Presently Charlotte reappeared, composed and listless, her pale countenance subdued with sorrow.
"You must pardon my having left you so unceremoniously," she began, her quiet voice even quieter than usual; "but your news was so shocking—my rest has been so broken—that I was not strong to bear it. It is appalling, Mr. Converse; I don't fully realize it yet. It troubles me greatly to be so situated that I cannot go to Joyce."
"I, too, regret that you cannot," he returned, with a meaning hidden from Charlotte.
She wanted to hear the particulars, and after he had complied, briefly, she turned to him and asked:
"What do you make of it?"
Before replying, he ran a hand thoughtfully through his gray hair.
"There are two or three questions I should like to ask you before going into that," he returned, "if you please." After a slight pause, taking her silence for consent, he proceeded:
"In my investigation of the two cases I have encountered several coincidences so striking and suggestive that they require the fullest elucidation. Whenever I set my mind to working upon any phase of the duplex problem, one mystic word immediately becomes the pivot about which everything else begins to circle; whatever reasonable theory I may begin to develop, it sooner or later encounters 'Paquita,' and I am unable to get beyond her, or to see anything very clearly for the shadow she casts. And now, in the face of evidence all pointing quite another way, I have become possessed of a conviction that 'Paquita' embodies the crux of the entire problem. Paquita—what do you spell? Silence is the only answer." Suddenly he caught the intent look with which she was following him, and he laughed in a deprecating way.
"Heaven knows, I am prosaic enough myself, Miss Fairchild," he continued, "but I overlook no possibilities, however slender they may be; and it is particularly aggravating to have a circumstance like this remain so completely inexplicable—so insusceptible to the most determined efforts. It is as if the minx were mocking me. I have spent a number of years in Latin America, and am tolerably familiar with their customs; but everything I have endeavored to ascertain of the shadowy Paquita has been as barren of results as my father's old Connecticut farm. That mysterious name suggests an element of romance which appeals to the average individual; but the romance is not forthcoming."
"Does the name appear elsewhere besides on Doctor Westbrook's paper-knife?"
For answer he drew forth his pocket-book, and producing therefrom the bit of paper he had found in the Westbrook ash-hopper, handed it to her.
"This is all that remains of a letter received by General Westbrook day before yesterday, and burnt by him some time during the same night. I was searching for something altogether different—a writing upon which he was engaged shortly before his death—and was led to this.
"The newspapers, as you know, made the most of the 'Paquita' on the dagger-handle; you are familiar with the unknown and mysterious señorita of the press, betrayed and revengeful, striking from the grave through the medium of Doctor Westbrook's paper-knife; but in reality she is not only unknown, but there is not the slightest evidence that any such person ever existed. I could imagine a secret enemy of the General's choosing that name behind which to mask his identity, especially at a time when it is fresh in everybody's mind; yet the fact that the letter itself is written in Spanish is strongly against this idea. That letter was concluded in such a manner that the signature was an important part of the context."
"You have heard the story of the dagger, have you not?"
"Yes. But the truth is far from being so romantic; it is quite sordid, in fact."
"The truth? I fail to understand."
"Yes. You know that we police in the different cities all over the civilized world work together to a certain extent, and assist each other whenever we can; complete and systematic records are kept of each detail—no matter how unimportant or trivial it may seem—of every matter coming to us in an official way, and those records are always at the disposal of the police in any city.
"I dislike spoiling the pretty romance of the dagger," with an apologetic smile; "but the facts are these: A Mexican girl, of the peon class, went to Mexico City some six or seven years ago from the United States. She was accompanied by her brother, also an ignorant and extremely dirty peon—what we call a 'greaser' here. They had no money, apparently were animated by no greater desire to acquire any than usually inspires the average peon, and they lived in a hovel in the poorest quarter of the capital. Now, if it hadn't been for that rather remarkable dagger they would have been forgotten long ago. They were both dead within a month after their arrival,—smallpox. She killed herself during delirium; he died a few days later in a pest-camp. It is sordid enough, you see. It is that very unusual weapon alone that has saved them from oblivion. How did they come by it? It is impossible to say—stole it, probably; but if so, it has been advertised enough of late, in all conscience, to attract its owner if he be alive anywhere on the face of the earth. But there are enterprising newspapers also in the City of Mexico, and enterprising dealers in curios; so there you have the genesis of the story of the Doctor's paper-knife. So much for it.... Now then, question one: Did you ever hear of any other Paquita?"
Charlotte's answer was a decided negative. "If you are trying to establish such a person as ever having been a living reality, and as ever having had interests involved with the past of the Westbrook family, I believe it will lead to nothing; unless—unless—"
"Well?"
"Well, unless it can be found in General Westbrook's life in Mexico. But think of his character, his integrity, his extraordinary family pride—are they not incompatible with the existence of such a secret?"
Converse nodded. "And I might add," he said, "that here again the pretty complete facts do not warrant the slightest ground for such a theory."
"But—" Charlotte hesitated, "what has all this to do with a friend in trouble?"
"Patience, please; I shall get to that in good time. I want you to know certain facts first, for without this preamble the name will occasion a shock that all the after-assurance and reasoning may not remove. You must be prepared for the name before I blurt it out."
"Very well, I am resigned," she returned with a faint smile. Since her return to the porch all the brightness had left her face and eyes; the caller noted that she looked no more down the roadway toward the city, and even her smile was colorless and without the least spark of animation. "May I ask you a question?" she concluded.
"Certainly, Miss Fairchild; certainly."
"How about that man—the Mexican—Vargas? Even though I know but little of these dreadful affairs, I have thought a great deal. And that man: what do you know of him?"
"I am glad you asked this question, because it touches upon a point about which I wish to speak fully."
The Captain then recounted Vargas's testimony at the first inquest, adding that it had since been fully corroborated and amplified by exhaustive inquiries in Mexico.
"But still," continued the speaker, "there is a point where Señor Vargas comes into our mystery. He is shrewd and aggressive, and has more than doubled his wealth since taking up his residence in Mexico. He has only one relative—a niece. She is merely a child who has spent all her life in a convent; as commonplace, as ignorant of the world, and as innocent as only such a child—and especially a Spanish child—could possibly be. Bear in mind, Miss Fairchild, that these are established facts. I am relating them as briefly as possible; but they are necessary in leading up to my next question. Here is a point I wish you also to remember; you will see why as I proceed. A year or two ago Vargas purchased a hacienda from the administrators of the estate of one Don Juan del Castillo, which he so lavishly remodelled that it is now a veritable palace. Don Juan had been a very wealthy man at one time, having a vast estate; but his decease disclosed the fact that his affairs were in a chaotic condition, and that he was practically bankrupt. This man had never married, and all the formalities, besides a diligent search, failed to bring forward any authentic heirs. In short, none have ever appeared.
"These facts concerning Don Juan are interesting for four reasons: first, the banking house of De Sanchez and De Sanchez—of which General Westbrook was at that time a partner—was administrator of the Castillo estate; second, last night and shortly before his death, the General was engaged in the compilation of a document headed 'Memorandum of Castillo Estate,' which document was taken from his desk before the officers arrived; third, that while the county records have been carefully searched for the purpose of ascertaining if any of these foreigners had ever held any property interests here, it was not until a day or two ago that a single thing was found to justify the trouble. What that was is queer enough.
"In November, eighteen fifty-nine, a mortgage was filed for record by one John S. Castle."
"Castle!" Charlotte became suddenly alert.
"Ah, I see the name is not unfamiliar to you; but let me finish. The property mortgaged, among other parcels of realty, included your old family homestead. Of course the mortgager was your father. Now, with the name of John S. Castle to guide us through the index to the mortgage records, we find the next item of interest just three years later—namely, in November, eighteen sixty-two—when the mortgage was renewed. In another three years—that is, in November sixty-five—it was again renewed; then, in November, eighteen sixty-eight, an assignment of mortgage was filed, transferring this particular one to William Slade, senior, your old overseer. Here John S. Castle disappears for good and all; what followed concerning the mortgage is irrelevant; but the point I wish to make is, that the name John S. Castle is the English equivalent of Juan S. Castillo. This is the fourth reason why Vargas interests me. I have been unable to find any other trace of Castle. And now, can all this be mere coincidence?
"My next question to you is: Have you any knowledge of Castle, or Slade, or is there any event in your family history that may by any chance throw light into these dark places? Or could either your mother or Mr. Clay do so?"
"Mr. Converse, this is all so marvellous that I am a little bewildered. I never should have imagined that these dreadful tragedies could involve so much. How ever in the world did you discover so many details? But I am unable to tell you much. As to mamma, I cannot say. Her memory, of course—such as it is, Mr. Converse—goes back farther than mine. But Clay—I am certain he could be of no assistance; he is always impatient of dwelling upon our more prosperous days; mamma, at times, is rather inclined to—to—well, to contrast our present circumstances with what they were before papa died, and Clay invariably leaves the room on such occasions. John S. Castle was always considered a fiction in our family, behind which the elder Slade masked his treachery; or, perhaps, it is more exact to say that he came to be regarded as a fiction. It is very certain that he never appeared at all. Slade, senior, in his younger days was of a roving disposition. During the Mexican War he enlisted in the army, I believe, and was with General Scott in Mexico. He learned to speak the Spanish language, I know; and that might explain John S. Castle; they actually may have met in Mexico."
"That is true; it may be merely one more of the coincidences, signifying nothing at all. But I am not of a disposition to dismiss them thus." He fell into a thoughtful silence, from which he roused himself presently to say:
"It has occurred to me, Miss Fairchild,—to digress a moment,—that all these details of the man Castle, and the manner in which his name was utilized by the elder Slade, might hide some sort of chicanery. Everything about that old mortgage may not have been perfectly straight and aboveboard; and if that is the case—why, there is no telling what interest may be due you out of the property. Some of it is very valuable now, and the matter is worth looking into."
"Indeed?" returned Charlotte, without interest. "To find a fortune for us would be a strange ending of a search for the assassin of a man so completely a stranger."
"Oh, I merely mentioned it as a result of my delving into musty records. I do not wish to inspire any hopes that may be disappointed."
"Truly," with more warmth, "I thank you. My lack of enthusiasm arose from the impossibility of inspiring any such hope at all. I shall tell Clay, though, what you have just told me. Should we be entitled to any such interest, he would assuredly exert an effort to regain it."
He bowed a dismissal of the topic.
"But now, Miss Fairchild, does it not occur to you as a bit remarkable that out of all the developments not one circumstance has appeared tending to throw any light on the mysterious Paquita?"
Of a sudden she threw the back of one slender hand to her lips—obviously a characteristic gesture; her look assumed an expression of startled surprise. Charlotte's customary repose of manner was so placid that the involuntary movement was doubly impressive and significant.
"Ah," said Converse, quietly, "something has recurred to you."
"That is true," she at last returned, "and perhaps I should not have mentioned it. But you certainly have enlisted my sympathies, even though I might have no personal interest in these tragedies; and God knows I am anxious enough to see Clay, Mobley, all my friends freed of this wretched nightmare. What struck me so abruptly was this: ever since Joyce's trip to Mexico, and the presentation of the dagger paper-knife to Mobley, he has playfully addressed his sister as 'Paquita.' I had forgotten it; but the nickname spread among her intimates, and she subscribed her letters to them usually in that way. The name appealed to her, and I suppose I have notes now from Joyce signed 'Paquita.'"
"This is certainly very interesting," said he with marked gravity; and Charlotte continued with increased animation:
"It just occurred to me that the circumstance may have become known to some one who has used it with a special significance, at present unknown to you."
"Possibly. But I was not thinking of it in that way."
Although she waited, he vouchsafed no further explanation. Instead, he remained, for possibly a minute, in quiet reflection; then turning to Charlotte, he asked in a matter-of-fact way:
"Do you think you could lay your hand upon any of those notes? I should like to have a glimpse of Miss Joyce's penmanship."
She brightened as at a sudden pleasant thought. "If so, they are in my escritoire. Just a moment, please." She glided into the house and returned in a few moments with a half-dozen or so heavy, cream-tinted envelopes. Without comment she handed them to Converse, eyeing him expectantly as he took up one at random.
It was inscribed, "Miss Susan Sunshine,"—evidently a playful sobriquet designating Charlotte,—and a bit of violet-hued wax bore the Westbrook crest. He merely glanced at the legible and flowing characters; noted that, as it bore no stamp, it had obviously been delivered by private messenger, and then shook his head. "I have never seen that handwriting before," was his only spoken observation as he handed the parcel back to Charlotte. It is impossible that she could have imagined the feeling of anticipation, almost if not quite anxious in its intensity, that stirred within him in the face of the rapidly forming pattern into which immediate events were patently shaping themselves.
But the curiosity now animating her had not yet been satisfied. "Look at this," she persisted, hastily selecting another envelope from the lot. "I have read of marvellous feats of a detective reading a person's entire life from a scrap of that person's chirography. I have a curiosity to know what you make of this."
"I have read of such things, too," with a little laugh; "but I am afraid they are mostly confined to fiction. Still a fragment of one's handwriting is often a great aid in—" He stopped, and his brow shot into a pucker as his glance fell upon the envelope now in his hand. "This is by another hand," he concluded, sharply.
"You are correct; yet—yet—"
He glanced up quickly, giving Charlotte a rapier-like look. "Miss Westbrook wrote it?" he completed her sentence.
She nodded brightly.
"Then she is—" He searched his memory for a word which the District Attorney had suggested to him on a similar occasion; and as Mr. Mountjoy supplied it then, so did Charlotte now.
"Ambidextrous," said she. "Her left hand is reserved for the 'Susan Sunshine' letters and all such whimsical correspondence, while this last is her individual handwriting. Equal facility in the use of either hand is a hereditary Westbrook trait."
He remained still so long that she began to manifest some impatience. "You attach no importance to it, do you?" she asked with some misgiving.
He did not respond immediately. Now was an occasion when his ability absolutely to conceal all feeling could serve him admirably. Looking at Charlotte he had not the heart to tell her that she was innocently supplying such serious connecting links to the chain of evidence tightening about her beloved friend. While the handwriting on the second envelope in no wise resembled the writing on the charred fragment of the "Paquita" letter, further than that both were feminine, yet that circumstance of Joyce's ambidexterity—how portentous it was!
So, when he finally responded, he plunged into another phase of the subject, as if he had not heard her question.
"Miss Fairchild," briskly, "I must progress toward the final and most important matter which I came here to present to you, and again I take occasion to warn you that this part of my recital will require a great deal of your fortitude. You must believe, now, that I have worked untiringly—unceasingly—in this matter?"
"I believe that, Mr. Converse."
"Very good. Now, endeavor not only to keep before you what I have already told you, but please follow me as closely as you can.... First, however, assure me upon one point, though it may seem inconsequential and even presuming in me to speak of it; but before I am done you will understand. Is there any attachment between your brother and Miss Westbrook?"
She regarded him with serious eyes.
"Mr. Converse," she began, with a sudden assumption of reserve and restraint, "that is a very delicate and, to me, sacred matter; but I—" She checked herself, and once more regarded him gravely; her manner quickly changed, and again she became frank and open. "I do not believe you would ask it were it not important that I answer you frankly. Never have Clay and I exchanged a word upon the subject; but I am a woman—his sister—and I love him dearly; I see a great deal more than he would ever suspect. Mr. Converse, please respect this confidence: I believe there has never been a time when Clay did not love Joyce, dear, darling, beautiful girl that she is. As for her, I do not know. She has a warm attachment for Clay; she admires him; still, she is so young—her life has been so gay and light-hearted, so entirely free from any care and responsibility—that it is pleasant to think no strong emotion has yet laid its touch upon her heart. To her, Clay has been a playmate, a loved comrade, a friend; whether he is destined ever to be more, I cannot say. But I believe I have told you the exact status of their intimacy, for it has occupied my thoughts often, often, often."
"This confidence has not injured your brother; and you have my word of honor that it is as sacred with me as with yourself."
"That will do; I can now hear anything you have to tell me."
He paused a moment. He knew he must hurt her, however carefully he might unfold the intelligence he had come to convey, and so why prolong the anxiety by trying to temper it? So he said, slowly, deliberately:
"Miss Fairchild, the one person that we have so far been unable to account for, to whom we must look for the explanation of these crimes is—a woman."
A slight gasp from his hearer caused him to pause again. Briefly he gauged her strength.
"That woman was alone with your brother about the time of De Sanchez's death. In short, the assassin could have been no place but in Mr. Nettleton's office; and no one was there besides those two."
"Merciful God! Clay!"
"Wait!" hastily. "Your brother is innocent—I am sure of that—but the woman—"
Charlotte sat quivering as if with an ague, deadly white.
"Who?—who?" she gasped, huskily, when he paused.
"The facts all say—Joyce Westbrook."
"Oh, don't—don't!" She arose and stood unsteadily confronting him. "I can't—I will not listen to this. It is abominable. You have stumbled into some terrible error that may be explained. Why, Mr. Converse, this will kill Joyce. Oh, how horrible! how horrible!"
"Error?" said he, with extraordinary gentleness. "Ah, Miss Fairchild, I hate to pain you so, but somebody must be stirred to action. I cannot reach to the Doctor's or his sister's sensibilities in their morbid state of mind; and if she will not unlock her lips, I cannot speak of the result. Error? I admit its possibility. I spent an exceedingly bad half-hour this morning trying to persuade Doctor Westbrook and Miss Joyce that I was more than willing to meet them on this ground. But no. If I have, as you say, stumbled into a bog of error, they left me to get back to terra firma again as best I could. If we can agree upon this point, we have an excellent position from which to operate; and for the young lady's sake I would so agree."
"Mr. Converse, Mr. Converse," moaned Charlotte, as if a mortal physical wound had been dealt her. "Wait! I can't bear it! The idea is so hideous—so monstrous—"
"With all respect, dear lady, I sincerely hope that she is the victim of an extraordinary concurrence of circumstances—and no more. But her position is even far more desperate and dangerous than you could possibly imagine."
Charlotte sat down again, and quietly—very quietly—watched her interlocutor. She appeared stunned. Presently she asked with bated breath:
"What will happen? My God! do you wish to lead me to answering your unanswered question? Do you wish me to say that Paquita—oh, that wretched name!—spells disaster for those that are dearest to me?" She uttered a laugh of bitterest scorn. "If my loyalty amounted to no more than that," with a slight emphatic gesture of one clenched hand, "I would be the most despicable creature on the face of the earth. Now—"
"I am not responsible for the existing condition, Miss Fairchild; I only want to convince you of the extreme urgency of the situation. I have told you a friend was in trouble, and that you would have an opportunity to succor that friend; but it is more than a trouble; that friend is menaced by the gravest peril imaginable."
Rapidly he laid before her, one by one, his reasons for suspecting Joyce Westbrook; and as his hearer saw how deadly serious the cumulative facts were, she gradually grew outwardly composed, yielding no hint of how his words were impressing her.
Next he told of Joyce's movements the preceding night, concluding:
"And now, Miss Fairchild, the most damaging feature against her is her refusal to deny or admit anything at all. I need only an eye-witness who saw her in or about the Nettleton Building, and—" A grim tightening of his hard-featured face put a sufficiently obvious period to the thought.
"Mobley must tell me what he knows," she said presently, her voice trembling. "I do not promise to repeat it, for I am ignorant of its nature; but if I can see in this secret the way to finding light upon the deed of which it is a child, you shall know." She fairly startled the Captain by springing from her seat and grasping his arm. Some sudden joyous thought had evidently flooded her intelligence, and her manner imparted its quickening impulse to him.
"Mr. Converse—where you are wrong—your error—" she cried, in disjointed phrases. "Why did you never think of it? Joyce was not in the Nettleton Building that day. The—"
"But, my dear lady—" he sought to interrupt; but her new-born enthusiasm bore him down.
"The fact that no one can be found who saw her—why, she was not there. She is involved in something else of a very personal nature, and she shrinks from explaining. That must be it."
Converse's attitude was very dubious.
"You say you have no eye-witness—no one who actually saw her?" she persisted.
"Yes—that is true; but—" He stopped. "Wait, please," he concluded in an altered tone, as he suddenly recognized Mr. Follett's servant, Joe, approaching from the trolley-line. "If I am not mistaken, here comes a messenger for me."
That Joe's errand had carried him to the Westbrook home in search of the Captain, and thence to the cottage, could signify only a matter of the utmost emergency; so Converse watched his approach with some curiosity, wondering why his friend, Mr. Follett, should be in such haste to find him. He thought of the advertisement seeking information concerning the unknown woman.
The negro approached and handed him a much-soiled envelope; and this is what he read:
Slade was here this A.M. Claims to have seen and recognized woman in Nettleton Bldg. at time of De S. murder. Holds out for more money, so be careful. He is up to some game; but I think he really knows.
It was indeed from Abram, and had been hurriedly penned at No. 18 Ash Lane.
After the message was delivered, and while it was being read, Charlotte noted that it had the effect of producing a peculiar change in the countenance of the reader: his mouth puckered, as if for a whistle, though none was emitted; while his right eyebrow lifted in a manner that left a queer, quizzical expression on his weather-beaten visage.
He pocketed the missive without comment; scratched a word of acknowledgment on the envelope, which he handed to Joe—temporarily an ebon-hued Mercury—with an injunction to return at once to Mr. Follett.
For a time he sat in a silence that was pensive, even though his inflexible frame and countenance were not. How strange that the message should come to hand just at this juncture!—at the moment when he was obliged to admit the absence of a witness that had seen the woman. And that witness Slade! Was Joyce Westbrook the woman? There was that in the bare fact of Slade's being the person who was possessed of this knowledge which made the Captain feel that the coil was tightening irresistibly about the girl, for he was beginning to acquire his own idea as to what "Slade's Blessing" might signify; an idea utterly different from the more universal one. But he would say nothing further to harrow this much troubled lady beside him. After a while he turned to Charlotte with some abruptness.
"Now then, Miss Fairchild, you pretty well understand the status of both the cases. The main thing is, now, do you"—he emphasized the pronoun—"appreciate the seriousness of Miss Westbrook's position? If you do not, if this hour spent with you is barren of results, I shall be obliged openly to take her into custody, put Mr. Mountjoy in possession of the case, and let the law take its course. If I do not, some one else will. I dislike being so blunt, but these issues must be met squarely."
"I cannot be further shocked, Mr. Converse. I will do all that lies in my humble power. If Joyce was in the Nettleton Building that afternoon, it had been far better for Mobley to have announced it at once, whatever the result might have been."
Her hearer considerately refrained from again mentioning the possible reason for silence. Instead he said:
"You are now prepared to hear the main object of my call. The early part of last night I spent in going carefully over all that I have set before you, but more particularly as it concerns your brother's disappearance. It has become plain that, whatever our attempts to locate him may have failed in, they have at least proved one thing—that he never left the city. Who should know better where he is than his sister?"
"Believe me, Mr. Converse," she began quickly; but he held up a restraining hand.
"Wait," said he. "Let me finish. This is when I resolved to bully and frighten you—to get the information from you willy-nilly,—and behold to what that resolution has come! Now, I am not going to embarrass you at this time by asking you where Mr. Clay is, or even if you know where he is; but I do expect that by to-morrow night," he gave her a look full of meaning, and repeated, "that by to-morrow night, Miss Fairchild, some result will come from this interview; either that I shall hear from your brother, Doctor Westbrook, Miss Joyce, or all of them."
"What I started to say when you interrupted me is, that I do not know where Clay is. There is where I have been kept in ignorance."
"The reason being," he added, "that something very like this interview was foreseen—not because you couldn't be trusted—no, no: it was to spare you from ever being obliged to refuse divulging your knowledge. Knowing of his whereabouts, you could never have met an examination, such as you might have been subjected to, with a plea of ignorance."
"I can only act as you have suggested," she returned; "and I will make my arrangements accordingly as soon as I possibly can. While Clay is absent it is very inconvenient communicating with the city."
"I shall be glad to convey any message you wish to send."
"Thank you. It is Doctor Westbrook that I wish to see. I sent him word this morning regarding mamma's illness; but I expect now that he will not come—soon."
"Well, Miss Fairchild," the Captain arose briskly, "I have accomplished my errand, and if nothing else ever comes of it, I shall always retain a delightful remembrance of these flowers. I shall call here again Thursday morning early—that is, if I have to come to you for results. That will be day after to-morrow, and I shall make no open move until after I have seen you. Now write your note, and I will see that the Doctor gets it. I shall wait in the garden."
When, after a few minutes, she reappeared and handed him the envelope, he said, as if the matter had just occurred to him:
"By the way, Miss Fairchild, when I first mentioned last night's affair a while back, you spoke of William Slade: why?"
Immediately she became grave and thoughtful.
"Because," after an appreciable pause, "he called here last night to see my mother, and his visit had to do with General Westbrook." She stopped in sudden alarm at an abrupt change in the Captain's manner. "What is it?" she asked.
The response was a string of ejaculations.
"Slade!—Here!—General Westbrook!" he cried in utter astonishment.
Charlotte was startled at this surprising manifestation of interest.
"It is very remarkable," she presently resumed, "and I cannot in the least understand what it means. That it was extraordinarily serious, mamma's condition this morning testifies to. Does the circumstance tell you anything?"
The detective was regarding her in a most peculiar manner. His expression seemed to say that nothing in the whole gamut of possible disclosures touching upon the two mysteries could take him more unawares than this simple statement of Charlotte's; but she had by no means told him all, and his face at once became impassive again.
"Please finish," said he, quite calmly; "I don't know—yet."
She obeyed, narrating at length her experience of the preceding night. He listened with attentive silence until the burning of the papers was mentioned. The look of the gray eyes brought something like consternation to Charlotte.
"Miss Fairchild!" he exclaimed.
"Oh, I knew it was very, very wrong," she cried, sorely troubled at his obvious dismay; "but what could I do? Mamma was not herself; she wanted me to swear that I would not even look at them—to burn them instantly. She was so excited—'
"Never mind—never mind," he broke in with a reassurance he did not in the least feel; "don't distress yourself. I see—I will take it for granted that you could not have done otherwise than you did; that your excellent common sense bade you pause—"
"Indeed, indeed, that is true," fervently.
"You had no alternative, and I will not blame you; but—" and his mouth closed grimly.
"'It is unfortunate, nevertheless,' you would say. Is the loss irreparable?"
"How can I tell now? But you must appreciate the importance of those papers in the light of what occurred after Slade's call.... By the way, what time did he depart?"
"About half-past nine or ten o'clock.... And to think, had I disobeyed mamma, I might have averted—" She shuddered and did not finish.
The Captain made no response. The subject afforded too wide a field for speculation to indulge idly in probabilities. The papers being irretrievably gone, the salient facts upon which his mind fastened were, that Slade had some knowledge that the General's life was threatened, and for some reason—another mystery in a veritable network of mysteries—he had imparted the intelligence to Mrs. Fairchild. But why?—why, of all persons, to her? Mr. Slade had at last assumed a position that was susceptible of scrutiny.
After a number of questions, to which Charlotte could return no satisfactory replies, Converse said:
"If it is possible, I must see your mother as soon as she is able to bear the strain of an unpleasant interview. Try to prepare her against my next coming, Miss Fairchild."
Charlotte promised to do her best.
The talk was broken in upon by an abrupt change in her countenance. All at once she became beautiful; a warm tide of color mounted to her cheeks; her head became regally erect; and she shot a look down the pergola of locusts and elms that lined the roadway, such as an eagle might flash from one mountain-peak to her mate upon another. Instinctively Mr. Converse turned and descried in the distance an approaching horse and buggy. So the Doctor was obeying her first summons, after all. The Captain handed the note back to Charlotte, and at once took his departure.
At Times Charlotte Became Beautiful; a Warm Tide of Color Mounted to Her Cheeks; Her Head Became Regally Erect.
At Times Charlotte Became Beautiful; a Warm Tide of Color
Mounted to Her Cheeks; Her Head Became Regally Erect.
When the Doctor drove up to the gate, Mr. Converse, moving with long, rapid strides, was well on his way across the common to the car, and feeling (if his unemotional nature would admit the charge) more than a little depressed.
Before Doctor Westbrook arrived at the porch steps, he noted the look of tenderness with which he was being regarded, and halted abruptly.
"You have heard, then?" said he.
"Yes," Charlotte softly replied, holding forth both her hands.
With pleased eagerness he took them into his own and gazed hungrily into the beautiful eyes. Her demonstrations were unusual, and he found therein more relief from his grief and anxiety than could have been contained in any spoken homily. But he drank from those liquid pools of truth and steadfastness as one who drinks for the last time.
For a moment they stood so; then—
"Your note said that your mother was suffering," he remarked, walking toward the open door. But Charlotte checked his movement.
"Wait, Mobley. I was not very exact. Mamma sustained a severe shock last night; but she has been sleeping all the morning.... Before you go in I wish to ask you a question."
He evinced some surprise at her constraint.
"Mobley, have you any reason to believe that a particular person was instrumental in the death of Alberto de Sanchez?"
Amazement grew in his countenance.
"Have I any reason—" he repeated, blankly. "I don't understand; who has been talking to you?" But light suddenly broke, and he concluded: "So that was that confounded detective fellow who just left here."
"Mobley, you are unjust." It was quite plain to her why he should think with irritation of Mr. Converse. "Although a stranger, he has treated me fairer than you have: he has given me his confidence."
The Doctor's eyes, yielding a sudden light of apprehension, became glued to Charlotte's; but he remained silent.
"I know you have been terribly troubled," she went on, evenly; "but have you been afraid of me, Mobley?"
"My God, Charlotte, no! I have simply wanted to spare you. There has been no reason why you should be drawn into this damnable mess, nor is there any more reason now. That man will have to answer to me for this."
"No, no, he will not, Mobley. I believe he has told the truth. I think that Joyce—oh, poor, darling girl, how my heart bleeds for her!—I think that innocent dear is the victim of the most diabolical set of circumstances I ever heard of. They will inevitably ruin her if she is not freed from them; and if it lies within our power to do so—do you hear me, Mobley?—if it lies within our power to do so, we must find a way."
"Dear, dear girl," he groaned. "If I had told him this morn—"
But she calmly interrupted him.
"You must drive down to Mrs. Florian's and bring her here in your buggy; I am going home with you. Your entire course in this matter has been wrong,"—firmly. "Joyce is innocent, of course, and the truth can't hurt."
"But you don't know," he still persisted.
"No; that is very true," she returned, looking steadily at him; "but I will shortly.... Come—let us go in now." And together they entered the house.
At once the condition of the sorely stricken mother drove everything else temporarily from their minds. John Converse nor any other person would ever again hear a sound issue from those moveless lips.
So another door was closed.
If Mr. Converse departed from the cottage with a feeling of depression, it was based, as we know, upon a formidable number of reasons. If the sensation was incompatible with his profession, it at least proved that, as a human being, he was not so utterly devoid of feeling as his grim exterior continually indicated; and when the irresistible logic of the present investigation singled out again and again a beautiful girl as the author of a monstrous assassination; when the amorphous figure of Paquita—that featureless, shadowy phantom—presented itself between his mental vision and Joyce Westbrook—it was with a sense of relief that he asked, "Paquita, what do you spell?" There was always the hope that sooner or later an answer would be returned clearing Joyce beyond peradventure.
That he did not consider Fairchild accessory to either crime was a belief resting upon a very sound foundation of reasoning, although such a conviction must needs be an additional point adverse to Joyce. The testimony delivered by Doctor Westbrook and Mr. Howe of Georgia at the inquest, relating to Fairchild's strange behavior when he beheld the body of De Sanchez lying on the Doctor's reception room floor, and a careful analysis of this evidence—although it certainly left the young man's conduct something to be explained—would not admit the idea of a guilty knowledge on his part, or of an active participation in the crime itself. Before he entered the reception-room he must have known that the Doctor or some other person was there, for a light was burning brightly therein; that the deed had been discovered; and it was certain that even then the police were on their way thither, if they had not already arrived. Yet he entered the office unhesitatingly. Again, no powerful emotions were betrayed by him until after he had seen the body, and then his first change of expression betokened surprise and bewilderment. The rapidly succeeding horror and terror were present while he was looking at Doctor Westbrook, and not at the body. "I was quite as much astonished by his behavior," was Mr. Howe's testimony hereof, "as by anything that had happened before.... The mere sight of the body did not, to my mind, account for the extremity of emotion depicted on his countenance, which seemed completely to overwhelm him." There was a quality about the look with which he regarded Doctor Westbrook so dreadful that it spurred the Doctor from his own preoccupying excitement and agitation to demand an explanation.
Did Clay Fairchild, puzzled over Miss Joyce's excited and unexpected appearance, go to Doctor Westbrook's office seeking enlightenment, and were his unspoken questions there answered by the dead body of Alberto de Sanchez?
And now there was a witness who could establish the identity of the unknown woman.
Possibly the last consideration had as much weight in influencing Mr. Converse to a decision which he made while riding back to the city, as the reasons therefor which he gave in his own mind; but, trifling as that decision may appear to be, it was destined to entail consequences of the utmost moment—it was the thread-like fissure in the dam. He shrank from hearing Joyce Westbrook's name on the lips of Slade; but yet, if that individual was possessed of such important evidence, it was clearly the Captain's duty to secure it as early as possible. However, he was beginning to feel acutely the need of both rest and nourishment; he realized, what with his own infirmity of speech and the other's deafness, the difficulties that would arise in the course of an interview with the abstracter; therefore he would defer his call until he had snatched a few hours' sleep, and could secure the aid of McCaleb to act as his mouthpiece.
He was ignorant alike of Merkel's ambition to engineer a coup, and the motives controlling the crusty Mr. Slade. Otherwise it is more than likely, after he received Mr. Follett's message, that he would have repaired with all haste to the offices of the Guaranty Abstract Company, instead of first eating a substantial breakfast, and afterward of composing his immense frame upon a certain leathern couch which formed a part of his office furniture at headquarters.
But such was the nature of his decision; and when he awoke late in the afternoon no earthly power could have changed the result of his procrastination.
At five o'clock Mr. Converse arose from his leathern couch, mentally decided to glimpse at the late afternoon mail, and then look up Mr. Slade.
But the mail brought one letter which, even before he opened it, banished all thought of the sour abstracter from his mind. The envelope bore in its upper left-hand corner the return address of "The Guadalupe Transportation and Construction Co.," and had been postmarked at Monterey, Mexico.
The missive was very long, and as it entered into a number of matters quite foreign to this narrative, it will be condensed. It purported to be written by one Morris A. King, now a civil engineer in the employ of a Mexican construction concern, and the author asserted that he and Clay Fairchild had been schoolmates, and that a warm friendship yet existed between them. The letter ran:
"My parents reside in New York and on the first of last October I had leave of absence to pay them a visit. On my return I shortened that visit by a day in order to surprise Clay, and I stopped with him two or three hours on November fourth." Here the reader's interest suddenly quickened. "The mysterious sketch of the dagger mentioned by the papers was made on that day solely for my benefit."
The writer went on to say that Clay had confided his literary ambitions to his friend, and that the latter had urged him to come with him to Mexico, "the land of romance, love, fighting, tinkling guitars, and sloe-eyed señoritas." He held out many inducements to Fairchild in the way of material for stories; but the young man persisted in his inability to accept the invitation.
One of the plots suggested was indeed extraordinary. The letter went on:
"The heroine of my yarn was a certain Paquita. Does that strain your credulity? Well, it's a fact which you may easily verify when you come up with Clay. In my veracious legend Paquita stabbed herself with a magnificent jewelled dagger, the same having been the gift of a false lover. Could it have been your 'Silver Blade,' I wonder? .... I had this story from a certain Ignacio Monterde, who related it as a fact. He was once under me in a construction gang; but his wife came into some money,—according to his account, as a reward for her kind offices to Paquita during a time of stress and vicissitude."
Then followed Monterde's address, and the assertion that the story had held Fairchild "spellbound."
Which was not surprising, considering his knowledge of Doctor Westbrook's paper-knife. Indeed, Fairchild seems to have mentioned it immediately to his friend, volunteering to secure it for the purpose of confirming his statements concerning its existence. The weapon could not be found in its customary place, hence the sketch as an effort to convey some idea of its appearance.
The writer concluded by offering to appear in his friend's behalf, at any time, should the exigencies of the case demand it of him.
Mr. Converse laid the letter to one side, with a long-drawn "Ah-h-h!" expressive of extreme satisfaction. He carefully made a note of Ignacio Monterde's address.
After the unexpected intelligence had been properly digested it was time for dinner; Mr. Slade and the woman he had seen could very well wait until the following morning. Besides, Mr. Converse's other business had become much in arrears during the past few days, and there were a number of matters demanding immediate attention. He smiled grimly as he turned to the accumulation of letters and papers on his desk, and mentally contrasted his recent anxiety to run this same mysterious woman down, with his present dilatoriness—his admitted reluctance to hear her name from the lips of a witness whose testimony would be irrefutable.
The manner in which the name of Slade wound in and out of this maze, indefinitely and apparently without cause or purpose, had excited Mr. Converse's attention to such an extent that even now two subordinates were burrowing into the abstracter's past in an effort to unearth something that might clear up this distracting and irritating side-issue; but their efforts had been abortive in so far as the results aimed at were concerned, although—as he had informed Miss Charlotte—a number of seemingly irrelevant facts had been brought to light, which only made this phase more perplexing than ever. And now, Mr. Slade's remarkable visit to the Fairchild cottage, and what had happened there, were only added knots in an already badly tangled skein.
He next rang for the departmental stenographer, and for two hours was busy dictating letters and going over reports, with an energy that made his pale young amanuensis marvel. But as the Federal Building clock began to toll off eight strokes, he noted the impatience with which the young man consulted his watch.
"Julius, you are tired," he said, in a matter-of-fact way. "This is the last letter."
It was not to be written that night, however. His statement was punctuated by the telephone bell, and, shoving the desk instrument toward the stenographer, he said:
"Talk for me." Without such aid, he was shorn of this device's convenience in long-distance communication.
The stenographer presently announced that Mr. McCaleb desired to talk with Captain Converse.
"What does he want?" sharply demanded the latter.
It required a minute's maltreatment of the telephone to elicit the further information that Captain Converse's presence at the Westbrook home was urgently desired.
Wondering much what this summons might portend, he donned his hat and overcoat, and strode forth to intercept a street-car.
At the same time Mr. William Slade, wrapped in a dingy and much frayed dressing-gown, with a ghoulish light of exultation smouldering in his mouse-like eyes, sat in his dingy hole of a room, and went over again in his mind a recent conversation between himself and Mr. Merkel. What he had told the Coroner that evening had caused the worthy official to stare in speechless amazement—a feeling which rapidly grew into one of eminent satisfaction after Mr. Slade, with much precision and circumstantiality, had embodied his statements in a written affidavit.
So Mr. Slade now reviews this colloquy.
"What's twenty-five dollars!" he mutters, laughing noiselessly and without mirth, and cracking his knuckly fingers. "What is any money to this! You may have defeated one purpose, my dear; but, to a man of talent and resource, there exist an infinite variety of ways. To be sure, what's twenty-five dollars to this!" And he glances at an open paper displayed conspicuously on the table.
"GEN. PEYTON WESTBROOK THE
VICTIM OF AN ASSASSIN."
By the feeble illumination of the candle could yet be read, in letters an inch high, this "scare head" extending across the entire front page.
Meanwhile the Captain narrowly escaped missing a car, and as he ran for it he fancied he heard a newsboy crying an extra edition of some evening paper. Idly wondering what could call forth an additional issue so soon after the regular evening edition, he took his seat, and straightway forgot the incident.
His cogitations in a little while assumed the form of a resolution to avail himself of the present opportunity to ask Mrs. Westbrook several questions which had been restrained only by the circumstances of her bereavement. He disliked obtruding himself upon her privacy at such a time; but he felt that, since the morning, she had had occasion within which to compose herself and to become expectant of the entrance of the police into the tragedy of her husband's death.
Upon arriving at the Westbrook home, he was met at the wide veranda steps by McCaleb himself.
"Sorry to have troubled you," whispered the latter, hurriedly. "I will tell you why I sent as soon as I get a chance. But wait; if my reason is not good, Miss Westbrook gave me one that is."
McCaleb paused. He seemed with only indifferent success to be curbing an inward excitement, and his manner lent a special significance to his next words.
"She has been inquiring for you," he added.
Converse did not appear at all surprised; but knowing his chief as he did, neither did McCaleb seem surprised at the reception of his pregnant announcement.
"Come with me; I have something mighty queer to show you." And after word of the Captain's arrival had been sent to the ladies, McCaleb led the way around to one side of the house, coming to a halt in the dense darkness beneath the porte-cochère.
"After I 'phoned, Miss Westbrook came to me and asked if there was any likelihood of your coming to the house soon. She was a good deal confused and embarrassed; but the question so stumped me—after what happened this morning, you know,—that I forgot my good manners, and asked her 'Why?' But she replied that she had something to tell you alone, which she thought you would be glad to hear—that it was of such importance that you would doubtless pardon a summons to come at once. Then I told her you were probably on your way here now; and with that she turned away, apparently satisfied."
McCaleb caught the other's arm and drew him onto the lawn, away from the house and from beneath the porte-cochère. Again lowering his voice to a whisper, he said:
"Look up at those two windows, there, right over the roof of the carriage-entrance."
Converse did so, and noted that the carriage-entrance roof formed a balcony upon which the two windows gave, and that the room beyond was evidently brightly illuminated, for faint rays of light found their way through minute interstices in the curtains:
"Well?" he queried at length.
"That is Miss Westbrook's bedroom."
"Yes? And what's queer about that?"
McCaleb considered a minute.
"Well, sir, I saw her at that window to-night, waving a lighted candle about, as though signalling some one."
"Ha! Which way was she looking—up—down?"
"Straight ahead, sir,—west. She seemed to be looking at or trying to see something about on a level with her head."
"On a level with her head, eh? That would be somewhat above our own." And the Captain involuntarily faced about to the west. Raising his eyes to an approximate level with those of a person standing at the window, they encountered nothing but the night sky, against which were silhouetted in dense blackness the blended outlines of trees and a gable of the house across Tenth Street. All sense of perspective was lost. And surely nothing there that a candle might aid one in seeing: its tiny light would be as insignificant—if the contrast is not already plain—as a dewdrop in the crater of Vesuvius. Finally he brought back a questioning eye to the young man's sober countenance.
"It was queer," McCaleb at once continued. "But I haven't told you the queerest part. I looked around, trying to see what she could be after—only I walked about quite a bit; but I saw nothing more than usual. Everything was perfectly quiet; no one even passed in the street all the time I was waiting here, and look as I might, I saw no one to whom she could have been making signals—not an answering light anywhere."
The speaker stopped with a start. A sudden accession of light caused both to look up, and Converse perceived the slight, graceful figure of Joyce Westbrook standing by one of the windows. The blind was now raised, and all the lights in an electrolier behind the girl threw a flood of reflected radiance upon the beautiful countenance. The light cast an aureole about her wealth of hair—ebon tresses which, if unbound, would dissolve into the fluent blackness of night, like water into water. Either by a trick of the light, or in reality, her loveliness was so etherealized as to make this motionless apparition positively weird.
At last she turned slowly away and disappeared, without drawing down the shade. A disheartening sense of depression, such as he had experienced after leaving Miss Charlotte, came over Converse again, while the detective instinct was uncompromisingly alert to McCaleb's words. Whether the vision of Joyce evoked any such feelings in the younger man, it would be impossible to say; his hawk-like gaze remained riveted upon her while she stood at the window—as if she were merely an enigma hard to solve—and as soon as she was gone, he resumed speaking in unaltered tones.
"The incident was mighty puzzling, and I began a quiet, systematic quizzing of the servants, with an idea of clearing up this side-mystery. First, I got from Miss Westbrook's woman the fact that her mistress had for a week or two left a light at that window every night. Upon being pressed closer, Melissa told me the light was first placed there on the night of Saturday, the seventh; that it was always at that particular window, and that it was allowed to burn all night."
"Do you mean, Mac, that of those two windows so close together the light is never by any chance left at the other?"
"That's it, sir; it's always the southernmost window."
"And you say these windows can't be seen from the street?"
"No, sir; they cannot."
"Very good. I fancy if a person were on a level with that window when the candle-play is going on, he could see something off there to the west that can't be seen from any other point. We'll have to know what it means, Mac, before the night is many hours older."
As he entered the house Converse was somewhat surprised at being notified by Sam that Mrs. Westbrook would receive him at his convenience, in the morning-room. "The mother instead of the daughter; now, what does that mean?" he observed, mentally. He reflected that, in the whirl of events, he had taken but small account of this lady. What little he knew of her—merely such vague reports as may come to one of any individual's personality—pictured for him a cold, selfish, distant woman, indifferent to most matters that did not affect her directly; and so far there had been no occasion for giving her any unusual attention.
Mrs. Westbrook was a tall, stately woman of a superb figure. Her mere physical appearance, the unconscious ease of her carriage, the uncompromising uplift of her head, were all remarkably impressive; but there was much beyond this. To begin with, she had been wonderfully neglected by Time. One might fancy that the hauteur of this grande dame was as discouraging to the harbinger of immortality as it was chilling to individuals who failed in any of the many qualities necessary to meet her full approval. Like the General, there was a repellent frigidity in her customary glance, and her clear, almost faultless features were marred by the aptness with which they could emphasize scorn or disdain at the expense of an ability to reflect any of the softer feelings. If she had ever possessed any of the illusions common to girlhood, they had been dispelled—forgotten—long, long since: a woman temperamentally beyond the influence of the smaller courtesies and amenities of life, it was quite patent that she could not have lived that life more alone had it been cast in the midst of a desert isle; and it was difficult to imagine her so shaken from her aplomb as McCaleb and Clancy had beheld her the night before. Perhaps Time had indeed passed her by as needing none of his attentions.
Years ago Louise Shepardson had been much sought after by the bachelor gentry of her circle. There existed a strange allurement for the masculine nature in her statuesque beauty, an enticing incentive to kindle it into flame; but the Pygmalion for whom this lovely Galatea might have quickened into life never appeared, and one by one her suitors retired to direct their ardor along paths of less resistance.
The lady was standing facing the door when Sam ushered in Mr. Converse. It was plain from her attitude that she intended to remain standing throughout the coming interview; that she expected her guest to do likewise; and that the interview itself was to be very short. It cannot be said that the Captain's susceptibilities were particularly sensitive; yet he felt the condescension with which Mrs. Westbrook received him, and all at once his scruples for the intrusion vanished. He bowed low.
"Madam," he began, his impassive features as free from any emotion as her own, "I apologize for disturbing you; I have postponed the matter as long as I could; but there are some ques—"
She interrupted him without the slightest consideration, her enunciation deliberate and incisive.
"You will please dispense with any preamble," she said, coldly. "Ask your questions as briefly and concisely as possible."
He did not hurry. It was too patent that, if she did not choose to answer, she would ignore any interrogation he might frame. Abruptly his look became as hard as flint, and all of his moving personality seemed to be concentrated in one steady, piercing glance. But her pale eyes continued to meet the steely gray ones, boldly, and as inscrutable as the granite orbs of a sphinx. Nobody had ever seen behind those eyes.
"Mrs. Westbrook," he presently retorted, his manner calculating and unsympathetic, "I regret that you meet me in this spirit of antagonism. You are making a difficult situation infinitely more diffi—"
She started to interrupt.
"Wait, please!" he peremptorily commanded. He remained silent a moment with his gaze fixed squarely upon her; then, with a sternness that would brook no trifling, continued: "Out of a common courtesy I requested this interview; but do you know, Mrs. Westbrook, if need be I could enforce it? I want to be as gentle and considerate as it is possible for me to be, but my patience has its limits. I will choose my own time and my own questions, and you will refuse to answer them at your peril."
She shrank from him as if he had struck her in the face.
"Allow me to pass," she demanded; but he neither moved nor spoke. In a moment her lip curled witheringly. "Am I to suppose that I am under arrest also?"
"If you insist on leaving the room, yes," was the blunt answer. She threw a hand to her throat and recoiled another step, overcome with a blank, horrified amazement.
"Me!" she gasped. "Arrest me!"
All at once she broke into a little laugh of biting contempt. "Why, I believe you are insane—irresponsible—that must be it. That is the only way to explain such extraordinary conduct. Now you will please step aside, and allow me to pass." She confronted him with a sudden flash of indignation before which any less masterful personality surely would have quailed. But Converse remained quite undaunted. His response was to produce his watch, with some ostentation, and stand holding it in his hand.
"As it happens," said he, easily, "I am in a hurry myself. I shall give you just two minutes to decide whether you will remain here and answer a few questions, or answer them at the police station; it is all one to me."
It is not likely that he was exacting about the time, for more than two minutes elapsed before Mrs. Westbrook gave any indication that she was not turned to stone; then slowly her rigidity relaxed, her pale eyes fell before his, a spot of color glowed on either cheek, and the man knew he had conquered. He was far from relishing the necessity for his conduct; he did not exult; but on the contrary, he responded to her capitulation with an air of deference and gentleness.
"Now then, Mrs. Westbrook," he resumed, in tones vastly altered, "I trust you have chosen the wiser course. I am asking little of you."
Her back was now turned to him, and she did not meet his regard.
"What is it you want?" she asked over one shoulder, and almost in a whisper.
"Well, first," becoming abruptly business-like and impersonal, "did you ever hear General Westbrook mention a certain Don Juan del Castillo?"
He paused, for the back turned to him betrayed a start.
"Because," he continued at once, "I believe it is through Don Juan that this mystery may be cleared." He hesitated again, curious to see her face.
Mrs. Westbrook astonished him. Quite without warning she wheeled about and took one or two rapid steps toward him. Her eyes were wide with a terror the existence of which nothing within his knowledge would account for; but it was plain that he had at last penetrated her reserve.
"What—what do you know of him?" she demanded in a hoarse, distressed whisper. "Who—who— Good God, what are you? What do you know?" As she awaited his reply her bosom rose and fell tumultuously.
"Mrs. Westbrook—calm yourself—there is no occasion for this excitement," he returned, sorely perplexed at this unexpected turn. He hesitated to press this woman whose agitation was so profound, yet incomprehensible; but she offered him an opportunity which duty sternly bade him take advantage of. "If you will be seated for a few minutes—" he added; but she again interrupted:
"Tell me—at once—what wrong has my husband done? My God! my God! Is his name to be smirched—to be dragged in the mire—now—now that he is dead?"
He considered his reply.
"Mrs. Westbrook, I have not come here to inquire into General Westbrook's conduct while he was alive, further than is necessary to aid me in finding who is responsible for his death. Of still greater importance than this is the necessity of freeing your daughter from the cloud of suspicion which now rests upon her—if it be possible."
Something very like a sob escaped from the woman's tightly compressed lips.
"Can—can—you—you—can you save Joyce," she faltered, "without dishonoring my—without dishonoring the dead?"
Could he? He weighed his answer carefully, and when he finally spoke it was to make an attempt at reassuring this agitated woman.
"You know, I suppose, that General Westbrook was a joint administrator of the Castillo estate?"
"Yes."
"Well, then," he spoke with much earnestness, "so far as my investigations have been carried into the mutual affairs of your husband and Alberto de Sanchez, not a circumstance has appeared that is not strictly honorable. The matter has been gone into fully; the records are correct in every particular—full and complete—and nothing whatever points to anything not strictly honest and fair."
Again Converse was surprised. Mrs. Westbrook suddenly sank into a chair and burst into tears.