┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐│ $25--REWARD--$25. ││ ││ The above sum will be paid any person who saw ││ a lady leave the Nettleton Building at or about 5 ││ o'clock on the evening of Wednesday, Nov. 4th. ││ Apply in person at No. 18 Ash Lane. │└─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
The address given was that of the house where Mr. Converse had his lodgings; and whatever else he might think of the De Sanchez case, it was evident he had become convinced that there was "a woman at the bottom of it"—and one very hard to find.
Late in the afternoon, after he had returned to his private office, he found the reply to the cable message sent his Paris correspondent awaiting him. He opened it and read:
Nothing ascertainable of A. de S. here further than that his name appears on the roster of College of St. Ignatius for three years, inclusive, September, 1883, to September, 1886. Examination of records of women suicides during period fails to connect him with any of them. No one during that time or near it could be circus performer. Might glean something if I had name. NOIZET.
Unfortunately, he had no name to send.
Mr. Merkel was not in readiness for the inquest into the Nettleton Building affair until the Monday following; and at the hour set for the hearing the outer of his two offices, which made a fairly large courtroom, was literally packed by a throng of gaping, perspiring spectators.
In a corner by themselves sat the witnesses who were to testify. General Westbrook is of this group; also J. Howard Lynden, plainly ill at ease. The Doctor and his friend, Ferdinand Howe, are seated behind the General, an expression of concern on their countenances that is noted and commented on by the crowd. Why should Dr. Westbrook be so pale? Why should his face be so drawn? The affair is not of such consequence to him.
Still aloof from the others sits Señor Vargas, lean and swarthy, his eyes still dull behind their gold-rimmed pince-nez, and his pitted countenance not yet quickened to an interest by the sudden tragic death of his compatriot. Occasionally he coughs in a manner that seems to afford Doctor Westbrook some diversion from his own pressing care, for now and then he glances toward the Mexican gentleman with quite a professional air.
At length the door to the Coroner's private office opens, and through it file Mr. Merkel, self-important, Mr. Mountjoy, John Converse, a stenographer, and various clerks and petty officials. Converse, the Coroner, and the District Attorney seat themselves about a separate table away from one occupied by numerous reporters and newspaper artists; and immediately the tedious ordeal of securing a jury is entered upon.
PARTIAL PLAN OF THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE FIELD AND NETTLETON BUILDINGSPARTIAL PLAN OF THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE FIELDAND NETTLETON BUILDINGS
(A) Clay Fairchild's Desk. (B) Mr. Nettleton's Desk. (C) Window at which Judge Petty Stood. (D) Window at which Mr. Howe Stood. (E) Doctor Westbrook's Desk. (✠) Marks Spot where De Sanchez Fell
After six freeholders are accepted and sworn in, the captain of detectives is duly put upon his oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. A brief delay follows while the District Attorney asks for an application of the rule excluding witnesses. The witnesses are duly excluded.
Captain Converse established thecorpus delicti; after which he related at length the results of his investigation, very much as he already had told them to Mr. Mountjoy and the Coroner.
As he returned to his seat by the table, a stir spread throughout the apartment; a rustling as of forest leaves before a tempest sibilated upon one theme: the unknown woman; but the sounds sank at once to anticipatory silence when the clerk arose and made ready to read from a sheet of paper in his hand the name of the next witness. Perhaps the avid curiosity is to be satisfied by the woman's name.
"James Howard Lynden."
On the wall facing the witness-chair was suspended a large map of those portions of the Nettleton and Field buildings which formed the locus operandi of the tragedy, and this Lynden contemplated seriously. The rooms were named and numbered thereon, the points of interest designated by letters or otherwise; and the reader is here referred to the plan (page 88), as occasion may arise, for a clearer understanding of the evidence.
The witness began his testimony in a well-modulated voice, which could be distinctly heard in every part of the room. In reply to interrogatories, he stated that he was a cotton-broker, twenty-eight years of age, and that his office was in Court Street, a few doors west of the Nettleton Building. He had been acquainted with the deceased, having met him frequently in a social way, but between them there had never been more than ordinary civilities exchanged. He next related such facts of the tragedy as he had imparted to Mr. Converse and the Chief of Police. The Coroner asked:
"What time did you leave your office on the evening of November fourth?"
"It was a very few minutes to five o'clock."
"Now, Mr. Lynden, begin at the time you left your office, and describe in detail the events from then onward."
"I merely walked leisurely toward the Nettleton Building for the purpose of stopping at Doctor Westbrook's office, before proceeding to my club for dinner. I have been in the habit of doing this several evenings in the week, and last Wednesday evening was no more eventful than scores of others until I arrived within forty or fifty feet of the Nettleton entrance."
"And what occurred then?"
"I observed Señor de Sanchez turn in at the entrance."
"What direction was he going when you first observed him?"
"West—toward me."
"Very well; proceed, Mr. Lynden."
"I continued on to the doorway, where I turned into the Nettleton Building, going directly upstairs without pausing."
"Did you see Señor de Sanchez?"
"Yes. Just as I began ascending the stairs he was turning to the right—to the east—at the top. There was a lighted incandescent lamp at that point, and I beheld him distinctly."
"Do you know what time that was?"
"It could have been only two or three seconds to five o'clock, for I heard the whistles begin to blow before I reached the top of the stairs."
"You are sure it was before you arrived at the top that you heard the whistles blow?"
"Oh, yes; I haven't a doubt of it. I remember the circumstance perfectly."
"Now, when you reached the head of the stairs—at the second story—did you see Señor de Sanchez?"
"No, sir. I saw him no more until I arrived at Doctor Westbrook's office—until I beheld him dying on the floor of the Doctor's reception-room."
Responding to a number of interrogations, the witness added that not more than thirty seconds elapsed between the time of his seeing De Sanchez turn at the head of the stairs and seeing him lying on the reception-room floor; that there was a lighted incandescent lamp before the entrance to this room; that there had been no one in the hall, and that it was impossible for anybody to have been concealed there. He continued:
"When I arrived at Doctor Westbrook's office the door was wide open. Señor de Sanchez was lying on his right side, his feet toward the door, and not much more than a yard beyond the threshold. Blood was spurting,—in rhythm with the heart-beats, it seemed,—from a wound in his throat, as though some large artery had been severed. This ceased in a second or two.
"I paused just at the threshold, dazed and utterly dumfounded by the sight that met my eyes. Doctor Westbrook, Mr. Howe, and myself held our respective attitudes three or four seconds,—possibly it was longer,—but during that time Señor de Sanchez only breathed two long sighs and became apparently dead.
"I believe, then, I was first to speak. 'Good God, Mobley!' I cried, 'What does this mean?' He still seemed dazed and made no reply. I advanced into the room and seized his arm, and said, 'For God's sake, tell me! Did you do this?' I was very much excited, and could not grasp the full import of what I beheld; but when he felt my touch, he aroused himself, and, recoiling a step or two, cried in tones of amazement, 'Jim! Jim! I do this? My God, Jim! No, no, no!' Then checking himself, he asked me, 'But who did? You must have seen; who was in the hall, man?'
"I next looked at Mr. Howe. He was exceedingly agitated and said nothing. He stood shaking his head like one whose mind could not digest the horror of the deed. I turned again to Doctor Westbrook and looked at the silver-bladed dagger he was holding in his hand. 'But that dagger,' I said, 'what does that mean?' He looked at it in a preoccupied manner, as though he did not see it. Suddenly becoming sensible of the fact that he was holding it in his hand, he exclaimed, 'You don't think I stabbed him, do you? Why, man, I just drew the knife from the wound.' I felt immensely relieved."
A deep exhalation burst from the massed throng, as though they had been holding their breath in an anxiety not to miss a word of this recital. Under the influence of this eagerness and galvanic expectancy, Lynden was growing restless; but he kept his gaze on the coroner, and continued to respond to that official's interrogations without hesitation. In answer to a number of these, witness said:
"I did not identify the dagger at the time. I am thoroughly familiar with the ornamental little weapon which Doctor Westbrook uses as a paper-knife, and have handled it many times. In fact, I was present when it was given the Doctor by his sister. She secured it, I believe, about four years ago, during a visit to Mexico, and at the time of the presentation she told a story—quite a tragic romance—in which it had—"
"We may omit that, Mr. Lynden," interrupted the Coroner. "Where did Doctor Westbrook usually keep this dagger, or paper-knife?"
"When not in use, it always lay on the table in his reception room."
Every eye was turned toward the dagger as Mr. Merkel arose and took it in his hand. And not one of those eyes missed the sombre stains which now dulled the lustre of its silvery blade.
"Is this the dagger?"
"That is the one that lay on Doctor Westbrook's table—his paper-knife. I am unable to identify it with the one he held in his hand; the hilt was then concealed, and the blade was very bloody; but it might be—I had no such thought at the time."
Mr. Merkel returned the dagger to the table and resumed his seat. The District Attorney leaned toward him and whispered a few words; whereupon—evidently on a suggestion—he asked:
"Are you familiar with the arrangement of the second floor of the Nettleton Building, Mr. Lynden,—more particularly, those rooms to the right or east of the stairway?"
"I am."
"Describe them, please."
Once more Lynden fixed his attention upon the plan suspended before him.
"Well, to begin with, the Nettleton Building faces in a southerly direction. From the head of the stairway the hall extends east to the light-well between the Nettleton and Field buildings. Beginning at the head of the stairs, the first room to the right, or on the south side of the hall, is the first office of the Guaranty Trust Company; the next suite is vacant, and then comes Doctor Westbrook's suite. I may add, that the numbers run in the order I am naming the suites: the Guaranty Trust Company's offices are number one, number two is unoccupied, and the Doctor's is number three.
"Now, passing over to the north side of the hall, the entrance to number four is directly opposite Doctor Westbrook's. It is the door to Mr. Nettleton's private office. Next to that, and facing the unoccupied suite, is Room 5, Mr. Nettleton's general office. Adjoining this is number six, a room occupied by the Guaranty Trust Company as a record and abstract room. That brings us back to the stairway again, but on the opposite side of the hall whence we started."
"Then there are six doors—three on each side—opening into the hall?"
"That is correct."
"Now, Mr. Lynden, are not the upper portions of those doors ground or frosted glass?"
At this apparently harmless and irrelevant question, the witness's composure dropped from him like a cloak cast aside; a swift, startled expression came into his light blue eyes, and he answered with obvious hesitation:
"I believe so."
"Don't you know?
"Yes."
"Well, are they?"
"Yes."
"Then, if a light were burning in one of those rooms and a person should be standing close to the door of that room, and on the inside, would there not be a pretty distinct shadow or silhouette of that person on the ground glass of that particular door?"
"I should imagine there would," said Lynden at length, but in a voice both low and unnatural.
"Well, in your frequent visits to Doctor Westbrook's office at such hours as the lamps were lighted, have you not observed that to be a fact?"
Without altering his attitude, the young man shook his head.
"No," said he; "I cannot say that I have."
At the next question an audible murmur of disappointment rippled through the room. It was as though the Coroner were searching for something while blindfolded, and had suddenly taken the wrong turning when about to lay his hand on the object of his quest. But if he was not over-astute, he had at least gathered wisdom from experience—to the extent of knowing that more than one road leads to Rome.
"Now, then, Mr. Lynden," he began once more, "when you arrived at the head of the stairs on the evening of November fourth, did you look down the length of the hall to your right—to the east?"
Witness answered, with visible relief:
"I did."
"How light was it? Was it light enough for you to see distinctly?"
"In addition to the two incandescents, the window at the end of the hall at the light-well was wide open and it was only twilight outdoors."
"Then, if anybody had been in the hall anywhere between the head of the stairs and the light-well window, you would have seen him?"
"I certainly should; there was no one there."
"I must ask you to recollect carefully, Mr. Lynden: Was there a lady—a woman—in the hall? Or did you pass a woman either in the hall or on the stairway?"
"Lady!" the witness exclaimed. "No—no; there was no lady—there was no one in the hall or on the stairs." He cast a furtive, uneasy glance at the expressionless visage of Mr. Converse, concluding, "I neither saw nor passed any one."
"Well, let us return to the head of the stairs. When you arrived there, what did you do?"
"I proceeded directly to Doctor Westbrook's office."
"As you walked down the hall, did you observe the doors on either side—whether they were open or closed?"
Here was a return to those mysterious doors. The young man's grip on the chair-arms tightened, and once again his answer was preceded by obvious hesitancy.
"Some were entirely closed," he said, slowly; "others were more or less open."
"Well, which ones were more or less open?"
"Doctor Westbrook's was—" he began; but the Coroner quickly interrupted:
"Did you notice it first?"
Silence. The young man sat rigid as a statue.
"Please answer, Mr. Lynden."
The insistence was soft, but inexorable. The witness seemed to have lost the power of speech, and was obliged to clear his throat before he could reply.
"Sir," he finally began, "I was not thinking of the doors, nor was I particularly observing whether they were open or closed. I will say this, however, in the hope that you will find the information you desire: that it is customary for the tenants of the Nettleton Building to leave their doors unfastened when departing in the evening, for the benefit of the janitor. As soon as he has cleaned the rooms, he locks the doors for the night. For that reason, I suppose, it would be safe to assume that those rooms whence the occupants had gone for the night were unlocked—in the event, of course, that the janitor had not yet placed them in order."
"The information is valuable, Mr. Lynden; but you stated that some doors were entirely closed, while others were more or less open. I will put my question in another way. Which was the first door you observed to be entirely closed?"
"That to number six."
"Was there a light in that room?"
"Yes."
"Did you observe any shadow on the door?"
"No."
"The next door you noticed to be closed—which was it?"
"The regular offices of the Guaranty Trust Company."
"Any light there?"
"They were dark."
"Well, the next door you noticed to be closed entirely?"
With a visibly growing reluctance to answer, each moment his voice becoming more and more strained, the young man replied:
"Number two—the vacant suite."
But the interrogations were relentless.
"The next?"
He moistened his lips, and his voice was barely audible.
"I observed no other doors closed," said he.
"Now, then, we have got this far—note it, please, Mr. Stenographer,—we have got this far: The doors to numbers one, two, and six were closed. That leaves three, four, and five—were they open or closed?"
No one heard the reply.
"Louder, if you please; the jury can't hear you."
"I said that number three was open."
"You have already testified that Doctor Westbrook's door was open," was the dry remark with which his answer was met. "Was number four open?"
"I did not notice."
"Not notice?" in a tone of intense surprise. "Did you not see it?"
"Sir, when I had arrived at that point I was so shocked by the sight in the Doctor's office that I did not observe the condition of doors or windows."
"Well, as you passed the door to Room 5—Mr. Nettleton's general office—you had not yet heard or beheld anything shocking, had you? Did you notice whether it was open or closed?"
There was an enthralling significance in the witness's manner which everybody present felt, and a conviction was natural that the young man knew something that he was resolved at any cost not to reveal. It was exasperating that the Coroner should so play about the mainspring of the witness's discomposure—as he plainly was doing—without being able to light upon a point that must force from him some admission, sufficient at least to serve as a fulcrum whereby the rest might be pried from him.
"Come, Mr. Lynden, the jury awaits your answer."
The witness's reply came hoarsely, as if it were indeed literally dragged forth:
"It was not closed—entirely."
"Ah, one of the 'more or less' doors: which was it, more or less?"
"I do not understand."
"Was the door to Room 5 of Mr. Nettleton's suite open or closed; and if not closed, how far was it open?"
The young man lowered his head a moment in an attitude of reflection.
"I should say it stood ajar about three or four inches," was the reply.
"Was there a light in that room?"
"Yes."
"Is there not a desk against the east wall of that room at which Clay Fairchild ordinarily sits, which is visible from the hall when the door is three or four inches ajar?"
"Yes."
"On the evening of November fourth, as you passed Room 5, did you observe this desk?"
"I did not; I could not see into the room."
Both Mr. Converse and Mr. Mountjoy were watching him through lids narrowed to mere slits, with an intentness of which he was plainly sensible.
"And why not?" came the next question. Lynden faltered:
"Be—because the—the aperture was closed by—by something."
"By what?"
"I cannot say."
"Was it a human form?"
Witness's voice was again becoming inaudible.
"I—I cannot say," said he, nervously,—"yes, it was a human form."
"Was it that of a man or a woman?"
So low that the jury, leaning as far forward as they could, scarcely caught the murmur, came the answer:
"It—it looked like a woman."
"Did you recognize her?"
Witness considered his response a long time. When finally it came, a sigh of disappointment welled from the crowd; it seemed that after all the baiting his examination was to come to naught.
"No," said he.
The Coroner persisted.
"Come, Mr. Lynden," said he, "was there not something about that form that struck you as being familiar?—that suggested the individuality of the person standing there?"
"I tell you I do not know who it was; I do not know," burst from the witness. "Whatever I beheld, if it was any one or anything at all, is but a shadow in my mind,—a nameless shadow, void of substance and form, and a nameless shadow it must remain. I can add no more to that, sir, nor shall I try."
Unless the witness had chosen deliberately to lie, it was evident that he could tell no more of the vague figure—that it was indeed only a shadow—and not pursuing this line of inquiry further, the Coroner took up another.
After Mr. Merkel and the District Attorney had conferred together with heads bowed over the table, the former began.
"Mr. Lynden," said he, "you say you enjoy friendly relations with General Westbrook's family. Have you recently heard any rumors connecting the name of Señor de Sanchez with any member of that family in a matrimonial way?"
"I have heard such rumors—yes; but nothing more. I certainly have heard nothing to that effect from any one in a position to know."
"Did you ever hear Doctor Westbrook deny the possibility of such a marriage?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Last Tuesday night."
"The night before Señor de Sanchez's death?"
"Yes."
As the Doctor himself further on relates at length the substance of what occurred between him and De Sanchez the night before the latter's death, it may here be omitted from Lynden's testimony. The only other point touched upon while this witness was upon the stand was shown in the following question:
"On the evening of November fourth, when you saw De Sanchez turn in at the Nettleton Building entrance, did you observe whether he was smoking?"
"I did not."
"That is all, Mr. Lynden; you may step aside."
With what relief he descended from the dais supporting the witness-chair can only be imagined. The examination of the first witness in the De Sanchez case had been a long and tedious affair. And what was there to show for it? Not much more than the public already knew; and there remained the woman—still unknown. And Mr. Lynden's extreme agitation—what did that signify? If he did not know the woman—if what he had beheld behind the nearly closed door was only a shadow—why had he not said so at once? Certainly, at this rate, the mystery which surrounded the case was only becoming deeper as the investigation proceeded.
However, speculation was forgotten in curiosity over whom the next witness might be.
"Mobley Westbrook," read the clerk; and an officer retired to the Coroner's private room to summon him.
Doctor Westbrook walked unhesitatingly and with a firm tread to the witness-chair; but once seated, it was more apparent than ever that his personal appearance had undergone a marked change. It was difficult to define: his head and beard appeared to be more shaggy and unkempt than usual; certain faint lines cast a vague and almost imperceptible shadow over his frank and open countenance; and without abating in the least their steady and unwavering glance, his eyes contained within their depths an added expression, fleeting and indeterminate.
These changes, slight as they were, combined to produce varying effects: they might have been the result of sickness, or they might have been caused by mental perturbation. With the latter thought in his mind, John Converse studied the Doctor attentively. Presently he leaned across the table, and whispered to Mr. Mountjoy. That gentleman nodded with an air of understanding, adding, "Another witness who has something to conceal."
Doctor Westbrook's testimony, however, belied this assertion. He answered promptly all questions, and added many details in an obvious effort to make his statements clear and concise. But he could tell little more than he had related to Mr. Converse and Mr. Merkel on the night of the murder. He repeated the story precisely as he had then narrated it, and almost in the same words. He corroborated Lynden's testimony regarding what had taken place after that gentleman's arrival; and in describing the wound, he made it clear that his surmise on the fatal night was correct.
"In addition to the severing of the carotid artery," said he, "the autopsy demonstrated that the point of the blade passed between the fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae, also severing the spinal cord."
Concerning the letter addressed to De Sanchez, together with the presence of Howe in his office at the time of the murder, he testified at length. He was expecting the deceased to call upon him some time during the evening of the fourth, and while awaiting his arrival he was most agreeably surprised by the entrance of his old friend Ferdinand Howe.
"It was about half-past four," the witness continued, "when Mr. Howe entered my office. In the pleasant surprise of the meeting I forgot completely about De Sanchez for several minutes. When he again recurred to my mind I suddenly resolved not to see him at all. I explained to Ferdinand that I was expecting a caller whom I did not care to meet, and as it was not necessary that I should, I requested him to wait a few minutes while I wrote and despatched a brief note."
"Did you hear the five-o'clock whistles blow?"
"Yes, they were blowing when De Sanchez burst through the door."
"Now, Doctor Westbrook, returning to the letter you wrote on the evening of November fourth—you say it was directed to Señor de Sanchez?"
"It was."
"I will ask you to look at this letter, and state whether or not this is the one you had just completed when deceased burst in upon you."
The witness merely glanced at the missive before stating positively that it was; whereupon the Coroner read it aloud. After the date and superscription it ran as follows:
It will be useless to renew our conversation of last night. You can make no representations that will influence me to change my mind. So long as the lady herself is only submitting to the wishes of her parents in accepting your attentions, I shall continue to oppose any union between herself and you.
My father's attitude in this matter is incomprehensible to me, and I am confident that I would retain the support of the lady's and my own friends in preventing your project.
Rest assured that I shall not hesitate at adopting any measures to thwart your purpose. Your insistence, knowing as you do that you have neither the lady's love nor respect, is ungentlemanly, and can only lead to consequences, to say the least, disagreeable to yourself.
MOBLEY WESTBROOK.
This letter was then marked "Exhibit B," and became a part of the records of the case.
"Was it your intention to send this letter to Señor de Sanchez?" the examination proceeded.
"Yes. Had events terminated differently, I should have sent the letter to him that same night."
Mr. Merkel here referred to the missive, saying, "In this letter occurs the phrase, 'My father's attitude in this matter is incomprehensible to me.' Now, what did you mean by that?—or rather, why did you make use of that particular phrase in the sense you did? What occasioned it?"
Doctor Westbrook frowned as at a disagreeable memory.
"The favor with which he looked upon De Sanchez's addresses to my sister," he replied.
"De Sanchez was a suitor for your sister's hand?"
"He was."
"What was incomprehensible in the fact that your father favored him?"
"A number of things that should be quite obvious, sir. It is very unpleasant going into this."
"Pardon me, Doctor, but it is none the less necessary."
"Well, to begin with, Señor de Sanchez was not of our nationality, and I never before knew my father to be in any way partial to foreigners—quite the contrary. I am convinced—although it is merely an impression amounting to conviction—that my father did not personally like De Sanchez. Again, other facts, when arrayed together, present a false perspective. Several years ago General Westbrook quite suddenly severed intimate business relations with Señor de Sanchez: concerning this he has never, so far as I know, uttered a word of explanation. All communication between them ceased abruptly, and I don't believe my father ever mentioned the man's name until he appeared here."
"Do you know that General Westbrook did favor Señor de Sanchez as a suitor?"
"I do."
"Please state how."
"From his own lips. When the rumors linking De Sanchez's and my sister's names became persistent, I went to see my father; but he—" The Doctor checked himself, concluding in a different tone: "It is very painful going into this matter. Unless it is absolutely essential—"
"I will touch upon it as lightly as possible, Doctor. That conversation with General Westbrook was characterized by some warmth, was it not?"
"Very bitter words were used—at least, by me."
"And he then gave you to understand that he would continue to support Señor de Sanchez as a suitor to his daughter's hand?"
"That is correct."
Abandoning this line of inquiry, the Coroner again picked up the dagger with its sombre stains, which the witness identified as his paper-knife. A juror interposed with a question.
"Doctor Westbrook," said he, "was it commonly known by your friends and acquaintances that this dagger—'Exhibit A'—usually lay on your writing-table in the room where your patients wait?"
"Oh, yes," the Doctor replied. "There is not one of them who has not, at one time or another, had it in his hands and expressed curiosity concerning it. It was the occasion of innumerable questions, and I suppose I have been reminded a hundred times that such a present carried with it bad luck—that knives cut friendship, and much to the same effect."
The Coroner took up once more the thread of the examination.
"Now, Doctor Westbrook, the dagger was obviously removed from your desk some time before the commission of the crime. Did you miss it from its accustomed place?"
"No, sir. It might have been gone for several days, for all I know. I used it solely as a paper-cutter, and then not always, unless it was right at hand."
"Did you notice it at any time during the day of November fourth?"
"I cannot say; I am so accustomed to and familiar with its presence, that the circumstance scarcely would have impressed me."
The whole of the witness's testimony up to this point was barren enough of excitement or anything in the nature of a surprise; but the next question elicited the particulars of Clay Fairchild's strange request for the dagger on the day of the tragedy. Witness added:
"He stated that he wished to show it to some one. I assented, passed on out, and never thought of it again until it recurred to me during a conversation with the detective after the murder."
"Do you know whether he returned it?"
"No. I do not know that he got it in the first place; I did not wait to see."
"Do you lock the doors when leaving your office, Doctor?"
"Only those opening into the laboratory and the front room. Except at night—after I have finally departed—the reception-room door is never fastened. It is scarcely ever closed."
"On the afternoon of November fourth, then, when you left your office at one o'clock, was the door open as usual?—the door opening from the hall into your reception-room?"
"Certainly."
At this point the inquisitive juror again shot forward with a question:
"Did Fairchild ever before ask you to lend him the dagger?"
"Not that I now recall," was the reply.
"But he knew of it, didn't he? and where you commonly kept it?"
"Oh, yes. He frequently came into my office, and I remember once telling him, as I have told some hundreds of others, how the dagger came into my possession, together with its romantic little history."
Mr. Merkel here resumed.
"Now then, Doctor, let us go back to the evening of November third, the night before Señor de Sanchez's death. At what time did he call at your office?"
"At about five-thirty or six o'clock."
"Was he alone?"
"No, sir. He was accompanied by Señor Vargas."
"Please relate just what happened at that time."
"Señor de Sanchez and I went immediately into my consultation-room, while Señor Vargas remained in the reception-room. The former began, in a polite enough manner, to ask me my reasons for objecting to him as a suitor for my sister, and he presently assumed an insinuating attitude that soon angered me and made me refuse to listen further to his representations. Although he was a model of suavity throughout the interview, I presently gathered the idea that his words were hiding a covert threat; that he was holding something back which he considered would be sufficient to cause me to change my mind. I abruptly interrupted his flow of speech, and told him, in words incapable of misconstruction, that my mind was made up, and if he continued to press his attentions where they were not wanted, he should regret it.
"As he was leaving, De Sanchez said, 'You desire to know more of my past relations with your honored father?' To this I replied that I cared nothing about them. He then said, 'I am sure that you would rather have the facts in your own bosom than that they should become known inadvertently to your and his friends.' This was so directly a threat that I immediately closed the interview. He smiled, bowed, and passed out. As he did so he continued, 'I shall take great pleasure in relating these facts to you—you only, Doctor; and I have no doubt that I can surprise you—even to commending my humble person to your charming—' Oh, I fail to remember all the insulting nonsense he unburdened himself of. It was much to the same effect."
"Well?"
"I told him to go to the devil. He merely laughed again and said that he was then on his way to my father's. After remarking that he would return the next evening at about five o'clock, he rejoined Señor Vargas and withdrew.
"When I had thought it over, my anger cooled somewhat, and I resolved to hear what the man had to say—to know if he would really go to the extreme of saying anything that would reflect upon a member of my family. This, I finally concluded, would put such an advantage into my hands that I could bring his attentions to an end for all time."
"You never heard, then, what it was he intended to say?"
"No. When next I saw him he was practically a dead man."
"Recurring once more to the night of the fourth, Doctor, did not Clay Fairchild come into your office shortly after De Sanchez expired?"
"He did."
"Relate the circumstance in full, please."
"About four or five minutes after Jim—Mr. Lynden—had left to notify the police of the tragedy, the door suddenly opened, and Clay entered the room. He stopped, his hand on the knob, and stood staring at De Sanchez with a look of bewilderment. This quickly gave way to an expression of horror, such as I never saw before in a sane human countenance. All at once he looked at me, and apparently tried to speak; but a queer, choking sound in the throat was the only result. Without an instant's warning—before Howe or I could realize it—he darted through the door and ran swiftly down the hall. Before that, however, I called upon him to speak and explain himself. I fail to remember just what I said; but his actions were very strange, and I didn't know what to make of them."
"Did Mr. Fairchild have on his hat when he entered your office?"
"He had on his hat and a light overcoat."
Next there followed a minute description of the young man's dress, together with his personal appearance, such as had been given to the police shortly after his disappearance: Height, about six feet; weight, 168 pounds; eyes and hair, very dark, the latter worn rather long and inclined to curl; form, slender, with a stoop to the shoulders, so slight as to be scarcely noticeable; all of his movements slow and deliberate, a striking feature being an air of interested attention with which he listened to anybody addressing him, together with a low and decisive manner of speech—almost a drawl. The description contained the further information that he was not easily moved from his natural reserve, a circumstance making his conduct after the murder all the more remarkable, suggesting that he was then laboring under an extraordinary emotion.
With their heads almost touching, the Coroner and the District Attorney whispered briefly together; after which Mr. Merkel addressed the witness.
"When your office door was thrown open, and De Sanchez staggered through, did you not, in looking up, have that portion of the hall between your room and Mr. Nettleton's private office directly before your eyes?"
"Yes. But while, at the time, I was not looking for any one else but De Sanchez, I am now able to recall that no one was there—that that part of the hall was empty. The occasion was so startling that the association of ideas did not suggest the possibility of the assassin being near by, or even that a murder had been committed. It was some minutes before I came to a realization of the gravity of what had happened."
"Can you recall whether Mr. Nettleton's door was open or closed?"
"Not positively. But I believe if it had been wide open and no light in his office, I should have noticed it—the circumstance would have been unusual."
"Then, his door might have been ajar or closed completely, but not entirely open?"
"Yes; I believe that is correct. I have a strong impression that it was entirely closed, or very nearly so; yet I would not make a positive statement to that effect."
During the entire time Doctor Westbrook occupied the stand Mr. Mountjoy watched him narrowly, and seemed to weigh carefully each word of the witness's replies. They followed the interrogations so promptly, the manner of their utterance was so convincing, that the truth of the Doctor's statements could not be doubted. Still, there was that fleeting shade of apprehension in his eyes, the vague shadow of worry that clouded his face. What caused them?
"We have been groping all about the focal point," Mr. Mountjoy whispered to the Coroner and Converse. "We have not yet laid our finger upon theprimum mobile. There is a question that will open up the whole thing, if we can only find it. Think!" And he stopped, staring fixedly at the detective.
The Captain remained silent a few moments—a long time it seemed to those who waited—before he spoke. Then he whispered to Mr. Merkel, who turned immediately to the witness and asked:
"Doctor, do you know, or have you any reason to believe, there was any person other than yourself, Ferdinand Howe, J. Howard Lynden, Clay Fairchild, and William Slade on the second floor of the Nettleton Building at or about the time of Señor de Sanchez's death?"
The answer came unhesitatingly.
"I have not."
But was that an expression of relief that hid the worry in his eyes, that lightened the shadow on his face? or were the worry and the shadow still there? Neither the District Attorney nor Mr. Converse could determine.
"Very well, Doctor, that is all," said the Coroner. "Call General Westbrook."
Stiffly erect, and with an air of obeying only the inevitable mandate of Justice, the General entered the room.
However, little additional light was shed upon the mystery by his testimony; though it cannot be said that it was entirely devoid of interest. He related at length his acquaintance with the deceased, but with a reserve no one could ever attempt or expect to penetrate. He stated that their relations in Mexico,—which had been solely of a business nature,—had been dissolved by mutual agreement; that there had been no subsequent correspondence between them, as their affairs had been entirely wound up; and that his social connection with Señor de Sanchez dated only from that gentleman's arrival in the city. He would not undertake to say that Señor de Sanchez had or had not a living enemy. If there were any such he was in complete ignorance of that person's existence.
"General, did not Señor de Sanchez desire to marry your daughter?"
"He did."
"With your approval, of course?"
"Yes."
"And Mrs. Westbrook's?"
"Certainly," returned the witness, with a mild expression of astonishment.
"But Doctor Westbrook rather emphatically opposed it, did he not?"
The General suddenly glared, and Mr. Merkel stirred uneasily.
"Pardon me," the latter added with a propitiatory tone, "er-ah—General; I shouldn't ask the question were it not necessary." The witness then coldly replied:
"Doctor Westbrook saw fit to obtrude himself into my private affairs in a manner that would have had no effect one way or another on the result."
"You mean?" Mr. Merkel innocently asked.
"Just what I say, sir."
"You—you say he intruded, General," the Coroner persisted. "Is it not a fact that his attitude in this matter has brought about a severance of his relations with the rest of the family?"
"We hold no communication."
"Was Miss Westbrook opposed to the proposed marriage?"
"This is nonsense. What have the vagaries and whims of a young girl to do with this—"
"Again, General, pardon me; I must press the question," interrupted the Coroner. "If it is possible, we will avoid calling upon Miss Westbrook to testify."
General Westbrook stared at his questioner in speechless astonishment, for so long a time that the latter was obliged to speak again.
"We may presume, then, that she was not in complete sympathy with the idea?"
The witness all at once smiled—the kind of smile his opponents had learned to dread.
"I would not take it upon myself to correct any ideas you may have formed upon the subject," he said, pleasantly, while an audible, but quickly suppressed, titter ran round the room, and the heavy countenance of the Coroner became a dull red.
Mr. Mountjoy relieved the situation—and certainly relieved Mr. Merkel—finally eliciting the fact that Miss Westbrook was at first not in sympathy with the idea of accepting Señor de Sanchez's attentions; that she had later asserted a woman's prerogative by changing her mind and agreeing to receive him, although the matter had not arrived at the stage of a definite engagement.
"At the last interview between Doctor Westbrook and yourself," Mr. Merkel then resumed, "was he not very vehement in expressing his opinion on the subject of the proposed marriage?"
"I believe he was not very successful in concealing his feelings."
"Will you repeat what Doctor Westbrook said on that occasion?"
"I would rather not attempt it."
"I assure you, General, it is essential."
"I cannot recall his exact language."
"Well, its purport."
"His statements amounted to this: that the marriage should not take place as long as he was alive to prevent it; that he should certainly find ways and means of preventing its celebration—no more and no less."
Ferdinand Howe followed the General. His testimony, of course, was of prime importance; but as its nature is already familiar it need not be repeated here—with a single exception. After corroborating the Doctor's evidence regarding Fairchild's behavior when the latter encountered the body, the witness added:
"Mobley cried, 'Clay, what do mean? Why do you stare at me so?' But the look of horror only deepened; his jaw dropped, and his eyes became fairly glassy. I believe, then, Mobley half rose from his chair. 'Speak!' he cried. But the young man seemed incapable of doing so. He uttered a peculiar gurgling cry, darted abruptly through the open door, and disappeared."
Judge Elihu Petty, of the firm of Petty & Carlton, attorneys, testified that on the evening of November fourth, at about five o'clock, he was in his office in the Field Building. After confirming the previous testimony regarding the light-well and the impossibility of anybody having entered the Nettleton hall window by that means, the witness continued with a description of the other Nettleton windows. He asserted that in broad daylight, and at other times when there was a light in Mr. Nettleton's private office, he could see the books on the further wall of the room mentioned.
Question by the Coroner: "Could you see the books on the evening of November fourth?"
"No, sir. While there was light enough outside, yet it was so late that the interior shadows were dense enough to prevent me seeing any distance into the room. There was no light in that room."
"Had there been a person in Mr. Nettleton's private room at that time, could you have seen him?"
Witness shook his head doubtfully.
"Not unless such person had approached quite close to the windows," he presently replied. "It is possible that somebody might have been there without my seeing him. But I saw no one."
Judge Petty stated that he remembered the five-o'clock whistles, associating the circumstance with Mr. Howe's abrupt disappearance from the Doctor's window, which ended his testimony.
The calling of Señor Vargas—Juan Sebastian de Vargas y Escolado, as he announced his name after being sworn—occasioned a quick accession of interest; and he surprised even the Coroner by revealing an unexpected acquaintance with his dead compatriot, and an intimate knowledge of his life and affairs. Aside from this, Señor Vargas added nothing to the information regarding the tragedy; but as the only hope, it would seem, of eliciting anything at all lay in the past, witness was questioned closely, the examination covering the whole period of his acquaintance with the deceased. He continued to evince a stolid lack of interest; on the other hand, however, it seemed obvious that he had nothing to reserve, and he answered all questions fully and with an apparent desire to throw whatever light he might upon the mystery. As his examination lengthened considerably, it will here be merely summarized.
The witness had known De Sanchez ever since his (the witness's) residence in Mexico—about seven or eight years. Socially he knew little of the deceased; but early in their acquaintance they had become interested in a number of commercial undertakings, which, proving profitable, led naturally to other enterprises. There never had been anything in the nature of a partnership,—so far as the world knew, at least,—but a mutual confidence had grown up between them, and each frequently intrusted the other with large sums; "an association," added Señor Vargas, "that has more than doubled my fortune." They usually struck a balance twice in the year, when funds were divided and other enterprises planned.
Question: "Did Señor de Sanchez owe you anything at the time of his death?"
Answer: "Neither of us was indebted to the other, except in this way: at the present time there is a joint account approximating one hundred and eighty-two thousand dollars. I have my own figures; but I shall abide by his. He was a careful business man,—so much so, that I can confidently assert that a proper division of this sum can be made, to a centavo, from his private books. Our association was exceptionally pleasant and profitable; there was never the shadow of a dispute or misunderstanding between us."
"Were the relations between you amicable at the time you left Mexico?"
"As much so as they ever were. On the day Señor de Sanchez left Mexico City he executed to me a power of attorney to certain lands of which he was at that time negotiating a sale. I consummated the deal, and deposited to his account the sum of sixty-two thousand dollars."
"Why, then, should you have experienced difficulty in closing with him the Paquita Gold Mine matter, which led you, as you say, to follow him here?"
The witness considered some time, and presently replied:
"I do not want it to appear that I desire to reserve any information; but understand, please, that this is a matter in which I am merely acting as an agent for other parties, and that it is not closed yet. Perhaps you will appreciate my position from the fact that Señor de Sanchez owned the property, and I am making a purchase for a party of English capitalists."
Mr. Merkel smiled knowingly, adding, "And of course you have no interest in the property yourself. I see."
But the knowing look brought no answering light to the dark, impassive features; and neither, apparently, did witness feel called upon to make any response at all.
"Señor Vargas," said the Coroner, "we are seeking to ascertain if the unfortunate gentleman had an enemy; or if any of his affairs or business transactions were of such a nature that they would antagonize anybody to the point of such extreme retaliation as has been meted out to him. Now, from your association with Señor de Sanchez, do you know of any such person, or any such affair?"
Witness slowly shook his head.
"I know of no such affair or enemy—at least, I am sure there is no enemy in Mexico."
For the first time during the entire proceedings the District Attorney ignored the Coroner to put an interrogation himself.
"In Mexico?" he asked, quickly. "Do you know or suspect an enemy in this country—here—or elsewhere?"
"No, no, señor. Perhaps I should not have said that; but in Spain—in Mexico—Don Alberto could not have loved so beautiful a maiden as the Señorita Westbrook without making many enemies, and bitter ones too. I was thinking of that alone." He spread out his hands in true Latin fashion. "Eso se comprende—it is a matter of course—but I know nothing."
The inquiry now turned to the relations between General Westbrook and De Sanchez. It appeared that the witness had never met the General, and knew nothing of their mutual affairs. The two had separated amicably, so far as he knew. He had no reason to think otherwise. "When the Señorita Westbrook departed from Mexico, after her visit with her father, the Señor General accompanied his daughter home, and never returned."
So ended the testimony. The audience rapidly dwindled away as the jury filed out to deliberate; while the few who remained separated into groups and fell to discussing the "De Sanchez Mystery,"—now more of a mystery than ever.
For a reason not made known to the witnesses, they, with the exception of General Westbrook and Judge Petty, are requested to remain until the jury report. The request, regardless of the politeness in which it was couched, might have excited some doubt and apprehension among those who obeyed it, if the officers, in managing to keep near them, had been less adroit in doing so. Nobody can conjecture at whom the jury's verdict will point, and they are quite an hour in making up their own minds.
When they finally file back into the room there are very few remaining to hear what the result of their deliberations may be. The foreman slurred over the verdict with such haste that it was all but unintelligible. It ran:
We, the jury, in the matter of the death of Alberto de Sanchez, find that said De Sanchez came to his death by a dagger wound in the throat, at the hand of some person or persons to this jury unknown.
So ended the first act of the drama of the "De Sanchez Mystery." As for Mr. Converse, "Now I can get to work," he confided to himself, as he walked home to his lodgings in Ash Lane.
The exterior of No. 18 Ash Lane did not present an inviting appearance. It was a dingy, battered, and weather-worn brick structure, marking a remote epoch in the past; and besides Mr. Converse, it contained one other tenant, a little old man whose entire body was so twisted and contorted into deformity by rheumatism, that one wondered what incentive could prevail upon him to move.
A sign above the double door conveyed to the casual wayfarer the information that the busy, cheerful cripple's name was "A. Follett." Long before the remainder of the legend—"Dealer in Scrap Iron, Brass, Copper, Castings, and All Sorts of Junk"—could be deciphered, the stranger was aware of the business conducted here; for as far as the eye could penetrate into the recesses of the lower floor, it was met by a conglomeration of cast-off material which promised insanity to anybody rash enough to attempt its assortment and classification.
Close by the double entrance a gate in a high board fence gave access to the yard. Through this each day passed the peripatetic collectors of such refuse as Mr. Follett dealt in, and their burdens were disposed of by a black Hercules—Mr. Follett's back and legs and arms—who answered to the name of Joe.
The Captain's daily associates would have been quite staggered had they known that the cheerful, grizzled, and battered dealer in junk was his closest friend and his only confidant, and that he discussed all his most perplexing problems with Mr. Follett. Mr. Converse, however, had demonstrated more than once that his confidence was not misplaced; that his friend's judgment, shrewd insight, and discretion were of a value not to be expressed by words. In Mr. Converse's sailor days the two had been companions on many a memorable voyage, and each was as comprehensive of the other's silences as if they had been filling the moments with golden speech.
On the Monday night subsequent to the inquest and one week after that event, the two are sitting in the snug front room upstairs, and it is Mr. Follett who first speaks.
"So, John," he remarks, "the newspapers have something to stir up the interest in your dead Mexican man." He laughed softly and waved his pipe with a feeble gesture toward the Captain. "But I'm thinkin' it won't hurry you up none to crowd the canvas on you."
"You are thinking of the reward?" queried Mr. Converse.
The other nodded and continued: "Twenty thousand dollars is a heap o' money, John; many men would do murder over an' over again for it. Sometimes I can't believe that these ideas o' rewardin' an' punishin' are right. No matter how high the reward, nor how hard the punishment, some people will do wrong in the face o' one an' in spite o' the other.... Twenty thousand American, is it?"
"Yes; and we are to draw on the De Sanchez estate through the Mexican consul for expenses necessary to pursuing the investigation."
Mr. Follett expressed his wonder in a prolonged whistle.
"John, this is what you will have when you run down the murderer. Then you can retire. Then you can get that little cottage an' all them flowers you sometimes talk about: funny idea for an old sailor man." He changed the trend of his talk abruptly, and added, with a more serious note: "We must increase the reward for that woman. Everything centres an' circles about her, an' that's what discourages me. When you get clear o' the harbor on a cruise o' this kind, it's like tryin' to navigate without chart or compass, an' the stars all hid, to have a woman mixed in it to the extent that this one seems to be. Make it a hundred—two hundred—dollars; but find that woman."
"Abram, you are right," Mr. Converse rejoined, with unusual warmth. "I am no nearer to laying my finger upon her than I was the day of the murder. As you say, we must find the woman; everything hinges upon her. But look you, Abram, we, every one of us, missed a very fine point at the inquest that now is as plain as the nose on your face."
Mr. Follett unconsciously and thoughtfully fell to rubbing that member, while he attended to his friend's words.
"What was it Howard Lynden was afraid of betraying?" continued Mr. Converse, warming to his subject. "What was it Mr. Ferdinand Howe was afraid of betraying? What worried Doctor Westbrook?" He stared hard at Mr. Follett, and answered the questions himself. "It's just this: they have reason to suspect that the woman is mixed up some way in the matter; but how? They asserted under oath that no woman was present; did they one and all perjure themselves? I don't believe it."
The listener nodded gravely to signify that he was following the argument, but offered no interruption.
"No; I believe that every man Jack of them told all he knew of the affair. Doctor Westbrook would not lie; I don't think under the circumstances Howe would, and Lynden—well, he just couldn't. Any woman that you might name will not supply an adequate reason for them all to unite in an oath of falsehood."
"Yet," observed Mr. Follett, "it is the woman, and we must look for the one least likely to have been there."
"Exactly. And they are banded together to shield her name. We failed to hit upon the right question, or to put it in the proper way, so leaving them an opportunity for evasion without downright falsehood.
"Again, Abram, would these complications involve the woman or some one else? Are they shielding her for her sake or their own? If you could answer me those questions, Abram, I could tell you the rest. Where is the Mexican woman now, who smokes a cigarette while she waits for her victim? That's Merkel's idea. Poppycock! There's no Mexican woman on the face of the earth that all of those men would be so anxious to shield."
"John, there's one thing about this here female that you haven't considered yet," began Abram Follett. "She may know nothin' about the murder; she may only have showed a common weakness o' the sex by bein' where she had no business; she may be in the same boat with those three men, an' they are simply a-tryin' to save her from fallin' overboard, thinkin' she couldn't throw any light on how Mr. de Sanchez came to be a dead man all of a sudden, but could get herself in a pretty bad fix. They are not the best judges, o' course; but if there's anything in that 'nonymous letter you got about her, why, there's somebody else knows who she is, an' it's some one who could be made to tell.
"Now then, John, listen to me a bit: there's only one other person we know o' havin' been on that floor at the time o' the killin'—Bill Slade; an' I know two or three things about him—though I've never sot eyes on the man that I know of—that might interest you. First, his father, before the war, was the Fairchild overseer; secondly, Bill Slade himself is to-day the owner o' the old Fairchild homestead. What we don't know that might show how they're all tangled up together—if they really are—might be a hull lot.... Truth can't be downed, John, but it sometimes has a mighty hard time a-gettin' up to where it can be seen an' recognized. Oftener than not we don't want to recognize it; we just hand it a rap over the head by way o' conveyin' the information that it mustn't get too conspicuous."
"There's a good deal about Slade that is hard to understand; I'll think it over." The Captain was still looking hard at Mr. Follett.
"Another thing, John: that letter gives me the idea everything ain't a-goin' smooth with them people; there's a conflictin' interest somewhere, you mark my words. They ain't just plain common folks, either, that we have to do with; not the kind that goes about their business peacefully an' ca'mly, day after day, under the heft of a secret o' this kind; especially when so many shares it."
"Speaking of Slade," said Mr. Converse, abruptly breaking the current of the conversation, "reminds me of something odd. I don't know that you have ever heard of it, but there is a peculiarity about Slade and General Westbrook that is the foundation of a joke of long standing at the General's expense, although they are few enough who would have the hardihood to take that liberty with him to his face.
"It seems that always when Slade and the General meet, wherever it may be—on the street, at the bank, in offices or business houses,—the former is possessed of some powerful emotion. He steps to one side, oblivious of everything besides General Westbrook, at whom he stares as though he were quite overcome by his greatness. At the same time Slade is continually mumbling unintelligibly to himself. After a bit he seems to realize his queer actions, and recovers himself all at once with a sheepish look around, as if to see whether anybody has been observing him; and if General Westbrook has not already departed, Slade blurts out a confused apology and hurries away. It's queer enough in that dried-up little man; for he bears the reputation of a miser, is as sour as vinegar, lives to himself in a little cubbyhole of a room, and hasn't, I suppose, one intimate friend in the world. People will say, 'Slade? Why, yes, I know old Slade. Who don't?' Yet the truth is that nobody really does know him. He's simply a machine, and as long as he works smoothly and in good order he's taken for granted, like the Lee monument or the changes of the moon.
"Anyhow, the General accepts it all seriously, as a tribute from an inferior to his own high mightiness, and he unbends to the old codger quite graciously—for him. Whatever it is Slade has in mind, or what he mutters to himself, no one seems to know; but 'Slade's Blessing' has come to be a by-word in the city.
"Now then, on the night of the eleventh—last Wednesday night—the headquarters man, Adams, who is watching Vargas, made a report in which 'Slade's Blessing' figures in rather a curious and incomprehensible manner. It appears that Slade went to the La Salle House, apparently looking for some one; Vargas was sitting in the rotunda, smoking, when all at once who should come in but General Westbrook. Slade was then standing right by Vargas's chair, when he caught sight of the General, and the old scene began. Westbrook came directly up to Vargas and spoke in an absent-minded way to Slade, who made his usual embarrassed exit. Now, Vargas did not show that he had noticed this incident—which should have been strange and novel to him—and there may not be any connection between it and what followed, but the next morning Vargas called on Slade at the Guaranty Trust Company's offices. He remained only a few minutes; but he called again shortly before five o'clock the same evening, and accompanied Slade to the latter's room, where he remained with the abstracter until nearly seven o'clock."
"Belay a moment, John. Did the two know each other before?"
"Oh, no; not at all."
Mr. Follett nodded, and his friend continued:
"Vargas went to Slade's lodging again the next day, and again on Friday—each time at five o'clock,—and remained from an hour and a half to two hours. It's pretty clear that the first visit to Slade at the office was merely to make an appointment, and that the others followed therefrom. But what does it mean? Has Vargas begun a little detective work on his own account? This question is prompted by what followed at the La Salle House between General Westbrook and Vargas on Wednesday night after Slade had left them.
"The General approached and made himself known to Vargas. You know they had met only casually—at the inquest—and the meeting Wednesday night appeared no more than a refreshing of each other's memory. Yet when General Westbrook departed he seemed to be greatly disturbed—so much so that Adams says he had half a mind to follow him. It is true that the two conversed some time, but nothing appeared which would account for the General's agitation; the talk seemed to be merely chatty, pleasant, marked by smiles, and all that. It did not seem to occur to Adams that a man might 'smile, and smile, and be a villain' still; and, after all, it may be that the matter has to do with some property titles. But why enlist the services of Señor Vargas, a stranger? I thought that Vargas himself might be interested in some realty here; but I've had that looked up, and his name does not appear of record anywhere in the county. In this connection I have been having the records carefully gone over to see if any of these people are mixed up by some old deal. The result has been somewhat queer; but we'll pass that up for the present."