"Yes, a good many of them. Some voices I recognize immediately; but, of course, to me the great majority are merely voices, and no more."
"I see.... Could you recognize General Westbrook's voice?"
She smiled slightly, as though the question were amusingly reminiscent. "Yes, sir," she said; and again the gray eyes kindled.
"That's good—very good. And was the voice you heard last night General Westbrook's?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know? ... How's that?"
Miss Carter bestowed a hasty side-glance upon the night floor-walker.
"Well, you see, sir," she replied, with some hesitation, but also with a certain air of gratification, as though she were glad of the opportunity for making the confidence, "that while his voice and manner were well-known to most of the girls—very cranky and supercilious he was, and they all detested him—he was not very close to the transmitter last night."
Mr. Henty coughed, deprecatingly, behind his hand.
"Undoubtedly," he again supplemented, "the unfortunate gentleman—I understood you to say so, Miss Carter?—spoke in a very loud voice—
"That is correct," Miss Carter broke in. "It was only because he spoke so loudly that I was able to catch such words as I did."
Mr. Converse rewarded the girl with a nod of comprehension and approval. "Your graphic description will be of incalculable benefit," said he in a tone of quiet cordiality that brought the faintest of pink flushes to her pale cheek. And then he turned to the night manager.
"Mr. Henty, I should like to try an experiment; I believe I can duplicate the sounds which Miss Carter described so vividly. May she go to a 'phone in an adjoining room while I make the effort with this desk instrument, here?"
"Sure—if you don't intend to pound it with a hammer or rub it down with sandpaper," he added lightly..... "Miss Carter, go into Mr. Bascom's office, and answer over his 'phone. The light is burning."
"Give me half a dozen or so sheets of paper," Converse now said; "then get the young lady for me, and I'll do the rest."
Henty complied with an alacrity born of curiosity.
"All right, Captain; she answers."
"Tell her to listen carefully, so she may compare what she will presently hear with the sounds she heard last night."
Converse laid the several sheets of paper on the table, and after overturning the desk telephone—but gently, in this instance—he placed the instrument just as he had found the one on General Westbrook's desk and so that it reposed on the sheets of paper. Holding it with his left hand, he hastily drew the papers from beneath it with his right. The action produced a slight hissing sound when the sheets of paper rubbed together and as they slipped from between the telephone and the desk surface. At the same time the instrument itself rattled somewhat on the desk.
"Those are the sounds, precisely," answered Miss Carter.
It was only a step to headquarters; but before turning his face in that direction, Mr. Converse paused on the sidewalk and stood for a time in deep meditation. Rousing himself at last, he muttered, "Now for you, Mr. Clay Fairchild," and set off briskly for the City Hall.
Did he expect to encounter the young man there? Was this the meaning of his muttered confidence, when he had signalled from Joyce's window some hours earlier?
It would seem that he now had sufficient insight into the motives and impulses governing the puppets in this double tragedy, to feel rather secure in determining his own movements according to their probable future conduct.
He entered the building in his customary silent manner, and at once occurred one of the many incidents that caused his colleagues to regard him with a sort of awe. He walked directly to the Sergeant's desk.
"Send Fairchild to my office," said he, quietly, and possibly he smiled somewhere within the cryptic chambers of his mind at the picture of blank astonishment confronting him. How should any faculty short of clairvoyance divine that Clay Fairchild had appeared less than an hour previously and asked to be locked up?
The Captain of detectives was tilted back in his swivel-chair when the young man was ushered in a minute or two later; he proceeded candidly and leisurely to take an inventory of Mr. Clay Fairchild, who, considering that he had been an object of diligent search by the police, bore an attitude of admirable unconcern.
Tall and spare, his features somewhat sharp in outline, he was far from imparting an unfavorable impression. The dark, intense eyes, the determined, lean jaw, all suggested Charlotte in many striking details. Although he was slender, an observer could not miss the strength and virility of his individuality. He was undoubtedly a strong, resolute young man, who thoroughly knew his own mind, and was determined not to be awed or moved by Captain John Converse or any one else.
Fairchild contemplated the Captain's huge figure with some show of interest—as if at a loss to surmise what might come forth from a source so doubtful and uncertain. He noted suddenly that the gray eyes were remarkably keen, that they possessed a glint like the surface of polished steel, and that they seemed to be searching out the inner-most recesses of his mind. But after he had detected it, he returned their scrutiny steadily until the enigmatic figure spoke.
"Sit down," said Converse, pleasantly, shoving a chair toward the young man. "I am glad to see you, Mr. Clay Fairchild."
"I don't doubt it," was the dry, drawling response. Nevertheless he accepted the tendered chair, and waited.
"Yes; I'm glad to see you, young man; perhaps, after all, you'll do." The Captain was not displeased at Fairchild's self-possession and apparent determination to remain non-committal.
"Thanks. Is it permissible to inquire what particular purpose you think I may serve?"
The inquiry was ignored. Converse sat quietly appraising the young man; and at last he abruptly said:
"Would you like to go home?"
"I! Go home!" his amazement was extreme. "Do you mean that I'm not wanted?"
"Not here, at any rate. But I'll have to lock you up, whether or no, if I can't count on your keeping yourself out of view a while longer. I'm half inclined to think I did wrong in stirring you from your hiding-place."
Fairchild gasped.
"Some explanation is due you, however," the other went on calmly; "but I have neither time nor inclination to go into it. Your sister—"
"Charlotte? What have you to do with Charlotte?"
"A good deal, young man. You will learn a lot before you are many hours older. Miss Joyce and I have come to a pretty good understanding, and it was I who signalled you to-night. Oh, you don't need to look so astonished; the sooner you realize that I am sole boss of this affair, the less trouble you will cause yourself. You go and talk with your sister. You will be glad enough to talk to me afterwards."
"Do you—do you—mean that Joyce—that Miss Westbrook has voluntarily told you—"
"Exactly. She has voluntarily taken me into her confidence. But it chanced she suddenly became ill, and some things which she fully intended to tell—well, she will not be able to tell them for a while. Otherwise you could still be roosting undisturbed in your old garret. Clever idea, that."
Fairchild was dazed. He looked at the Captain blankly, as if his mind was seething. Talk to Charlotte?—go home?—this extraordinary man had signalled to him with his and Joyce's secret code? From out the whirl of ideas but one presented itself in the shape of a clearly distinguishable fact: somehow his carefully laid plan—his ultimate resource for turning the tide away from Joyce and her beloved brother—had evaporated; this unusual individual, moving silently and invisibly behind the scenes, had discovered the wires, and now he seemed to have them well in his own hand. Then, how was it with Joyce? At the thought he became suddenly icy—frozen with a terror that put his manhood, for the moment, utterly to rout. But abruptly he became sensible again of the sibilant voice, of a note of kindness in it, and he managed to direct his attention once more to what the man was saying.
"But the result of your and Miss Westbrook's conduct," Converse was proceeding quietly, "has been to make her position one of the utmost peril. Heaven knows, it's bad enough. Now, you've got to help her."
"Good God! anything, anything!" The reply was a groan.
"Very good. Do as I say, then, and go home. There will be no charge against you here; nothing to show that you've been here at all. Stay at home till I arrive—some time to-morrow forenoon—when I wish to see you and Miss Charlotte together; and, above all, keep yourself out of sight for a time."
Still laboring with his emotional storm, Fairchild followed the Captain docilely enough; yet he had himself pretty well in hand. A hundred questions surged to his lips; questions of such vital importance to his peace of mind that it was an acute distress to keep them back unasked and unanswered; but the manner in which the big, impassive man had terminated the colloquy was so decisive that he could only manage to blurt out one of them.
"Stay a moment!" he cried. "I'll go crazy if you leave me in this way. You tell me to talk to Charlotte: do you mean that she—that Charlotte—can explain the turn affairs seem to have taken?"
The gray eyes, expressionless, met his for a moment.
"Exactly."
Fairchild departed from headquarters like a man walking in his sleep.
On the morning of the day on which the Captain of detectives chose to efface himself from the stage of the "Westbrook-De Sanchez Drama" to a position behind the scenes, two things came to his notice that had for him more than a passing interest. The first we may present as it appeared, set in modest and inconspicuous agate type, among the court notes of a certain newspaper.
No. 26004. In re Estate of Peyton Westbrook, deceased. Report of appraisers approved and filed. The report shows that there are no assets under the will except the homestead, which is reserved to the widow.
The other matter was embodied in a communication which lay on his desk at headquarters. It was the resignation of one of his subordinates—the man Adams, him of the shifty eyes and stealthy ways, whose manner the night of the De Sanchez affair had made Lynden so uncomfortable.
The fact that General Peyton Westbrook was actually penniless came like a bombshell to a community that had so long looked up to him as a leading citizen, a man of affairs and affluence, whose very name was a synonyme for business acumen and success; but the fact became only more certain with the passing days, though the public learned little more of it than was contained in the notice quoted.
Converse sat musing for a time, then he tossed Adams's letter into a pigeonhole. "Going to start a private agency, eh? Very good; I wish you luck. Now there's a place for McCaleb." He dismissed the matter from his mind, and at once remembered the morning's chief engagement. It was time to keep tryst with Miss Charlotte and her brother.
When he arrived at the cottage Charlotte welcomed him cordially, while Clay turned to him with a new interest, acquired overnight, and frankly extended a hand.
"We nearly made a mess of it, didn't we?" were Clay's first words after greeting. He laughed at the whimsical look with which he was being regarded.
"But I am afraid I am going to disappoint you," he continued. "I fear things will appear more puzzling and perplexing than ever. After hearing what Charlotte had to say, it seems marvellous—I am more at sea than ever."
The other nodded a brisk comprehension. "We are all at sea, more or less," said he. "But being at sea in a rudderless craft, without a navigator, and off the usual routes of traffic, is one thing; to have a stanch bottom beneath you, a stiff breeze off the quarter, and your course well marked off, is quite another.
"I take it, then, that after you and Miss Joyce passed each other in Mr. Nettleton's office,—after you went into the private office to see what had occasioned her bursting in upon you so unceremoniously,—you were more puzzled than ever; that you saw nothing whatever to explain the occurrence?"
Was it prescience that prompted this conclusion? for hear the answer:
"That is correct."
And again:
"There was no one there?"
"No one; no evidence that anybody besides Joyce had been in the private office."
Where, then, had the assassin been?
But Converse, though his mien became a little grimmer, did not pause.
"After you had ascertained that Miss Westbrook was indeed gone, you seated yourself once more at your desk—but not to resume your work. Your mind was engrossed by the recent episode; presently you noted that a very familiar perfume was still conspicuous, as if in passing she had left a pleasant evidence of herself loitering about your desk, and you fell to searching for it. You scattered the papers on your desk; you looked to the floor—all about you—but did not locate the source of that delicate fragrance."
Noting the young man's frank amazement, he chuckled silently.
"No; I was not there," he went on,—"not until later. But I found it. In her agitation, she had dropped her handkerchief into your waste-paper basket."
"And that," gasped Charlotte, "was what directed you to Joyce!"
"Miss Fairchild," said the Captain, soberly, "it was a clue that could not be ignored. You have seen the Countess Zicka in 'Diplomacy.'
"Go on," urged Fairchild, while his sister nodded her comprehension.
"Very well. You remained at your desk ten or fifteen minutes longer, but never got your mind fixed upon your work again. At last you donned your overcoat and hat and passed over to the Doctor's office, with a vague idea of finding an explanation there. As you opened his door, you were still trying to account for Miss Westbrook's transit through Mr. Nettleton's offices, and when your eye fell upon the form of De Sanchez, no idea was at first conveyed to your brain; it was so far beyond anything that you possibly could have imagined. Next instant a concept of what had happened burst upon you; a false one, to be sure, but quite natural under the circumstances. I can see that it was a tremendous shock to you; for the moment you were dumb, paralyzed with terror; then like a flash your faculties were startled into an abnormal activity, and you realized that you had become an important factor in a deed of blood. There sat Doctor Westbrook, and Howe—a stranger to you—in an ominous silence, their own faces reflecting something of the deed's horror; Alberto de Sanchez lay dead at their feet and at yours, and with electric swiftness you reviewed the facts as you knew them,—the ground of contention between the Doctor and the dead man, the still bleeding body, the familiar weapon lying conspicuously on the floor,—all told an awful story. You did not try to reason it out or give a name to what you beheld; you were simply dismayed, overwhelmed by a consciousness that in some way the situation was fraught with the gravest peril for some one very dear to you,—some one whose well-being and happiness were of far more importance than your own,—and you acted upon the blindest of impulses. No one but yourself knew that Miss Joyce had been there; no one would ever ascertain it from you, and you fled madly, with no definite aim but to get away—to hide yourself safe from all pursuit."
Clay sat watching the speaker, rapt by the recital.
"This is truly remarkable," he now said, with a quietness born of deep feeling. "You relate the conditions as if you had experienced them yourself. Could I have imagined for a moment that the investigation was to be conducted with such insight and comprehension, why, I should never have fled. What slaves we are to impulse!'
"Aye, to the young it is the refinement of wisdom, as my friend Mr. Follett would say."
"There was yet another element augmenting my feelings at that moment," Clay went on; "do you care to hear?"
"Assuredly. I should like to hear any conclusions you may have formed."
"Well, that very morning Miss Westbrook and I had had a conversation concerning Señor de Sanchez, to which his sudden taking off and the manner of it were an awful climax. Never, never again will I lightly consider the chances of a person's living or dying; thedénouementwas like an answer to an unexpressed wish."
"But now, then, Mr. Fairchild," interpellated Converse, but stopped to ask, "You know, of course, about Miss Joyce's illness?"
"I do; but I am miserably in doubt regarding its seriousness."
"The conditions are all in her favor: youth, health, splendid constitution; so you need not worry about that. What I started to say is, that I wish to direct your attention to the mainspring of the whole matter. To-night I must leave the city for a time, and before I go I want to know what it was she saw in the hall. It was while striving to tell this that she collapsed. Poor girl; I hope that some time she may find it in her heart to forgive my persistence."
For a bit the natural seriousness of the young man's countenance was deepened by the evident care with which he was framing a reply. The visitor awaited that reply with his customary impassiveness; but Charlotte, who had been following the conversation with rapt interest, now suddenly leant forward and watched her brother with some anxiety.
"Captain," Clay began at length, "if Joyce—if Miss Westbrook and I had had better opportunities of discussing the matter since the death of De Sanchez, we might have come to a better understanding; but I was haunted with an abnormal fear of discovery, and I shrank from exposing myself unnecessarily, because I didn't know what dire disaster it would mean for her and the Doctor." Of a sudden his eyes kindled. "I saw her but three times," he concluded, "and then only briefly."
"Three times?"
"Yes—"
But Charlotte's gentle voice interrupted. "Let me explain," said she, directing a glance of sympathy toward her brother; "it will give you an added insight into Joyce's character, which will not injure her in your estimation, I am sure. Dear, brave, impulsive girl! Mr. Converse, can you imagine Joyce going alone at night to Clay's hiding-place, that dismal, forsaken house that was once our home?"
"I can believe anything of her courage, Miss Fairchild."
"Well, she did—so soon as she learned where Clay was and why he was there. I have it from Mobley, Mr. Converse; the transformation which this intelligence worked in her amazed him and Mrs. Westbrook. That night, unknown to any one, she went through the darkness, through those wretched, creepy halls and silent, deserted rooms, to tell Clay—But I shall not relate what she said or what occurred."
Indeed, it was not necessary that she should; a glance at the young man's glowing countenance was sufficient.
Converse laughed knowingly.
"That was on—let me see, what night was it?" he inquired.
"The next night after De San—Thursday night," Charlotte replied.
The Captain nodded appreciatively.
"That clears up the code," said he.
"The code went to Joyce in a returning lunch-basket," observed Fairchild.
"By way of the Doctor?" the Captain added.
"Doctor Westbrook, do you mean?" said Clay, surprised. "Oh, no; Mr. Nettleton's negro, President, was the happy medium, the manna-bearing raven in my wilderness, always."
"Did Mr. Nettleton know of this arrangement?" asked Converse.
"Why, yes," was the perplexed reply. "I don't know what idea you have, but this is the way of it. When I first left the Nettleton Building, I went rushing through the streets like one distracted. I was, I suppose. But presently I came to myself and realized, if I wished to expunge myself quietly, that I must get my wits together and think out a plan. So I walked on more composedly, penetrated the depths of the East Side to a small hotel conducted by a Mexican of whom I know. Oh, I was terribly upset—clean knocked out; for while I was in the dingy office a most remarkably beautiful girl entered. I uttered a cry that frightened her, and sat staring at her with open mouth. She was the living image of De Sanchez—or so my distraught brain fancied.
"Well, there I managed to frame a note to Mr. Nettleton, in which I explained the circumstances as best I could, dwelling upon the imperativeness of my resolution, and trusting to his honor for secrecy. I pointed out how useless it would be to involve Joyce; that if I was not called upon to testify, the matter would be cleared up without her ever being brought into it at all—in short that if my absence would spare her any scandal, why, I would remain absent as long as it might be necessary. I don't believe the Doctor at any time knew where I was; for at the very start we all agreed to keep our own counsels, on the theory that a secret is best kept when shared by the fewest people. The searching inquiry that was to follow was anticipated, and the fact was pressed home to Joyce by both Mr. Nettleton and myself, that it would prove far more expedient for the Doctor honestly to plead ignorance than to attempt evasion; so he was told nothing, and not even Charlotte was given a hint of my whereabouts. Joyce was to be saved at all hazards."
"Dear boy!" softly interposed Charlotte.
"Lottie, don't distract me that way, please," protested her brother; "you make me forget where I am."
"And Mr. Nettleton entered into this mad scheme, did he?" asked the Captain, much interested.
"He agreed with me that,—for the time being, at any rate, or until something developed to give an idea which way the cat was likely to jump,—it was just as well that I exile myself; offering the one objection, that I was likely to direct suspicion to myself. That was a contingency encouraging rather than deterring, and he promised, finally, to lend me every aid.
"Next day he confided the plan to Joyce, who immediately elected herself the guiding spirit of the enterprise: President might be the intermediary, but no other hands than hers could prepare the food. God bless her!"
"But we have wandered far from the point," the Captain remarked tersely. "What did Miss Joyce see in the hall?"
"To be brief, Mr. Converse," returned Clay, "I don't know. I was trusting, before you came, that you yourself would know. The little time we were together she would not speak of it. Whatever it was, it had affected her profoundly, filling her with a horror she could not banish. But I do know that she did not see the assassin: she said as much."
"Ah-h-h! Did she say directly that she had not?" The gray eyes suddenly narrowed.
"Yes. I asked her if she had."
"And her answer?"
"Was no."
A gleam shot between the contracted lids, which obviously was irrepressible.
"I am glad the situation yields you something, at any rate," said Clay; and Charlotte added anxiously, "What is it, Mr. Converse?"
He made a grimace of deprecation.
"Have I permitted my feelings to show themselves?" he asked, and shook his head mournfully. "I told Mr. Mountjoy last night that I was aging; I reckon it is only too true. I have a trifle laid by, and when it amounts to enough to purchase a little home—like this—say—where I can have plenty of flowers, you'll never hear of me interfering with any more such cases; no, indeed. You may laugh, my boy, but it is a fact.... I should say now, as a guess, that one of the three times when you saw Miss Joyce was night before last, eh?"
"Yes, sir," was the reply.
And so it may be seen that, however old the Captain might be, he had not forgotten the wisdom of Polonius's admonition to "give every man thine ear, but few thy voice." Their eager questions remained unanswered, and they failed to note.
"I wish you would tell me what you were doing in the Westbrook yard," Converse continued; "what you saw and heard while there."
"Did Joyce speak of that?" was the unnecessarily cautious response.
"In a way, yes; but I want impressions at first hand."
The young man considered a while before proceeding.
"Well, you know about our code of signals," he said at length, "mine and Joyce's. I arranged that code, and was very proud of it until we attempted to use it; then a difficulty arose: Joyce's inability to read half the signals, and mine to read the other half. Still, the chief object was attained: nightly we assured each other of our well-being, and I was enabled to glean pretty well how affairs were progressing.
"But there were one or two occasions when I was left in a perplexing doubt. I became intolerably anxious and impatient, and throwing caution to the winds, I met Joyce in her yard. Our signals of meeting, fortunately, were never difficult of interpretation.
"So it was on Monday night. Of course I was anxious to be with her at all times, but then the whim seized me all at once, and—well, I went. I heard the shots—just as I was leaving—but had no idea they came from the house, and neither had Joyce. We differed about their exact location, but that was all; we heard no more nor saw anything. I did not approach close to the house at any time."
"Shortly after hearing the shots—just before you left—did you hear no sound, as of some one approaching from the house?"
Clay shook his head. "Not a thing," he said.
The next question, "Did you see Howard Lynden Monday night?" caused his face to darken.
"Howard?" he asked, uncomprehendingly. "No. What of him?"
"You did not know that he was near you Monday night—" The speaker stopped in the face of the other's expression. Clay's brow knotted, his lips compressed, and he watched Converse intently through half-closed lids. He glanced swiftly at his sister. It was quite plain that Lynden, as a topic, was extremely distasteful.
But Clay merely said:
"So Mr. Howard Lynden followed her from Mrs. Farquier's, did he? What have you to say to that, Lottie?"
"Maybe not, Clay, maybe not. Don't be—"
"No; he did not," interposed the Captain; "but started out to look for her as soon as he missed her from the company."
"It's the same," said the young man; and again he fixed an intent, half-veiled scrutiny upon the visitor.
"I believe you understand," he abruptly resumed. "Charlotte is inclined to stand up for him,—she would for anybody, for that matter,—but he is a little— Well, I regret that I can't express myself to him. If you only knew how he has watched her, how he has made her life a weariness—"
"I do know something of it." Converse laughed dryly. "If her word carries any weight with him, he knows it too."
As his auditor's look became inquiring, the Captain narrated what had occurred at the Westbrooks'.
Clay put a period to the recital with a satisfied "Good!"
"Does Lynden regard Miss Joyce with any unusual warmth of affection?"
"Does he!" with an indignant stare. "Why, he's head over heels in love with her. Did you ever hear of such presumptuous conceit?"
Very soberly, Converse replied that he had not.
"That's what makes his conduct all the more annoying," this confidence went on; "it is as if he suspected her of something. Why, he might even think she had something to do with the De Sanchez business."
"Sure enough." The idea was illuminating. Presently Converse inquired how much the young man knew of De Sanchez's determination to marry Joyce.
"I knew that De Sanchez came here for the express purpose of marrying her," was the reply. "That could mean only a resolution formed when Joyce was a mere child." He abruptly paused. "What is it?" he asked.
Converse had suddenly become electrified into a tense alertness. He grasped the chair-arms, as if imminently upon the point of springing up. Quite suddenly, again, his normal impassiveness reasserted itself.
"Go on, go on," said he, with a haste not altogether free from eagerness.
"Do my words suggest anything?"
"They do. But go on."
"Well," resumed Clay, "when Joyce took that trip to Mexico, she was too young and inexperienced to appreciate a fact that later became susceptible of interpretation. Looking back to that time, she could not fail to see that his conduct was then directed toward herself; that it greatly annoyed her father, although General Westbrook seemed to handle the situation easily; and that the subsequent severance of all relations between the two men, which presently followed, was not entirely without an explanation. Joyce was blind to the man's attentions, except now and then when some incident of unusual ardor instinctively struck a note of warning, causing her to wonder dimly, then it passed and was forgotten. The fact is, that De Sanchez must have been struck all of a heap, for he seems to have inaugurated a campaign of wooing of characteristic Latin warmth, ready to override all other considerations. Joyce is of the impression that her father discouraged this design of the other man's in no uncertain manner."
The speaker paused. It was obvious that he was arranging his thoughts, and Converse waited without moving.
"Next, De Sanchez appears here, and soon events begin to shape themselves in a way that, seemingly, can't be explained. For instance, when you consider what happened in Mexico, and the hiatus between that time and De Sanchez's appearance, how can you account for the endeavors in his behalf which gave him an immediate social prestige locally? How can you account for the fact that his suit was not only favored, but that pressure was brought to bear upon Joyce to gain her consent? Knowing that she regarded the man with especial dislike, how can you explain her hovering on the very verge of giving in?"
"Did she never enlighten you?" The Captain was regarding the young man curiously.
"No." A tinge of bitterness crept into his reply. "She merely said her father had convinced her that it was her duty to marry De Sanchez."
"You did not know, of course, that Slade witnessed her departure from the Nettleton Building?"
"Did he? It is he, then, who has caused all this recent trouble?"
"In a way, yes. He furnished the material. I want to ask you something about that. Shortly after you disappeared he addressed an unsigned note to me, saying, in effect, that, if I found the woman—then much of a mystery—I should know who killed De Sanchez. He also said that you were innocent. Why should he make so obvious an attempt to divert suspicion from you?"
"I can't imagine. While I do not share with mother and Lottie the bitterness which the name of Slade arouses, yet I know very little of him; merely enough to nod in passing. The father was, doubtless, an unconscionable scoundrel; but William, in spite of his repulsive qualities, is in no wise to blame for that. I've always felt a sort of sneaking pity for him. The old fellow eyes me often in a peculiar, ruminative way—somewhat as he did when bestowing his 'blessing' upon General Westbrook. But he's a harmless crank."
"'Slade's Blessing,'" mused the Captain.
Clay nodded and went on: "You've heard of it, I see. He's a little touched, I believe. He sometimes mumbles when he looks at me,—a way he has; but pshaw! I never paid any attention to it; his incantations are harmless. In the early eighties, when the elder Slade closed in on dad, and dad died, William was still struggling with the law. Lord knows, I have reason to sympathize with him. Next, his father died, and he gave it up."
The young man asked how Slade came to see Joyce.
"In the most natural manner in the world," replied Converse. "Five o'clock is his customary hour for quitting work, as you probably know; he was just in the act of emerging from Room 6 when Miss Joyce ran past him. In fact, he had to step back to avoid a collision. This was immediately after she had surprised you, and she was so intent on getting away that she did not observe him at all, it would seem. She was running on tiptoe from the direction of the upper end of the hall and toward the stairs. That is the substance of an affidavit made by him before the Coroner."
Though the two talked some time longer, the discussion yielded nothing more until Converse was in the act of departing. He was standing on the veranda, when he said:
"By the way, it would be a good idea if you could make yourself inconspicuous for a while longer—until you hear from me, at any rate. If the reporters get a line upon what you happen to know, there will be the devil to pay."
"I can remain in the house indefinitely," Clay suggested.
The Captain shook his head. "That will merely add stimulus to their efforts. I wager that somebody who knows you saw you last night. Isn't there some friend upon whom you can impose temporarily?"
The young man pondered a moment, and presently his face brightened.
"Yes," said he. "I know of the very place—Mr. Nettleton's plantation. It is only about seven miles beyond here, and I can walk it easily."
"Very good." Then, as if the matter had for the first time occurred to him, Converse added:
"By the way, who is the proprietor of the East Side hotel where you wrote your letter to Mr. Nettleton?"
The question seemed of trifling importance.
"Ramon Velasquez. Mr. Nettleton has done some legal work for him."
"Very good. Whatever you do, keep yourself out of sight. You seem to know how, so I'll not offer any suggestions. Good-bye."
But Mr. Converse was still to be much in evidence that night. He found a number of things to detain him, and it was not until the afternoon of the next day, the nineteenth, that he quietly disappeared from his customary haunts.
The next Sunday morning was bright and frosty. Mr. Mountjoy was early abroad; his footsteps rang out, sharp and metallic, as he passed briskly down the artificial stone walk of the Mountjoy residence; ignoring clanging trolley cars, he set his face toward the city, striding along with the firmness and ease of one whose vitality is in entire accord with the crystalline day.
As he walked, he meditated.
What would Mrs. Westbrook and Joyce do, now that they were impoverished? Would this news prove of any value to John? Would Mobley, as head of the family, continue on at the mansion which had for years been the Westbrook home? Mobley himself did not know. It was true that he could afford to maintain the establishment; it had seemed natural for him to step in upon his father's demise; but it would mean a complete readjustment of his mode of life, and he was too old to change readily, to adapt himself to new and unfamiliar conditions.
And what had become of General Westbrook's fortune, anyhow? The circumstance presented a condition so extraordinary, that experience strove in vain for a solution.
And so on until, quite unexpectedly, a familiar name caught his eye: Abram Follett.
Glancing from the faded, dust-encrusted sign, he took in the details of the dingy, square, two-storied building that seemed to be sleeping in the Sunday calm of Ash Lane. It was very quiet, and he advanced doubtfully to the closed double door and rapped loudly upon its begrimed panels.
He was not entirely devoid of curiosity as he awaited the issue; so when the door opened to reveal a negro of gigantic proportions, his countenance reflected something of the surprise which the encounter afforded.
"Mr. Follett?" he queried vaguely.
The huge darkey grinned.
"No, seh," was the reply. "De boss's in de yahd."
Joe regarded Mr. Mountjoy's Sunday attire with uncertainty. "If you'll step to de otheh doah," with tones respectfully lowered, "I'll fetch him; dis yere's de stoah-room."
As he was bidden, Mr. Mountjoy stepped to the other door, a single one at a corner of the structure, and after some minutes of waiting, footsteps within told that it concealed a stairway; then it was opened by the negro, who invited the visitor to ascend.
Mr. Mountjoy had no sooner entered the front apartment than he mentally ejaculated: "Why, of course! An ancient mariner like John would live just so, with some battered and weather-beaten shipmate, comrade of many an adventurous cruise; nothing more natural." He experienced a sudden admiration for the feeling which prompted the big, taciturn detective to keep his vocation from intruding upon his private life. The lawyer's glance was scrutinizing when it rested upon the twisted, limping figure which presently entered. He had deposited his hat and coat upon a locker-like box, noting as he did so that its surface was scrupulously clean, and he now stood expectant, with his back to one of the white-curtained front windows.
The visitor's inspection was only momentary.
"I am Mr. Mountjoy," said he, advancing and holding out his hand, "the District Attorney; no doubt you have heard of me."
A light of recognition and welcome, together with an underlying expression of more than usual interest, instantly broke over the shrewd, kindly countenance.
"Mr. Mountjoy!" repeated Mr. Follett, extending a gnarled and distorted hand, with which he grasped the other's. "Well, lawyer, I am real glad to meet you. Set right down there—that's Captain John's chair—an' make yourself comf'table."
The Morris chair was comfortable, as Mr. Mountjoy instantly discovered.
"A bright, clear, frosty morning," Mr. Follett went on with cheerful garrulity, as he slowly seated himself in his own chair. "Yes, John's spoke o' you often—often. We're old shipmates, him an' me," he concluded, with an explanatory wave about the room.
"So I understand," said Mountjoy, easily; "and bound by many enduring ties, I have no doubt."
Presently he assumed an attitude extremely business-like. Arising and going to the chest where lay his overcoat, he produced from one of the pockets a long, legal-looking envelope.
"Here I have some very important items of news, gleaned, since John's departure, from the columns of the local press. There is also a letter from myself setting forth a good deal of matter concerning a case which now occupies his exclusive attention and endeavors; having the requisite postage attached, all that is now necessary to forward this envelope upon its way, is—the address." He tossed it upon the table. "There, I leave it to your care."
"It shall go to John to-day," quietly remarked Mr. Follett. His face assumed a thoughtful expression as he slowly filled and lighted a pipe.
"Lawyer," he went on after a puff or two, "I'm glad you come just when you did. There's a matter I want to talk to you about; John would want that you know it."
"Very well," the guest acquiesced; and with much difficulty Mr. Follett arose and made his way to the mantel, where he extracted a letter from a mother-of-pearl box standing there.
"Look at that," handing the missive to the lawyer and resuming his seat. "Read that an' tell me what you make of it."
The envelope, very much soiled and crumpled, bore the simple superscription, in pencil, "La Señorita Dolores," and nothing else. One end had been torn open, and there appeared a portion of a sheet of note-paper upon which was written, also in pencil, four words, "El rayo ha cáido."
"Well," said Mr. Mountjoy, presently, "I make very little of it. Spanish, I suppose?"
"That means," was the impressive reply, "that means, 'The thunderbolt has fallen.'"
Mountjoy made no effort to hide his curiosity and wonder.
"Tell me about it," said he, settling himself more comfortably.
For a time Mr. Follett smoked in silence; then, ignoring his pipe further, he confronted his caller with the suddenness of one who sees his way clear before him, and began:
"There's a machinist, Hunter by name, who works nights at the compress. Him an' his wife an' a half-dozen or so o' children live in one o' them little cottages near by, just off Ash Lane. Well, last night Hunter an' a dago friend o' his 'n stopped one o' the night men on this beat, sayin' they had a matter that was a-puzzlin' them mightily, an' they wanted to have a talk about it—not that the dago could make himself understood to any great extent, but Hunter had him along to kind o' back 'im up. Hunter said what he had to say, an' the policeman, knowin' that John lived near by, brought the two o' them here. O' course he didn't know about John bein' away; but enough was said for me to ask a question or two, an' I finally got the hull story.
"Hunter has a boy nine years old, who sells papers mornin's an' evenin's, an' when he sells out he never has more 'n thirty or forty cents, or thereabouts, to show for it. Every night the boy brings this money home an' turns it over to his mother. A good lad, you see.
"Well, two or three days ago the mother found a silver dollar tucked away under a little vase that stands on a shelf in one o' their rooms. She knew that none o' the family had lost a dollar; she knew she hadn't put it there herself—they're not so plentiful in the Hunter home—so it worried her a hull lot. She took all the children to task, one by one, an' to make a long story short, she finally got it out o' the nine-year-old that he'd put the dollar under the vase. He was so back'ard in ownin' up an' in talkin' about it, that she just natcher'lly kep' at him until she drew out a bit at a time the boy's story o' the dollar."
The speaker paused and seemed to be much interested in the nodding head of his auditor. Mountjoy sat with the tips of his fingers pressed lightly together and his thin lips tightly closed.
"I follow you," he now said; "pray continue."
"Not very excitin' so far, but necessary," said Mr. Follett. "Now, hear the rest. This here's the way the boy's yarn went.
"One evenin', a week or so before the findin' o' the money, he saw a man step from the Palace Drug Store—"
Mountjoy's eyebrows suddenly shot upwards, and he sat up straighter in his chair.
"—which, as you know," the other went on at once, "is catty-cornered across from the Nettleton Buildin' on Court Street. He ran up to this man to sell him a paper an' the man stepped up in the shadow of a doorway an' asked the boy would he deliver a letter if he—the man—bought all the papers. The boy hung back; then the man pulled out a dollar, sayin' he'd give that too if the boy'd only hurry. The little lad then agreed to take the letter which the man handed him, together with the dollar, an' twenty cents for the fourExpresseshe still had. The man then told the boy to listen sharp while he learned where the letter was to be delivered. After bein' satisfied that the boy understood, the man hurried away.
"It seems that the more the boy thought about it, the less he liked the job. The address told him was in a part o' town the boy didn't know much of, an' it begun to loom pretty prominent in his mind that he was scairt to go there after night. So it ended in him a-goin' home an' hidin' the letter an' money, gettin' rid o' the hull thing easy, like a boy can, you know.
"But when Hunter himself heard about it, he went into the matter further an' found out a bit more.
"What did the man look like? The boy couldn't tell, as he had not only been in the shadow, but his coat collar was turned up an' a soft hat was pulled down over his eyes; but he had been mighty polite an' soft spoken, an' the lad knew that his clothes were extra fine—a 'swell dresser,' as Hunter put it.
"Next, what night was it? This soundin' by an' by struck deep water an' a clear way ahead: the night o' the murder in the Nettleton Building.
"What time that night? The boy couldn't say exactly, but it was about half an hour before he got home. A little figgerin' fixed this time at somewheres 'round five o'clock. Do you see?"
Mountjoy, very grave now, merely nodded.
"Hunter thought right off he'd found a clue. He opened the letter, an' o' course couldn't make head nor tail of it. He puzzled over it days when he'd ought to been asleep, an' nights when he'd ought to been attendin' to his work; an' at last he calls in his dago friend for a conference. Funny, warn't it?
"The friend thought it looked like dago writin' all right, but he couldn't read this particular kind. Queer how them furriners can talk an' read some outlandish lingo an' not know good plain English, ain't it?
"Well, the dago thinks the thing to do is to take it to the policeman on this beat, though how he ever made Hunter understand is beyond me. They does it, as I have told you."
The interest with which Mr. Mountjoy followed this recital mounted rapidly to absorption. After the speaker had quite finished, he sat for a time still regarding him, evidently considering the possibilities of the incident.
"Well!" he exclaimed, finally. "This is a remarkable development. Undoubtedly it is of importance. It is a pity that John was not cognisant of it before leaving the city. He must have this brief note and the story of it as soon as possible. I should like to question that boy myself. Do you think you could get him and Hunter here this afternoon—say, at three o'clock? If so, I will be on hand with a stenographer, and the matter may go forward to-night."
"I will try," rejoined Mr. Follett. "Yes, I think I can. I will go after 'em right away."
Mr. Follett did succeed in securing the attendance of Hunter and the boy at No. 18 Ash Lane; and while the statement prepared by the lawyer, added to the newspaper clippings and sent that night to the captain of detectives, differed considerably in form from Mr. Follett's narrative, it contained but one particular which the latter himself had not related: the cryptic note had been destined for the hotel of one Ramon Velasquez.
As may be imagined, Captain John Converse, in the steady, unostentatious performance of his duty, was not the only one to whom success signified a reward as large as the twenty thousand dollars offered by the De Sanchez estate. About the time of his quiet leave taking there was a great gathering of soi-disant specialists, investigators, and detectives, like corbies to a feast. But they only created, for a time, a distracting tumult, and were soon forgotten—with a single exception. The man Adams, also working quietly and unostentatiously, is still to be heard from.
In the early part of January three incidents happened, bearing more or less directly upon the two tragedies, each of them attended by circumstances that caused more than one individual to regard a probable clearing up of the mysteries with the gloomiest doubt. We may not know how they impressed Mr. Converse, for he had not yet returned, but Mr. Mountjoy, and Miss Charlotte especially, viewed the outlook with dark forebodings.
First of all, after hovering between life and death for many weeks, Joyce one morning quite suddenly looked again upon the world with eyes in which shone the light of intelligence. Doctor Westbrook chanced to be present, and the mother heard them whisper a while together; and presently the Doctor came to her, his face pinched with worry.
It was characteristic that she did not question him; but as he left the room, she immediately followed him into the hall, closed the door noiselessly behind her, and placing her back to it, waited.
"We must be extremely careful," said he. "Any sudden shock may kill her.... Mother, she has forgotten—all."
The woman seemed to shrink; but she said nothing.
"It may be only temporary," the Doctor hastily added. So far he had talked quite as if he were discussing the condition of some chance patient with a member of that patient's family; but now a groan burst from him. "God grant it!" he cried tensely, under his breath. "God grant that the past may come to her gradually as she grows strong to bear it. But up to the moment of her waking her memory is a complete blank; it is like a slate sponged clean."
The mother tried to whisper a question: 'You—you don't think her mind—' The Doctor showed that he had been thinking of it, by the quickness with which he read his mother's thoughts, and hastened to deny.
"No, no," he insisted vigorously. "The condition is common enough in such debilitating diseases. Were I not so upset myself—were I free of any personal interest—I should say it was a benefit for the time being. But I can't bear any abnormal conditions in Joyce. Merely be careful not to shock her. Please speak to the servants."
Mrs. Westbrook simply bowed her head, and did not raise it again until her son had departed.
But if the Doctor's words were reassuring, he was by no means so sanguine himself: it was also not uncommon that memories so lost were never recovered.
During a black night of tempest and pounding sleet without, of high-leaping fires assaulted by gelid gusts within, Mrs. Elinor Fairchild's spirit winged its flight from the poor earthly frame that had enchained it. So imperceptible was the transition, that Charlotte, star-eyed and sibylline, brooding by the glowing hearth, marked it not.
Some hours later, when bestirring herself to retire, she laid her slim fingers for a moment upon her mother's forehead, withdrawing her hand with a suddenness that marked the swift quickening of questioning dread. But after all, if the Spectre be really confronting us, how certain is his presence! Instantly her intelligence was submerged by conviction.
With a thought of Mr. Converse flitting incongruously through her mind, it occurred to her that the closed door was locked for ever.
The third incident has to do with Mr. William Slade. With the cold days of January, there came over him a noticeable change; quite suddenly—in a day—he seemed to have aged, to have shrunk and become doddering. It was an effort for him to climb the one flight of stairs to Room 6, and when once there, a still greater effort to go about his business. He began to be late of mornings and to commit trifling irregularities which, it was obvious, were due to a failing memory; the beady eyes—though with a waning brightness—regarded impartially and with open suspicion and hostility all who approached him—eyes unmistakably like a mouse's when that diminutive animal debates the chances of getting safely from one cover to another under the supervision of an alert cat.
The change was observed and commented upon in the main office across the hall. After much idle speculation one morning on the part of a clerk and the book-keeper as to the extent of Slade's wealth and its probable disposition in the event of his death, the book-keeper said:
"And there's another thing. Have you ever noticed him—" he cast a hasty, covert glance toward the entry door, and leaning suddenly forward, lowered his voice to a whisper,—"have you ever noticed him when he comes in or goes out of the abstract room—lately, I mean?"
The clerk shook his head.
"Well," impressively, "it makes me wonder if he didn't know something about that murder. You know, he was here that night. He never passes through his door now that he don't stop and look down the hall toward Doctor Westbrook's office. I bet nobody else has noticed it. That shows what it is to be observant; it's just little things like that that Sherlock Holmes worked out his wonderful cases by. I've seen Slade do it—look down the hall, I mean—many a time. He stands there just as if he heard or saw something. Queer, isn't it? And if any one comes up on him suddenly, he acts as though he had been caught doing something crooked, and hurries away."
If there's any virtue in old wives' saws, Mr. Slade's ears should have burned. Beyond, in the front office, overlooking Court Street, the abstracter was again a topic of discussion; but this time between personages no less important than the president, the secretary, and the treasurer of the Guaranty Abstract Company. At this conference it was decided that the company could thenceforth dispense with Slade's services, and it fell to the secretary so to inform him.
A few minutes later, when Slade comprehended the intelligence, he got unsteadily to his feet. He tugged aimlessly at his untidy collar a time or two, as if it were too tight, and when he again spoke a whine crept into his harsh utterance.
"You won't hurry me, will you? Say you won't hurry me. Give me another month; time to—to adjust myself to the new conditions. You are right: I am old; I—I sha'n't last much longer. I've received a mortal blow,—not this, though, not this."
But the secretary hardened. "We're not hurrying you," said he. "You have till February first—practically a month—and in the meantime you can do pretty much as you please. Understand?"
During the rest of that day Slade conducted himself like a man dazed. There was a forward droop to his knees, to his shoulders, and to his head; and altogether he presented a most unlovely spectacle of irresolution and helplessness.
From long force of habit he did not leave Room 6 until five o'clock; but at that hour he got slowly into his overcoat—once black, but now plum-colored where the light struck upon it—and donned his hat, preparatory to departing for the night. The clerks across the hall, the occupants of the other offices, passed out one by one or in couples, their brisk homeward-bound footsteps clattering cheerfully in the hall; and when he finally turned off the light the building was deserted save for himself and one other. As he slowly descended the stairs, clinging tenaciously to the railing, Doctor Westbrook passed him—also descending,—and as he did so, bent a keen look toward the meagre, tottering form and the parchment-like countenance, drawn by acute physical pain and overcast by an unhealthy pallor. He nodded as he went by, but Slade did not observe it; neither did he see that the physician paused at the foot of the stairs and looked back at him.
Somehow Slade arrived at his single cheerless, disordered apartment. It was dirty, damp, and fireless. He lighted a candle—so primitive were his conveniences—which with some difficulty he stood upright on a corner of the table, where it was held steady by its congealed drippings.
And all that night, and until well into the next forenoon, Slade left the bare table only once or twice: once to get from a shelf a bit of bread and a tin box of sardines. The latter, after several vain attempts to open, he cast aside and contented himself with the crust. The rest of the night he wrote sedulously, though slowly and with much labor; and when he had finished, a considerable pile of numbered pages reposed by his hand. About ten o'clock in the morning the cold enveloped him like an icy mantle; the pen slipped from his nerveless fingers, and he allowed it to remain where it fell; he dropped upon a cot which stood against the wall, pulled the covering closely about him, and slept immediately. In the afternoon he was awakened by a vivid dream and sat suddenly upright, his eyes once more jet-like with the light of a newly formed purpose.
The drifting shadows of the old Fairchild homestead were destined to behold strange sights and to hear strange sounds before being finally banished from beneath the crumbling roof.
Within the roomy dining-hall a heavy table has lost its identity beneath a thick coat of dust and a heap of plaster, sometime fallen from the ceiling; yet it is of solid mahogany, with legs richly carved, and hides a warm, brilliant lustre under its coat of dirt and neglect.
The shadows deepen. The chilly mist without becomes a rain, dripping mournfully from the decaying, moss-covered eaves, and filling the old house with strange, hollow echoes, weird and fantastic.
Without warning, these quiet, melancholy sounds are disturbed by another, loud and startling. It is like a groan, dominating all other sounds and awakening its counterpart in every portion of the building.
Immediately uncertain footsteps, marked by many shufflings, as of some person laboring beneath a burden, approach the dining-room door; a load of some nature is eased to the floor without; next, the door itself turns on screaming hinges to reveal a dim form. The form enters, drags a prodigious bundle after it, upon which it collapses as if its endurance were quite spent, and discloses the sallow, marasmic countenance of Mr. William Slade.
He presents a spectacle of utter physical exhaustion as he sits all huddled together on his recent burden. But after a while he gets unsteadily to his feet and busies himself about the apartment.
Strange is this final scene upon which the shadows, marshalled in wonder in the farthest corners, are destined to look to-night; stranger still and more weird are the sounds that echo and re-echo through the empty, dark rooms. In all its history of comedy and tragedy the mouldering roof has never sheltered an act so incongruous as this.
Behold the heavy table spread for a feast and lighted with the soft glow of many wax candles; behold the flames on the cluttered, mossy hearth struggling for access up the choked chimney; and above all, behold the solitary figure seated at the board, fingering a wine-glass and seeking with rheumy eyes to penetrate the darker limits of the vast room—indeed, a spectre at the board. Mad, mad, clearly mad!
Yet, look closer still and this madness reveals a certain method: a ghastly significance may be traced in the details, in the man's actions and the words he mutters ceaselessly; and although the spectacle remains incongruous, it ceases to be ludicrous. The fire on the hearth and the wan light of the tapers only accentuate the cheerlessness and squalid ruin of the place—of Slade himself, and of that spread table which is a thing to shrink from.
There are two covers laid—even a bouquet of hothouse roses, somewhat wilted and crushed from having been too tightly packed in the bundle. But where is the guest of this eerie banquet? Has one of the shadows been summoned forth from the dismal chambers to share it?
The second chair is oddly decked with fabrics of faded hue and ancient design, inasmuch as they are plainly articles of feminine apparel marking a mode dead these twoscore years. Most conspicuous of these decorations is a faded lavender skirt of silk with many flounces, cut long, long ago, not to fit any woman's shape, but with the prodigality demanded by the wide hoop of the period. The garments were arranged on the chair with an obvious attempt to suggest a human occupant; but the effect is ghostly and repulsive, the semblance pitiful.
It is unlikely that Mr. Slade could have found anything with which he was less familiar than champagne, unless indeed it were the art of presiding at such a feast as this one pretended to be; for, witness!—merely two spoons and forks and glasses served all requirements. Mere ghost of a dinner—a shadow among the innumerable other shadows of the place Slade's gaucherie was not even relieved by a hint that he had ever been present at an actuality of the kind. The wine mounted quickly to his head and infused a temporary vitality into his dry frame; the lack-lustre eyes became jet-like once more; even a tinge of color glowed feverishly in his sallow cheek; more wonderful still, his tongue was loosened to an unwonted loquacity. But his voice remained harsh and rasping, his movements stiff and awkward, and no slumbering trace of amiability was quickened into life.
Clumsily he opened the bottles, losing half their contents as he dodged to escape the flying corks.
"Drink, my dear," he said, nodding to the draped chair with a sorry attempt at joviality. "That's right. Great thing, champagne; sorry I didn't know it before." He leaned across the table and tried to fill the second glass, already full many times over, and gave the sopping cloth, which had been spread regardless of the dust, another libation. "Drink. Drink and be merry, as the old saying is—Epicurus, eh? Wonderful how it warms your heart.... And to think I never knew how champagne could fire one!" He tossed off the contents of his own glass and clacked his tongue.
"But I have been working," he went on with sudden cunning; "working for you, Elinor. This is our homecoming; all my life, my dear, I've pictured you and me sitting here and facing each other, and the niggers waiting on us. Niggers 'fraid to come, damn 'em! But's all yours—within bounds, of course—within bounds. I'm rich, I am—moderately so—perhaps not rich, but enough; with economy, enough for comfort." He waved the glass about at arm's length, noticed that it was empty, and refilled it. "All yours—and mine. And here we are! I forget the past—'s all wiped out—your children shall be my God, and my children your— You know; 's in the Bible. Wherever I goest you goest—"
There was a phonetic allusion in the repeated verb that cast a sudden damper over his exuberant spirits.
"Ghost!" he muttered, bending a dark look upon the lavender skirt, the time-stained cashmere shawl, the yellow bit of lace that adorned the chair facing him. Sitting so, he fell into a long, brooding silence.
The fire slowly sank upon the hearth, and the candles guttered unheeded down on the table. Without, the rain had settled into a steady downpour, its unbroken roar being intensified, in a muffled way, by the vast, empty house; a cold, penetrating wintry rain, such as drives the belated wayfarer to shelter however scant, and early empties the drenched streets of every living thing. And with a frequency growing more insistent as the minutes pass, the chill and the damp strike to Slade's very heart. Often now he fumbles with bottles and fills his glass—never forgetting the one opposite him, though it is never emptied—and at length the black mood is driven forth, only to stand once more at his elbow. Of a sudden he laughs harshly—a laugh that certainly would have startled any occupant of the room, had one been present to hear, for the laugh was both bitter and malignant.
"Come, drink up, m' dear. You're no ghos'—not you! Ha!" The glass rattled upon his teeth. "That damn' Peyton Wes'brook; he's a ghos', hey? Well, he is. Here's to the ghos'. Thought he'd get you, Elinor; but you're no ghos'—'s lie, tha's what 't is—lie. You're mine. All mine—house—money—you—all mine, at las'. We'll show 'em, curse 'em!" His unsteady hand overturned the brimming glass, but he poured on just the same; and when presently he noticed that the bottle was drained, he threw it with a wild laugh to a far dark corner, where it splintered against the panelling with a crash of sound that awed and frightened even him. But the vapors of the wine had too firm a hold on his brain for the feeling to remain. He laughed again, and went on with his mad monologue.
"Happy at las', too, El'nor. Been savin' all for you, m' dear. Ever hear me sing, hey? Remember this? Listen."
And,mirabile dictu, in a voice cracked, quavering, and harsh, William Slade burst into song.
It is needless to linger over this horrid banquet. It ended abruptly, with a jar of breaking glass. In the midst of a wild, discordant song something like intelligence flashed for a moment in the beady eyes; the singer paused, as if his drugged sensibilities had suddenly awakened to a distant call; then came that dreadful laugh again.
"It's a farce!" he muttered, bitterly, his eyes roving wildly about, as if he felt and feared another Presence. "You're dead! dead! and as far from me as everything I ever wanted in my life.... God!"
He was standing then, and attempted to hurl the glass at the empty chair.
"Curse you!" he shrieked in a frenzied outburst, and again, "Curse you! Curse you all!"
He dropped, his face striking upon the table with a thud; his arms were stretched straight in front of him, across the board, and he remained so, breathing stertorously. After some minutes he began to hiccough with such violence that his shoulders heaved spasmodically and his foot scraped on the floor. But these convulsions, by and by, came to be marked with longer intervals between them, and finally his shoulders lifted once and subsided in a single, long, slow exhalation.
The rain still reverberated from the roof; the candles flickered out one by one; occasionally the dull embers in the fireplace crackled faintly until they too became cold—nothing but gray, sodden ashes.
Then it was that the wan light of day began to show through the boarded windows; the shadows once more to flit through the chambers and the echoing halls; then it was that a venturesome mouse advanced to the centre of the floor, where, in the untouched comestibles of last night's feast, he discovered enough to maintain himself and his colony royally for many weeks.
And encountering nothing to alarm him, he remained.