunity,

ingenuity in concealing his identity and purpose, truly marvellous.

"Years ago," his story began, after an outburst that left him nearly

exhausted, "my father, my mother, my sister, and I lived in Seville.

There it was that I was born; so you see, señores, I am not of

Mexico, but of Spain. There it was that I was happy, though cruelly

poor. I was young and strong, and from a small lad up to manhood I

was ever working to perfect myself in all the tricks of a juggler's

calling. Ah, señores, I made an art of it. At one time I, Fernando

del Castillo, was the greatest, the most adept juggler in the whole

of Europe. There is none who knew me then that will deny it. But it

came natural to me, señores; even before I was twenty I excelled them

all, just as my sister, the little Paquita, the sunshine and gladness

of my father's house, was more beautiful, more graceful, and lighter

of foot--ah, such a tiny foot it was!--than any woman within the

length and breadth of Spain.

"Señores, it is her brother who is telling the tale; he loved her

with a tenderness beyond the power of words to express. But you

should have beheld her in those days: beautiful--beautiful she was,

her voice like a bird's for very sweetness; and there was none who

could make such a living, breathing poem of a _tango_ or a _joto_;

none who could glance at you with such sparkling eyes, firing the

blood and the brain like old wine; none that could flash such pearly

teeth between such coaxing lips--lips like the soft petals of a

crimson rose. It was her fame that spread beyond Seville to Madrid,

and even to Paris.

"In Paris the fame of Paquita and Fernando--for so were we known--was

on every tongue. God knows she was innocent enough then, and content

with the love and companionship of her brother. God knows that in

those days we were sufficient each unto the other, and happy,

señores--happy....

"But it ended."

De Sanchez, at that time attending college in Paris, on the strength

of his knowledge of Castillo's uncle, Don Juan Sebastian del

Castillo, attained an intimacy with Paquita and Fernando that led to

disaster for the girl. Don Juan had long been a resident of Mexico,

and was a man of wealth and affairs.

"There was a certain dance of my sister's," said Vargas,--or

Castillo, to give him his proper name,--"that always held the

audience spellbound. It was of her own devising; born of her warm

Southern blood and her romantic heart. Ah, señores, it was a thing

of beauty--a perfect treasure of art. With the lithe movements of

her dainty body, the dropping of her lashes, the flashing of her

starlike eyes, the curving of her ripe, crimson lips--either in a

smile of witchery or of scorn and disdain,--she told a tale of love

and disappointment, of betrayal and revenge. Truly was it inspired

of the evil that later was to befall herself.

"When, at the end, she would flash a dagger from her garter with the

swiftness of a serpent darting from its coil, the audience would rise

to her and cry 'Brava!' until the walls reverberated. Ah, it was

marvellous! Is it strange that I adored her?

"Upon the very night, señores, that she innocently revealed her love

for De Sanchez, he brought to her a dagger. Many days passed before

I knew of this, because, for the first time, I was not remembered

with a gift also.

"'_Paquita mia!_' I cried, holding the pretty toy in my hand,

'_Paquita mia_, how could you do me, your brother, this cruel wrong?'"

"'He loves me,' she whispered, for the first time in her life not

daring to look me in the eyes.

"'Loves you!' I cried. 'Have I not loved you since the day you were

born?' And right there, señores, the first great lesson of this life

came to me. For the first time there was no response in her bosom to

the emotion in my own--to the yearning of my heart--and I became

faint, my spirit sick.

"'I love him,' she gasped, faintly, her hand on her heart, and

bending her head still lower.

"'O Paquita! Paquita!' was all that I could say in my sorrow. 'Love

him? This is madness. Behold, you are unhappy even now, and never

before this hour has a shadow of sorrow fallen between you and me.'

"'This is different,' she murmured, her head still bowed, her hand

still striving to restrain the wild beating of her heart. 'We are to

be wed.'

"As I was turning to leave her, she suddenly burst into tears and

threw herself upon my breast. 'Oh, you are wrong! You are wrong!'

she cried, looking for the first time into my eyes, but through

tears, devouring my doubts in the fire of her passion. Señores,

think of a joy drowned in tears! 'O my brother,' she cried, 'you are

wrong, for I was never so happy in my life! I love him! I love him!

Say that you are not angry; say that you love me, too; tell me that

you will never leave me; for I am afraid.' And she clung to me with

a wild strength that you will not believe.

"It was not long after that night that I learned the whole story.

"'When next you dance,' said De Sanchez, as he handed her the dagger,

'wear this token of my love for you.'

"'And do you love me?' she replied, seeking to read through his black

eyes the blacker soul behind.

"'Here is a symbol of the True Cross,' he said, placing his hand upon

the cross of the dagger's hilt, and upon her hand; 'let it be the

emblem of our faith, each in the other's love.'

"'And here is the sharpness of a serpent's tooth,' she said, placing

a little finger-tip upon the dagger's point; for you see--God help

her!--deep in her heart she mistrusted him at that moment, and did

not know it.

"'May it sting me to death if I am not forever true to you,' he

uttered solemnly, before she could finish.

"Again she strove to search his soul.

"'My ears never weary of it,' she said; 'once more, do you love me?'

"'Once more, my Paquita, life of my life, soul of my soul. Once

more, if my heart is ever false to you may this token of our troth

still it forever.'"

So a mockery of a ceremony led to five short months of almost

delirious happiness, and then--

"Then, hear!" gasped the dying man. "In five short months he tired

of her, my beautiful one; he laughed at her and the babe unborn when

she called him husband; and there was another woman--a woman of

Paris....

"Is it not enough that he had won her heart, then thrown it torn and

bleeding into the dirt? Is it not enough that his every word had

been false; that he had betrayed her; that he left her without a name

for her child? Is it not enough that he had won God's own gift, the

love of a pure woman, and that it was to him of such little value

that he trampled it beneath his feet; that he made what was priceless

a thing of no value--of mockery and derision? Yet all this he did;

and can you believe me,--a man pleading with death to wait till he

shall finish,--that this was not the worst? As I hope for mercy from

the God I am about to face; as I hope for the intercession of the

Virgin Mother, it is not!"

After a daughter was born to the luckless dancer, the brother and

sister began a wandering that carried them through many lands.

Always before them, like an evil star, gleamed the compelling idea,

revenge; and after more than a decade it guided them to Mexico, where

De Sanchez and General Westbrook were conducting a banking business.

They learned that their uncle there had died more than a year

previous to their arrival, and that his property had been entirely

dissipated in a series of disastrous investments covering a period of

several years before his death. The banking concern of De Sanchez &

Westbrook were the administrators of the Castillo estate.

"Then, señores, almost without warning came the blackest time of all.

"Of a sudden, a scourge of smallpox fell upon the city, and in a day

those who lived in the poorer quarter were dying like flies in a

frost. My beloved sister was among the very first upon whom that

horrible blight fastened, and she was sorely stricken.

"There is a period during those days that is lost from my

recollection; my senses were dulled as by an opiate, and I can

remember only a bit here and there, as one remembers parts of a

nightmare. The sickness came so suddenly that I had no time to send

the little Paquita away; but by the mercy of the Holy Mother did she

escape the terrible evil that had laid its hand so sorely upon her

mother.

"But my sister, señores! Steadily she grew worse; steadily she sank

lower and lower; and one day--the day she was at her lowest--I gave

to the doctor the last gold-piece.

"He would come no more.

"So I sat by my sister. In her madness she talked, now of the times

when we were happy together; now of the times when Alberto de

Sanchez, _el mas perfido_, came into her life. More often it was of

him.

"_Asi_, as I sat, I was myself stricken; my head suddenly became

heavy, and a pain as from a knife thrust seized upon my loins. I was

giddy and weak; but at that moment I rose up and passed out of our

house.

"Señores, you will not believe it of me--a dying man; but, I swear by

the Virgin of Guadalupe, that what I now tell you is true. I forgot

everything--everything but my present distress; and I went to seek

aid for my sister of _los Señores_ de Sanchez and Westbrook, where

they sat at ease in their banking-house. God, but I was desperate!

"I might have known how it would fall out. Had De Sanchez then shown

a little tenderness, señores, a little compassion, a little remorse

for the past, I might have forgiven him; but he merely stood silent,

eyeing me sideways with an odd look.

"Of a sudden it came to an end. He grasped the Señor Westbrook's arm

and drew him to the farthest corner of the room.

"'Back!' cried he, '_al instante_--immediately; this fellow is in the

delirium of smallpox.'

"How I was thrust forth into the street, how a great night of

forgetfulness closed down upon me, how I awoke many days later in the

pest-camp, is not to be told by me.

"Now, señores, _oiga_--listen.

"While I lay in my sleep of forgetfulness, Paquita crept to where the

gold and silver dagger was kept, and thrust it into her heart.

"So did it end for her.

"Certain poor women of the neighborhood tended my sister and cared

for the little Paquita. These had once survived the smallpox, and

they feared it not. Heaven give them many days to enjoy the life

that I was afterwards able to make easier for them!

"By the hands of one of these the dagger came to me--all that I

possessed in the world except the humble clothes upon my back, poor

and much worn.

"I looked into a mirror, and I laughed, señores. I laughed the laugh

of a man whose heart is dead. Then I threw my _serape_ over my

shoulder and strode from the pest-camp.

"In the old days, señores, I was accounted a handsome man; I was vain

and much of a dandy. My complexion was lighter than you see it now;

there was a curl to my hair that I was proud of; my features were

regular, and there was an erectness to my figure, a nimbleness in all

my movements, and a suppleness that had followed naturally on the

practice of my calling.

"Now, what I beheld in the mirror was a man altogether different, and

I had no fear that any one might recognize me. I drew the dagger

from my sash; I pressed my lips to the dark stains upon its silver

blade.

"At that moment, señores, Fernando del Castillo died to the world;

and Juan Sebastian de Vargas was born--bound irrevocably to a vow of

vengeance."

After his return to the city Castillo sought out his niece. Let him

speak again:

"'_Mi Paquita poco_,' said I, taking her sweet face between my

hands--so--when she had come to know me for her uncle and the tears

of her greeting were dry, '_Paquita mia_, henceforth, and in memory

of the great sorrow that was thy mother's and mine, thou shalt be

Dolores. May God and the Blessed Virgin ever fend you from the

like!' And, repeating my vow inwardly as a prayer, I kissed her

solemnly and departed, leaving her in the care of the women, who had

come to love her as their own."

After pawning the dagger to an American dealer in curios, he departed

for the mines. Thence onward his progress was marked by success from

a worldly point of view, and he was soon able to establish intimate

business relations with the object of his hatred. Two incidents

marked his return to the city, both of which were destined to

exercise a powerful influence over the future. One was the fact that

the dealer with whom he had left the dagger as a pledge had departed,

no one knew whither, and the dagger was not to be found; the other

was the astonishing intelligence, acquired by an infinity of toil and

patient waiting, that De Sanchez and General Westbrook were

responsible for his uncle's bankruptcy. The General was straightway

included in his hatred and scheme of vengeance.

But a controlling strain of fatalism and superstition in the man

stayed his hand; he was convinced that his sister's dagger would come

to him again; that its return would be the signal to strike; and he

bided the time, watching De Sanchez as a cat might watch the mouse

marked for its prey. With instinctive caution, though, Castillo had

avoided General Westbrook, so the latter never became familiar with

his presence and appearance. He continued:

"I gradually won the confidence of Alberto de Sanchez; soon we had

immense interests in common--here--there--everywhere; and these, I

always took care, should be profitable for him, even though I might

lose thereby myself.

"But never, for some reason, could I gain his unreserved friendship,

though I strove to that end daily. There was something intangible,

unnamable, unseen by either of us, that ever stood between him and

me, and this I could not overcome. Nothing could have surprised my

mask of a face or my near-sighted eyes into betraying, by so much as

would cover a needle's point, the seething fire of hate for this man

that burned within; but as I watched him, unceasingly, I caught now

and then a puzzled look in his eyes as they regarded Juan de

Vargas--an expression in which there was something of fear; and I

knew that he was reminded, in a dim way, of the evil he had done.

There was something in my presence that made him ponder without

understanding, and would not allow him to forget.

"In many ways Alberto de Sanchez, without knowing it, allowed to

escape him that upon which his mind was turning when his brooding

glance rested upon me. Once, at the organization of a mining company

in which I then had some small interest, the question of a name

arose. The Señor de Sanchez was regarding me with the wondering look

that had become so familiar.

"'Paquita,' he said, half aloud, as one musing, 'The Paquita Gold

Mining and Milling Company.' And I, señores--I perforce led the

laugh that followed, the while my fingers twitched for his throat.

"What emotions stirred uneasily in that dark bosom, señores? _Quien

sabe?_"

During this time General Westbrook was usually in the United States.

On one occasion Joyce accompanied him to Mexico, and De Sanchez fell

madly in love with her.

"As you know," said Castillo, "the Señor Westbrook's one virtue was

his regard for and pride in his family; for their sake had he

resorted to infamy. He knew the Señor de Sanchez to be a rascal; he

might do very well as a business associate; but deliver his cherished

daughter into that rascal's possession? No. On the other hand, De

Sanchez had that which could defeat the very object of the other's

villany--knowledge of it. He had but to come forward with the

proofs, and the proud General would be humbled to the dust; his name

would become an execration on the lips of his friends; his fortune

would be taken from him--all that for which he had stolen would be

lost. However great as a soldier the Señor Westbrook might have

been, he was a coward here; and De Sanchez was too cunning and shrewd

a scoundrel to overlook this weak spot in striving for his ends.

Fate had started this game of conflicting interests, and I had but to

watch and encourage it. Of course, you would say, the Señor de

Sanchez would have likewise ruined himself by such an exposure; but

to such a madness was he driven, when the señorita was not

immediately given to him, that I feared for a time he would destroy

all.

"At last it fell out as you might expect; they quarrelled and severed

their partnership. De Sanchez, still holding the threat over the

other, accepted a compromise because he was made to see he had to.

The Señor Westbrook pointed out that his daughter was too young; that

while such a marriage might be popular enough in Mexico, it would

precipitate nothing short of social disaster in the States. Such

matters were regarded and arranged quite differently here: the

señorita's wishes had to be considered; were the matter laid before

her, she would develop a will of her own; and so, and so, until that

son of a devil agreed to wait four years. At the end of that time he

was to present himself to claim his bride, and she was to be prepared

for the great event during the time of waiting. I believe the Señor

Westbrook's life was embittered; I believe he said nothing of all

this to his charming daughter; it is my idea that he attempted to put

off the evil until the day thereof, hoping that time would deliver

him from his trouble; and so he returned with the señorita to his own

country, there to face as best he could the day when it should

confront him.

"When the time had nearly passed, I cunningly laid my plans so that I

could follow naturally the Señor de Sanchez when he went to your

country. Dolores I brought with me privately, as you know, and

lodged her and the woman who has tended her since her mother's death,

here where I knew she would be well cared for. For her I had a

particular task. Because of the blood that was in her veins--because

she was the pledge of that wretched union--I intended that she should

share in the revenge, though, for the sake of her future, innocently.

"I went with Alberto de Sanchez to the office of the Señor Doctor on

a certain night, pondering, as I walked along, the progress of my

companion's love affair, and knowing from his silence and his

scowling brow--for we were alone together--that it was not to his

liking.

"We went slowly down the hall leading to the Señor Doctor's

apartment, and my heart leaped; something whispered in my brain,

'This is the place!' I must observe the doors, the windows, all the

possibilities. This I did. We entered the apartment of the Señor

Doctor.

"But where was the dagger?

"I should not have been astonished had it come floating down from the

ceiling into my hand. My brain was like a theatre in which was being

enacted all that happened seventeen years before, and still I was

calm. In the other room, where the Doctor and the Señor de Sanchez

were, I heard that which confirmed my suspicions concerning his love

affair. Surely Alberto de Sanchez would never have the opportunity

of wronging his sister as he had wronged mine. Then, señores, those

two--deep in their own concerns--did not hear the cry that burst from

my throat.

"There, before me on a table, half covered by a paper, lay something

bright and shining; my eyes caught a glint of silver and gold.

"I tore the paper away and beheld--my sister's dagger!

"At last! At last! The blood sang in my veins for very joy. At

last, Alberto de Sanchez--now that your time has come, laugh as you

laughed in my sister's face! Spurn the blade from your throat as you

spurned her helpless pleading! Flee from me, the avenger of many

horrid wrongs, as you fled from the stricken girl! Ah, you cannot do

it. Alberto de Sanchez, a hundred-fold accursed--son of

hell--liar--betrayer of women--look! Your time has come--at last!

"Together, my Paquita and I had a trick with the knives that--even if

it be I that say it--was wonderful to behold. It was our grand

climax, and oh, the sensation it would create!--the astonishment of

our audiences! You have seen it, but it was new in those days.

_Pouf!_ 't was easy.

"Well, señores, the next evening after I had awaited Alberto de

Sanchez's coming a sufficient time at the 'otel, I took up my stand

at the entrance of the Field Building. I rolled a cigarette and

lighted it, and as I tossed the match away, I saw him coming

confidently as of old. God, how I hated him then!

"I walked leisurely up the Field Building stairway, knowing that I

need not hurry, and down the hall to the window overlooking the--what

you call the little space?--light-well? _Gracias_, señor. Not too

close, for there might be some one to observe me at the other

windows. Looking across the light-well, I could see the whole length

of the other hall--that along which he was to approach me. Ah, how

beautifully it was all arranged, for I was in darkness, while he

would be in the light.

"So I stood there smoking my cigarette, one arm folded across my

breast--so--the hand thereof resting on the dagger in my pocket--for

I had taken it from the Señor Doctor's desk; and presently I saw a

woman flit swiftly across the hall from the Señor Doctor's office and

vanish. I had no time to wonder at this, for at the same instant I

beheld Alberto de Sanchez appear at the head of the stairs and turn

toward the Señor Doctor's office--toward me!

"Was there then a thought of Paquita--of Fernando del Castillo in his

mind?

"Listen, and you shall judge.

"As he approached nearer and nearer, the light before the Señor

Doctor's office shone with a growing brightness upon his handsome

face; and presently I noted there the look of doubt, as though the

soul were asking a question of his memory which it could not answer;

the look with which he had ever regarded Juan Vargas.

"'When he stands beneath the light,' I whispered--'then!'

"Ah, and then!

"When he arrived beneath the light, I threw my cigarette out of the

window, seized the dagger by its silver blade--as in the old

days--and raised it above my head. Whether it was one or the other

of these movements that caught his eye, I do not know. He was facing

me then, and suddenly he looked at me. Ah, señores, it did my heart

good to behold his expression change, even as I had often pictured

it. His memory, at last, had given the soul its answer, and terror

shone from his eyes--he recognized Fernando del Castillo in the

avenging figure that confronted him.

"'Taking a step backward, so that my hand might not strike the sash

of the window, I prayed, 'Soul of Paquita, strengthen my arm to

avenge thee!'

"Then I threw the dagger....

"The hand of Alberto de Sanchez was raised as though to ward off the

death now upon him; but the silver blade sped across the light-well

like a lightning from the clouds; and even as I aimed it, so did it

strike. I saw it sticking there; I saw the horror and the brilliance

die suddenly from his eyes, like the turning down of a lamp; I saw

his knees give way; he began to fall--and I knew that Alberto de

Sanchez was a dead man.

"Truly had the serpent's tooth stung the lying betrayer; the false

heart had been stilled forever by the symbol of its faithless love."

CHAPTER III

WHICH IS THE LAST

As for General Westbrook, Castillo protested that he had meant in the

end to spare his life, but that the former had himself precipitated

the tragedy. On the night the two met in the lobby of the La Salle

House, Castillo overheard Slade cursing the General beneath his

breath, and at once the idea dawned in his mind to use the abstracter

as a tool. Irrefutable evidence of the one-time banking firm's

illegal disposition of Don Juan's estate had been prepared by

Castillo, and this evidence was placed in Slade's possession, leading

directly to an outcome which neither could have expected.

In the meantime Castillo had put in operation his scheme against the

General, by having Dolores write and direct to him letters of such a

nature that the recipient would be apprised of the fact that his

wrongdoing was known to others, while he remained ignorant of their

identity. It was a move calculated to fill him with an extremity of

fear and apprehension. In fact, his alarm was so intense that it

drove him to seek out Vargas--as he supposed Castillo to be--in the

hope of hearing something of "Paquita and Fernando." At this

interview Castillo disclosed his identity, and General Westbrook, in

a panic of terror, staggered from the hotel. Later he addressed a

frantic appeal to the other to come to his study at midnight--the

night that proved to be the last for him.

"The Señor General was writing at his table," said Castillo of this

occasion, "waiting and watching for me. I crossed the gallery

without noise, and beheld him before he could see me, I being in the

dark. He had twisted his chair around so that it faced the window,

which was like a door.

"How nervous the gallant Señor General was! When I advanced,

unannounced, into the square of light before the window, he was so

startled that he sprang from his chair, colliding with it as he moved

backward, tripping over its legs so that he would have fallen had it

not been waiting to receive him again.

"'This is not the ghost of Fernando del Castillo, señor,' I said;

'perhaps it would be pleasanter for you if it were--_si?_' But he

composed himself quickly. He was still white and worn; still nervous

and distracted; still a very old, broken man; but he did not forget

that he was beneath his own roof, and that a visitor was trusting to

his hospitality.... 'Enter, Don Fernando,' said he, in his grandest

manner, 'I cannot express in words my appreciation of your courtesy

in responding to my request. Enter.' And I advanced into the

room.... 'You may show it,' said I, 'by telling me quickly why I am

so honored.' With a breaking voice he said: 'Señor, señor, this

night I pray God to soften your heart. 'T is not for myself--no, no!

God knows it is not; but my wife--my daughter--my son--think of them;

think of the humiliation and disgrace more bitter than death. Do not

spare me, but pity them.' ... 'Were you so immersed in thought of

them,' I asked, 'were you so solicitous of their welfare, that you

failed to hear me pleading for my dying sister?' ... 'You do not

understand,' he moaned; 'you do not understand. It is of that that I

desire to speak. Hear me.' ... 'I shall be happy to hear you,' said

I. I was seated close by the open window, and I made myself

comfortable to hear his tale.

"I must pass hastily over it, señores. It was much as I expected it

would be; and--will you believe me?--as I hearkened my heart began to

soften to him; for, after all, señores, he was as far from being so

great a knave and villain as Alberto de Sanchez, as Heaven is from

Purgatory. He was so willing to take all upon his own head--to

harvest the fruit of his own evil sowing; his sole anxiety was for

his family, and especially the beautiful señorita, his daughter--that

I felt something of pity for that broken, wicked old man.

"'See,' said he, holding up certain writings upon which he had been

engaged when I entered, 'even now I am preparing a statement of my

share of the administration of Don Juan's estate; every penny that I

touched then--and God knows I would have been spared this moment had

I known you were alive when the temptation assailed me--has been

accounted for; every penny that I touched has been returned, though

to do so has left me a poverty-stricken man. Sore necessity and a

conviction that no one but the State would profit by Don Juan's death

were the means of my undoing. Even as you thought of your sister, so

was I overwhelmed by the thought of my own loved ones--and I fell.

But to-morrow, or the next day, or the next--'t is only a matter of

days--my family must learn that I am penniless, and Heaven only knows

what we--what they will do.'

"So spoke the Señor General, pleading with me, Fernando del Castillo;

and when he finished by offering me his life in exchange for an

assurance that the past would be buried therewith, I resolved to

spare him in the end. Yet it was my intention that an abiding sense

of his disgrace and degradation should, before I left him, sink deep

into his soul.

"With this in my mind, I said: 'This is very entertaining, Señor

Westbrook, but you have not yet shown me that you were not a thief

and a rogue,'--as you may believe, señores, he winced at this,--'you

have not told me how the past can be wiped out, nor how my beloved

dead may be restored to me. These are more to me than any

considerations of your own. I have not nursed this fire of wrath and

revenge in my heart all these years for it now to be quenched in a

mere flood of words. No, no, señor; I believe I should enjoy seeing

you brought so low, even as was the Fernando del Castillo whom you

knew in Mexico.' He groaned and sank forward, his outstretched right

arm, which lay along the edge of the table, sustaining the weight of

his drooping body.... 'My God!' burst from the gray lips of the

brave General; 'what are you? You are not a man!' ... 'Perhaps not,'

I replied, smiling.... 'Señor, let me summon my daughter,' he went

on; 'let her fresh innocence plead for itself.' ... 'Señor,' I made

answer, 'come with me to the grave of my dead sister; let me show you

why I should remain unmoved before your daughter's prayers and tears.'

"It seemed as though his clothes had suddenly become too large for

his body. He sat huddled forward, his chin resting on his breast; he

stared at me from beneath his white brows with the eyes of a dead

man; the fire that had once kindled them was no more--he seemed

utterly crushed.

"But even as I watched him, señores, something of that fire began to

return; a little flash of cunning, a spark of craft, leaped from

them; I read a subtle meaning in their depths; and then the arm that

had been lying so supinely on the table began to draw slowly back

toward the drawer by his side. So slowly did that arm glide,

señores, that, had I not been watching for that very thing, it might

have passed unobserved, and I should not now be relating how it fell

out. But I did remark that stealthy action, señores, and again I

smiled.

"'It is of no use, señor,' I said. 'Believe me, I suspected what is

now in your mind. Pause before it is too late; do not add murder to

your other villanies.' ... 'Suppose I did?' he muttered, still eyeing

me with that crafty look; 'suppose, now, that I did?--it would save

my daughter.' ... 'You err,' I retorted, pleasantly; 'I have taken

great pains to guard against this very contingency.' I recounted for

his benefit my plan to utilize the Señor Slade--of the disposition I

had made of the carefully prepared testimony.

"_Madre de Dios!_ the change that swept over the man at the mention

of the Señor Slade!

"'You miserable hound!' he shouted, leaping to his feet; and quick as

a flash his hand was in the drawer beside him, and a pistol was

levelled at my breast. 'You miserable hound!' he shouted again; 'how

dared you make this thing known to that scum! Take that!' And the

room was filled with a crash of sound.

"But, señores, we had risen together. Even before his finger had

pressed the trigger, the silent death shot from my hand to his heart;

yet, will you believe it, señores? while he was sinking to the

floor--while my right arm was still outstretched--he fired again.

That time it was a very narrow escape for me: the bullet went up my

sleeve, searing my arm like a hot iron. See! that is the scar. Save

for the ruined coat, it did no further damage.

"Well, here at last--in the end without any will of my own so far as

the Señor General was concerned--my dead sister was avenged; Paquita

could now rest in peace in the grave to which these two men between

them had brought her."

Castillo paused for a moment, but he went on again at once:

"There was nothing else for me to do but devote so much of this life

as remained to me to the little Paquita." Of a sudden he clutched

the sheet so madly that it tore. "God!" he cried shrilly, "what will

become of her now?--my little Paquita--Dolores--apple of my

eye--innocent issue of a monstrous evil. What will be thy fate? O

God, hear the prayer of a dying man--"

"Stop him!"

Charlotte had risen, and now stood clasping Converse's arm.

"Don't allow that wretched creature to go on in this way," she

commanded, imperatively; "it is unbearable. I--I--can't look at

him--I can't address him; but reassure him about that poor, innocent

child."

"Heaven bless you, señorita," Castillo cried fervently. But

Charlotte shuddered, and with closed eyes recoiled from the bed.

"Tell him--make him believe it, Mr. Converse," she concluded

weakly--"that I charge myself with that girl's well-being, if he will

only not refer directly to her again."

"Swear it," Castillo demanded, in a voice that was no more than a

hoarse whisper, so tense was it with eagerness. "Bethink you,

señorita, that she is of no common blood--that she is the possessor

of a wealth far beyond anything the Señor Westbrook ever dreamed of.

Relieve a dying man's last hour. Swear!"

For a moment she faltered. She stood irresolute, one hand grasping

her throat; then she advanced firmly to the bedside, and bestowed

upon Castillo the benediction of her serene eyes.

"I swear," she whispered, and left him immediately.

The dying man knew that the girl's future was assured.

"I have nearly finished," he said at length. "What else?"

"What became of that document?" from Converse.

"Ah, yes. When I beheld that the Señor Westbrook was a dead man, I

hurried to his desk and gathered the loose sheets from under the

overturned telephone. One, the last, had not been detached from the

pad. It bore his signature--the name of the Señor Peyton

Westbrook--and I tore it loose and thrust it into my pocket along

with the rest. Here was a confession of that gallant señor's infamy

over his own signature; and what did I with it? You will believe,

señores--señorita"--for the first time he recognized Charlotte's

presence as an auditor--"that I meant to take pity upon his daughter,

when I tell you that I destroyed it. But it was so.

"Next I turned off the light, so that my departure might not be

witnessed. And I was none too soon, señores; there were a man and a

woman in the driveway, striving to locate the shots; so I dodged into

the shrubbery, and made my way from the grounds as noiselessly as I

had entered, screened by the black shade of the trees."

* * * * * * *

(LETTER FROM MRS. MOBLEY WESTBROOK TO JOHN

CONVERSE, FORMERLY CAPTAIN OF DETECTIVES.)

_Dear Mr. Converse:_

_Among all the honors being showered upon you, signalizing your

retirement from the Police Department, I feel that Mobley and I

should have some recognition. I remember how you loved my flowers; I

remember your oft-repeated determination some time to retire with

your friend Mr. Follett and Joe to a cottage like the dear little

cottage which was so long a home to mamma, Clay, and myself; and

above all things, I remember that to-day we owe our happiness to you.

Somehow it seems that you have gone out of our lives, and I don't

like it to be that way. Clay and Joyce are happy in the old

homestead (your fault again, sir!), and only you--poor man!--now that

Headquarters shall know you no more, are homeless._

_Now, dear Mr. Converse, the cottage has stood vacant for more than a

year. It is too much for me to keep up the garden there and look

after my own household too, and I can't bear to see the garden die

away in neglect. So to-day we hand you a deed to the place, which

must not at all be considered a reward like the twenty thousand

dollars you received, but merely as a token of our undying gratitude

and esteem._

_Truly your friend,

Charlotte May Westbrook._

_P. S.--Mobley and I reserve the right to come and gather a bouquet

whenever we want to!_

THE END