CHAPTER XII

A DOOR IS OPENED

As Mr. Converse entered the library he stopped short almost on the threshold, conscious of a sudden shock. Could that nonchalant, self-possessed girl be the innocent—

Before the thought was complete his feelings took a pendulum sweep backward: from extreme surprise and acute disappointment that his sympathies had been wasted, to admiration and pity, and a satisfying conviction that, after all, his sympathies were greatly needed. He bent upon her a keener, more discerning look, and all at once comprehended that a wealth of profound and conflicting emotions were possible behind the marble exterior presented to him.

Joyce cast at him a look of such dumb terror that for once he was at a complete loss how to proceed. He realized the many and varied potentialities for evil with which her imagination must have invested him—what a terrible monster he must appear to her—and felt keenly the disadvantage of his vocal infirmity, anticipating that it would further prejudice him in her estimation. Yet he must speak, and she must be made to hear him.

With the revulsion of feeling he advanced into the room. And as he did so he perceived a tremor pass over the slight frame; she groped an instant, blindly, with her left hand until it found and interlocked with her brother's.

The Doctor was seated in the Morris chair, while his sister stood close by his right side. Now that she required its support, his stronger masculine nature had asserted itself, and, save for the haggard visage, Doctor Westbrook was quite his natural self again. Whatever had passed between them during the last half-hour, they had undoubtedly arrived at an agreement to brave out the present interview together.

She was robed in a simple morning-gown of a dead and dull black. The hint of fragrance, which seemed an aura of her presence, had apparently lost its interest for Mr. Converse.

"Miss Westbrook," he began, and beheld his fears justified by another shudder at the first sound of his sibilant voice. But he went on as evenly and as gently as his vocal defect would permit. "Miss Westbrook, I have asked for this interview out of a consideration for you and your family, which the Doctor understands, I believe, and which you will understand also, no doubt before we are through. As a detective I am often called upon to do things that are distasteful to myself, and this is not the least disagreeable task I have ever found before me. But I can't shirk a plain duty, Miss Westbrook; so if I attempt to perform that plain duty in a manner that will be the least distressing to yourself, may I count upon your coöperation and approval?"

Without altering her attitude, or the slightest change in her pale countenance, she slowly and silently inclined her head the merest trifle in acquiescence.

"Very good, Miss Westbrook; thank you. You make it lighter for all of us. Now, may I suggest that you be seated? At best we shall be engaged for some time."

Her left hand was still clasped in her brother's; but further than to indicate with her free hand a chair in which Mr. Converse was at liberty to seat himself if he chose, she made no response. He took advantage of the opportunity to the extent of resting one knee on the chair-seat and his elbows on the back—the straight-backed chair which had stood by the veranda window.

"Now then, Miss Westbrook, let us go back to the evening of November fourth," Converse proceeded. He found no encouragement in her frozen attitude; but his own manner could have been no more cheerful, yet tempered by a sense of his surroundings and the occasion, nor have betrayed more of an easy confidence, had he known that the locked lips were to open, and by a word exorcise the spell of mystery which held them all. "During the evening of November fourth—Wednesday—were you not in the Nettleton Building?"

So promptly that it would have staggered a man less used to surprises, came the reply:

"I refuse to answer."

Even the Captain was taken aback, although it was not in his immobile features to yield a hint of the fact. As he put the question, he noted a convulsive tightening of the hand that still clasped the Doctor's; but the soft eyes did not waver nor the beautiful face alter its expression. The words were faintly spoken; nevertheless they were vibrant with a determined and set purpose, and Converse was overwhelmed with that sense of helpless impatience which is apt to assail one in the face of mistaken obstinacy.

"This is very unfortunate," he observed with deepened gravity. "Miss Westbrook, I would not presume to advise you, but you are wrong, wrong—and how can I convince you?" He regarded the still figure, as unresponsive as a waxen image. No assistance there. He glanced at Doctor Westbrook, only to meet another pair of eyes showing an unalterable purpose.

"This conversation might as well end here and now," he at length concluded, addressing the Doctor; and added with pointed deliberation, "You know what that means."

Doctor Westbrook glanced at the silent, motionless figure beside him, and moved uneasily. Was is possible that the uncompromising attitude of this mere girl, and it alone, was responsible for the deadlock? To a certain extent she was herself a mystery, an enigma, and what with her immobility and silence, her dimness of outline in the darkened library, she was as intangible and inscrutable as Paquita. Out of the shadow that marked where she stood the violet eyes glowed like two stars, the beautiful features, surrounded by their halo of ebon hair, now only a denser shadow, loomed as pallid as death, and the Captain was irritatingly aware of his inability so far to grasp at anything definite by which to frame his speech. At any rate, whether or no she was the controlling spirit, it would seem the Doctor endeavored to temporize.

"Mr. Converse," he began presently, "you have called our attention to the fact that you are simply performing a duty,—that you are doing so with a delicate consideration for our feelings which perhaps we don't deserve,—but I assure you, sir, we do appreciate your tact and thoughtfulness, and it must appear that we are making a poor return for such kindness. But consider this: there are possible issues to this crisis that may prove disastrous to persons entirely unblameworthy. Can you not imagine the possibility of a situation in which we should be compelled to move with the utmost caution, wherein we must rely solely upon our own judgment? Good God!" he suddenly exploded, "think of Joyce—my sister—think of a fair young girl being entangled in anything so damnable!"

Converse cast a covert glance at the girl, to note the effect of this outburst; but her manner revealed not the slightest alteration. It was plain that such determination would betray nothing by either a word or sign. But why? Speculation upon this question led swiftly and surely to the darkest possibilities—nay, probabilities—that might elucidate her conduct.

He made another effort.

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

"Ah," interrupted the Doctor, quickly; "I understand your impersonal attitude exactly, Mr. Converse. You are not an enemy. If the way were clear before you to do so, I think we could count on you as a trustworthy friend to extricate us from our difficulties. On the other hand—well, to be brief, it is this impersonal attitude which may prove inimical to us. I—I—pardon me, I can't be more explicit."

"I might construe such a statement to mean that, were I to perform my duty in the light of actual facts, the operation would be—well, disagreeable to you."

The response was a lifting of the brows and a shrug of the shoulders, which said quite plainly—perhaps more plainly than the Doctor intended,—"I cannot prevent your placing any construction upon my words you may see fit."

"If you will permit the observation, Doctor," Converse remarked, dryly, "your words are contradictory to come from a man entirely innocent."

A flash from the physician's eyes gave warning of an angry rejoinder; but another unconscious movement of the hand which held his so tightly brought his sister sharply to mind, it would seem, and the words, when uttered, betrayed a note of helplessness.

"My God!" he exclaimed, "don't I know it? But what do mere denials amount to in the face of this suspicion?"

"Yet there is something within your knowledge, and arising out of these crimes, which you unequivocally refuse to tell me."

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

"Not even in the face of evidence seriously compromising Miss Westbrook?"

Of a sudden the alert Captain became aware of a change in the statue-like girl. It was slight, indefinable—telepathic rather than openly perceptible,—but he fancied the fixed look with which she regarded him assumed an added intentness at this stage. He even felt for one brief instant that she meant to speak; but if such had been her purpose, a second thought prevailed, and she remained motionless and silent. He turned abruptly to her.

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

Although he waited for an answer, she made no sign that would indicate she had heard. With an air of finality, he presently pushed back the chair and stood upright.

"Well," he went on, "after the course this talk has taken there remains but one thing for me to do. I regret that you feel you would be conferring a favor instead of accepting an opportunity—which happens to be the situation; but I—"

Doctor Westbrook raised a protesting hand.

"Just a moment," he interposed with anxious haste. "You assert that my sister's situation is critical." Again the Captain had the feeling that Miss Westbrook's impassivity cloaked a strained attention; but, as before, if the emotion existed, her frozen attitude yielded no token of it. Was she anxious for an expression of his views upon this point? "Suppose," the Doctor continued, "the least admission on our part would lead to complications which would hopelessly involve her, is it our place to speak? If the situation is such that a full explanation cannot be given,—tell me, is not our position onerous—unbearable? ... Now then, Mr. Converse, be candid," he concluded, with an abrupt, confidential dropping of his voice, "is it not the truth that you would not have asked her if she was present that evening, if you could prove that she was? And tell me, what has all this to do with last night's crime?"

For a moment Converse felt a tide of anger rising within him; he all at once realized that, as an officer of the law—as a mere machine operating in a fixed routine—he had made a mistake; he had allowed a generous impulse to interpose and thwart an end of great importance; and now, when it was too late, he must make an effort to remedy his error. Without the least warning, he fastened his compelling, probing regard full upon Joyce. It was a look that had made hardened criminals tremble, and at last the girl's impassiveness gave way. With an involuntary clutching of the clasped hand she shrank closer to her brother. For a moment she returned the look; then her glance wavered—fell; the sooty lashes swept her cheeks, where two spots of color began slowly to appear, and the statue was quickened into life.

"And would you really care to know, Miss Westbrook, what I think of it?" he asked, with a significant quietness that startled her into speech.

"Yes—I—I—" she faltered and stopped. She looked wildly from the Doctor to the terrible figure confronting her; then with a mighty effort she regained control of herself, and concluded in a voice firmer, but very low, "It is of no interest to me."

Mr. Converse acknowledged the reply with a bow of exaggerated deference.

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

Another tightening of the clasped hands, and another tremor through the girl's slight frame, were the sole responses to this final chance shot, until Doctor Westbrook's voice broke in.

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

"Perhaps not," was the crisp retort, "openly. He is an important factor, however." His glance swerved to Joyce with a light that asked quite plainly, "Is he not?"

But only the Doctor replied. "Indeed?" with ingenuous surprise. "But he seems quite effectually to have effaced himself."

Converse shot another glance at Joyce.

"Well, as for that," he said, slowly, "I have reason to believe that I might have laid hands upon him, if I had been in this neighborhood last night between—h-m-m-m—between ten and twelve o'clock." If he expected this avowal of what he imagined the circumstances to be to make any impression upon the girl he was disappointed; for she was again the frozen image, not to be swayed by any influence under his control.

But not so the Doctor. He looked at the detective, with knitted brow, for a moment; then, after a hasty side-glance at his sister, "I see," he said; "I am merely a peg upon which to hang references to things of which I am entirely ignorant. Come, Mr. Converse, you expect frankness from us; be open yourself."

The Captain shrugged his shoulders. "My attempt at frankness met with rather a cool reception"—with some sarcasm—"but I will adopt your suggestion, and have done.... Miss Westbrook, at what time last night did you leave Mrs. Farquier's?" The abruptness of the address startled her again momentarily; but somewhat to Mr. Converse's surprise, she answered almost at once.

Her recital agreed in all essentials with what Mr. Converse already knew of her movements. She had heard the shots, but had been unable to locate them; and it was but a minute or two thereafter that she had come upon her father's stark body in the library.

At this juncture a knock sounded upon the library door.

"Allow me," the Captain interposed, quickly, addressing the Doctor; "I think it is one of my men."

He opened the door, disclosing McCaleb, who appeared much less ornate in the more sober garments of the ordinary citizen.

"Wait just outside the door until I call you, Mac," said Converse, in an aside clearly audible to the Doctor and Joyce; "I think I shall need you in a minute." He unceremoniously closed the door in the young man's face.

"Now then, Miss Westbrook," he resumed, turning again to her, "will you tell me what you were doing on the premises—in the yard—between ten and twelve o'clock at night?"

"See here, Mr. Converse," the Doctor broke in, rather sharply; "I don't know what this is all about, but I protest against the personal nature of this question. My sister is neither on the witness-stand nor accused—"

With a single imperative gesture, the speaker was silenced.

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

The lovely, subdued eyes flashed forth a startled look; but Joyce made no reply.

"Miss Westbrook, I will go further in offering you this opportunity: I will say that I know you were not alone. Come, now, who was with you?"

Still silence. The mention of Fairchild's name had produced no effect; it might be well to try another.

"Was it Mr. Lynden?"

The girl responded precisely as she had to the first question, the same words uttered in the same tone:

"I refuse to answer."

Another shrug of the shoulders signalized the end of Mr. Converse's forbearance. He strode hastily to the door, but turned and paused with his hand upon the handle.

Was it a stifled cry that had reached his ears? The girl was now standing with the back of her free hand pressed tightly to her lips, and in her eyes was a look of despair that smote him to the heart. Great heavens, what did she mean? Was man ever confronted by such perverseness, or beset by a more irritating perplexity! Why did she not speak?

"I make one more appeal to you," he said, after regarding her a moment. "Do not misconstrue this. If you do not speak, my alternative is to arrest you. Do you comprehend that? When I open this door, it will be to introduce an officer who will become your custodian. Will you not believe that my motives in thus appealing to you are prompted solely by a desire to spare you the distress that will be inflicted if you do not open your lips? Consider before you answer; will you give me your confidence? Shall the door remain closed—or shall I open it?"

For one brief moment Joyce had all the appearance of some hunted thing hopelessly cornered. She looked wildly from the officer to her brother, who sat with set and rigid features, and back to the officer again. All at once, it seemed, her resolution was made; or, if she had hesitated, strength was given her to maintain her purpose. Her agitation vanished, and she returned Mr. Converse's look fearlessly and half defiantly.

"I have nothing to confide," was the response, uttered with firmness and the quiet of a determination not to be swayed.

With a bow, Converse threw open the door.

"Come in, McCaleb," he said, his manner now brisk and business-like; then, turning to the Doctor: "This man is an officer who, for the present, will be responsible for Miss Westbrook's movements. Now then, Doctor, hear my final word. I have made one mistake in allowing consideration for your sister—young and inexperienced as she is—to come between me and my duty. I am going to assume the risk again by offering you another opportunity. I see that you feel the matter keenly, but this issue of our conference is the fault of you two. Still, it is terrible thus to thrust the stigma of such a crime upon a mere girl—little short of the crime itself,—and in the hope that I can soon clear up this fog of mystery, I am going to be guilty of a dereliction. Give me your word that Miss Westbrook will neither attempt to leave the house nor communicate with anybody outside, without first reporting to McCaleb, and for the present—until it becomes unavoidable to act otherwise—she may remain here."

With a sudden movement, Doctor Westbrook released Joyce's hand, and pressed his own hand to his brow.

"Good God!" he groaned, "this is intolerable. Joyce—dear sister—tell—"

But he got no further. The final word acted like the touch that releases a taut spring, and she fairly precipitated herself upon him, sending one look of such utter terror and desperation at Mr. Converse that his perplexity deepened into blank amazement, and at the same time she clapped a hand over her brother's mouth.

"You swore you would not," she whispered, almost fiercely. "Mobley, you swore. If they were to tear me limb from limb before your eyes I would not consent to have you tell."

The Doctor's head dropped, and with a gentle movement he took the small hand from out his beard, kissed it tenderly, and sat abstractedly caressing it.

Joyce's lovely countenance grew beatific in its exultation.

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

"Unless you or the young lady cause it to be otherwise," said the Captain, softly, "the matter may remain private among us four—unless, of course," he supplemented, "the next day or two fails to reveal something substantial to lay before the District Attorney. I do not extend any false hopes. The seriousness of Miss Westbrook's position can scarcely be magnified.... McCaleb, you have heard; act accordingly until you receive other instructions."

"May my sister retire?" asked Doctor Westbrook.

"Certainly. Her movements are not to be restricted or spied upon, or interfered with in any manner or degree—within the house, of course. You understand this, Mac."

The young man nodded. His manner was extremely sober; it was quite patent that he was not insusceptible to the beauty of his charge.

Joyce started slowly toward the door, close by which McCaleb yet stood. She was probably half-way between the group of two—her brother, old and haggard in the chair, the other as menacing and inexorable as Fate,—and the younger man who looked at her with frank pity, when she paused and turned to her brother. There was a faint smile upon her lips; her eyes were soft, and it appeared as if she were about to speak. But before any one of the three could offer her the least assistance, she sank quietly to the floor, unconscious.

BOOK II.

CHARLOTTE FAIRCHILD

She walks in beauty, like the night
    Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
    Meets in her aspect and her eyes,
Thus mellowed to that tender light
    Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
    Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
    Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
    How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek and o'er that brow
    So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
    But tell of days in goodness spent,—
A mind at peace with all below,
    A heart whose love is innocent.
                                                                        —BYRON.

This is as strange a maze as e'er men trod;
                                        . . . . . . some oracle
Must rectify our knowledge.
                                                                —THE TEMPEST.

CHAPTER I

MISS CHARLOTTE WAITS IN THE HALL

Somewhat more than a score of years before the opening of this story, Richard Fairchild, after quietly contemplating the parcelling of his once fair estate among a horde of clamoring, quarrelling creditors, chief of whom was his erstwhile overseer, William Slade, the elder,—strolled leisurely into the country, as quietly placed a pistol to his head and blew out his brains. He did not leave behind property of sufficient value to defray his modest burial expenses.

This succession of disasters at one stroke transformed the wife from a famous and envied beauty into a broken invalid, petulant, querulous, and exacting, living only in the memory of her days of happiness, and made of her daughter Charlotte a strangely quiet and sedate woman, bound to her helpless mother's side as with hoops of steel. Clay was then but a babe.

The tiny cottage that received the invalid mother, the dark-eyed daughter, and the infant son was part of a slender legacy bequeathed Charlotte by a maiden aunt; and with the passing years the old homestead became merely a melancholy ruin, half hidden by weeds and underbrush, infested by owls and bats, and an occasion for wonder at the probable motives which prompted the present Slade so to neglect it. Nothing stirred now beneath the crumbling roof-tree but rats and mice—and shadows.

If those persons who marvelled at Slade's parsimony or queer ideas of economy could have been present at a scene which occurred at the cottage on the evening of the night General Westbrook was assassinated, they might have found an answer to their mental queries. Yet we may only know what Miss Charlotte herself saw and heard.

To begin with, she was startled by a sound of unfamiliar footsteps on the front porch, an uncertain movement toward the door, and finally by a knocking upon the door itself.

She took up a lamp and advanced down the narrow hall to the small reception-hall. Without any hesitation she unlocked the door and opened it wide at once; and it is probable that no apparition of any person, dead or living, could have affected her so profoundly as what she then beheld in the light of the lamp. She was so astonished at sight of the crusty abstracter that she stood quite speechless. On the other hand, it is noteworthy in estimating Mr. Slade's character that he snatched off his hat and ducked his head, much as he might have done in the old days when he stepped aside from the road to allow the family coach to roll by. Plainly, he was uneasy, out of his element, and the shallow, jet-like eyes at once became shifty before the unfathomable ones which regarded him with such frank surprise and displeasure.

But her expression rapidly altered: her eyes darkened, their light hardened—if the expression is permissible—and her lips compressed; never before had a Slade stood in the doorway of the cottage. The brightly glowing flame of hospitality was extinguished before this unexpected blast.

This silence was something more than Slade could endure. Nervously, he emitted a dry, deprecatory cough behind his knuckly fingers.

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

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

Propitiation was difficult for Slade, especially in the face of such obvious, uncompromising antipathy. His nervousness measurably increased, and he replied, rather incoherently

"Pardon me, Miss Charlotte, I know it seems strange—why I am here, I mean; but I must see—dear me, I can't explain.... Can't you hold the light a little more out of my eyes? Oh, very well.... Your mother—Mrs. Fairchild—I must see her on business—very important, Miss Charlotte."

Her amazement only deepened.

"Business with mamma!" she cried, incredulously. "Why, that is ridiculous—absurd; mamma has transacted no business for years. What in the world do you mean?"

He seemed to be painfully aware of his awkward, ungainly, and untidy appearance, and of the harshness of his voice; he was overcome by a sense that this woman, who looked him through and through as if he were transparent, would regard any misfortune that might befall him with precisely the same expression. He made a strenuous effort at composure, with the result that his naturally sour and churlish disposition was given an opportunity to assert itself.

"My business goes behind those years," he said; "and if you please, it is none of yours."

"Indeed?" The rising inflection soared to glacial heights. "If you will excuse me I will close the door. When my brother returns—"

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

"Hear me a moment," he presently said. "My errand affects—" He paused briefly and looked at her with a slightly different expression, as if determining how far to trust her; but he uttered no confidence. "Come, Miss," he at last finished, "if you don't admit me you—your mother—your brother—your brother, eh?—will suffer for it."

Still inflexibly barring the entrance: "Do you mean that your errand concerns Clay?" she asked. Unconsciously, a note of anxiety had crept into her voice, which, in spite of his deafness, Slade caught, and he was quick to take advantage of it.

Doubtfully, still a little bewildered, but her hostility for this man not in the least abated, she stepped aside at last, and coldly bade him to enter. She placed the lamp upon a table in the tiny hall. "Wait here," she enjoined, briefly, without offering him a seat, and so left him.

Charlotte Fairchild was one of those very tall women, with whom we rarely meet, who are not awkward. Instead, when she walked every movement seemed to flow in graceful ripples from feet to shoulders, beginning without abruptness and dying gradually away like the wavelets on the surface of a disturbed pond. A couplet of Herrick's pictures her:

"Then, then (methinks), how sweetly flows
The liquefaction of her clothes."

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

Her hands and feet were beautifully formed, long, slender, and tapering, as becomes a tall woman; and her voice was one of those rich, liquid contraltos, always effective because always subdued. It was in accord with her habitual repose; but it hinted at unlimited possibilities of elemental strength, and the presence of many and varied forces behind her calm exterior.

Her command to Mr. Slade was imperative, and he stood uncertainly watching her as she walked down the hall. At its end she opened a door, and even the man's faulty hearing could catch the high, impatient voice in the room beyond; a voice which had an odd effect upon him, too, for the lean, irascible visage actually brightened, and a light very like eagerness shot from the jetty eyes.

"Child, who was it?" the voice was saying. "What kept you so long? Is there any news of—" And the door closed again.

Mr. Slade was obliged to stand there many minutes, fingering his rusty felt hat, before Charlotte reappeared and, with a single queenly gesture, beckoned him to approach. But when he finally advanced into the room, Mrs. Fairchild, paralyzed from the waist down, might have been a chatelaine, and he the overseer, the steward, seeking audience on affairs concerning the estate. So did the inherent and ineradicable traits of relative breeding naturally and unconsciously manifest themselves. Although he had secured the coveted admission, the manner of his reception was undoubtedly discouraging to his purpose. Mrs. Fairchild's first words and her mien were a further check to approaching his object.

"Well, Slade," she began, with unconscious but none the less galling patronage, "what can I do for you? Dear me! You do not favor your father in the least.... Daughter, hand me my glasses.... Thank you.... He was such a large, florid man. But probably your health—"

"Mamma," Charlotte gently interrupted, "Mr. Slade has come on business. Perhaps he cannot be detained." She had taken a position behind her mother's chair, and had leant down until her lips were close to the lace cap. As she stood upright again, Mrs. Fairchild protested petulantly:

"Yes, yes, child; I know. I do not mean to detain him..... What were you saying, Slade?"

That individual presented a spectacle of overwhelming embarrassment. He had not opened his mouth since entering the room, and now, when he did, it was to appeal to the daughter.

"For God's sake, Miss Charlotte," he whispered hoarsely, as if he did not intend the mother to hear, "for God's sake, leave us. What I have to say is very private; indeed it is. I will have done as soon as possible."

Charlotte remained motionless behind her mother's chair, returning to this astonishing outburst a look of wonder. The older woman also regarded the man with an expression of surprise.

On rare occasions—especially under any sudden mental shock or access of feeling—Mrs. Fairchild's intellect assumed something of its old-time activity and brightness. Slade was sensible of such a change now, though unable to define it; he felt the personality manifesting itself in her look, and he turned from Charlotte to her with whom lay his first interest.

"I cannot imagine the occasion for such an extraordinary demand, Slade," the afflicted lady said at length; "but if it may be of any advantage to you my daughter shall retire."

"No, no, mamma," Charlotte protested, quickly. "I fear to leave you with this—this man. I shall be deaf and blind, but I cannot leave you."

Never before had such a request been made of her, and a growing dread had awakened in her bosom that Slade's errand boded ill for her mother. Whence come these premonitions of impending evil? To what mysterious depths of our being do they owe their source, and why is it customary to deride them? Experience certainly justifies that we bestow upon these inward promptings a serious consideration, yet we almost invariably ignore and ridicule them. And now the silent warning cries, "Stay!"

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

"Do not forget Clay," she remarked; and the vagrant memory instantly fastened upon the name.

"I remember perfectly that we were discussing Clay," was the petulant retort, "when I was directed away from the topic. Pray do not intimate that I am forgetful, Charlotte. I hope you do not so far forget the duty and respect you owe me that you can entertain such a ridiculous idea, to say nothing of uttering it. Proceed, Slade, with what you were saying about my son."

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

"When the girl goes," said he, recovering in a measure his composure. "Remember, I asked for and you granted an audience—private."

"An audience?"—the word caught—"a conference? Why, certainly, Slade." The request was granted with a sudden assumption of dignity—a fleeting, simple remnant of other times—that caused the daughter much concern. Charlotte feared the result of a refusal to withdraw quite as much as she feared to leave her mother alone with Slade; but with many misgivings she reluctantly turned away and departed from the room, closing the door behind her.

No earthly interest was powerful enough to allow her to remain where she might overhear one word not intended for her ears; still, the feeling of dread, in spite of Mr. Slade's assurances, was real and insistent; above all things she wanted to linger within sound of her mother's voice.

What powerful motive had dictated to-night's intrusion? For, earnestly as she despised the man, she could not imagine him pushing his way into the house upon a mere whim, or for any trifling matter. She cast back over the past as far as her memory could penetrate, but no circumstance appeared to afford the slightest explanation of the mysterious visit, unless—unless it had, indeed, to do with her brother. And here her thoughts faltered, for there were many reasons why the idea should increase her anxiety.

She glided noiselessly to the front door, and throwing it open, looked out into the night. An overwhelming sense of her loneliness and isolation fell upon her. The feeling was but momentary, however, since she attacked such encroachments of depression with as much ardor as she could muster forth from her dauntless spirit. Occasionally the black humor mastered her, but it would not do to give way to-night. What did William Slade, son of a treacherous steward, want of her mother—the poor wreck of womanhood who could bestow nothing? But Atropos, in severing the past from the present, was cutting with her shears a strange pattern, the outlines of which neither Charlotte's nor any eye could perceive.

The faint murmur of voices came to her where she stood, and although she strove not to permit her interest to acquire listening ears, it was unavoidable that she should hear and note certain things: that the caller was doing most of the talking; that, while the words were wholly unintelligible, he seemed to be speaking with vehemence, and that her mother's share in the conversation was apparently limited to occasional ejaculations of surprise. This continued for many minutes, during which Charlotte stood motionless, her tall, willowy form drawn into a rigid erectness. Under the tensity of her anxious expectation, her sensitive nostrils distended and contracted, and her eyes glowed, in the dimly lighted hall, with an unnatural brightness.

Of a sudden the voices ceased, and she heard Slade take a step or two. Next, the faint crackling of paper, the inadvertent snapping of a rubber band, were barely distinguishable—and silence.

Her stretched imagination insensibly portrayed a vivid picture of the scene: the man probably had handed her mother some document, and was awaiting her perusal of it; he stood awkwardly fumbling that ridiculous hat, while her mother searched vainly—no, she had her glasses. Possibly, under stress of the excitement, her faculties were quite normal. If so, she was reading the document—and what was its effect?

But if Mrs. Fairchild was indeed reading, she did not read far. A sudden horrified exclamation almost caused Charlotte to hasten into the room; but it was followed so quickly by the voices again that she paused. Now her mother was talking volubly. Charlotte even fancied she could detect contempt and scorn in the tones. Such being the case, the usually clouded faculties must now be abnormally active. Slade was by turns protesting, pleading, and giving way to his peevish temper. The spirited colloquy came to an abrupt end in a single piercing cry:

"Charlotte!"

For an instant her heart ceased beating; a benumbing chill paralyzed her power of volition; then she rushed to the door and threw it open with a crash.

What she beheld explained but little to her alarmed senses. Her own appearance must have been awe-inspiring, for simultaneously with her advent, Slade recoiled in obvious alarm. She could see that her mother had been powerfully moved by some recent agitation, the exciting influence of which had by no means subsided; and whatever the different phases of that emotion might have been, they had undoubtedly crystallized into a violently active antipathy for Mr. William Slade. Her right hand was extended toward Slade, palm outward, as if to ward off an expected attack; or was it to guard the papers crushed so convulsively in her left hand and pressed so fiercely against her laboring bosom?

As for the man, it was patent that the situation was an unexpected and deeply disappointing outcome of his visit. More than that, he appeared overwhelmed, stunned, crushed, as if the issue involved an essential to his being. Nevertheless, however, whether his conduct had been intentional or not, an anger, terrible in its quietness, gushed from the deep well of Charlotte's passionate nature, stirring the man from his despondency by its very intensity.

"Go!" she commanded, her flexible voice striking its deepest note; and Slade stepped back as though he had been slapped in the face.

With a swift, lithe movement, Charlotte stooped and gathered her mother's head to her own heaving breast. Slade opened his mouth, as if to speak, but the words were stopped by a repetition of the inexorable, compelling, low-voiced command:

"Go!"

He retreated nearer the door, and all at once his malignant nature was reflected in his face. He regarded Charlotte with a look of mingled malevolence and fear, and had his been the stronger personality he might have done her violence. But as it was, his bloodless lips were drawn back in a snarl of hate and baffled purpose, although he was plainly cowed by the wrath blazing in the eloquent eyes. He made an effort, nevertheless.

"My papers," he hissed. One hand was extended, the bony fingers crooked like a vulture's claw. "My papers—Elinor, you have no right—"

"Go!"

Slade was not an Ajax to defy the lightning of that glance; without another word, with but one more glance of malice and fruitless hate, he slunk from the room—from the house—beaten and confounded.

The busy little clock on the mantel—with which time was indeed fleeting—at once became the most conspicuous object in the room; falling embers on the hearth told of a dying fire, but to unheeding ears; a gust of cool, moist air swept in through the unclosed front door, and the two women maintained unaltered positions—ten minutes—fifteen—until Charlotte felt a tremor pass through her mother. Her expression softened rapidly, and her look and tones were all gentleness and solicitude as she bowed her head to the invalid's face.

"It's all right, mamma," she said, coaxingly. "He's gone. He could not have hurt you, dear; he is too contemptible a coward." In spite of the soothing voice, her expressive upper lip involuntarily curled. "Think of something else," she went on; "think of being here—in my arms—safe." But she was distressed to see that her words and calm manner made not the least impression; that her mother was utterly deaf to them. The invalid was plainly laboring under a fixed idea which neutralized every other influence; and suddenly she thrust Charlotte away from her. It did not relieve the daughter to know that the action was involuntary; that the mother was oblivious of her presence; instead, her fears were rapidly intensified by a biting doubt of the probable result of this extraordinary excitement. The expression of fear and horror had not faded from the distended eyes, and the papers were yet clutched to her breast with a grip that left the knuckles white and bloodless.

"Mother! Don't—don't look like that!" Charlotte cried in sudden alarm. "What is it? What has that horrible man done to frighten you so? Come, dear; lay your head here, and tell me all about it. There, there; nothing can harm you, mamma dear."

Quite as abruptly as she had pushed Charlotte from herself, Mrs. Fairchild now suddenly extended toward her daughter the papers still clutched so closely by a trembling hand. Even in her nervous anxiety Charlotte remarked that there were quite a number of them, and that they were typewritten and bound, after the manner of legal documents.

"Here—child—take these!" The words came convulsively, in quick, nervous gasps. "The fire—hold them down—until the last vestige is destroyed." Her utterance rose to such a mad vehemence that the words became almost incoherent. "Don't look! Don't look at them! Burn them!—burn them!—burn them!"

Charlotte's heart was throbbing with a maddening terror, her thoughts whirling aimlessly, like a flock of frightened birds. Without warning, Mrs. Fairchild reached out and clutched both her daughter's hand and the papers together.

"Swear, child," she went on, in the same frenzied manner; "swear to your helpless mother that you will not look at them; swear that you will burn them here before my eyes—now. Swear!"

"Mamma!" Charlotte protested, with a fleeting idea of possible future consequences,—again, the inward prompting,—"Mamma, have I the right? What may happen if I obey you? Oh, mother dear, wait! Wait until you are calmer; you are overwrought now; you do not know what you are exacting. Dear—dear mamma, I shall not look at them; but let me place—"

But this earnest though gentle opposition so fanned the fire of excitement that Charlotte instantly regretted her words.

"Child, obey me!" the mother commanded, with almost savage fierceness. "Hesitate one instant longer, and I shall hurl my worthless body to the floor and drag myself to the fireplace with my two hands." Then, in a quick transition, "O, God!—Charlotte!—my daughter!" she moaned; "to think I am helpless in this awful hour!"

"Hush, hush, dear; I will do as you say, instantly. I will hold them down to the coals until nothing remains but ashes. See—"

But stay your hand, Charlotte! What if you now hold the only existing evidence—the only barrier that stands between dear ones and disaster! Is it some premonition of the truth that causes you to hesitate?

Alas, the papers flutter to the coals!

"See, mamma; they burn."

When the last flame had expired, when nothing but flakes of black ashes were arising on the draught and vanishing up the chimney, Mrs. Fairchild began to laugh—violently, dreadfully.

It was a night of horror for Charlotte. Quite ignorant of the cause of her mother's fearful condition, she was obliged to tend the frail body through alternating fits of hysterical laughter and weeping, and to hearken to wild, disordered monologues, in which the names of Peyton Westbrook, William Slade, and her own dead father were repeated over and over again, incoherently, in a grotesque, unintelligible association.

However, out of the incomprehensible jumble of words and scraps of sentences, Charlotte began at last to construct a meaning—very vague and unsatisfying, to be sure, and exciting an almost unbearable curiosity to know more; but still a meaning. The three names seemed to be mingled in her mother's distraught mind, intimately interwoven with some nameless horror; and the poor shattered intellect was struggling beneath an obsession that a dire calamity threatened General Westbrook.

And also, as she listened, there came presently to her a most peculiar fancy—woven of such stuff as dreams are made of, but sufficiently tangible to cause her to wonder; a fancy that caused her to murmur incredulously, "Mamma and General Westbrook!" and to contrast the woman as she now was with a certain portrait of Elinor Clay which graced the daughter's chamber; to picture the General as he appeared when a young man. A great feeling of newly born pity for her helpless mother stirred in her bosom. How incredible that this querulous, and in many ways childish, invalid could have retained such a secret so many years. Indeed, what a strange coupling of names! What tragedy of starved romance lay hidden here!

But what threatened General Westbrook?

Charlotte was destined never to hear from her mother. When the clamorous little clock told her that dawn was near, Mrs. Fairchild began to grow quieter, and at last to doze; and from that sleep she can scarcely be said to have awakened, unless to be deprived of the least volition of every member, to be unable to utter an articulate sound, to be more helpless and dependent than a babe newly born, is to be counted among the quick instead of the dead.

CHAPTER II

MISS CHARLOTTE ENTERTAINS A CALLER

It will be remembered that when Mr. Converse's last tête-à-tête with Mr. Follett was interrupted by the summons to appear at headquarters, he had just terminated a long period of reflection with the announcement that he at last knew the means of finding young Mr. Fairchild. Despite the night's turbulent events, when he left the Westbrook home in charge of McCaleb and another plain-clothes man detailed from headquarters, it was in pursuance of a plan that had been incubating in his mind during the hours when other matters were apparently occupying his exclusive attention. Immediately after his unsatisfactory interview with Joyce and her brother, he went as directly to the Fairchild cottage as the street cars would carry him.

The humble abode of the Fairchilds nestled snugly in a covering of climbing roses, honeysuckle, and feathery-fronded cypress. Flowers bloomed everywhere; for upon her garden Charlotte lavished a love otherwise denied expression, and Mr. Converse's eyes kindled when they caught this riot of blossom. Should a human analyst attempt a dissection of this man's character, he would be very much astonished to find an inborn love for beautiful flowers among its other unusual traits.

A certain aged fragment of the old family ménage, known familiarly as Polly Ann, ushered the Captain into the tiny entrance-hall; and when Miss Charlotte appeared he seemed somewhat startled. He had never seen her, that he knew of, and from the account the man Adams had given of his experience on the night of the De Sanchez affair, while trying to find Clay, he had come prepared to deal with a sour, crabbed female of uncertain age and an uncompromising manner. The quiet entrance of this handsome, graceful woman left him disconcerted for an instant. A woman with such an air, with such remarkable eyes, was no ordinary woman, and she could not be dealt with in an ordinary way. One might as well try to move a mountain as to intimidate a person who regarded one so fearlessly; who met the sharp, compelling glance with a look of polite inquiry which clearly indicated that it knew not how to falter.

Converse's plans to find the young man suddenly evaporated; but another idea, vastly farther reaching, arose in his mind instead.

"Converse?" Charlotte repeated when he had announced his identity; and after a slight hesitation she asked, "The detective engaged in the De Sanchez case, are you not?" Her dark eyes continued to regard him steadily; there was not the faintest play of expression in her face, which seemed merely sad and worn and white; but during the brief hesitation he noticed that she laid one hand above her heart.

"I am either going to have plain sailing here," the caller mentally observed, "or in about two minutes there begins the devil's own time for John Converse." To her question he answered:

"Yes, Miss Fairchild; and I hope my unceremonious call does not startle you. While you must grant me your indulgence, let me assure you at the outset that there is not the slightest occasion for alarm." The keen gray eyes became all at once fixed and compelling, giving a forceful meaning to the concluding words. "I have come here to give you an opportunity to help a friend out of a very serious trouble."

For an instant she regarded him blankly; then quickly her countenance, her glance, became fairly electrified.

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

As we know, it was not Mr. Converse's custom to take strangers into his confidence, to express theories, nor to yield up motives; but if he was certain of anything at this moment, it was a conviction that whatever success was to come from this meeting depended entirely upon his sincerity and absolute frankness. If such eyes and such a manner did not mean constancy and unshakable loyalty to friends, then these virtues did not exist. If he concealed anything at all, it would be to spare her feelings.

There was a pause after her question. The cold, masterful gray eyes returned the look of the fearless, lovely dark eyes during a silence wherein each sought to read the other's purpose. Then he replied:

"Miss Fairchild, it will take some time to answer your question; it involves so much, and I shall have to tell you so much before you can understand, that I fear your patience will—"

"But a friend," she interrupted; "you said a friend was in trouble. Who? I do not understand."

He bowed. "That is what I wish to tell you. Am I to take it that you will hear me; that I may tell it in my own way?"

Charlotte contemplated him a moment longer, while he returned the look earnestly and gravely; then, apparently satisfied, she indicated by a gesture the front room.

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

"If you will pardon me, Miss Fairchild," said he, "allow me to suggest the porch this pleasant morning. I want to enjoy those lovely flowers while I may. I declare, I never saw anything like them in my life. I noticed a variegated chrysanthemum—very large bloom—remarkable! Some time—that is, if the occasion ever presents itself—I should like to ask—to ask you—" He stopped, as if overcome by the smile which all at once illumined her features. He had struck a responsive chord; for Charlotte was undisguisedly, girlishly pleased at any honest admiration of her cherished possession. To the porch, by all means.

The Captain filled his prodigious chest with the sweet air. "It is like wine, Miss Fairchild," he said, quietly; "you can't imagine what this means to a city man like me. It's hard to think of evil at such a time."

"Oh—don't!" she protested, still smiling; "think of the flowers instead. I am glad you like them. Any one who loves flowers sincerely can think of evil only to hate it."

"Very true," he returned, looking gravely at her; "very true. But hating the evil does not affect it.... Ah! a mocking-bird!"

If this one touch of nature did not quite make the whole world kin, it at least brought the spirits of these two into so much closer harmony that it was comparatively easy to plunge into confidences.

"Hating evil does not affect it," Converse went on, after a bit. "When it encompasses and threatens our friends, we must even step forward and tackle it—that is, of course, if we wish to aid them."

"Ah, to be sure," she said, in her tranquil way, which nevertheless had become serious. "You said that a friend was in trouble. I suppose you mean to tell it, as you say, in your own way; that it has to do with this dreadful murder—or with my brother. Very well, I will hear you; go on."

Covertly, he studied the stately woman who sat so few paces from him. She was beautiful this morning; a tinge of color had crept into her cheeks since his coming; the expressive eyes, now half veiled by abundant curling lashes, glowed with a look of tenderness in their depths as they turned again and again toward the vista of roadway which led to the city. If she was expecting somebody, it behooved him to hasten.

"Miss Fairchild," he began, with a concentration of purpose, the unexpectedness of which made her turn to him with a little start, "I have endeavored to reassure you regarding my call here this morning, and I wish to repeat that there is no reason why you should feel any alarm. But what I have to say will distress you; it will fill you with anxiety, for I know you are quick to feel for your friends and those dear to you, and that you feel strongly. Yet, if you will hear me out—if you will lend me your aid—if we put our two heads together, I am confident we can evolve some sort of plan that will work for the good of more than one person in whom you are interested." He looked at her intently while speaking, and before he had done her cheeks went white again; her eyes dropped, and the slim fingers began plucking at a spray of honeysuckle. But her voice was steady when she rejoined:

"I suppose your coming here has to do with my brother," she said without looking up,—"with Clay?"

"Primarily, yes. But my errand involves a deal more.... However, before I begin I want to make a confession. When I started here it was with a determination to resort to every method known to my calling to secure the information I am seeking; to bully you if necessary; to frighten you if I could—in short, to use every art and device that expediency might justify. Those methods are often cruel; they are not always honest—but in my calling you have to meet craft with craft, Miss Fairchild; cunning with cunning—and they are not such as you would associate with the word 'gentleman.'"

"And now?" She looked at him inquiringly.

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

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

"No, no; don't thank me; thank yourself. If more of the people who are tangled up in this business considered it less a game the object of which is to conceal as much as possible, and, instead, exercised a grain or two of common sense, we might have been out of the woods before this. As it is—" He paused and frowned at the denuded spray of honeysuckle.

"Well?" queried Charlotte, looking up once more and casting the spray from her. He faced her abruptly.

"Well," he went on, "as it is, there are one or two individuals who are well on the way to losing themselves entirely—that is, if some well-intentioned person doesn't step in and show them the road out." Again he paused.

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

He nodded. "But before we can show them the way out we have to be pretty sure of it ourselves. As a game of hide-and-seek, you would be surprised at the ingenuity displayed in keeping things hid from me.... Miss Fairchild, I am going to be blunt. Your brother has acted very foolishly. The different factors in this game have been suddenly thrown into a panic; like a crowd at a theatre when the cry of fire is raised, they impede each other, and do not help themselves. Mr. Fairchild's move was as silly and uncalled for as any I have yet encountered."

"You do indeed make me anxious," said Charlotte; "but I am very ignorant of this wretched affair."

"Yes; I do not doubt that now," he quietly interposed. "But I also know that you can be a very powerful factor in clearing up the mystery."

She regarded him incredulously. "Oh, no," she protested; "what can I do?" Then, after waiting a moment, she faltered: "But tell me, Mr. Converse, do—do you believe him—my brother—"

He laughed. "Do you?"

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

Again he laughed. "Miss Fairchild," said he with an abrupt transition to seriousness, "at this moment the idea of bullying or frightening you would strike me as being absurd were I not humbly contrite for ever having entertained such a thought; but the emergency is so urgent—a certain person is threatened by so lively a peril—that it is really imperative that something be done for that person immediately. If you and I should get at cross-purposes—why, I believe now that I could only step to one side and let events take their own way. To prove that I am contrite, I am going to warn you against myself."

Charlotte said nothing.

"You have been in communication with your brother since he disappeared. No," he went on hastily, as she seemed about to speak, "I am not going to take any unfair advantage of you. Instead, with your permission, I intend taking you into my confidence; go over the ground from my knowledge of the facts; and then lay before you my deductions therefrom, together with the immediate motives for my intrusion. Afterward I shall ask you what I wish to know."

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

"As I have told you, I am very anxious. From your manner I know the occasion to be serious, and that you are striving to temper its seriousness. You say that a friend is in trouble, Mr. Converse; well, that is enough to spur my interest, were any such spur needed. But I can only repeat that I am very ignorant of this matter. Still, I will say this, in the hope that it will cause you to speak freely. You have somehow inspired my confidence; I feel sure you have come, led by a tender consideration for somebody's feelings, and that now you are governed by a consideration for my own feelings. It would be a poor return, indeed, if I withheld any aid that might lie within my power. I will pledge myself to lend you every assistance I can; but it cannot be much. From what I have heard of you, I consider it quite a compliment that you should thus tender me your confidence."

In scornful deprecation he exclaimed against the attributes with which her words invested him. "I never sincerely complimented anybody in my life,—unless, perhaps, I was after something; so you had better take care. Seriously, though, the things I have told you are merely necessary statements of fact. I am not secretive by nature, Miss Fairchild, though you could find a good many people whom it would be hard to make believe that. That I am at all is far from complimentary to those with whom I daily mingle. The bright spots in my life are when I meet with somebody with whom I can be as open as the day.

"But I haven't answered your question yet: Do I believe your brother guilty of any participation in De Sanchez's death? No. Nor of any participation in last night's affair."

Charlotte stared. "Last night's affair!" she cried. "Do you refer to—to Mr. Slade?"

"Slade?" he repeated,—and reflected. Here was a consideration which, the instant it flashed into his mind, caused him to wonder why it had not occurred to him before; but that everybody who could read or was not stone-deaf knew of the Westbrook tragedy was to be taken as a matter of course. Yet it was impossible that this woman could be so at ease—her manner so tranquil—and at the same time have knowledge of the recent assassination. But Slade—what is this of Slade?

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

"No. We have never taken one at the house; Clay usually brought the papers home from the office."

"And your relations with the Westbrook family are very close, are they not?"

At first she blushed slightly; then suddenly the last vestige of color ebbed from her cheeks, and for the second time the slender hand rested upon her bosom.

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

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

As a leopardess might have sprung, she stood quivering above him, her eyes tragic, her slim fingers interlocked in a convulsive clasp before her.

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

"No, no; be assured. It was—"

"Oh, not Joyce?"

"General Westbrook."

She caught her breath sharply, and seemed unable to speak; and like a blind person, returned to her seat. But in a moment she was more tranquil and very earnest.

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

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

"Dead! General Westbrook dead! Oh—" she checked herself, the back of one hand upon her lips, and waited.

"Yes. It looks very much as though he had been—" he hesitated, doubtful whether to tell her; but the plain truth being unavoidable, he concluded, "assassinated."

With an exclamation of horror, she clasped her hands. There was a moment of tense silence, during which she regarded him with wide, startled eyes—a look which told piteously that this abrupt announcement had penetrated her susceptible heart, searching out, with callous cruelty, each tender spot that could be lacerated and hurt.

At last she cried aloud, in blank, utter dismay: "Mr. Converse! Oh, this is awful! Joyce! poor child!—and Mobley!" She buried her face in her hands, and, rising, rushed precipitately into the house.

The Captain sat motionless, in a dilemma whether to depart or to wait; wondering what Charlotte herself wished him to do; deeply moved by her distress, which was so much greater than he could possibly have expected.

But Polly Ann immediately set his doubts at rest. The face she presented to him was both troubled and wrathful.

"Miss Cha'lotte she say fo' you ter wait," she said with unaccountable severity. The announcement had much the nature of a peremptory command.

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

"Don' yer 'aunty' me." Her voice rose rapidly. "I hain't no aunty er yo'n. All yer has ter do is ter des wait—heah." She designated the porch with a stern and accusing finger. "Mon, whut yer do ter Miss Cha'lotte?"

At last the reason for this anger became plain. "I brought her some very sad news," he replied.

"La! is dat whut's de matteh?" Then, in a hoarse whisper, "Anything happen ter Docteh Mobley Wes'brook?" she asked.

"His father was killed last night."

Incredulity and astonishment overspread the black face, and Polly Ann threw aloft her hands. Mr. Converse was obliged, briefly, to detail the particulars. Polly Ann inquired, anxiously:

"Is you a docteh?"

"No, Aunty. Why?"

She advanced nearer and lowered her voice. "Kase I'se worried 'bout Miss Elinor, seh. Miss Cha'lotte done send fo' Docteh Mobley already dis mawnin'; but I don' spec' he come now wid he pa daid."

Polly Ann shook her head dubiously as she moved slowly back into the house. "Hit don' look right," she muttered, "'bout Miss Elinor, an' I'se nowise satisfied in my min'.... An' de General daid! Lawd! Lawd! Hit sho' do look lak er jedgment; hit sho' do!"