The woman who presently turned to Mr. Converse was a very different woman from the one who had met him but a few minutes previously. As soon as the brief emotional outburst had exhausted itself her admirable poise and self-possession returned, and with it all the frigid reserve, the air of aloofness and apparent unconcern. But there was this immense difference:—where her attitude had been condescending and inflexibly hostile, it now conveyed a subtle suggestion of surrender, by recognizing some tremendous advantage which this man seemed to possess; she was no longer hard and unyielding, but ready to comply with any demands he might make; and he knew that every obstacle which served to seal her lips had been swept away as by a breath. Such was the potency of a name.
"Please be seated, Mr.—Mr. Converse," she finally said, her voice tense with controlled passion. There was no attempt at explanation, no apology,—unless this concession could be counted such,—and she faced him placidly, wholly at her ease.
"Was it of this," she continued, "that you talked to Charlotte Fairchild this morning?"
No doubt now why Joyce had inquired for him. So this leaven was at work.
"Yes, to a limited extent," was the cautious reply.
"You insinuated nothing—nothing—" she hesitated and still further lowered her voice, in which there was now a dominant note of anxiety, "you did not allow her to gather the idea that there was anything discreditable in General Westbrook's—"
"Pardon me," he broke in quietly. "I could hardly insinuate anything derogatory of the General's character, when I am ignorant that any such circumstance exists."
She looked at him doubtfully, narrowly, as if she would probe his thoughts, and presently sighed.
"If I only knew—" she breathed, vaguely.
"What, Mrs. Westbrook? I will tell you if I can."
"Well—" she still hesitated, "if I only knew what your knowledge amounts to. You say General Westbrook was innocent of any wrong-doing; how should you know? What reason have you had to consider the possibility at all, if some suspicion has not been engendered in your mind? Then, what occasioned that suspicion? You see, I am torn by doubts and anxieties."
"Yes, Mrs. Westbrook, so I perceive. But it would require half the night to go fully into this matter; and still, to free you from your doubts and anxieties, I may tell you this: that the tragedies of which Señor de Sanchez and your husband were the victims are very closely connected, and I have many reasons for believing that whatever light may be thrown upon one will correspondingly tend to clear the other. The name Castillo—or Del Castillo—bears a close relation to both; therefore it is essential that every circumstance bearing upon that relation should be known and understood. It is evident that you know something of Don Juan of which I am ignorant; it is also evident that whatever you know troubles you. Now, I may be able to remove the cause of that trouble, and you to give me some valuable information."
She pondered quite a while.
"Mr. Converse, I am a proud woman," she announced, simply; "to go into such intimate family matters—thus openly to discuss topics which I hesitate to contemplate even in the privacy of my own thoughts—is to me a very real torture; but for the sake of my dead husband, I owe you some sort of explanation. When you mentioned that name it frightened me; it made me suspect that you had the power of divining what is forbidden my own mind, and I naturally wondered to what extent that divination was capable of penetrating.
"But, after all, my fears have been based on a mere phantom—a name spoken in the dark—and in hearkening to it and pondering upon it, I have allowed myself greatly to wrong my husband. God forgive me! ... Has not the entire matter become irrelevant?" she abruptly finished, with obvious reluctance to proceed.
"Far from it—far from it," was the reply, uttered emphatically; "you must let me be the judge of that. There are so many ramifications to these two tragedies, that you cannot even remotely realize how significant and important the most trifling particular may be."
"But it does not affect Joyce—in any way you imagine.... Please be seated, Mr. Converse."
He obeyed this second injunction, drawing the chair around so that he directly faced her. He waited quietly for her to proceed.
"Do you still wish to hear?" she asked presently; and when he bowed a courteous intimation that he was waiting, she continued:
"Well, it is very difficult—it is so like a confession,"—she arose abruptly, and, walking to the door, bolted it; after which she resumed her seat and the recital simultaneously,—"that I hope my husband may hear and know it for an act of penance.
"General Westbrook was never a man to discuss his business affairs with any one, and there existed many reasons why he should not make a confidante of me; so I must tell you at the outset that what I heard of the name Del Castillo came to my ears in more or less of a surreptitious manner and without General Westbrook's knowledge. Whether the words themselves or the circumstances under which I heard them justify my anxiety, you may judge.
"When he finally wound up his affairs in Mexico and returned home, I noticed immediately that some trouble was weighing heavily upon his mind. I never showed him by word or sign that I remarked his mental state; but it was plain, nevertheless, and so unusual as to worry me not a little. As the days passed this secret trouble deepened rather than grew lighter, and developed in my poor husband an irascibility quite foreign to his uniformly courteous manner. Naturally, when I beheld that this trouble was not diminishing, my worry increased; but I never questioned him.
"Well, this condition continued for several months without abatement or apparent change, until one night I was awakened suddenly by hearing him cry aloud. I was very much startled,—frightened, indeed,—and I waited to see if I was the victim of my sleeping senses, or if he had indeed called out." She paused, and her thin lips momentarily tightened. "Then I experienced the most dreadful sensation of my life.
"Our apartments, you must know, adjoin and are divided only by portieres. We had both retired long since; I was dimly conscious of the lateness of the hour; and I had no reason to believe otherwise than that the General had been many hours asleep. But as I waited, I found that I had not been dreaming. I heard him say distinctly, 'I had rather see her dead at my feet than wife to such as you.'
"Now thoroughly alarmed, I switched on the light and hastened into his room. My husband was standing in the middle of the floor, and I perceived instantly that he was asleep. This merely increased my fright, for in all the years of our married life he had been a healthy sleeper, though retiring late and rising early.
"I caught his arm and called him by name. He awoke at once and looked at me in a dazed way; then he became unaccountably angry, and demanded to know if he had spoken. And when I told him, he explained his words as the vagaries of a bad dream. Far from satisfied, I accepted this explanation, scorning to question him concerning any matter which he did not choose to tell me voluntarily; and I returned to my own apartment in some chagrin, for his manner had offended me. I believe neither of us slept much the remainder of that night.
"Well, Mr. Converse, that was merely a beginning—four years ago. It may be difficult for you to understand my conduct under such trying circumstances—why I never questioned my husband; why I permitted my doubts and fears to continue without an effort to remove them; but General Westbrook and I to a certain extent lived our lives apart," the listener fancied he detected a note of bitterness in this statement,—"and we were not in entire accord upon all matters. Don't get the idea that any ground for trouble existed between us," she hastily added; "no, no,—but there was a certain restraint, a lack of sympathy, characterizing our entire married life, which led naturally to a repression of those confidences without which such a condition cannot be perfect. God help me, perhaps I was to blame; but so it was. And besides, I did try to remove my doubts—to quiet my fears, as you shall presently see.
"Two nights passed before I heard other dream vagaries, as he was pleased to call them, and I first heard the name Del Castillo upon this second occasion. I failed to catch the sense in which it was used, but after a long silence he began to say, over and over again, 'Paquita is not dead—Paquita is not dead.'"
Paquita again! Verily, she was not dead,—if her influence over the destinies of so many of the living signified anything at all.
"I listened until it nearly drove me mad, and again I awoke him. When I repeated his words he was angry, as he had been before, and at the same time confused. But he tried to laugh it off, and demanded that I think no more of the episode. In short, his manner was so strange and unnatural that I was worried nearly to distraction. How could I refrain from thinking of it? Of what use was it to bid my thoughts occupy themselves with other matters when they continued to circle about this dreadful secret which preyed so heavily upon his mind? Mr. Converse, you can't imagine the expedients I adopted to dissipate my fears, the casuistry I employed to banish my doubts. I would argue that his sense of honor was so exalted, his standard so high, that a very little thing might grievously trouble him, which might appear trivial to another man. But how could this idea be reconciled with his wild words of death?
"The next morning he announced to me that he would thenceforward sleep in another room. I made no comment, but superintended the removal of his things.
"I lay awake all that night and most of the next; then—then—"
Once more she paused. She plucked nervously at a fold of her skirt, manifesting the greatest reluctance to go on. But her nature was not to be swayed by trifles; if a painful confidence were once undertaken, it was quite plain she would press it to the end, sparing neither herself nor whomsoever else it might affect. All at once she folded her hands with an easy, natural movement and continued:
"Mr. Converse, where I would not openly seek light, I was not above listening in secret: in dressing-gown and slippers I stole to his door during the early morning hours, and knelt with my ear to the keyhole.
"Many times I was rewarded with no spoken words—only the evidences of a troubled and broken slumber. At other times I heard him say things that made my blood run cold: 'Man, before you do this thing I will kill you with my own hands'; again, 'Why did you not tell me this man is living?' At times he cursed some one in a terrible voice, and once—once—" She leant suddenly forward and fixed upon him a gaze moving in its intensity. "Mr. Converse, is this confidence buried within your own bosom?"
"It is," he replied, with convincing gravity.
"Once," she went on, leaning back again, "I heard him groan, 'Elinor, I may never look upon your face again; mea culpa! mea culpa!'" Of a sudden she clenched one hand convulsively and struck smartly an arm of the chair. "Good God! what could that mean?" she cried with a startling fierceness; then, one quick intake of breath, and she was again her usual tranquil, collected self. She attempted a little smile. "You see," she said, in a deprecating way, "that those confidences to the night have not yet lost their power to disturb me—and I am not easily moved." She remained silent for a time, as if collecting her thoughts; presently she resumed the narrative.
"There were certain names mentioned by him times innumerable. I have heard Castillo, Alberto de Sanchez, Paquita, my daughter's name, and Fernando—"
"Fernando?" Converse interpellated, sharply.
"Yes. Do you recognize it? I know no more of it than that."
He shook his head. "It is new to me.... But proceed, please."
"Well, at best the names were so confused and uttered in such a way that I could gather no connection, and oftener than not his words would trail off into incomplete sentences and unintelligible mutterings.
"But so it went on. Night after night I would hearken to the incoherencies of my sleeping husband, overcome with a nameless terror in the cold dark hall; in the broad glare of day my anxieties and fears would shrink almost to insignificance—but oh, the night!
"However, as time passed, whatever was preying on General Westbrook's mind began gradually to abate its evil influence; his sleep became once more healthy, and abruptly he returned to his regular apartment.
"Naturally, my own fears subsided somewhat; but a suspicion of unknown wrongdoing had been awakened in my mind, casting a continual shadow over my thoughts. Oh, that terrible worm of doubt that gnawed forever at my brain! After this, I believe, my poor husband could have made no explanation that would have destroyed it utterly.
"Of course, Mr. Converse, slight as was my knowledge of General Westbrook's affairs, I knew about his association with Señor de Sanchez. I also knew that Señor de Sanchez was a distinguished gentleman, of great wealth and excellent family; and when the question of his eligibility as a husband for my daughter was broached, I—I—I— Well, it was an honor of which any mother might have been proud."
"Mrs. Westbrook, I cannot believe that you are expressing your true feelings in this regard." The look that accompanied this announcement was sharp and meaning. "Were you satisfied with such an arrangement?"
She returned his scrutiny a little doubtfully; but at last asked:
"Can this be of any benefit to Joyce?"
"If you did not sanction Señor de Sanchez's proposal, I could scarcely overestimate its importance as an aid to clearing up some matters as they concern the young lady."
"Well, then I shall be frank. At first I did not give my approval; I had other ideas for Joyce's future; but one morning General Westbrook sent a request that I come to him in the library. The instant I entered I comprehended that he was struggling with some recent trouble. In the course of the conversation which followed he informed me that a very grave reason existed why we should consider carefully before definitely rejecting Señor de Sanchez's offer; and while he did not tell me what that reason was, I was given to understand that it involved some scandal threatening my husband, and that De Sanchez had the power to remove it.
"'Otherwise?' I inquired. He turned to a drawer of his desk and produced a pistol.
"'Otherwise,' he said with a smile, 'I might still escape it.'
"'Do you contemplate murder?' I asked.
"'Louise!' he cried in a hurt tone, as though pained that I could entertain such a thought; 'is it possible you can so misconstrue my words?'
"'I do not know how else to interpret them—nor your actions,' said I.
"'Then I shall be more explicit,' he rejoined; 'I would place the muzzle of this pistol—'
"'You need not continue,' I interrupted. 'Is it so serious?'
"'It is,' said he, very soberly.
"'And do you think now that I could see Joyce go to such a man?' I asked.
"'You do not fully understand,' he persisted. 'The situation is this,'—and he repeated that Señor de Sanchez would have the power to do away with the impending scandal. We concluded by agreeing to leave the matter with Joyce.
"Her manner of taking it greatly relieved the situation. 'Give me six months,' was her response. 'If at the end of that time you still consider it necessary, I will marry him.' She looked at her father with open scorn. Then she went on, 'You may inform him; but this promise rests on three conditions: that it be kept a secret; that it is never referred to in my presence, directly or indirectly; and that he make no attempt to see me till the six months have expired.'
"The General said, 'I am afraid he will receive the message with a sour smile, my dear.' But Joyce's manner showed a complete indifference. 'Moreover,' went on my husband, 'your word once passed, there must be no backing down—no retreat.' She flashed another scornful look at him, but merely said, 'Do not forget to emphasize the three conditions when you see Señor de Sanchez.'
"And such was the arrangement at the time of Señor de Sanchez's death."
The Captain fixed his regard upon the cold and handsome woman before him, and strove to harmonize her appearance with the remarkable marital condition revealed by her most amazing disclosure. Was it possible she sat as tranquilly as she now was sitting, and discussed in those arctic tones the chances of her husband committing suicide, with this same air of easy indifference? It was impossible not to believe her; yet such utter sang-froid was almost inconceivable.
In a moment Converse pulled himself together.
"With your permission, I will ask you a few questions concerning Miss Joyce. First, do you know why she remained silent before my questions this morning?"
She lowered her head, and sat for a time in deep reflection. When she again turned to him, it was not to reply directly to his question.
"I am not fully in my daughter's confidence in this matter, although I believe I do know what motives—or impulses, rather—are controlling her. I may add that they have my reprobation; but the interests involved are quite serious; Joyce has unexpectedly developed a phase of character astonishing to me, and for the first time in my life I hesitate to interfere in her affairs. The matter does not affect her own welfare alone, and I must refuse to go further into it with you. She has assumed a terrible responsibility, and however severely I may condemn her conduct, she has commanded my admiration. I feel that I must at least coöperate to the extent of respecting her silence. She wishes to see you, I believe. Hear from her what she has to say."
"Does your reticence include the interchange of messages between Miss Joyce and Mr. Fairchild?"
She looked at him with a quick accession of interest. "No," was her reply. "Why should you ask that?"
He waved the question to one side. "It's immaterial. Possibly there has been no such interchange.... There is but one more question, Mrs. Westbrook. While you were returning from Mrs. Farquier's last night, why did you peer so closely into the darkness? Whom were you expecting to see?"
A faint flicker of wonder penetrated the mask of her countenance, but quickly disappeared.
"I suppose all this is necessary?"
"It is, indeed."
"Well, I expected to see one of two young men."
"Ah! Then the one you did see—the fact of its being Mr. Lynden—removed a cause of worry?"
"You are correct. I could not consider him seriously in any light."
That was all. As she arose, she inclined her head slightly. "Joyce will see you here," she said.
Had every incident of the past half-hour been a dream? Here was the identical woman who had given him such a glacial welcome, now leaving him with the same air of reserve and aloofness. No, not quite. She was nearly to the door, when of a sudden she faced about and advanced close to him; and for the third time during this extraordinary interview he was so taken aback that he was at a loss for words.
She stood motionless for a time, her pale, cold eyes fixed intently on his serious gray ones. Then she spoke.
"Look closely, Mr. Converse."
He was disconcerted, and made no response. Presently she went on.
"You think I am a strange woman, do you not?—cold, callous, indifferent, incapable of any feeling?"
Still he was at a loss for words.
"You, who read me so well,—who seemed to divine all of Joyce's thoughts and actions,—look deep into my eyes. Am I such a woman?"
Then, to him who gazed so earnestly, it was as if a miracle had happened; as if the icy shell which encased this handsome woman had all at once melted—vanished from before his eyes—and it was given him to read the naked soul beneath. It was as swift in passing, but as vivid, as a flash of lightning.
He retreated a step and bowed low to her.
"Mrs. Westbrook, forgive me; I have misjudged you. I see that your daughter's welfare is as indissolubly a part of your own as if your two lives were one." He paused a moment, then concluded earnestly, "I'll do what I can for her—to free her from this coil. You have my word."
She moved to the door before making any response. With her hand on the knob she turned and faced him again.
"God aid you," she whispered, and was gone.
Possibly ten minutes elapsed before Miss Westbrook entered the room; had she been a witness of her mother's departure, she would have known that Mr. Converse had not stirred during that time. His attention was evidently drawn forcibly back from distant spaces and fixed upon her with an effort. In seeking this meeting she had prepared for an ordeal, but now she became sensible of the fact that other concerns besides her own might occupy his mind, and that those unwavering, piercing eyes, the scrutiny of which was so disconcerting, were able to look at and through her without being aware of her presence. She was reluctant to break in upon a concentration which so candidly ignored her.
Her appearance was unaltered from what it had presented that morning, save, perhaps, for a faint tinge of color in the pale cheeks and the added light of some purpose in the depths of her violet eyes. Notwithstanding the high spirit revealed in the unconscious flash of her glance, she was, after all, very slight, very fragile, and very feminine; and she was soon to have dire need of all the support that could be rendered her.
Quite suddenly she became aware of recognition in his regard. She moved impulsively toward him, her hand for a moment tentatively outstretched; as she spoke, her color deepened.
"Mr. Converse," she began with shy hesitancy, "I—I have come here to beg your forgiveness." Her voice was low and soft, her manner winning.
"Well, Miss Westbrook," he retorted, a note of raillery in his speech, designed to place her completely at her ease, "I am a sorely wronged person; however, I am not—" But, still impulsively, she interrupted him.
"Mr. Converse, I was unpardonably rude this morning; I must have appeared wretchedly mean and ill-bred; but you have no idea what doubts and anxieties—" But now he stopped her.
"Tut, tut, Miss Westbrook; I do know. I understand perfectly, and sympathize with you."
"Still," she persisted, "if I had only known this morning! If—"
The talk was becoming a series of interruptions.
"Ah, 'if,'" he took her up. "You are familiar with the saying about one convinced against his will, eh? This morning I recognized the necessity of a—er—a softening influence—the ineptness of a mere man. If you had been in the same mood then that you are now, I should have missed one of the pleasantest hours of my life. So you see, that even a young lady's whims and caprices are not without their compensations. What have you learned that has moved you to kindlier feelings?" He spoke lightly; but there was an intelligible purpose in his concluding question.
"About Clay—about Mr. Fairchild," she murmured, shyly. Another wave of color, deeper than before, dyed her cheeks. "Is it true you do not suspect him of—of—"
Converse sobered before her earnest, searching inspection.
"My dear young lady," he returned, gravely, "it is entirely owing to Mr. Fairchild himself and to you, that any suspicion was ever drawn to him. Between the two of you, each has done about all that could be done to make me suspect the other. Then the Doctor—well, among you all, you've succeeded in getting things badly tangled up."
"That would make me very happy were there not so much else to distress me."
He regarded her with the utmost seriousness. What peculiar conception did she have of her position? She seemed utterly blind to its peril—or else was recklessly disregardful. But it was an easy matter to adapt himself to her present compliant humor.
"Still, Miss Westbrook," said he, "there is much yet that needs clearing up. After all this delay the situation has become serious and will require extraordinary deftness in its handling—especially as concerns yourself. If you and Mr. Fairchild cannot lend me a very considerable aid, my task will be prodigious. The additional distress which you may be obliged to endure I hesitate to point out."
She waited while he took a turn up and down the room.
"In the first place," he resumed, coming to an abrupt pause before her, "I must have absolute frankness from you, from the Doctor, and Mr. Fairchild. Nothing must be kept back. The older heads are the wiser, Miss Westbrook. Your mother sees this thing as I do."
"Do you know," she interposed, her voice betraying a sudden awe and wonder, "that mamma advised me to be perfectly open and candid with you?" She gazed at him as if trying to fathom what other mysterious forces lay behind his blank, rough visage. "She came from you to me with such an admonition."
"I am not at all surprised. Mrs. Westbrook is a very sensible woman, profoundly interested in what affects her daughter."
She shook her head doubtfully, as if the matter remained an insoluble riddle.
"However," he continued, "she was right, and I believe her opinion is in harmony with your own."
"Yes; I shall keep nothing back." The color all at once ebbed from her cheeks, leaving them white and cold. Her sensitive lips trembled, yet her voice remained steady and even, and she looked at him without a sign of confusion, as she made the simple statement: "I love Clay, Mr. Converse. Does that explain anything?"
He regarded her with undisguised admiration.
"It explains a great deal," he replied, "but not all—not all."
"Well, I hardly know how to begin," she said, slowly and thoughtfully; "my thoughts seem anchored to that great fact; it is so sufficient to my own mind—" She paused.
"You are sure you can trust me now, Miss Westbrook?"
"I intend to—freely, fully."
"Then begin at the beginning. Tell me about the afternoon of the fourth—at what time you went to the Nettleton Building, and what took place there; just what you saw and heard."
As he spoke, her face clouded.
"Well," was the response, "I—I was—"
But there came an unlooked for interruption. A sudden sound of hurrying footsteps and excited voices, somewhere in the house below, broke upon their hearing, expropriating the attention of both. The girl stood rigid, startled, while the Captain turned hastily toward the door as the clamor resolved itself into a rapid approach to the room in which they were.
Before he could lay his hand upon the knob, a loud rap sounded on the panel, and a shaking voice called aloud Miss Westbrook's name. She paled, and it forced a little cry from her; the door burst open, and a strange group poured in upon them.
First came Lynden clutching a crumpled newspaper, his face bloodless and twitching with intense agitation. He surged forward as though forcing his way through a mass of obstacles; his usually fastidious attire was dishevelled. Close behind him followed McCaleb, much calmer, but plainly showing signs of excitement; and beyond McCaleb stood Mrs. Westbrook, the placidity of her handsome features unruffled, her equanimity not at all disturbed by the tumult.
Before Lynden's unceremonious entrance Joyce recoiled, with an involuntary look of scorn and indignation which engaged Mr. Converse's interest. Lynden hastened directly toward her, without the least notice of any one else. He extended the paper, and, in tones hoarse and tense, cried,
"Joyce! Good God! what does this mean?"
She glanced indifferently at the sheet—shaking in Lynden's hands so that it rattled—to start next instant and utter a little gasp.
"Tell me," Lynden insisted with furious vehemence, "what does this mean? Who has betrayed you?"
She quickly recovered herself.
"I can't imagine," she replied coolly, "unless some spy has done so." There was an inflexion of indignant contempt upon the word, glaring to every one but Lynden.
"Spy? Spy?" he repeated blankly. "I don't understand." But of a sudden he did, and in turn recoiled from Joyce. For the first time he became aware of the presence of others besides himself and the girl, and he shot over the assembled group a glance at once accusing, fearful, suspicious, and revealing a sense of shame and embarrassment too deep for the insinuation alone to account for its existence. Shame-facedly and abashed, he looked from Converse to McCaleb, and muttered an unintelligible apology to Mrs. Westbrook.
But Joyce, who had not removed her steady gaze from him, followed his glance, and in tones that must have penetrated him like knife-thrusts, said:
"Pray, Howard Lynden, do not attempt to place a misconstruction upon my words. When I said 'spy,' I did not refer to either of these gentlemen. Although they are officers of the law and I seem to be in a miserably compromising position, they have not dogged my every movement; they have not stood off at a distance and looked suspicion at me every time I met their eyes; they have not made my condition more wretched by all sorts of innuendoes and vile insinuations, and yet—and yet—" for a moment she was almost in tears; her throat filled, and she had to pause; but the weakness was conquered almost at once, and she continued, with flashing eyes, her voice quivering with indignation,—"yet, Howard Lynden, you—you have pretended to be my friend. As for that"—she advanced a step toward him, and pointing an accusing finger at the paper in his hand, concentrated all her feelings in her next words. So scathing were they that Lynden winced visibly at each syllable, as if it had been the lash of a whip,—-"as for that, I think of it as I do of you—you spy; you sneak! Go, go! never let my eyes rest upon you again!"
Completely discomfited—overwhelmed by the sting of her words,—he offered not the shadow of a defence. Abruptly, the girl's mood changed. It was like the snapping of a string drawn too taut. One convulsive sob escaped her, she seemed of a sudden to droop, and the next instant Mrs. Westbrook, moving noiselessly, was at her side. Calmly and without a word she passed an arm about her daughter's waist and drew the girl close to her side.
"Mamma, mamma," Joyce faltered, her voice breaking as though she had reached the limit of endurance, "don't read it! Don't look at it! Oh!—Oh!—help me!" Shuddering she hid her face upon her mother's shoulder, her slender form quivering with sobs that could not be restrained.
With features sternly set, Converse advanced and snatched the paper from Lynden's passive fingers. It required no search to find the one important item that it contained. In letters which any who ran might read, appeared the following headlines:
DE SANCHEZ MURDER
————
Startling and Suggestive Discovery
Made by Coroner Merkel
————
IMPORTANT WITNESS FOUND
————
Saw Lady Running from Scene of Crime at
Time It Happened
————
MYSTERIOUS WOMAN NOW KNOWN
————
She is Prominent in Society and May Also Account
for the Westbrook Tragedy
As might be expected after this scare head, what followed was sensational enough. The name of neither Joyce nor Slade was mentioned; but for one familiar with the case it was easy to comprehend that the abstractor was the witness and Joyce the woman.
For the moment the Captain was overwhelmed with this unforeseen result of his delay in calling upon the abstractor; and what next occurred in the Westbrook morning-room is especially worthy of preservation as constituting the one and only time that John Converse is known ever to have given a free and untrammelled expression to his inmost feelings.
"The damned ass!" he ejaculated vehemently; at the same time rending the paper in halves and tossing the fragments from him with a violence that caused every one in the room to jump.
Added to the tumultuous occurrences of that day, Lynden's advent with the published evidence of the Coroner's fatuity produced a condition in the Westbrook household amounting to consternation. For a time Joyce managed to infuse a semblance of calmness into her mien; but as the brutality of the narrative impressed itself upon her, as realization grew in her dazed mind of the callous indifference with which her own feelings were ignored in the light of the mere sensation, she seemed gradually to sink as if beneath a crushing weight; her lips became bloodless and drawn, and the lovely eyes took on a wistful, helpless expression pitiful to see. She became strangely quiet, and it was noticeable that no one seemed inclined to disturb her where she sat, still encircled by the arm of her silent mother.
Lynden, obviously, was overcome by an intense shame and mortification; by degrees he managed to arrive close to the open door, and in the stress of the moment to slip away without eliciting a farewell of any nature, unless the disconcerting look with which the eyes of both the officers followed him and somewhat hastened his exit may be so regarded.
As for the Captain himself, he was angry clear through, and for a while not a little dismayed. His thoughts flew rapidly during the few minutes which followed his hurried reading of the article; presently, when he turned to McCaleb, that young man missed a flint-like gleam which had been flashing the admonition that it was not an opportune time for engaging his chief's attention; but now, in the face of a familiar pucker, and an elevation of the eyebrow, he did not hesitate to advance toward the older man, who stood with his hands thrust deeply into his trousers pockets, a massive figure of grim determination.
"Mac," said Converse, "go at once to Mr. Mountjoy's residence and ask him to come here immediately—bring him with you. Hurry! ... Miss Joyce," he continued, wheeling to the two drooping figures in the corner, "tell me, please, where Mr. Fairchild is."
She looked wildly at him, and all at once her look became vacant. She made no response. His eyes narrowed as he noted that glance, and he addressed the two women no more. But as he was on the point of leaving the room, he was arrested by the elder lady's voice.
"Don't—don't leave us," she whispered, with an appeal that might have made him smile at another time. Quite without warning, she clasped the girl to her. "Good God!" she cried despairingly, "they will be here presently to carry Joyce to—to jail!" She sat panting, as if she had been running.
"Oh, no, they will not," he rejoined quietly, his inflexion satisfyingly convincing. "Officers will be here by and by I have no doubt; but Miss Joyce shall remain beneath this roof to-night. Don't worry, Mrs. Westbrook; matters are not so bad as they appear just now."
"How can you prevent it?" she demanded anxiously.
"Leave that to me. Stay here with your daughter until I return. If I encounter Melissa, I will send her to you."
In the hall he reflected an instant, then made his way directly to Joyce's bedroom. As he unceremoniously threw the door open, he was met by a startled cry from the young lady's maid.
"Go to your mistress—in the morning-room," he commanded; and the woman, meeting his glance, obeyed without a word.
Before the southernmost of the two windows facing the west stood the small table of which McCaleb had spoken, upon it an unlighted lamp and a wax taper in a brass candle-stick. A tablet of letter paper lay beside these.
After first closing and making fast the door, he picked up the tablet and tossed back the cover, and there, in young Fairchild's hand, was the code of signals. After studying it at some length, he presently replaced the tablet on the table, and, leaving the window, switched off the lights.
But the blackness did not remain long unbroken. He was moving with an agility which was none the less swift by reason of its being noiseless, and as soon as the incandescent lights were extinguished, he struck a match, lighted the candle, and waited, looking intently through the window into the night.
Almost instantly he uttered a satisfied ejaculation. Straight ahead, but seemingly as distant as a star, the darkness was penetrated by a single tiny spark of light. It was so small and feeble that it certainly would have been swallowed up and lost had there been any other intervening illumination; but there it glowed, a single coruscation against the velvet pall of night.
Upon moving slightly to one side, the light at once vanished; but it again appeared when he resumed his former position. A movement to the other side had the same result: evidently, through the trees and buildings of various kinds which stood between the Westbrook house and the source of the mysterious point of light, there was but one straight passage free from obstructions and leading directly to the centre of this window.
He consulted the tablet, and moved his own taper slowly up once and then down again, to the table. Immediately the distant spark appeared to rise an inch or so and settle once more to its former position. Thus was a familiar greeting flashed through the night, and answered: "Hello!" The manipulator of the distant light, of course, had no idea that another than Joyce was engaging his attention by means of this novel wireless telegraphy; and Mr. Converse resolved to try the effect of the most startling announcement he could find—not without a clearly defined purpose.
The code contained nothing that could convey an adequate idea of the close surveillance under which Joyce had been all day, nor of the events of the past twelve hours; it was impossible to say what intelligence she had imparted when McCaleb observed her with the candle earlier in the evening; but after a brief consideration, he selected the announcement:
"All is discovered."
The effect was instantaneous. The little spark waved frantically, and at times so vehement were its movements that it disappeared altogether: it darted about so erratically—stuttered, one might say—that it was impossible to catch an inkling of what it intended to convey; and then it abruptly vanished, not to reappear.
After waiting several minutes, he presently chuckled grimly and muttered: "The old Fairchild homestead! Now, that young man displays a resourcefulness and cleverness that I admire. I'll wager he and I are face to face before morning."
He switched on the lights again, extinguished the candle, and quitted the room.
In the morning-room he was again confronted by the cold light of Mrs. Westbrook's pale eyes. Her expression of indifference had taken on a new meaning for him since he had first come face to face with her there to-night; it hid a history of which the world indubitably would never scan a page. To him it now afforded an illumination into hitherto hidden phases of the dead husband's character rather than an index to her own repressed nature; and his manner toward her remained gently deferential. Joyce still sat with her head pillowed on her mother's shoulder, her appearance betraying complete physical relaxation.
"Now, Mrs. Westbrook," he began, "when to-morrow dawns, matters are going to be in a far different condition than they are just now. In spite of my efforts, the cat seems to be out of the bag; but I believe the worst has happened."
Joyce sat suddenly upright.
"The worst!" she exclaimed, laughing bitterly. "Pray, sir, how long is this suspense to continue? Why do you delay?" She thrust forward two little white hands, two slender wrists. "Here! why do you not place the handcuffs upon me, and drag me to prison? You began your work this morning—tell me, why do you torture me with this delay? Is a prolongation of it a part of what I have to endure? O my God! my God! let my humiliation be complete!" She was quite hysterical, her manner so wild and unnatural that he felt the futility of attempting to reason with her.
"The worst!" she repeated. "God knows how bad it is when I am conscious of a feeling of gladness that papa—cruelly as he died—is not here to witness it."
"Hush, Joyce!" commanded the mother.
"I will say it," Joyce cried; "it is but the truth. Were poor papa not dead, this would kill him! What was it he dreaded? What was it he feared? Mamma, you know! Oh, God help me! God help me!" Throwing her arms about her mother's neck, she once more hid her face on the other's shoulder, and burst into a storm of weeping.
"The first time," whispered Mrs. Westbrook, unmoved—meaning, doubtless, that it was the first time Joyce had found the relief of tears. She strove to soothe the distressed girl; but her nature, clearly, had forgotten how to spend itself through the gentler and more gracious feminine channels, and for the moment she appeared stiff and awkward.
With manner subdued, as if he were in a sick-chamber, Mr. Converse addressed the mother, striving through her to reassure the almost frenzied girl.
"I shall presently know a number of things which have been kept from me until now,—which I should have known days ago. I hope your daughter's and Mr. Fairchild's reasons for silence will have been removed. With the facts known as they should be, Miss Joyce's causes for anxiety and worry will disappear in a large measure, and she need no longer fear that I shall misunderstand her or place a false interpretation upon circumstances over which she has had no control. There has been too much that is false: her position has been false, as has been the Doctor's and Mr. Clay's. She had come to a realization of all this for herself."
"It was Charlotte," Mrs. Westbrook interpellated in a strange, hard voice. "It was Charlotte Fairchild who influenced Joyce to speak."
Converse eyed her curiously.
"Well, at any rate, she was about to take me into her confidence, when Lynden appeared. Try to impress upon her that I will do in her behalf everything consistent with my duty. As soon as she is able to continue what she started to relate, why, the quicker can we get things shipshape again. The whole mystery hinges upon what happened in the Nettleton Building that day. Retire, if you desire; but I expect the District Attorney here presently, and you will be interested in what takes place."
On the instant Sam announced that Mr. Mountjoy was waiting below. Converse cast an inquiring look at Mrs. Westbrook, who inclined her head.
"Conduct Mr. Mountjoy here, Sam," was the result of the look.
Joyce disengaged herself from her mother's embrace, and sat upright once more, looking to her disordered tresses with certain deft and subtle touches. She turned to the Captain with a calmness which showed that his recent words had not been lost upon her: the deep violet eyes yielded a faint light of hope; the sweet face became rapidly more composed.
Mr. Mountjoy paused a moment in the doorway; catching sight of the two ladies, he hastened toward them.
"My dear Mrs. Westbrook—Joyce," said he, taking a hand of each in turn. "It is distressing to see you thus." His voice was full of sympathy and condolence, but he made no further effort to frame his feelings with words.
Mr. Mountjoy was well past middle age, but not far above middle height. He was slender and gray, and his thin, handsome features were saved from asceticism only by the innumerable fine lines of humor about his eyes. However, he was serious enough now, as he looked to the Captain for an explanation.
Mr. Mountjoy's Thin, Handsome Features were Saved from Asceticism Only by the Lines of Humor about His Eyes.
Mr. Mountjoy's Thin, Handsome Features were Saved from Asceticism
Only by the Lines of Humor about His Eyes.
"I suppose you have seen the extra edition of the Herald?" the latter asked.
Mountjoy nodded affirmatively.
"Did it occur to you that the unnamed lady was none other than Miss Westbrook?"
The lawyer looked his astonishment, but said nothing.
"Well, it's a fact, Mr. Mountjoy; and I wish to say, first of all, that that ass—that Merkel—never did a worse bit of blundering in his life."
"It seems beyond belief," was Mountjoy's commentary, "that he would give a matter of this nature to the newspapers."
Converse grunted, and cold type cannot express the amount of scorn he managed to inject into it. "It's done—all that he could do to tie my hands."
Mountjoy noted that the inscrutable gray eyes were resting upon Miss Westbrook, as if their owner's thoughts had taken a sudden flight beyond their present environment; and he in turn looked at her, too, and considered.
The idea of associating this girl with such a crime was preposterous; yet the District Attorney had an unbounded confidence in the chief of detectives, and at the same time he was sensible of a feeling of dismay and alarm. He knew her for an intrepid, high-spirited girl, governed largely by capricious impulses, but sane, and at heart pure and generous; he felt that she was more likely to act upon the spur of the moment, and cope with consequences afterward, than regard the consequences first; but all such traits, while they might account for an ordinary offence, were alone very far from being adequate reasons for connecting her with a charge of so grave a nature.
"Let us get at it ab initio," said he quietly, seating himself. "Sit down, John."
Converse availed himself of the opportunity, but slowly and with an unaccountable hesitancy of manner. His brow was knotted, and he sat pondering.
"After all," he began at length, "it's going to be a hard matter for me to tell you just what you ought to know."
"Why?" asked the lawyer, surprised at this reluctant confidence.
Converse eyed him narrowly a moment; and then, evidently, his mind changed.
"No, I am not going to tell you anything—now," he said, grimly. "I didn't send for you to hear me talk, but to hear what Miss Westbrook has to say. I can't anticipate how her words will affect you, Mr. Mountjoy; but whatever their tenor, pray do not forget that I still have charge of this case, and until I am ready—"
During his last words Joyce had arisen and approached the speaker. Now she interrupted by laying a hand upon his arm.
"Then let me speak," she said, "while I can. Let me tell what I started to when I was interrupted." She turned and faced Mountjoy.
"It is true that Mr. Howe and my brother have been keeping something back, but when you hear what it is, see if you can blame them. When Mobley testified at the inquest that he had no reason to believe any other person was in the Nettleton Building besides those known to be present, he uttered merely the truth; he was assailed by a great fear; but at that moment he did not know that I had not yet departed. Oh, dear me!" she suddenly exclaimed; "the truth sometimes is so hard to tell—so hard! What I have to say seems, even to myself, so wild and impossible, that I sometimes wonder if I am not the victim of a wretched nightmare. But, Mr. Mountjoy—Mr. Converse—I trust you will believe me." She clasped her hands and looked an earnest appeal from one to the other.
The lawyer now was grave, his thin features yielding no decipherable expression; Converse's mien was wholly encouraging and sympathetic.
"Pshaw, Miss Westbrook," said the latter, heartily, "don't let such a doubt worry you for an instant. You have no idea what my credulity will stand."
Again she glanced from one to the other, and thenceforth, after returning her hand timidly to the Captain's brawny arm, addressed herself directly to him.
"I stepped from Mobley's office into the hall that afternoon, leaving him and Mr. Howe together; and within two seconds thereafter Señor de Sanchez was killed. Although I saw it done—"
"My God! Miss Joyce!" burst suddenly from Mountjoy. He started violently at her last words and stared wide-eyed at her. "And you have kept that back all this time!"
"Wait," she returned. There was a strange ring in her voice, which was firm and even, although she was visibly trembling. "Although I saw that man done to his death, I did not realize at the moment what was happening before my eyes. Please do not interrupt. It is hard enough to make myself understood when I tell you just what happened and in the way it happened, and I hesitate to go on. Dear me! dear me! I know—I know you can't believe my story of that dreadful, dreadful afternoon."
The lawyer withdrew his concentrated gaze from her white face and glanced at the expressionless detective. He said easily and with obvious sincerity:
"Your sensitiveness makes you forget, Miss Joyce, that we could not doubt a statement made by you. You may be wrong in your conclusions, but never in intent."
Unconsciously, her hand was yet lying on Converse's arm, and again she turned and searched his rough countenance earnestly. What she found there was evidently satisfactory, for she proceeded at once:
"From the moment I crossed the threshold of Mobley's door, every circumstance seems to have incriminated me. I knew that the poor man was expected by my brother, for Mobley and I together framed the letter which you found on his desk."
"You were there—with Howe and the Doctor, eh?" asked Mountjoy. "But pardon me; please go on."
"We excused ourselves to Mr. Howe, and Mobley wrote it. Next, glancing at my watch, I saw that it was five o'clock, and I left right away, for I wished to avoid a meeting with Señor de Sanchez. But I had no sooner stepped out of the office into the hall than I heard footsteps on the stairway. I paused one instant. They were coming steadily up, and the person—whoever he might be—and I would be face to face in the hall."
Converse felt the little hand tremble on his arm. The girl's eyelids all at once drooped wearily, but she pressed her other hand lightly across them, as if to brush away an obstructing veil.
"At that instant," she went on immediately, "I noticed that Mr. Nettleton's door was ajar. It was but a step to its shelter, and without thinking twice, I ran to it and—and—"
She faltered with an air of having forgotten what she would say. The others were hanging upon her words in a silence that was almost painful: Mountjoy intensely eager; the officer once more impassive; while Mrs. Westbrook had risen and approached a step or two nearer her daughter, whom she stood watching strangely, as if puzzled by something beyond and behind her words.
"You ran to the door—" suggested Converse; again the girl tried to brush away the persistent intervening veil.
"I feel so queerly," she said; "everything is whirling around so."
"You have been tried beyond your strength," interposed the lawyer; "perhaps we had better postpone—"
"No, no, no!" She checked him with sudden vehemence. "I must go on—I must. If I don't tell now, I never may. Where was I?" The lovely eyes glowed unnaturally bright; unconsciously she lifted her hand and struck the officer's arm with feverish impatience.
"You hurried to Mr. Nettleton's—"
"Yes—I pushed open the door and got behind it. My sole idea then was to escape a meeting with that man. I didn't close it entirely. I wheeled about and peeped down the hall, realizing that I was none too soon; for, sure enough, Señor de Sanchez was coming toward my brother's office.
"I watched him with a sort of fascination, and for the first time I experienced a strange, shrinking dread of the man—a fear I had never known before. For the first time I seemed to be looking at the man himself,—not at a handsome animated mask,—and what I saw made me shudder."
And so did the bare recollection. Once more the persistent veil had to be swept aside—this time with a nervous, agitated hand—and the recital was taken up again, precipitately, in a veritable rush of words. As the crisis was gradually approached, the suspense became almost unendurable; the effect of what the actuality had been upon the tender, thoughtless witness thereof became more and more manifest—undoubtedly a shock and a horror too deep and far-reaching for expression. The gravity of the situation could scarcely be overestimated. The issue now hanging in the balance was so vital, so momentous, that at least two of the auditors were in a state of anxious, doubtful eagerness which blinded them to the girl's true condition.
"As Señor de Sanchez came nearer between the two doors—Mr. Nettleton's and Mobley's—I was obliged to widen the crack somewhat, or else the man would have passed from my view. So great was the spell in which his undisguised self held me, that I did so without being aware of the act until too late. But I need not have feared that the movement would attract his attention—" The little hand clutched the unyielding arm convulsively, another shudder swept over the slight form, and her voice all at once lowered and became hoarse.
"I had no thought at all," she continued, receding from the one point for which they were all so eager, yet feared to interrupt the recital of to hear. "I was aware of nothing but a blind, unreasoning instinct to escape. I ran wildly toward the door opening into the next office, where I almost ran into Clay. But I did not pause; his speechless astonishment made no impression upon me; I thought nothing of it when he hastened by me into the room I had just quitted, as if to learn the cause of my agitation and unceremonious intrusion upon his privacy—I was simply wild to escape, and I ran on to the other hall door, where I stopped again. Other footsteps! I thought that terrible man would be for ever in passing, and I crouched there, clinging to the door-knob and whimpering like a terrified child. Then, quite suddenly, through the crack of the door, I caught a glimpse of Howard Lynden; he too was going towards my brother's—"
She paused and placed a hand to her throat, and all at once Converse became sensible of the fact that the pressure of the hand on his arm was increasing; that now, instead of lying there to hold his attention, it was in reality supporting the speaker. It seemed as if her will were putting forth its last effort to bear her up until she had finished.
"But what you saw—" he demanded. "Hurry, Miss Westbrook; what was it you saw before you fled?"
"As—as Señor de Sanchez got between me and—and Mobley's door, Howard—"
"Lynden?" sharply, from the detective.
"No, no. What was I saying? Howard was not there. Why do you draw so far away from me?"
The veil was becoming more persistent, the effort to remove it weaker and more unavailing. Unnoticed by Joyce, Mrs. Westbrook glided to her side, and for the second time that night passed a supporting arm about her daughter's waist. At the same time Converse clasped the trembling hand on his arm; he felt its hold loosening.
"Just one word more, and this thing must end," he said, with abrupt authority. "De Sanchez got between you and the Doctor's door," he prompted. "What then?"
"Why—why—he all at once became terrified at something in front of him. Oh, the dreadful expression of his face! He—he—"
"Which way was he facing?"
"Straight ahead—toward the end of the hall. At that moment his face became frozen with a nameless terror; he threw up a hand to ward off the blow; but—but—"
"Yes, yes—then?"
"Then I—I—saw— Mamma, what ails the lights?—they are becoming so dim."
"Good God, Miss Joyce, hasten! You saw—"
She turned a hazy look toward him.
"I—I—saw—" one more futile effort to brush away the veil—"I—I saw—" and the girl, her face like wax, hung limp and silent between the Captain and her mother.
It had indeed ended.
With a movement that disengaged the motionless figure from Mrs. Westbrook's encircling arm, Converse lifted Joyce lightly and deposited her upon a couch. The look which he bestowed upon the white, pinched face was one of concern, and for an instant he laid one hand lightly upon her marble-like brow, then felt her pulse.
"I was afraid of this," said Mountjoy. "How insensibly a man can be a brute. Poor child, she has fainted; the strain—" He paused suddenly, catching a peculiar look from the Captain.
The latter shook his head.
"Telephone for her brother," said he to the motionless mother, his manner free from any quality that might alarm; "send for Doctor Bane. Don't be frightened," he added, hastily, noting the startled attitudes of the other two; "it is simply a matter of not assuming any unnecessary responsibility. What this poor child has experienced deserves the best medical care at command."
As he had some knowledge of all things under the sun, he was also something of a physician, and knew that this coma was more than a simple lapsing into unconsciousness.
In silence the detective and the lawyer descended the stairs, and that silence was not broken until they arrived at the sidewalk.
"What do you think?" asked Mountjoy.
"Brain fever," was the laconic reply.
The evil spirit of a bitter love
And a revengeful heart.
—CLAUDE MELNOTTE'S APOLOGY.
Before Converse and the District Attorney separated that night they had come to an agreement that considerably mystified Mr. Mountjoy. It was no less than the assertion of a determination by the former to disappear for a time, and an assurance by the District Attorney that he would keep the Captain informed about affairs local during the latter's absence.
"Ah, and I am to provide the red fire?" inquired the lawyer, mildly, in his precise way, "to see to the braying of the trumpets and the clashing of the cymbals?"
"There is to be no red fire. I wish to vanish as inconspicuously as possible, my absence to remain unnoted; but while I am gone I should like to feel sure that matters here will remain just as they are."
"How long is this absence to continue?"
Converse shook his head. "That I can't say: a month, possibly—maybe two; at any rate, until I get what I'm going after," he ended grimly.
This determination was noted with silent approval; but the lawyer at once said:
"Since it is not your custom to furnish material for that pavement which is made up of good intentions, I will refrain from touching upon your objective. I suppose I must take you as heretofore, on faith. All right.... And how am I to keep you informed on the march of events?"
"Communicate with No. 18 Ash Lane, care of Abram Follett, junk dealer."
For a moment Mr. Mountjoy's astonishment was quite frank and decidedly patent.
"Abram Follett!" he cried, "junk dealer! Who the devil is Abram Follett, junk dealer! John, I must admit that behind your adamantine front there exist depths which I despair of ever sounding, and—and—" he finally stammered, "confound it! do you suppose me absolutely devoid of curiosity?"
But the reply was given imperturbably.
"Well, sir, Abram Follett is—Abram Follett; his address is No. 18 Ash Lane."
The attorney looked up at the whimsically elevated brow, the pursed lips, and, with a hopeless shrug of the shoulders, wrote the name and address in his memorandum-book. In a few minutes they parted.
Converse went directly to a large and imposing structure which stood close by the City Hall,—the headquarters of the local telephone system.
The lower story, given over to the offices of various departments, was at this hour of the night dark and apparently untenanted; but the soft glow of many shaded incandescent lights from the upper floors indicated the nucleus of an endless activity.
Without hesitation, Mr. Converse entered the dimly lighted lower hall, passed the ornamental iron cage of the elevator, now bearing a card which announced with direct brevity, "Not running," and ascended a wide marble stairway. He arrived presently before a glass swinging door and into an atmosphere so quiet that it made a conversation which was then in progress somewhere farther on to his left come to him with unusual distinctness.
His attention was held by the voices, emanating, apparently, from a lighted room farther along the hall. The subject of the colloquy was so singularly in harmony with the object of his present visit, that he came to an involuntary pause.
"But about Miss Carter, Henty," said one of the voices; "sure she didn't dream it after reading the papers this morning?"
"Oh, no. She called me over some time after midnight and said the line had been open a long time—told me then."
"Well, I sure would tell the police, Henty,—or Captain Converse. He's the fellow to see."
"You may tell me now, gentlemen, if it is your pleasure," said a quiet, peculiar whisper from the doorway; and the two occupants of the room sat petrified with astonishment.
The two young men had been seated comfortably with their feet on the flat-topped desk between them; one, it appeared, had been pursuing the somewhat exacting undertaking of coloring a meerschaum pipe, upon which he bestowed many a solicitous glance. The other puffed nervously at a cigarette.
"I believe you and your friend were discussing the very matter that brought me here," Converse began pleasantly, advancing into the room. "I couldn't help overhearing something of what you were saying, and I should like to talk with that young lady—Miss Carter, didn't I hear you say?"
One young man now arose abruptly, and after proffering the Captain his chair, departed.
Converse sat down. His stolid composure was not without a suggestion of affability, which was perhaps the more effective by reason of its being reserved rather than brought into play.
"First of all, Mr. Henty, when a receiver is taken down from its hook, Central pretty soon asks what number is wanted, don't she?"
"Well—yes."
"And whatever's going on at the other end of the line—whether some one asks for a number or not—is pretty likely to be heard, isn't it?"
Henty nodded.
"And Miss Carter, I take it, heard something unusual last night—must have, to hold her attention, eh? Now, I want to see the young lady that answers night calls coming in on Main two-one-two-four."
"Operator Twenty-two," said Henty. "That's Miss Carter, all right. I'm night manager, Captain, and—" he hesitated, "er—our strictest rule—"
"You need not fear that I will divulge any matter that may be repeated to me," suggested Converse, seeing the young man's quandary. "But if you anticipate any ill results from what you or the young lady may say, I can assure you it will be all right with your general manager. Mr. Patterson and I have a little unwritten agreement covering contingencies of this kind."
In the end the young man departed from the room, returning presently with a young woman.
"This is Miss Carter," said he by way of introduction. "Miss Carter, Captain Converse."
She proved to be very fragile appearing, very blonde, very small and slender, and, moreover, very tired and uninterested.
"Captain Converse has called in regard to what you heard last night—you know, Miss Carter. It will be proper—perfectly—to repeat it."
She directed her faded blue eyes to the officer and began at once to speak in a quiet, colorless little voice, as if the matter were of the commonest every-day occurrence—a familiar part of her regular routine.
"About midnight last night, the signal-lamp of Main two-one-two-four—"
"Signal-lamp?" Converse queried, vaguely; "you mean the signal indicating that some one had taken down the receiver?"
"That's it," the night manager interpellated; "a small incandescent lamp lights up, you know—that's the signal to Central."
"Very good. Proceed, Miss Carter."
"Well, before I had time to ask what number was wanted, I heard something that made me forget to ask at all; or at any rate, for a minute or so. I heard some one saying in a loud voice—" She hesitated and looked at Henty, uneasy under the piercing gaze with which the caller was insensibly regarding her.
Converse was leaning forward, an elbow upon one knee, the clenched fist of one hand supporting his chin. He was absolutely motionless, impassive, save for that wonderful look of the eyes, which played and scintillated like live fire.
Quite suddenly Mr. Henty realized the tenseness of the situation, the magnetism of the silent force which dominated them both.
"Go on, go on," he said, a trifle nervously. Dropping her glance to her thin clasped hands, Miss Carter did so.
"The voice said, 'You miserable hound! How dared you make this thing known to that—' then came a word that I failed to catch. Next the voice, still very loud and angry, said, 'Take that!' and two pistol shots followed in rapid succession. The whole thing happened in a second."
The ensuing silence was presently broken by Mr. Converse's sibilant voice, and it was obvious that the others were measurably relieved thereby.
"Did you then ask what number was wanted?" he inquired.
"No, sir," came the reply, in the same colorless, even tones. "It was so remarkable—I was so overcome—that I simply sat there listening."
"Did you hear anything more?"
"Well—yes, sir." The words came haltingly. "But I can't tell what it was."
"Try to describe the nature of the sounds. Take your time, Miss Carter; think hard."
She pondered.
"Well," she began after a moment, "I should say that what I next heard was made by some one pounding the transmitter with a hammer, and at the same time rubbing it with sandpaper; that is the best way I can describe it."
"You know," the night manager again interposed, "a very loud sound close to the transmitter sometimes becomes indistinguishable; it produces simply an ear-piercing noise that is mighty trying upon the operators."
"It was nothing like that," the young woman added, confidently. Converse asked:
"If you had been familiar with the sound, could you have identified it?"
"Yes, sir. But I never heard anything like it before."
Converse considered, regarding Miss Carter thoughtfully. Presently he stirred and sat upright.
"Like being rubbed with sandpaper, and pounded with a hammer," he mused aloud; then became attentive.
"Are you familiar with many of the voices—of the old patrons, that is?" he inquired.