"Was there then a thought of Paquita—of Fernando del Castillo in his mind?
"Listen, and you shall judge.
"As he approached nearer and nearer, the light before the Señor Doctor's office shone with a growing brightness upon his handsome face; and presently I noted there the look of doubt, as though the soul were asking a question of his memory which it could not answer; the look with which he had ever regarded Juan Vargas.
"'When he stands beneath the light,' I whispered—'then!'
"Ah, and then!
"When he arrived beneath the light, I threw my cigarette out of the window, seized the dagger by its silver blade—as in the old days—and raised it above my head. Whether it was one or the other of these movements that caught his eye, I do not know. He was facing me then, and suddenly he looked at me. Ah, señores, it did my heart good to behold his expression change, even as I had often pictured it. His memory, at last, had given the soul its answer, and terror shone from his eyes—he recognized Fernando del Castillo in the avenging figure that confronted him.
"'Taking a step backward, so that my hand might not strike the sash of the window, I prayed, 'Soul of Paquita, strengthen my arm to avenge thee!'
"Then I threw the dagger....
"The hand of Alberto de Sanchez was raised as though to ward off the death now upon him; but the silver blade sped across the light-well like a lightning from the clouds; and even as I aimed it, so did it strike. I saw it sticking there; I saw the horror and the brilliance die suddenly from his eyes, like the turning down of a lamp; I saw his knees give way; he began to fall—and I knew that Alberto de Sanchez was a dead man.
"Truly had the serpent's tooth stung the lying betrayer; the false heart had been stilled forever by the symbol of its faithless love."
As for General Westbrook, Castillo protested that he had meant in the end to spare his life, but that the former had himself precipitated the tragedy. On the night the two met in the lobby of the La Salle House, Castillo overheard Slade cursing the General beneath his breath, and at once the idea dawned in his mind to use the abstracter as a tool. Irrefutable evidence of the one-time banking firm's illegal disposition of Don Juan's estate had been prepared by Castillo, and this evidence was placed in Slade's possession, leading directly to an outcome which neither could have expected.
In the meantime Castillo had put in operation his scheme against the General, by having Dolores write and direct to him letters of such a nature that the recipient would be apprised of the fact that his wrongdoing was known to others, while he remained ignorant of their identity. It was a move calculated to fill him with an extremity of fear and apprehension. In fact, his alarm was so intense that it drove him to seek out Vargas—as he supposed Castillo to be—in the hope of hearing something of "Paquita and Fernando." At this interview Castillo disclosed his identity, and General Westbrook, in a panic of terror, staggered from the hotel. Later he addressed a frantic appeal to the other to come to his study at midnight—the night that proved to be the last for him.
"The Señor General was writing at his table," said Castillo of this occasion, "waiting and watching for me. I crossed the gallery without noise, and beheld him before he could see me, I being in the dark. He had twisted his chair around so that it faced the window, which was like a door.
"How nervous the gallant Señor General was! When I advanced, unannounced, into the square of light before the window, he was so startled that he sprang from his chair, colliding with it as he moved backward, tripping over its legs so that he would have fallen had it not been waiting to receive him again.
"'This is not the ghost of Fernando del Castillo, señor,' I said; 'perhaps it would be pleasanter for you if it were—si?' But he composed himself quickly. He was still white and worn; still nervous and distracted; still a very old, broken man; but he did not forget that he was beneath his own roof, and that a visitor was trusting to his hospitality.... 'Enter, Don Fernando,' said he, in his grandest manner, 'I cannot express in words my appreciation of your courtesy in responding to my request. Enter.' And I advanced into the room.... 'You may show it,' said I, 'by telling me quickly why I am so honored.' With a breaking voice he said: 'Señor, señor, this night I pray God to soften your heart. 'T is not for myself—no, no! God knows it is not; but my wife—my daughter—my son—think of them; think of the humiliation and disgrace more bitter than death. Do not spare me, but pity them.' ... 'Were you so immersed in thought of them,' I asked, 'were you so solicitous of their welfare, that you failed to hear me pleading for my dying sister?' ... 'You do not understand,' he moaned; 'you do not understand. It is of that that I desire to speak. Hear me.' ... 'I shall be happy to hear you,' said I. I was seated close by the open window, and I made myself comfortable to hear his tale.
"I must pass hastily over it, señores. It was much as I expected it would be; and—will you believe me?—as I hearkened my heart began to soften to him; for, after all, señores, he was as far from being so great a knave and villain as Alberto de Sanchez, as Heaven is from Purgatory. He was so willing to take all upon his own head—to harvest the fruit of his own evil sowing; his sole anxiety was for his family, and especially the beautiful señorita, his daughter—that I felt something of pity for that broken, wicked old man.
"'See,' said he, holding up certain writings upon which he had been engaged when I entered, 'even now I am preparing a statement of my share of the administration of Don Juan's estate; every penny that I touched then—and God knows I would have been spared this moment had I known you were alive when the temptation assailed me—has been accounted for; every penny that I touched has been returned, though to do so has left me a poverty-stricken man. Sore necessity and a conviction that no one but the State would profit by Don Juan's death were the means of my undoing. Even as you thought of your sister, so was I overwhelmed by the thought of my own loved ones—and I fell. But to-morrow, or the next day, or the next—'t is only a matter of days—my family must learn that I am penniless, and Heaven only knows what we—what they will do.'
"So spoke the Señor General, pleading with me, Fernando del Castillo; and when he finished by offering me his life in exchange for an assurance that the past would be buried therewith, I resolved to spare him in the end. Yet it was my intention that an abiding sense of his disgrace and degradation should, before I left him, sink deep into his soul.
"With this in my mind, I said: 'This is very entertaining, Señor Westbrook, but you have not yet shown me that you were not a thief and a rogue,'—as you may believe, señores, he winced at this,—'you have not told me how the past can be wiped out, nor how my beloved dead may be restored to me. These are more to me than any considerations of your own. I have not nursed this fire of wrath and revenge in my heart all these years for it now to be quenched in a mere flood of words. No, no, señor; I believe I should enjoy seeing you brought so low, even as was the Fernando del Castillo whom you knew in Mexico.' He groaned and sank forward, his outstretched right arm, which lay along the edge of the table, sustaining the weight of his drooping body.... 'My God!' burst from the gray lips of the brave General; 'what are you? You are not a man!' ... 'Perhaps not,' I replied, smiling.... 'Señor, let me summon my daughter,' he went on; 'let her fresh innocence plead for itself.' ... 'Señor,' I made answer, 'come with me to the grave of my dead sister; let me show you why I should remain unmoved before your daughter's prayers and tears.'
"It seemed as though his clothes had suddenly become too large for his body. He sat huddled forward, his chin resting on his breast; he stared at me from beneath his white brows with the eyes of a dead man; the fire that had once kindled them was no more—he seemed utterly crushed.
"But even as I watched him, señores, something of that fire began to return; a little flash of cunning, a spark of craft, leaped from them; I read a subtle meaning in their depths; and then the arm that had been lying so supinely on the table began to draw slowly back toward the drawer by his side. So slowly did that arm glide, señores, that, had I not been watching for that very thing, it might have passed unobserved, and I should not now be relating how it fell out. But I did remark that stealthy action, señores, and again I smiled.
"'It is of no use, señor,' I said. 'Believe me, I suspected what is now in your mind. Pause before it is too late; do not add murder to your other villanies.' ... 'Suppose I did?' he muttered, still eyeing me with that crafty look; 'suppose, now, that I did?—it would save my daughter.' ... 'You err,' I retorted, pleasantly; 'I have taken great pains to guard against this very contingency.' I recounted for his benefit my plan to utilize the Señor Slade—of the disposition I had made of the carefully prepared testimony.
"Madre de Dios! the change that swept over the man at the mention of the Señor Slade!
"'You miserable hound!' he shouted, leaping to his feet; and quick as a flash his hand was in the drawer beside him, and a pistol was levelled at my breast. 'You miserable hound!' he shouted again; 'how dared you make this thing known to that scum! Take that!' And the room was filled with a crash of sound.
"But, señores, we had risen together. Even before his finger had pressed the trigger, the silent death shot from my hand to his heart; yet, will you believe it, señores? while he was sinking to the floor—while my right arm was still outstretched—he fired again. That time it was a very narrow escape for me: the bullet went up my sleeve, searing my arm like a hot iron. See! that is the scar. Save for the ruined coat, it did no further damage.
"Well, here at last—in the end without any will of my own so far as the Señor General was concerned—my dead sister was avenged; Paquita could now rest in peace in the grave to which these two men between them had brought her."
Castillo paused for a moment, but he went on again at once:
"There was nothing else for me to do but devote so much of this life as remained to me to the little Paquita." Of a sudden he clutched the sheet so madly that it tore. "God!" he cried shrilly, "what will become of her now?—my little Paquita—Dolores—apple of my eye—innocent issue of a monstrous evil. What will be thy fate? O God, hear the prayer of a dying man—"
"Stop him!"
Charlotte had risen, and now stood clasping Converse's arm.
"Don't allow that wretched creature to go on in this way," she commanded, imperatively; "it is unbearable. I—I—can't look at him—I can't address him; but reassure him about that poor, innocent child."
"Heaven bless you, señorita," Castillo cried fervently. But Charlotte shuddered, and with closed eyes recoiled from the bed.
"Tell him—make him believe it, Mr. Converse," she concluded weakly—"that I charge myself with that girl's well-being, if he will only not refer directly to her again."
"Swear it," Castillo demanded, in a voice that was no more than a hoarse whisper, so tense was it with eagerness. "Bethink you, señorita, that she is of no common blood—that she is the possessor of a wealth far beyond anything the Señor Westbrook ever dreamed of. Relieve a dying man's last hour. Swear!"
For a moment she faltered. She stood irresolute, one hand grasping her throat; then she advanced firmly to the bedside, and bestowed upon Castillo the benediction of her serene eyes.
"I swear," she whispered, and left him immediately.
The dying man knew that the girl's future was assured.
"I have nearly finished," he said at length. "What else?"
"What became of that document?" from Converse.
"Ah, yes. When I beheld that the Señor Westbrook was a dead man, I hurried to his desk and gathered the loose sheets from under the overturned telephone. One, the last, had not been detached from the pad. It bore his signature—the name of the Señor Peyton Westbrook—and I tore it loose and thrust it into my pocket along with the rest. Here was a confession of that gallant señor's infamy over his own signature; and what did I with it? You will believe, señores—señorita"—for the first time he recognized Charlotte's presence as an auditor—"that I meant to take pity upon his daughter, when I tell you that I destroyed it. But it was so.
"Next I turned off the light, so that my departure might not be witnessed. And I was none too soon, señores; there were a man and a woman in the driveway, striving to locate the shots; so I dodged into the shrubbery, and made my way from the grounds as noiselessly as I had entered, screened by the black shade of the trees."
* * * * * * *
(LETTER FROM MRS. MOBLEY WESTBROOK TO JOHN
CONVERSE, FORMERLY CAPTAIN OF DETECTIVES.)
Dear Mr. Converse:
Among all the honors being showered upon you, signalizing your retirement from the Police Department, I feel that Mobley and I should have some recognition. I remember how you loved my flowers; I remember your oft-repeated determination some time to retire with your friend Mr. Follett and Joe to a cottage like the dear little cottage which was so long a home to mamma, Clay, and myself; and above all things, I remember that to-day we owe our happiness to you. Somehow it seems that you have gone out of our lives, and I don't like it to be that way. Clay and Joyce are happy in the old homestead (your fault again, sir!), and only you—poor man!—now that Headquarters shall know you no more, are homeless.
Now, dear Mr. Converse, the cottage has stood vacant for more than a year. It is too much for me to keep up the garden there and look after my own household too, and I can't bear to see the garden die away in neglect. So to-day we hand you a deed to the place, which must not at all be considered a reward like the twenty thousand dollars you received, but merely as a token of our undying gratitude and esteem.
Truly your friend,
Charlotte May Westbrook.
P. S.—Mobley and I reserve the right to come and gather a bouquet whenever we want to!
THE END