"It's no easy matter just a-sortin' out the known facts, is it?" observed Mr. Follett.
The Captain shook his head. "But to sum up, Abram," he added, "we have a number of people connected by a lot of little circumstances, which, at the present moment, have mighty wide gaps between, and seem to point to nothing."
"I tell ye, John, a thing that's standin' stronger in my mind than all else comes from what you've just told me, an' from what I've told you about this man Slade.
"You know, before the war, old Bill Slade, the father, was the Fairchild overseer. I've heard the son's story, an' it appears that he was always little an' mean an' picayunish—not the kind that could do any big dirty thing; just little an' sneakin'. But old Bill was ambitious for his boy, who was just a young feller at the end o' the war, an' he charted out a course for young Bill that pointed from the Fairchild plantation straight to the United States Supreme Court; but he failed to mark off all the rocks an' shoals, an' the set o' the currents; he knew little o' the craft's qualities that was to make the voyage; an' the consequence is, that young Bill landed high an' dry right where he is to-day. He never drank, as I've often heard, nor chewed nor smoked, nor he never fought, nor did anything else to show that he had any good red blood in him—just natcherally unable to do anything good or bad." Mr. Follett abruptly altered his tone. "Has there been anything betwixt him and the Fairchilds since, besides him now ownin' their old home an' lettin' it go to rack an' ruin?" he asked.
"That's being gone into now. Nothing has been turned up so far that sheds any light upon the problem of the murder."
Mr. Converse's reply was thoughtful; his companion's run of talk seemed more to be a harmonious accompaniment to his own reflections than a source either of information or available ideas. Yet he listened patiently, self-contained and reserved, his occasional responses showing that he was following the other's words.
"Another point, John," Mr. Follett went on. "From what you've told me o' this Mr. Vargas, he seems to be a man who looks pretty sharp to his own affairs without botherin' himself about other people's. You know, meddlin' with other folks' business is the surest sign that you can't 'tend to your own. That don't seem to be his style, so you can be pretty sure that him mixin' himself in this matter on another tack has somethin' important behind it."
Here, quite naturally enough, fell one of the familiar, pleasant silences that characterized the friendship between these two men. The Captain's manner soon began to reveal an impatience. He smoked innumerable pipes of tobacco—not in his usual steady way, but alternating between fits of puffing like an engine for a space, and then permitting the fire in the bowl to die out. Several times he rose and walked slowly to and fro the length of the room, his hands clasped behind him, his eyes unseeing—oblivious of everything but the problem upon which his tenacious mind was fastened. Once or twice he paused at the window and looked out into the darkness.
All these evidences of extreme mental effort were to the still, crippled figure in the big chair so many indications that the Captain had seized upon an idea that he was revolving to a definite end. Neither by word nor gesture would Mr. Follett break in upon these cogitations until the other saw fit to enlighten him. The issue would be yielded in good time, and he awaited it in silent, patient eagerness.
Once Mr. Converse threw one of the windows wide open, and the sudden in-rush of cool night air began rapidly to dissipate the smoke which hung in well-defined strata of blue. The stillness of the night was unbroken by any sound, until presently, many blocks away, could be heard the faint clatter of a galloping horse. As with all distant sounds in a sleeping city, it would now and then become completely extinguished behind some intervening wall or building, only to burst forth again with added clamor.
How often are the greatest crises ushered in by the most trivial of incidents! Mr. Converse was only dimly aware of the beating hoofs, and his train of thought was not at all interrupted by any reflection that horse and rider might portend aught for him; then the circumstance was entirely forgotten as the Federal Building clock boomed forth one loud, deep-throated stroke that rang high on the night: one o'clock.
The vibrations were still trembling audibly when he turned of a sudden from the window.
"Abram, I have it," he announced in a tone of finality. "I know how to find Fairchild."
Whatever Mr. Follett might have responded was never uttered; for all at once the thud of hoofs became loud and insistent. The rider was evidently in Ash Lane now, and approaching at a pace that would soon bring him opposite No. 18.
"Listen!" whispered Mr. Converse; and both waited in tense expectation while the wild rider drew nearer and nearer.
The horse was pulled up to a sharp standstill immediately below, just as Converse turned to the window once more. In the light which fell from the lamp behind him he could make out the faint glint of brass buttons and the brighter reflection from a nickel-plated star: the rider was an officer of the mounted force. What errand required such speed, and at such an hour?
"Is it you, Captain Converse?" the rider began, breathlessly. "You are to come to headquarters right away."
"What is it?" demanded the Captain.
"The Old Man told me to say it was a new development in the De Sanchez case; he sent me himself. McCaleb came in off his beat half an hour or so ago, and he looked as though he'd been seeing ghosts. Whatever it is, he brought in the news, and it must be mighty important to rout the Old Man out at this hour." "The Old Man," be it known, was the Chief of Police.
"Very well, Harrison, I'll be along at once." The messenger wheeled his blowing horse and disappeared into the night again.
Converse was not long in following. As he left the room Mr. Follett cried cheerfully after him, "Sail, ho!" The latter was accustomed to these unceremonious interruptions of their post-prandial communions, and he forbore any display of curiosity.
But if Mr. Follett's figurative farewell was a prognostication that the voyage of discovery was no longer to be conducted in unknown seas, or, to drop metaphor altogether, that some fact had come to light which promised explanation of the mystery, he was scarcely a true prophet. This the Captain had presented to him in a startling manner almost as soon as he entered the Chief's private office. He was impressed at once by that official's unusual agitation and the white, excited countenance of the young officer who stood by his desk, nervously and alternately mopping his brow and the inside of his helmet.
The Chief glared at Converse as though the Captain himself had been guilty of some unusual offence.
"Another murder, Converse!" he cried, with unsteady articulation. "Good Lord, what kind of a force have I got under me, anyhow? McCaleb, here, has just brought in a most astounding report. I don't know which way to turn; I feel—"
"May I inquire who has been murdered?" said Converse, quietly.
"General Westbrook!" thundered the Chief, banging his fist down on the desk; "one of our very best citizens is the victim of a dastardly assassination!"
The fact that John Converse was not given to betraying either surprise or astonishment only enhanced the effect of the involuntary step he took backward in the face of the intelligence flung at him by the Chief of Police. For a minute, perhaps, he returned the gaze of the agitated official; then the indomitable tenacity of the man began to manifest itself in a setting and tightening of the solid jaw; and when he presently turned to the excited McCaleb, the stunning effect of the news had been entirely overcome—he was quite himself again, masterful, determined, and inspiring confidence. Both the Chief and the young patrolman began at once to respond to his quieting influence.
Officer Harry McCaleb was of an aptness and intelligence promising rapid advancement. It was no secret that he had aspirations looking to success in the detective service; and it was of him that the Captain demanded particulars of the crime.
"Tell me what you know," said he, his manner advising promptness and despatch.
The young patrolman delivered his account with a glibness and attention to details that betokened forethought on the subject.
"Captain Converse," he began, "this month I am on the night shift, and my beat takes in Vine Street and General Westbrook's neighborhood. Mike Clancy's my partner. You know it's a pretty big beat for two men to cover—especially as we are obliged to remain together,—and we can't pass any one point oftener than once in every two hours, or such a matter.
"Well, sir, to-night we passed the Westbrook place last at about ten-thirty. Everything was perfectly quiet at that time, and we had no occasion to be more than ordinarily vigilant. We continued on our beat, and in the natural run of events should have been back at the Westbrook corner—Tenth and Vine, sir—at about twelve-thirty. At twelve o'clock we were over in the next block—on Live Oak, to the rear of the Westbrook place, and between Tenth and Eleventh. You know it's a part of our duty after dark to watch people getting off cars to see if they belong in our territory, and we can't gauge our time very well when we meet many cars on Live Oak Street.
"It was just at twelve—the Federal Building clock had just struck, sir—when Mike stopped short. 'What's that, McCaleb?' says he. It's one of those perfectly still nights, you know, when sounds carry a long way." Converse had a fleeting memory of a madly galloping horse. 'Was that a shot?' asked Mike. I had heard something, too, but couldn't tell whether it was a shot or not; and anyhow, neither of us could locate it. We waited quite a while, listening; then, hearing nothing more, we went on. In about ten minutes—maybe fifteen—we stopped suddenly again; we heard a woman scream. There was no mistaking the direction this time; it was one of those piercing, long-drawn-out screams that makes a man's blood run cold. We had no trouble following the sounds, for the screams kept up, as fast as the woman could get her breath. 'Help! Murder!' she was yelling; and Mike and I raced down Tenth Street to the Westbrook place, as fast as we could.
"Well, sir, when we got there it was as though bedlam had broke loose; the neighbors were pouring out on all sides; some society affair was going on last night, and most of them had just got home. A woman was running up and down the Westbrook front gallery, wringing her hands in a distracted way, and every now and then stopping to scream 'Murder!'
"Stop a moment, Mac," interposed Converse..... "Chief, call a cab, please; I don't want to waste any time—I can listen to Mac as we ride..... Now, Mac, go on."
"Well, as Mike and I vaulted the front fence, I yelled out that we were officers, and Mike set his whistle going for Hartman and Corrigan in the next beat, in case we should need help; though they never heard it. The lady fell back against one of the big gallery pillars and waited till we came up. Then we saw it was Mrs. Westbrook. She looked as if she were being beaten by some one we couldn't see, and was trying to shrink away from the blows.
"The whole house was a blaze of light, every electric lamp being turned on, it seemed like; and the niggers—well, sir, they were all plum crazy. Mrs. Westbrook had evidently been to whatever was going on, because she was all dressed up in one of those shiny white dresses, and had lots of jewelry on. I could see the diamonds on her fingers sparkling with her heart-beats, for she had her hands locked tight together and pressed against her bosom. When we got close enough to her we could hear her moaning to herself, 'Oh, my God! Peyton! Peyton! Peyton! Oh, my God! Peyton!' over and over again, like a machine, and it was some time before we could get her to notice us.
"Just then two or three of the neighbors came up. One of them, a lady, grabbed Mrs. Westbrook, and asked, 'What is it, Lou?' and Mrs. Westbrook just had time to whisper, 'Peyton—in there—dead!' before slipping down the pillar in a faint.
"Of course we waited for nothing more. Leaving her with the lady, we hurried into the house through the front door, which was standing wide open.
"I never saw anything like it in my life, Captain; back under the stairs a big yellow wench was sitting on the floor, holding Miss Westbrook's head in her lap, and moaning and rocking to and fro. The young lady herself was lying out in such a way that we thought at first she was dead too. The telephone was right above her head—"
Here the recital was once more broken in upon, this time by the arrival of the cab. Mr. Converse and the patrolman hastened into it. "General Westbrook's—hurry!" said the Captain to the driver, who, having had experience in such matters, lashed the horses to a gallop in an effort to obey the injunction.
Once under way, Officer McCaleb resumed his story:
"As I was saying, the telephone was right above where Miss Westbrook was lying. She was still holding the receiver in her hand, a part of the cord attached to it, the whole thing torn loose—evidently while she was trying to use the 'phone. She must have fainted then. It took only a second or two to see that nothing worse was the matter with her; and after stirring the nigger woman up to getting water and bringing her mistress round, we went on hunting for the General. We had to search, too; for every one that hadn't fainted was wild with terror.
"Pretty soon, however, we came upon him in a downstairs room—sure enough dead, Captain Converse, with a knife sticking in him. I left Mike there to keep the crowd out, and after 'phoning to headquarters from a neighbor's, I hurried in myself to make sure."
Not until the young man had finished did Converse vouchsafe a question.
"A knife, you say?" he mused, the words being hardly so much an interrogation as an expression of the importance he seemed to attach to the circumstance. "A knife?"
"Yes, sir. But I neglected to say there was a revolver lying on the floor. I didn't have time to see much; but it was out in pretty plain view, lying close to the General."
"His, likely. But wait till we get there," said Mr. Converse; then, as an afterthought, "Who else was at the house?"
"I saw no one, sir,—that is, before the neighbors arrived."
"Doctor Westbrook?"
"No, sir."
Shortly the conveyance was grinding over the gravelled driveway which led from the street to theporte-cochère.
The house itself was a commodious colonial mansion, possessing the familiar, massive-pillared Greek front. Setting in the midst of a wide expanse of beautiful park, shaded by magnolia, catalpa, and numerous oak and elm trees, it was merely a variation, in details alone, of a uniform style of architecture at once simple and imposing, which lent to the neighborhood an air of distinction and aloofness, and imparted that genuine spirit of the old Southern home which is both impressive and incapable of imitation.
The few neighbors who remained had succeeded in bringing some sort of order out of the chaos that had greeted officers McCaleb and Clancy upon their arrival. The negro servants had been banished to their own quarters, where they were out of the way; all lights had been extinguished excepting the few needed, and the house was shrouded in the unbroken stillness which exists like a vacuum behind the swift turbulence following a sudden and tragic death.
The Captain was received with something of the awe that always greets a man of his profession when he first enters upon such a scene, when those who meet him are as far removed from the law's intricate machinery as were General Westbrook's friends and intimates. Old as it was, the neighborhood had never in the past sustained so rude and violent a shock to its calm respectability. Mr. Converse was now indeed the Captain, the god in the car.
An elderly gentleman, evidently a neighbor, met them at the door. He led the officers straight back through the wide and richly furnished hall, past the carved oaken stairway, which rose like an invitation to a multitude, to a lateral hall extending the width of the house. Here he turned to the left, and presently paused before a curtained door; a door so massive and solid that, together with the voluminous folds of the heavy velvet curtain which hung before it, it promised to afford an effective barrier to sounds arising within the room beyond, causing the sharpest of noises emanating therefrom to strike muffled and dead upon the ear of anybody in the hall.
Mr. Converse placed a restraining hand upon the arm outstretched to open the door.
"Just a moment, sir," said he. "Is Doctor Westbrook here?"
"No, sir; but efforts are being exerted to find him. It appears that he is in attendance upon some suburban patient."
"Who discovered the tragedy?"
"Miss Westbrook. She is completely prostrated, sir."
"Very good; now open the door."
The portal swung open and revealed, obviously, the household library. Save for the door, the windows, and the narrower spaces between the windows, its walls were entirely concealed by book-laden shelves; the apartment was otherwise scantily furnished.
By a large, old-fashioned fireplace in the southwest corner stood a heavy leathern couch; besides this the room contained nothing more in the way of large furniture except a heavy oaken table which stood in the bay of the east window. There was a swivelled desk-chair before the table; a Morris chair, a straight-backed wooden chair, and a light ladder whereby the higher shelves were made accessible. All this at a glance.
Presently, however, a number of details challenged Captain Converse's attention.
First of all, let us, as briefly as possible, dismiss the grewsome, silent figure in the centre of the floor. It lay flat upon its back beside the desk-chair; the arms were wide outstretched, and a dagger handle of ebony, or some other black wood, protruded from the left breast, into which the blade had been driven to the hilt. Surprisingly little blood had found its way through the wound, since the blade must have been reposing in the stilled heart—a well-aimed, deadly blow, signifying a cool and sinister intent. Death could not have ridden more swiftly on a thunderbolt; and plainly it had met its victim here just as he was either in the act of rising hastily from the swivel-chair, or at the moment he had gotten to his feet.
A brief inspection showed that most of the room's windows were closed and fastened, as were also the inside wooden blinds, and that lace curtains hung from the ceiling to the window-seats.
Before the table the swivel-chair was turned so that it faced two pairs of French windows in the front or north wall. These opened on a wide veranda extending across the entire front of the house. One pair of these windows now stood open, and between them stood the room's third chair,—the straight-backed one,—and upon it the Captain's attention seemed to linger.
If General Westbrook had been seated in the desk-chair, who had occupied this one so near the handily opened window? It faced the one before the desk, and their relative positions irresistibly suggested atête-à-tête, the silent figure on the floor that thistête-à-têtehad been brought to an abrupt and violent termination. Both chairs had been forcibly pushed back a foot or more, as if the occupants of each had arisen with precipitation; for the swivel-chair had raked up one end of a magnificent tiger-skin, tearing the felt lining; and the one by the window could be traced back to where it had formerly stood, by the four deep scorings that its legs had made in the polished surface of the floor.
The occupancy of the straight-backed chair seemed to contain the crux of the matter. And here was presented another suggestion: whoever had chosen a seat so close to the open window had done so with an eye to hasty and easy retreat. This spot seemed to have attracted Mr. Converse's attention immediately after his first cursory glimpse; he still stood just inside the doorway, and his eyes, after travelling over various details of the scene before him, returned again and again to the vacant seat.
At last his regard rested upon Officer Mike Clancy, standing respectfully at attention, and he pointed to the object of his interest.
"Clancy," he asked, "who's been sitting in that chair?"
"Sure, an' there's been no wan, sorr, since Oi've been in the room."
"Not yourself?"
Clancy cast an appreciative glance at the comfortable Morris chair, and then one of contempt at the less inviting seat.
"Oi hov not," he replied, with deliberate emphasis. Such innocence of his questioner's intent was not to be doubted: the chairs had not been disturbed.
If the Captain evinced an unusual interest in the straight-backed chair, one other article must be mentioned to which his eye reverted many times,—the nickel-plated desk telephone, overturned upon the blotting-pad, its hooks free of the receiver. It was more than likely that when Miss Westbrook attempted to use the instrument in the hall, she received no response from Central, the line already, doubtless, having been put out of commission.
Close by the nerveless fingers of the General's right hand was a revolver. An inspection of this revealed a weapon of familiar make, of .38 calibre; and the pungent odor of freshly burnt powder, which still clung about it, together with two exploded shells, told its own story of recent and apparently ineffectual use.
It was only natural to turn from the revolver to a partially open drawer on the right side of the desk, and to the desk itself; and here once more the mute witnesses gave their unspoken testimony. Had General Westbrook been seated at his desk writing when some midnight caller interrupted him? Had a conference then followed which crescendoed rapidly through the various stages of a quarrel,a verbis ad verbera, to a sudden resort to violence? Well, here was the cover off the ink-well; a spreading spot of ink on the blotting-pad marked where a pen had been dropped; a tablet was conveniently at hand, but not one scrap of paper that had been written upon, except one or two neat piles of envelopes containing letters addressed to the dead man, and other documents of various kinds, none of which, probably, had engaged his attention during the minutes preceding the abrupt blotting out of his life.
But in these particulars could be read the fact that the unfortunate gentleman had, some time during the night, been actually writing at his desk. Then, the chair forcibly shoved backward; the right hand, overturning the telephone in its precipitancy, flying to the drawer where the revolver reposed, presented a picture to the Captain's mental vision almost as comprehensive as a photograph. The General had not been surprised: an explanation of the interval between the dropping of the pen and the hurried opening of the drawer lay in the occupancy of the two chairs; this hiatus contained the whole story of the crime.
Thoughtfully Converse set the telephone upright again. He hung the receiver upon the hooks, and after a minute or so of waiting endeavored to catch Central. But it was of no use; no response came; the line evidently had been, as he had already thought, "cut out" as being out of order—which naturally would follow upon a continuous signal with no request for a number.
Next, he picked up the writing-tablet, and upon it his scrutiny became almost instantly glued. He seemed to be as absorbed in the unsullied whiteness of its top sheet as if it had been covered with written characters. His stiff lips presently pursed; his right eyebrow lifted in a familiar quizzical manner; and he looked from the tablet in his hand to the fireplace, black and cold. After all, there was evidently a message in those blank pages: the last one used had been hastily and carelessly rent from the binding gum, as the saw-tooth particles of paper yet adhering to the tablet, in this one instance, affirmed.
The elderly gentleman who had admitted the two officers had been watching Mr. Converse with as much interest as that evinced by McCaleb himself, and the young patrolman was taking advantage of his opportunity greedily. The elderly gentleman now stepped forward.
"Pardon me," he began, "but if the question is not premature, are you able to form a theory? Have you any idea as to the identity of the assassin?"
Converse eyed the old man askance, and the latter went on immediately:
"Besides yourselves and Doctor Bane I am the only man in the house. I am a near neighbor; I reside on the opposite corner. Wilson is my name, Slayden Wilson. I was going to say, that perhaps I may be needed else—"
"By all means, don't let us detain you," urged Converse with suspicious haste.
"Thank you. And if you require anything—" his eye wandered until it rested upon the bell-button beside the door—"if you require anything, press the button there."
"Very good," Converse returned. "Try to prepare the ladies for a meeting, as I shall want to question them—the servants too."
The old gentleman withdrew, closing the door noiselessly after him.
Mr. Converse still held the writing-tablet in his hand, and now he laid it upon the table. As he did so, McCaleb—all the time close to his elbow—quietly observed.
"Do you suppose somebody's got away with it, sir?"
"It looks that way," the older man replied, abstractedly; then abruptly breaking off, he fixed a keen look upon the young man. "What do you mean, McCaleb?" he asked.
"Are you not looking for some writing?"
"Aye, aye, Mac," was the quiet reply, the speaker's glance kindling shrewdly, "aye, aye, Mac, you are correct."
He pointed to a blotter lying on the desk.
"See there, Mac; my fingers are just itching to get hold of that writing; but I fear it's gone. Mac, you haven't the first idea of its importance."
The young man slowly shook his head. "I'm afraid not, sir," said he simply.
"Well, it's just this: if we had it, we would know who is—" The speaker dropped suddenly into a reverie, leaving the thought incomplete. He picked up the blotter and stared fixedly at it for a moment; laid it back again on the table, still watching it, and concluded in a preoccupied manner, "What a game! what a game! How near—and how far—to both these deaths!"
McCaleb caught his breath.
"You don't say!" he exclaimed in a whisper. "De Sanchez—"
The Captain merely nodded once.
The blotter all at once became an object of magnetic interest for the young man, and he bent over it and began studying its cryptic markings with puckered brow.
"See what you can make of it," suggested Converse.
After a while McCaleb stood upright again, took a long breath, and shook his head.
"I can make nothing of it," said he; "the lines are too crisscrossed and mixed, the fragments of words too short and indistinct. Maybe—if I had a lens—something more to go on—"
"But is there nothing that particularly attracts your attention?"
Once more McCaleb frowned heavily and concentrated his mind upon the blotter.
"I suppose this is the one General Westbrook was using?" he asked.
"Yes."
In silence he studied it some moments longer.... "No," said he, with an air of finality; "I can make out nothing but a lot of curlicues that look like figure three's with tails to 'em. I can't imagine what they mean."
Converse chuckled in his throat. "My question was hardly fair," said he. "You hadn't the advantages in the first case I had. I'll tell you this much, though: they're letter 'z's.'"
"Oh, I begin to see. I suppose you would like me to confirm your opinion, by coming independently to the same conclusions. Well, I'll try again."
Once more the Captain nodded, and moved over to the open window.
Without touching it, he began carefully to look over the straight-backed chair, at the polished hard-wood floor about it, and at the narrow section of panelled wall behind—one of the room's wall spaces uncovered by books. Presently a barely audible exclamation escaped him—a mere breath of satisfaction, which, nevertheless, instantly brought McCaleb to his side.
"What is it?" the young man asked, breathlessly.
The Captain pointed to a small round hole in the oak panel, somewhat lower than his own shoulder as he stood, from which protruded what appeared to be half an inch of black yarn.
"You'll have to keep yourself better in hand, Mac," was his only verbal recognition of the young man's curiosity, while he extracted the particle of fabric from the tiny aperture.
"Ah, I see," McCaleb continued; "General Westbrook nearly winged him, didn't he? The man must have been standing right up against the wall to have the bullet carry away a piece of his coat like that."
Again Converse looked at the young man appreciatively.
"We'll make a detective of you yet," said he. "But the man wasn't standing so close to the wall, though. And why 'a man'? It is simply one of those rare chances where the thread of cloth clung to the bullet a bit longer than usual. If you'll notice the floor closely, you'll see—from this chair, where he sat for some time, to the desk; from the desk to the window there, and away. What that person took with"—the briefest of pauses before the pronoun—"him I'd give a good deal to have.... Those are about the actions of the General's caller. Do you notice anything peculiar about the footmarks on the floor?"
The Captain's manner was quiet and deliberate; and McCaleb, the pupil, followed the vague markings with the intentness and thoroughness of a born specialist. Slight as they were, the imprints would have been lacking entirely had it not been for the dampness of the night; but they held a meaning.
"The man came on to the desk," McCaleb began, but paused. "I suppose it was a man?" he asked.
The answer was a steady look.
In a moment the young man went on: "Well, the party came up to the desk after stabbing the General. I imagine that's where your missing paper went—what he was after. And right here—just as he got out of his chair—he seems to have slipped. Probably in a hurry; or else the bullet clipped him about that time—eh?—or her."
Converse shook his head dubiously. "I can't say," he returned, meditatively. "There's something about those footmarks that is mighty peculiar, Mac; I can't just make it out." He mused a moment longer, but presently bestirred himself again. "Two shots were fired from that gun, you know," he concluded; "have you located the other bullet?"
McCaleb looked blank for an instant, as if he had been guilty of some vital oversight. However, he turned at once to a search for the missing bullet.
The glass doors before the books simplified the matter somewhat: the radiating lines from a bullet-hole in one of the panes would be so conspicuous that the most cursory glance would scarcely overlook them. Elsewhere there was no indication of the second missile; and with a little laugh McCaleb abruptly stopped and indicated by the wave of a hand the open window.
"If you have eliminated every other possibility, all right," said Converse. "Now, Mac, you may telephone for Merkel." At which last statement McCaleb smiled: the Coroner would not be in the way now.
The young man departed on his errand, and Converse went over and knelt before the fireplace.
To Policeman Clancy, the quiet, self-contained, confident man scanning the bricks and the crevices between them with an eagle-like scrutiny was the embodiment of awful and mysterious possibilities.
Although it is now the morning of November seventeenth, the mild and spring-like Southern autumn has not yet presented any wintry aspects, and the wide, old-fashioned fireplace in the Westbrook library gives no indication that it has been recently used.
If any papers had been removed from the General's desk, they had not been destroyed here—unless, indeed, the fireplace had been cleaned since midnight, which was scarcely likely. Still, the Captain continued to scrutinize the bricks; and when McCaleb returned, he was carefully picking between them with the point of his pencil.
"Find anything?" asked the young man, as Converse stood upright.
"No; and yet, some paper has been burnt here recently. But it could not have been the missing one.... Have you a pocket-lamp?"
From the recesses of his blue coat McCaleb produced a short black tube with a bull's-eye in one end—an electric dark-lantern, operated by the simple means of pressing and releasing a button in its side. This the Captain took and moved toward the open window. He got down on his hands and knees, looked intently at the sill, and, still in a crouching attitude, passed out to the veranda—or, in local parlance, "gallery"—McCaleb following close behind. His course led him directly to the east end, where he cautioned his companion to move carefully.
"I want to examine these marks again by daylight," he explained; "but they are pretty distinct even now. There is just enough moisture to-night to soften the turf and cause smaller bits of gravel from the driveway to cling to one's feet."
While talking, he flashed the light upon various points between the gallery's edge and the open window.
"See, Mac; just like the traces inside. Lucky—there might have been none."
Together they moved silently, swiftly; their eyes kindling with a keen alertness that missed not the least particular. The nature of the occasional brief comments indulged in by one or the other indicated clearly that each took it for granted that their thoughts were running in the same channel.
McCaleb's thin, aquiline features were tense, his black eyes fairly luminous with eager concentration.
"Strange way to make a call," he muttered, peering over the end of the gallery. "Seems to have come openly, too."
The response was an indefinite sound, incapable of interpretation by any written character.
All at once Converse diverted the beam of light to the ground, immediately voicing a feeling of satisfaction, of doubt removed.
"It was a man!" he exclaimed. "Look!"
There in the turf at the end of the gallery was a clearly defined imprint of a masculine shoe heel.
"Careful there, Mac," the Captain went on, as the other started to let himself down to the ground; "go as far to the right as you can."
They moved rapidly over the lawn, one on each side of a very plain trail.
"And look here!" McCaleb presently cried. Both came to a stop. The distinct imprints of two heels lay nearly side by side, the only apparent difference between them being that one pointed toward the house and the other away from it.
"The fellow departed just as he came," was the older man's comment; "straight from the end of the gallery to the drive. Not much to be seen there, though—too hard. But let us try it."
With Converse going in advance and flashing the light from side to side, they started down the driveway. They had advanced but a short distance when the leader came to an abrupt pause.
"Hello!" he ejaculated, softly; "our caller left by a different route after all. Now, why did he turn off here?"
The driveway lay between two parallel rows of cedars, set so closely that they almost formed a hedge. Simultaneously with the exclamation, Converse stepped to one side, directing the light to a spot beneath the low-hanging branches. Here the shadow was so dense, even in daytime, that the soil was quite free from grass or any growth, excepting a few wan, straw-like weeds; it was, besides, quite moist.
"Tiptoeing, too, you see," went on the Captain. "He took alarm at something.... One solitary, isolated heelmark; I wonder if he's left an entire footprint anywhere?"
"You can see where he pressed through the branches," observed McCaleb.
"Yes. If he followed a straight course, he struck the walk at about the front gate. Come a little farther down the drive."
Nearly every step of this sally into the night presented something novel to the two eager searchers. They had proceeded but a few yards, when of a sudden the leader once more came to a halt, at the same time extending a restraining hand.
"Wait a bit, Mac," he admonished. He dropped to one knee and cast the eye of light about over the space in front of him. "There's been some one else here," he presently announced in his whisper; "somebody's been standing here and moving about—quite a while to kick up the hard gravel like this. Explains why the other turned off back there.... A-h-h—"
A quizzical lifting of the eyebrow—a puckering of the lips—absorbed the thought.
A little hollow, worn by the passage of many wheels over the hard road-bed, was filled with the product of attrition—a soft sand, fine and plastic; and to this the Captain pointed. McCaleb could see the outline of a small French heel, and beside it a second, which had been partially obliterated by another foot—the latter unmistakably masculine.
"A woman!" the young man breathed; his astonishment was complete. "Well, well! a woman, after all." He looked at the Captain with open curiosity; but Mr. Converse was grimly silent.
If he had been alive before to overlook no possible detail, the concentration with which he now began an inspection of the driveway seemed to include within his scrutiny each separate grain of sand.
"Don't move," he curtly enjoined; McCaleb instantly froze.
Slowly, inch by inch, he went over a space covering the radius of about a rod from where they had paused. Again and again he returned to the footprints in the little depression, and once he passed swiftly back to the point where the first trail diverged from the driveway so abruptly. He examined the solitary heelmark here with an added interest, in the end producing from his pocket a finely graduated ivory rule, which he applied to the print in a variety of ways.
Returning again to the depression, he made a careful comparison by means of the measure. At last he turned to McCaleb.
"I was afraid you would disturb something," he explained. "Our trail is becoming a little involved; it was too plain to last. This promises to be a wonderful case, Mac,—a wonderful case. I wish I were twenty years younger."
"What do you make of it, sir?"
Mr. Converse considered before replying, and when he did his whisper was no more than audible.
"Mac, keep this to yourself, and do not ask me to go any farther into it just now." He threw the light upon the young man's sharp-featured countenance, and subjected it to a momentary but searching scrutiny. "A woman was here," he went on, "and some man; but I'm afraid her identity will cause a devil of a mess."
It was obvious that he was much impressed by what he had read in the driveway, and he presently concluded, in a vastly altered manner:
"You see, Mac, how carefully one must act in a case of this kind; there is never any telling what might turn up, nor what a lot of needless worry—not to say danger—an innocent person may be made to suffer. The fact that a woman figures so prominently in the De Sanchez case, and yet is kept in the shadowy background, coupled with the fact that we have stumbled upon these impressions here, looks pretty bad for that woman if she happens to be the same in both instances. It may be only a coincidence, but a man and woman were here—here when General Westbrook was done to his death, and here when the assassin departed. Why? Now let us drop this as though it had never come to our knowledge—until we know more.... I believe you said Mrs. Westbrook wore some sort of evening gown when you and Clancy got here."
"Yes, she did; Miss Westbrook, too."
"Did you notice what colors?"
"Mrs. Westbrook's costume was of some light color, but Miss Westbrook's was—"
With a startled exclamation the young man stopped and stared strangely at Converse. For some incomprehensible reason his mind was flooded with the vision of a bit of fabric protruding from a bullet-hole in a carved oak panel.
"Well?" curtly.
"Black," McCaleb said, in a whisper, "dead black."
For a moment the Captain returned the other's regard in silence; then he said in his customary quiet way:
"Very good, Mac. Now, let us get through with the driveway."
They proceeded to the handsome wrought-iron gates, but without observing anything more of moment; and passing through them to the sidewalk, they continued to the front gate. Just inside the latter the Captain paused and indicated with the lamp the bordering bed of flowers.
"Just as I expected," he observed; "here's where the midnight caller made his exit. Still tiptoeing, too—see? The bed was a little too wide for him to jump across, and his toe sank deep into the soft earth—an active, athletic man to make a jump like that. He cut right across the lawn from the driveway."
The attention of the two was now diverted by the sound of a rapidly driven horse being brought to an abrupt standstill, and both paused to listen. Presently the front gate clanged, and an approaching dim figure finally resolved itself into the ponderous form of the Coroner.
"Bless my soul! Captain Converse!" he cried, as soon as he recognized the Captain. "Here we are together again. This is dreadful—dreadful, isn't it?" After he had given expression to his feelings at some length in a similar strain, the Captain saw an opportunity to interrupt.
"Mr. Merkel, you must let me run this thing for a while."
The other looked blank.
"Oh, all I desire is a day or two unhampered—" Converse paused, tentatively.
"Well—er—ah—as to that," returned the Coroner, in his important, official manner,—"as to that, John, I cannot commit myself to act against my better judgment."
"I should say not!" exclaimed Converse, apparently amazed at the implication that he could harbor such a thought.
"It is my desire, of course," the other went on, with a comical, heavy air of patronage that made McCaleb confide a thin-lipped smile to the darkness, "that we work together in perfect harmony; I wish to aid to the extent of my powers; but there are responsibilities attaching to my office; there are responsibilities—"
"To be sure there are," Converse interrupted with prompt acquiescence; "and with your permission, I will assume them entirely. Now, what I want is, that you will not act at all for a while. Of course you will not. Delay the inquest for a day or two, and I will show you some things that will astonish you."
"Very well," responded Mr. Merkel, after a moment of gravid deliberation; "I agree to be guided by you for the present—within certain limits, of course,—unless my better judgment—"
"Good! very good!" was the satisfied interruption. "We'll handle this conscientiousness of yours as if it were cut glass;" and passing his hand beneath Mr. Merkel's arm with an air of irresistible cordiality, the Captain added, "Now, let us go to the house. Come, Mac."
The elderly gentleman, Mr. Slayden Wilson, met the trio in the hall, and to his tender mercies Converse intrusted the Coroner with a request that the latter be conducted to the library. "Then return to me here," he concluded, still addressing the guide.
Mr. Converse watched the two disappear; then seated himself, and soon was in a deep study. McCaleb was not without skill himself, but their discoveries of the night told him no more than what they might baldly signify to any observer, and he watched the Captain, filled with a deep curiosity, but too accustomed to discipline to ask questions.
With a slight shake of the head, like a diver coming to the surface of a pool, Mr. Converse presently came out of his meditations, and immediately brought joy to the heart of McCaleb.
"Mac," said he, "your detective career begins to-night. A word from me to the Commission depends upon the way you accomplish what I want you to do. See every darkey on the place, singly, and find out—first, what time Miss Westbrook returned home last night, and if she returned alone; second, was anybody at all seen skulking about the premises during the night; third, were any shots heard, how many, at what time, and what was thought of the occurrence. Let them talk; impressions are sometimes of value. Now go."
As the young man departed for the servants' quarters, Mr. Slayden Wilson reappeared.
"Now, then," Converse began at once, "I suppose at present the ladies are not in a condition to be seen?"
"Oh, no, sir; I could not disturb them now; Doctor Bane has succeeded in getting them to sleep. They know nothing, however; I can assure you of that. This terrible tragedy has been a prostrating shock to both of them."
"Well, that can wait. I want the servant who attended the door to-night and Miss Westbrook's maid. If they're asleep, wake 'em up."
"Sam and Melissa are quite ready; I took occasion to impress upon them the necessity of remaining cool under the ordeal of a searching examination, and if they are in possession of any facts you will surely learn them. You will find Sam quite intelligent for a darkey; but I am certain that both are ignorant of—'
"We'll see," was the curt interruption; "hurry, please."
And Mr. Wilson disappeared, noiselessly, up the broad stairway.
In a short time he returned, closely followed by a stout, middle-aged negress, whose face, much swollen with weeping, reflected the degree of terror often described as speechless. She approached Mr. Converse with obvious reluctance and trepidation; but upon observing her condition his sternness relaxed, and he sought to reassure her that he was somewhat less formidable than an ogre.
"Sam is in the servants' quarters," Mr. Slayden Wilson explained. "He does not fully realize what the taking away of a kind master and friend means. Ordinarily he is inclined to be jocular, and the shock has not yet had time to exert its sobering influence, so pray overlook any facetiousness or apparent levity."
"Very good—if you will only fetch him."
It was not difficult to calm Melissa when it became evident to her understanding that this burly, unassuming man desired nothing more momentous of her than the shoes worn the preceding night by her mistress.
Miss Joyce's shoes—the idea!
But astonishment and awakened curiosity made her pliable, and the articles of apparel were not long in forthcoming.
Converse placed one on the palm of his right hand; but whatever of softness and femininity it might have imparted, such influences were apparently lost upon the impassive figure who scrutinized it so closely. His cold eyes took in the fact that the heel and sole were stained with yellow sand, and that innumerable bits of fine gravel yet clung to it.
To any person beneath that roof—save himself and McCaleb, of course,—the circumstance would have appeared ridiculously trifling, yet it made him terribly, dangerously silent and absorbed.
"Fo' de lan' sake, seh," said Melissa, unable longer to restrain her wonder, "what you see in Miss Joyce's shoe to stare at hit dat erway?"
What, indeed? But the Captain did not reply directly; he handed the little shoe back to Melissa, saying:
"I hear Sam coming; but I haven't heard yet where the ladies were last night—at a ball, perhaps?"
"Oh, no, seh; dey wuz at Miz Farquier's 'ception."
"To be sure. And Miss Westbrook was feeling badly and came home before her mother.... Wait there, Sam; I'll be ready for you in two seconds.... That's how she happened to find her father, isn't it?"
"Yes, seh," was the reply; and Melissa proceeded to tell all she knew of the circumstance.
Further than that the hour was late, she did not know when Miss Westbrook returned from the Farquier reception. The young lady had come up the stairs alone, roused her maid, and inquired for her father, who had been feeling ill for a week or more, and upon being informed that he was still in the library, she went at once downstairs again. The rest was confusion in the darkey's mind.
"So Miss Westbrook came upstairs before entering the library?" asked the Captain.
"Oh, yes, seh; she suttenly did."
"How do you know that?"
"I don' know; I des knows hit," was the rather enigmatic reply. "What fo' she ax me 'bout her pa, if she done been in de lib'ry?"
Obviously, it was useless to answer this reasoning.
Sam, the butler, had somewhat more to tell. It was his duty to make everything fast after the family were all in of a night, and he had been dozing in his waiting-room off the rear hall. About midnight he had been startled into wakefulness by a sound which he took to be a shot; but failing to locate its source, and hearing nothing more, he settled himself for another nap, when Miss Westbrook arrived and he was obliged to admit her. She was a trifle flushed and out of breath, as if she had been running.
"I ax her ef she seen somebody in de yahd," added Sam. "When I ax dat, she look at me mighty queer; den she laugh an' say: 'Why, de idea, Sam! You must have been dreaming.'" She then laughed again softly, and ran lightly up the stairs.
About when there had last been a fire in the library, Sam spoke at some length.
"Lemme see, seh," he beat his memory. "On Sunday Marse Peyton went to Bellefontaine, de plantation, an' de nex' night Marse Howa'd Lynden an' Clay Fai'chile was heah to see Miss Joyce. I minds dat, seh, kase dey both sot an' sot dere eyin' one an'er lak dey wanter see which can stay de longes', wiv Miss Joyce pokin' fun at 'em all de time. Bimeby Marse Peyton come in, an' de young gen'lmen dey goes home. Miss Joyce see dat Marse Peyton is cold an' wo'n out. She tole me to make a fiah in de lib'ry, while she mix him a toddy. Dat was a Monday night—de second Monday befoah Marse de Sanchez got kilt."
"That would be in October."
"Yes, seh. I minds it was de fust night Miss Joyce been right peart sence Marse de Sanchez been comin' to de house, an' Marse Peyton was mighty glad to see her dat way."
There had been no fire since until the morning before the General's death, when Sam discovered that some papers had evidently been destroyed in the library fireplace, the ashes of which had blown out over the floor. He had procured a broom and dustpan and removed them.
"What do you do with the ashes, Sam?" asked Converse.
"Dere's a ash-hopper in de stable-yahd; de niggers leaches 'em for lye, seh."
"Have they made any lye recently?"
They had not, and the subject of ashes was temporarily dropped.
Responding to further questions, Sam could not say whether the General had received any disquieting message by mail or otherwise; but he had been "po'ly" for about a week, and against his rather vigorous objections Doctor Bane had been called by Miss Joyce.
"Well, Sam, I guess that is all for the present," Mr. Converse was concluding, when a startling period was put to his words. Hasty footsteps on the gallery, a ringing of the bell, accompanied by a wild beating upon the door, announced somebody's frantic haste and impatience to enter. "Quick Sam! Open the door," he commanded, shortly.
At once Doctor Westbrook strode across the threshold, breathless and quivering with agitation. His eyes lighted instantly upon Converse, and with a quick intake of breath he stopped short.
"It's true, then!" burst incontinently from him. "My God, it's true! Is my father dead? Where is he?"
But before there was time for any reply, an inarticulate, half-repressed cry sounded from the stairway, and the next instant Captain Converse beheld a figure in a loose, flowing, white dishabille rush swiftly, lightly down the steps, and precipitate itself into the open arms of the physician.
"Mobley!"
The word was wrung from the figure in a sobbing, despairing cry.
But why should Mr. Converse's aspect abruptly become so grim and portentous? Did the odor of stephanotis blind him utterly to the brother's and sister's grief?
At any rate, he certainly sniffed once more, and, with a dubious shake of the head, walked away and left them alone together.
When Mr. Converse so abruptly left the brother and sister in the hall, he proceeded directly to the library, whence the body had already been removed. Merkel had left the room, so he found himself quite alone with his own thoughts, which, for a time, turned sombrely upon what was to him entirely an unknown quantity:—Joyce. After a while he seated himself in the swivel-chair, and fell to contemplating the cryptic blotter.
Under his methodical examination the tangled lines finally resolved themselves into portions of written words,—all backwards, of course,—and of more or less length according to the extent the ink of the original writing had dried before the application of the blotter.
In the first place, if the blotter had been a new one or nearly so when it was last used, then the writing upon which General Westbrook had been engaged the preceding night was lengthy. Again, the longest line was one which had been heavily underscored; it contained three words fairly easy to decipher, and a portion of a fourth. When reversed they read: "......ndum of Castillo Estate." As Converse perused it he felt a strange thrill, a feeling of exultation, run through his big frame, as if something tangible to work upon were at last before his eyes; he read in it a hope that he would not have to do with a Herodias or a Semiramis.
"Memorandum of Castillo Estate"—evidently, from the heaviness with which it had been written and underlined, was the caption of the lost document.
There was one letter which, in connection with others and fragments of other letters, was repeated no less than twelve times—the letter "z," McCaleb's curlicue. What could the absorbed reader conclude otherwise than that he had an even dozen terminations of the name De Sanchez? Clearly, then, the missing document had primarily to do with the estate of one Castillo,—a name with which Converse was not entirely unfamiliar, as shall later on be seen,—and Alberto de Sanchez had been intimately connected therewith. So much for the blotter.
His cogitations were interrupted by the simultaneous entrance of McCaleb and Doctor Westbrook. The latter sank heavily into the Morris chair and into a brooding reverie that ignored the others, while the Captain drew McCaleb into the embrasure of the bay-window behind the desk.
"Well?" he queried.
"Well, sir, to begin with, I've learned some queer things from the darkies, especially Stonewall Jackson, the coachman. Trust the servants, sir, to know what their masters are about. I'll make what I got from Stonewall as brief as possible."
It appeared that Miss Westbrook, on a plea of headache, had slipped away, unnoticed by the company, from the Farquier residence, at about ten o'clock, the coachman driving her directly home. She had dismissed him at the gate, with instructions to go at once and wait for her mother. Mrs. Westbrook did not depart from the reception till near midnight, at which time she appeared in much haste, commanding Stonewall to hurry. McCaleb continued:
"Mrs. Westbrook seemed to be anxious and impatient to get home. Stonewall noticed that all the way she continued to lean forward and peer into the shadows beneath the trees which line the sidewalk on either side of the street. I fancy her servants do not venture to take any liberties with Mrs. Westbrook, but Stonewall could not refrain from asking if she was looking for some one; she paid no attention to him, and he commenced watching the sidewalk on his own account. Isn't it pretty plain she had some reason to be suspicious of the young lady's manoeuvres last night?"
The response was merely a nod.
"Now then, when the carriage was about midway between Tenth and Eleventh streets, and nearing this corner, Stonewall suddenly caught sight of a man in the act of turning from Vine Street to Tenth. He was coming from the direction of the house, and he disappeared in the shadows beneath the shade trees so quickly that he couldn't have told who it was even if he had known him. Before the carriage got to the corner another man showed up, who seemed to be following the first; for he stepped right into the glare of the electric light at the corner, and stood looking down Tenth Street after the other fellow. The carriage was rapidly nearing the corner, and all at once Mrs. Westbrook spotted Number Two. As soon as she saw him, Stonewall says, she laughed in a quiet way, and leaned back in the seat as though she had either found what she was looking for, or was satisfied that any suspicions she might have had were unfounded."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Of course Stonewall didn't put it in just the way I have. I had some difficulty in getting his meaning, and I am using my own choice of words in repeating what he said. The point is, that just as soon as Mrs. Westbrook saw this man she was relieved of some anxiety or fear."
"Ah! And who was this mysterious stranger?—for I see you know him."
"Yes, sir. I'll get to that immediately."
"Go on."
"Well, suddenly Number Two became aware of the approaching carriage, and it's plain he didn't want to be seen after all; he was so bent on watching Number One, when he stepped so briskly into the light, that he was heedless of his own actions. He wheeled around, gave one glance toward the carriage, and disappeared down Tenth Street as quickly as the other man had. But during that brief look Stonewall had an opportunity to recognize him."
"And it was—"
"Lynden."
If Mr. Converse was surprised he showed it not at all; he said nothing, and McCaleb, after eyeing him a moment, continued:
"The darkies all had a lot to say; but there was only one thing more that struck me as being important, and I got it out of a little yellow wench—a sort of housemaid. She says General Westbrook was hoodooed last Monday night—the night of the De Sanchez inquest, Captain,—and her yarn has made quite an impression on the other darkies."
The speaker suddenly felt that his hearer's interest had quickened, and he paused an instant to marshal his thoughts. But Converse interposed with a quickness that indicated impatience to hear all there was to be related.
"You didn't let it go at that, I suppose?" he asked.
"Oh, no. Sally's story amounts to this. General Westbrook has not been sick at all; he was hoodooed by a black man that wasn't a nigger."
"'A black man not a nigger'?" Converse repeated, vaguely. "What the deuce!" He clapped McCaleb upon the shoulder with such suddenness that it startled him. "Mac, you're a jewel!" he ejaculated, with a very noticeable moderation of his sibilant voice. "Go on."
"I'm glad the matter is intelligible to you, Captain; I confess—"
"Never mind now; get ahead with your yarn.... Monday night—the night of the inquest—after he had gotten home—on Tuesday they called in Doctor Bane—Sam missed that messenger. I see. Good! Good! What next?"
"Well, this black man brought the General a letter. Sally was sweeping the front gallery and she saw all that happened. When the man called, General Westbrook went out on the gallery through one of the big windows; he seemed much surprised when the man handed him the envelope, and asked, 'Who is this from?' But the man shook his head and smiled, and went away immediately without a word. The General, after watching him out of sight, went back into the library, holding the letter away from him by one corner, as if he were half afraid of it. Sally says she knew the messenger was a 'conjure man' the moment she laid eyes on him, and her suspicions seem to have been confirmed almost at once. It wasn't more than a minute after General Westbrook returned to the library that Sally heard him call out as if he were in pain. She peeped in, and what she saw seems to have scared her pretty bad. The General was sitting at his desk with the 'conjure paper' in his hand; his face was the color of ashes, his jaw open, his eyes staring; and he didn't pay the least bit of attention to Sally. She watched him a moment, dropped her broom, and went flying to notify Mrs. Westbrook. That's all, sir."
"Day is breaking," said the Captain, after a moment, "and I want you to get an hour or two of sleep before reporting to me for further duty. I'll have my hands full to-day. Clancy can report off for you, and I'll fix it with the Chief. Wear plain clothes."
He left the window and advanced into the room. "Clancy," he continued, "you may go. Have the Sergeant detail a man for special duty here to-day, and notify him that I am using McCaleb."
There are times when a man's grief is, to a limited extent, its own antidote. And it was so with Doctor Westbrook as he sat brooding; for when Mr. Converse dismissed the two policemen he noted that the physician was still sitting precisely in the attitude assumed by him when he had first dropped into the Morris chair. He was patently oblivious to what was going on about him; and observing this also, Mr. Converse went in search of Merkel.
He found the Coroner in the hall, conversing with the undertaker's man, and drew him aside.
"Mr. Merkel," began the Captain, bluntly, "the moment has arrived when you must let me run things alone."
That Merkel's dignity was ruffled and his official pride affronted was quite plain; nevertheless, after a wordy exposition of the irregularity of the proceeding, the "responsibilities of his office," and the duties incumbent upon him, he departed. Secretly, he cherished the idea of some time overwhelming John Converse with a brillianttour de force; but the opportunity had never been perceptible to his obtuseness, and the Captain, of course, knew nothing of the other's ambition. If he had, perhaps he would have smiled.
Mr. Converse returned to the library with a distinct feeling of satisfaction. Apparently the Doctor had not stirred. After a brief contemplation of the dejected figure, the detective advanced and laid his hand upon one bowed shoulder.
"Come, Doctor," said he; "I must have a little talk with you."
The Doctor looked up dully, uncomprehending.
"Rouse yourself," continued Converse, "for there is a more desperate crisis in your affairs than the death of your father. Do you hear me? Do you understand?" Then, as Doctor Westbrook continued to stare at him wonderingly, he added, "You must pull yourself together—for your sister's sake."
The final appeal penetrated the stunned intelligence; on a sudden the Doctor straightened up, the light of understanding once more in his eyes.
"My sister?" he repeated; "Joyce? What do you mean? What of her?"
"Can you attend to what I say now?" returned Converse. He was now masterful, compelling the other's attention. "Then listen to me before I ask or you answer my questions." He paused for a moment, his keen eyes fixed squarely upon the physician's.
"Doctor Westbrook," he continued, presently, "you know whether, in the death of Alberto de Sanchez, there is any circumstance which may affect your sister nearly; you may not know that, in the death of your father, the circumstances involve her quite as clos—"
"Stop!"
The Doctor sprang from his chair; the emotions beneath which he had so lately been crushed were suddenly submerged and swept away in a wave of anger.
"You will leave my sister out of this wretched affair, sir," he commanded, white with indignation.
Converse, however, was far from faltering before this stern, not to say menacing, attitude; his own huge frame was the embodiment of resolution, the cold light of his eye the reflection of an inflexible, constraining personality, intent with a fixed determination; and the look with which he met Dr. Westbrook's infuriated glance did more to calm the latter than any speech could have done. The Doctor all at once sat down again, signifying by a slight gesture that the other might proceed.
"Doctor," the Captain went on immediately, "you will do well if you try to curb your impatience, for at the very best what I have to say to you will not be pleasant. Perhaps you will see it in the light of necessity when I tell you I have taken pains to secure this conference against interruption." And he concluded, grimly, "It is necessary—or something worse."
"Well, what is it?" was the response, uttered with a touch of testiness. "I hope the result will justify your assurance. I'm in no humor to trifle."
"And you will find it no trifling matter." The speaker paused; concluding with a deliberateness of manner that made the words vastly portentous: "Doctor Westbrook, if the Coroner and the District Attorney had in their possession the facts—not theories, mind, but facts which can now be proved,—if they had laid before them all that I know, they would order your sister placed under immediate arrest."
If the Captain's intention was to impress the gravity of the situation upon the physician, he must have been eminently satisfied. Doctor Westbrook collapsed as if he had received a powerful physical blow; his face was haggard already, and now his eyes became fixed upon his interlocutor, intent, fascinated.
"So, you see, Doctor," Converse went on, "I am going outside my duty in giving you this opportunity to clear up some particulars, which it has been in your power to do since—well, I will fix the time by the death of De Sanchez."
After a silence which seemed to grow interminable, Doctor Westbrook cleared his throat, and hoarsely asked: "What do you wish? Dispense with preliminaries; what do you want of me?"
"Very good. I want you to summon Miss Westbrook here, and in your presence I shall put to her a number of questions. Of course she may answer them or not as she sees fit; but you must understand now and clearly, Doctor, that whatever the next immediate action taken by me may be, it will depend largely upon the outcome of this interview. If I am inconsiderate in any particular, pray say so, and I shall try to accommodate myself to your own and your sister's feelings in the matter. Now go; consult Miss Westbrook's wishes, but please be expeditious. Meet me here"—with a glance at his watch—"say, in thirty minutes." And without another word or a look back he quitted the room.
In the hall he encountered Sam, who, since the tragedy, seemed to have no more weighty occupation than to wander aimlessly about in a feeble effort to adjust himself to a novel and incomprehensible condition. His face lighted at sight of the Captain.
"Sam," said Mr. Converse, "I should like to have a look at that ash-hopper now."
"Sho', seh!" exclaimed the darkey in the lowest note of his mellow voice; "you isn't really in ea'nest about dem ashes, is you?"
Mr. Converse was much in earnest.
"Well, seh," and Sam scratched his bald spot in perplexity, "you all p'leece officehs is sho' a mighty queer lot." Then, with a sudden assumption of his stateliest manner, "Howsomeveh, seh, if you'll please to follow me, I'll be 'bleeged to show you de ash-hopper."
The ashes were of the soft, fluffy white kind that remain after a complete combustion of wood; in this case kept clear of other refuse, and sheltered from the weather, in anticipation of future lye.