HW 1XZB V
The
Silver
Blade
CHARLES E.WALK


८310E


um R. C. Cornon





THE SILVER BLADE









“Good God, Mobler! Did You Do This?"
(Page 92]


THE
SILVER BLADE
THE TRUE CHRONICLE OF A
DOUBLE MYSTERY
BY
CHARLES EDMONDS WALK
WITH FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR
BY A. B. WENZELL

ACMCCLURG
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1908


ICE 4187
HARVARD
COLLEGE
LIBRARY
COPYRIGHT
A. C. MCCLURG & Co.
1908
Published March 18, 1908
Entorod at Stationers' Hall, London, Eng.
All Rights Reserved.
The Lakeside Press
R. R. DONNELLEY & SONS COMPANY
CHICAGO


TO THE MEMORY OF MY BROTHER
GEORGE EDWARD WALK
WHOSE INTEREST IN THE GROWTH OF THIS STORY
WAS NOT THE LEAST INCENTIVE
TO ITS COMPLETION





CONTENTS
BOOK I. A DUPLEX PROBLEM
CHAPTER
PAGE
.
.
I. Exit SEÑOR DE SANCHEZ :. . . . .
II. THE FIRST PROBLEM DEVELOPS. . . .
III. A SEARCH For Clues . . . . . .
IV. MR. CONVERSE APPEARS AS CHORUS . .
V. A TELEGRAM FROM MEXICO . . . .
VI. THE INQUEST . . . . . . . . .
VII. THE VERDICT . . . . . . . . .
VIII. CHERCHEZ LA FEMME . . . . . . .
IX. THE SECOND PROBLEM . . . . . . .
X. FOOTPRINTS . . . . . . . . . .
XI. A BURNT FRAGMENT . . . . . . .
XII. A DOOR IS OPENED . . . . . . . .
135
151
165
]
BOQK II. CHARLOTTE FAIRCHILD
CHARLOT
TERTAINS A
CALLER
I. Miss CHARLOTTE WAITS IN THE HALL. . 193
II. Miss CHARLOTTE ENTERTAINS A CALLER . 208
III. “PAQUITA — What Do You SPELL?” . . 220
IV. Miss CHARLOTTE BECOMES A FACTOR . . 236
[7]


Contents
CHAPTER
PAGE
V. A DECISION AND A LETTER . . . . .
245
VI. FAINT RAYS FROM STRANGE SOURCES... 252
VII. A VOICE IN THE Night. . . . . . . 262
VIII. THE CORONER’s Coup . . . . . . . 275
IX. The Light BRIGHTENS — AND DIMs . . 283
BOOK III. SLADE’S BLESSING
330
I. OPENING WAYS . . . . . . . . . 301
II. FAIRCHILD REDIVIVUS. . . . . . . 314
III. "THE THUNDERBOLT HAS FALLEN” . . .
IV. SOME LOOSE ENDS . . . . . . . . .
338
V. MR. SLADE RESIGNS . . . . . . . 341
VI. AN ARREST . . . . . . . . . . 351
VII. “SLADE'S BLESSING”. . . . . . . 367
BOOK IV. THE DANCER AND THE MOUNTEBANK
I. “That Is PAQUITA”. . . . . . . . 379
II. THE SERPENT STRIKES . . . . . . . 385
III. Which Is THE LAST . . . . . . . 400
[8]


ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“Good God, Mobley! Did you do this?” .
Frontispicce
Captain Converse was endowed with the impassive-
ness of an Indian, nor could one imagine him
agitated in any circumstances . . . .
62
Joyce was herself a mystery, an enigma, as inscru-
table as “Paquita”
. .
180
290
Mr. Mountjoy's thin, handsome features were saved
from asceticism only by the lines of humor about
his eyes . . . . . . .
At times Charlotte became beautiful; a warm tide of
color mounted to her cheeks; her head became
regally erect . . . . . . .
352
[91


LIST OF CHARACTERS
GEN. PEYTON WESTBROOK, a gentleman of the Old South.
MRS. WESTBROOK, his wife.
DR. MOBLEY WESTBROOK, their son.
JOYCE, Mobley's sister.
MRS. ELINOR FAIRCHILD, a widow of fallen fortunes.
CLAY, her son.
“Miss CHARLOTTE,” Clay's sister.
JOHN CONVERSE, Captain of Detectives.
MR. MOUNTJOY, the District Attorney.
MR. MERKEL, the Coroner.
J. HOWARD LYNDEN, a cotton-broker.
SEÑOR JUAN DE VARGAS Y ESCOLADO, otherwise known
as Señor Vargas, a Mexican capitalist.
WILLIAM SLADE, an abstracter of titles.
ABRAM FOLLETT, a dealer in worn-out utilities.
ROBERT NETTLETON, a lawyer.
FERDINAND Howe, a banker.
HARRY McCALEB
serving under Capt. Converse.
SEPTIMUS ADAMS s
SAM
JOE
} faithful servants.
MELISSA
POLLY ANN)
THE PLACE: A City in the South.
TIME: The Present.





BOOK I.
A DUPLEX PROBLEM


Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand ?
- MACBETH.


THE SILVER BLADE
BOOK I-A DUPLEX PROBLEM
CHAPTER I
EXIT SEÑOR DE SANCHEZ
ABOUT six o'clock on an evening in the early part of a
A recent November, the drowsy quiet sometimes per-
vading police headquarters was rudely broken by
the precipitate entrance of a young man, who made his
way hurriedly to the door marked, in neat gilt letters, “CHIEF
OF POLICE.”
In addition to the reserve squad, whose vigil never ends,
many other officers were present in the lazy transition stage
between going on and going off duty. The attention of
them all was immediately attracted to the stranger, and
held by his extraordinary manner, from the instant he
became visible in the flickering gas-lights until he finally
disappeared.
In the first place, he was not such a one as usually comes
to the city-hall basement, either voluntarily or when haled
hither by one of the law's myrmidons; for he was fashion-
ably, even fastidiously, attired, with a marked preciosity
of manner which would have been even more noticeable
under ordinary conditions.
But it was not over any idiosyncrasy of apparel or cus-
tomary detail of personality that the aroused curiosity of the
[15]


The Silver Blade
officers lingered. Inured as they were to uncommon and
surprising events, they were nevertheless startled by this
young man's advent, and greatly interested in his extreme
discomposure. It was obvious to the most casual glance
that he was the victim of a fright so potent that it possessed
him to the complete exclusion of every other feeling, made
him oblivious of the scrutiny to which he was subjected,
and drove him blindly to the commission of some idea
fixed by the terror which mastered him. And there was
one other still more powerful emotion depicted in his
pallid, twitching countenance: a horror unspeakable.
Looking neither to the right nor the left, the stranger
walked directly to the Chief of Police just as that official
was in the act of closing and locking his office door for the
night. The latter looked up inquiringly, and, struck at
once by the young man's appearance, asked with sudden
sharpness:
“What's the matter? What has happened ?”
The young man, his wild regard fastened on the Chief,
tried to answer; but he was incapable of speech, and the
effort resulted only in a queer, gasping sound.
With the directness of a man accustomed to prompt
action, the Chief of Police opened his door once more, and
guided the young man into the smaller room beyond. The
visitor, dazed by his emotions and unable to respond to any
suggestion less forceful than the actual pressure of the per-
suasive hand on his arm, probably would have remained
indefinitely motionless on the threshold before any cus.
tomary invitation to enter.
The Chief struck a match and ignited a gas-jet above a
big roll-top desk. The action, simple in itself, seemed to
[16]


Exit Señor de Sanchez
loose the young man's faculty of speech; just as the official
turned, he darted suddenly forward, grasped the other's
arm, and began incontinently:
“Murder! Murder has been done!” The words had
the effect of a cry, although uttered in a hoarse whisper.
“Murder, I tell you. Come with me at once; don't
delay.” He shook the Chief's arm excitedly, and strove
to draw him toward the door.
“Hurry! Hurry! For God's sake, hurry!”
The Chief of Police easily disengaged his imprisoned
arm.
“There, there . . . . sit down there,” said he, in a tone
he might have used to calm a terrified child. “You are
upset. Sit there a while and try to collect yourself. Come;
make an effort. Pull yourself together and tell me about it.”
“But the murderer!” the young man went on, still with
high excitement, but unconsciously sinking back into the
chair under the gentle pressure of the Chief's hand. “The
murderer will escape! Great Heavens, man! even now
he may be assaulting the doctor – Mobley — do you hear
me ? — he may have killed him! Send officers — go your-
self - anything but to sit here idle. Come!” He made
as if to rise again; but the other pressed him back.
“Steady,” said the Chief quietly. “Mobley? Do you
mean Doctor Mobley Westbrook ? Has he been mur-
dered ?"
“No-no-no,” in a burst of exasperation. “It was — it
was — I mean - good God, what do I mean? It — it
happened in his office.”
The Chief regarded him for a moment with eyes that
were mere pin-points of light.
[ 17 ]


The Silver Blade
“You are Mr. J. Howard Lynden, are you not ?” he
presently asked. The other nodded a quick affirmative.
“I thought so," he continued. “Who is the murderer?
Who has been murdered ? — or has any murder been done ?
You don't make yourself clear.”
Lynden twisted nervously upon his chair. “Heavens!
you do not doubt me?” he cried. “Why, Mobley's office
is like a shambles. It's horrible! — horrible! Mobley –
Doctor Westbrook, that is — was standing right over the
dying man with — with ” He checked himself abrupt-
ly, as an expression of horror deepened in his pale counte-
nance.
Since the introduction of Doctor Mobley Westbrook's
name, the Chief of Police was paying closer attention to
the incoherent recital; he regarded the young man gravely,
and evidently concluded that the situation was serious
enough to warrant some initiative on his own part. He
was accustomed to panic-stricken people who intruded
thus unceremoniously upon him, and experience had taught
him that, oftener than not, the circumstances were far
from warranting the excitement.
Concerning his present visitor, he was aware, in a general
way, that the young man was well known about town, the
inheritor of a considerable fortune from his father, and that
his name figured prominently as a leader of cotillons, on the
links of the Country Club, and among the names of the
many others who formed the society set of the city.
But all these qualifications did not supply the force
so conspicuously absent from Mr. Lynden's personality,
lacking which his perturbation was not very impressive.
He was not at all bad looking: he was even handsome
[ 18 ]


Exit Señor de Sanchez
in a way; but the Chief of Police, as he looked, could not
help remarking that a more resolute man would have been
less, the slave of his emotions in a situation like the present.
While the young man sat drumming with nervous fingers on
the arms of his chair, the Chief pressed a button beneath
his desk, whereupon the door was almost immediately
opened by an officer, who, without entering, respectfully
awaited his superior's commands.
To him the Chief said, “If Converse is in, tell him to
come to my office;” and as the door closed, “I want Cap-
tain Converse to hear this,” he explained to Lynden; "it
seems to be a matter for his department.”
The two had not long to wait. A man entered, cast a
piercing glance at the visitor, and took his stand at a corner
of the roll-top desk, waiting with an air of deferential at-
tention. He was a man of physique so immense — with
such a breadth of shoulders and absence of neck — that his
more than average height was much disguised. Above
all, he was one whose appearance must attract attention in
any gathering of his kind; for even as Lynden seemed to
lack those desirable traits, so force and resolution flowed
from this man's rugged personality, making their influence
felt subtly and insistently. His air of quiet composure was
evocative of confidence. Endowed with the impassive-
ness of an Indian, one could hardly imagine him excited
or agitated in any circumstances.
The Chief recognized his presence with a brief nod,
and at once addressed Lynden:
“Repeat what you have told me; see if you can't make
it plainer.”
The visitor recounted the bare facts in a more connected
[ 19 ]


The Silver Blade
manner. “But I was so shoeked,” he supplemented, “that
I am afraid I can't make myself intelligible. The facts
explain nothing to my mind further than that an atrocious
murder has been committed, that the victim is still lying
in Doctor Westbrook's office, and that no one seems to
know who is responsible for the deed.”
“You say the man was stabbed ?” queried the Chief.
“Yes,” was the reply; “stabbed in the throat.”
“But I fail to understand,” the Chief frowned. “Do
you mean to say that a man was stabbed in the presence
of Doctor Westbrook, and that he knows nothing about it?”
“No – no. It seems to have occurred in the hall just
outside Mobley's door; the man fell through the door into
the office, Mobley said. I don't know — I am so con-
fused.” Which last statement he confirmed by at once be-
coming involved in a wild incoherency of utterance.
After he had quieted somewhat, he sat trembling for a
moment, suddenly bursting forth again:
“Wait!” he cried, his face lighting. “I forgot to say
there was another man present in Doctor Westbrook's
office — a stranger to me. I never saw him before.”
“And he ?”
“Just like Mobley and myself, he appeared to be over-
come by the shocking occurrence.”
The Chief of Police plainly showed his perplexity.
“According to your statement — the man who was killed —
will you repeat his name?”
"De Sanchez. General Westbrook's friend, Alberto de
Sanchez.”
“According to your statement he was bleeding pro-
fusely. Had the weapon been withdrawn from the wound?”
[ 20 ]


Exit Señor de Sanchez
The young man evinced unaccountable hesitancy. He
moved uneasily, and glanced from his questioner to the
impassive figure standing at a corner of the desk. This
man, called Converse, had taken no part in the talk; he
stood silent and motionless, seemingly paying no heed to
what was going forward; but now he shot a swift glance
at Lynden, whose nervousness measurably increased. That
look was remarkable in a way: the eyes, steely gray, were
in themselves without expression; they failed, however,
to veil an intentness and concentration of mind which
disclosed beyond a doubt that their owner was abnormally
alive to every detail of speech and manner; they could not
hide a power of will lying behind their quick regard,
which mocked deception, and Mr. Lynden shuddered. In-
stantly the brief glance was withdrawn; but the young
man, if such had been his intention, attempted no liberties
with the truth. The confusion with which he now spoke,
however, suggested strongly that the thought had entered
his mind, although he may not have entertained it there.
"I-I-I would rather that you, or some officer,
accompany me to Mobley's office,” he faltered. “I con-
sider it rather unfair, in my condition, to press me further.
I would n't for the world present anything in a false light.
I feel that the situation is not only serious, but extremely
delicate.”
"It is that,” the Chief agreed, emphatically. “For that
very reason you must tell all you know. Now, why should
you hesitate in regard to the weapon ? Come now, what
about it?"
"Well, sir, I answer you under protest; remember, I
did not see the blow struck.”
[21]


The Silver Blade
“Sure?”
The young man nearly sprang from his chair. The
interruption, a penetrating, sibilant bullet of speech, came
from the massive figure of Mr. Converse; again that shrewd
regard was fastened on him, and the sweat started from his
brow.
“No!” he cried, explosively; "I did not. By George,
how nervous I am! — but I think half-truths should not be
told. No one is less capable of perpetrating such a deed
than Mobley Westbrook. Why, you know the man!”
He appealed with feverish eagerness to the two figures now
sternly confronting him. “Every one knows Mobley West-
brook's character; would he do such a thing?"
“But come to the point — come to the point, man!"
the Chief demanded, rapping sharply upon the desk with
his knuckles. “What of the weapon – was it a knife —
sword — axe — hatchet ? Where was it ? ”
“Well, Mobley had some kind of a – blade, a — dagger
in his hand; but — ”.
“Ah! And standing over a man whose very life-blood
is ebbing away beneath his eyes!” The Chief's manner
was politely ironical, and struck the young man cold. “You
must admit that you portray an astonishing set of circum-
stances to surround a man not only innocent but ignorant
of an offence,” concluded the official, pointedly.
Lynden indeed started from his chair. “I knew it!
I knew it!” cried he, wildly. “I knew you would put such
a construction upon my words; now, damn it! I'll not say
another word. Go — go! Go and see for yourselves how
wrong you are!”
The Chief of Police ignored this vehement advice. In-
( 22 )


Exit Señor de Sanchez
stead, he curtly admonished Lynden to remain a few mo-
ments where he was; and leaving the wretched news-bearer
alone with his own reflections, he and Converse withdrew
from the room.
After a minute or two the Chief returned. “I have
sent for a carriage,” said he. “As soon as it arrives I must
request you to accompany Captain Converse to Doctor
Westbrook's offices; are you willing to do that?” He
awaited the reply with an interest mingled with doubt of
what its probable tenor might be; when the young man
acquiesced with an alacrity and relief obviously sincere,
his doubt merely grew. He contemplated Lynden an
instant longer, and with a curt nod, seated himself at his
desk again.
Almost at once, however, the large figure of the Cap-
tain — or plain Mr. Converse, as he much preferred to be
known — appeared in the doorway.
“Come!” he whispered; and the whisper rasped upon
Lynden's nerves. Confound the man! was he afraid he
would betray some momentous secret, so that he did not
talk like other people? Nevertheless, he arose and fol-
lowed him,– under the heavy stone arches, shrouded with
gloom in the flickering gas-light, out into the cool night air
and into a waiting hack. Two other men followed close
behind, and entered a second hack; immediately the two
vehicles, one behind the other, were going at full speed in
the direction of Doctor Westbrook's offices.
Under the soothing influence of rubber tires spinning
easily over the smooth asphalt, the young man was fast
regaining his lost composure. He was so rapt in his own
thoughts that for a time he quite forgot his still companion,
[ 23 ]


The Silver Blade
and presently he laughed — mirthlessly, but a laugh signi.
fying sudden relief. Quite as suddenly it was checked, as
he met the inquiring, probing glance of his vis-à-vis.
“It is astonishing that I never thought of it before,” he
explained, in an embarrassed way. “That other man —
the stranger — can set Mobley right in an instant. Do
you think Doctor Westbrook could have done it ?"
Immediately he regretted the question, for it entailed
hearkening to that uncomfortable hissing voice. It was
Mr. Converse's misfortune that, properly speaking, he had
no voice at all. His entire speech was a series of sibilant
utterances, wonderfully distinct and possessed of remark-
able carrying power when one considered their quality.
It is likely that he was sensitive about his vocal defect, since
he was known as a silent, taciturn man among his confrères.
On certain rare occasions, however,— under, for example,
the spur of an inflexible purpose or the influence of a sym-
pathetic nature,- it was also known that he could wax
eloquent; his forceful individuality supplied, in a large
measure, the place of a normal, flexible voice.
The head of the detective department might have been
anywhere between forty and sixty years of age, so far as one
could gather from his huge frame and stolid countenance.
His hair was gray, and thinning slightly at the temples;
but behind his illegible exterior there reposed a vigor
and a reserve of power — revealed now and then, as in the
lightning-like glance cast at Lynden in the Chief's office —
which could not be reconciled with age. He was, in fact,
fifty-two.
His face was full and round, smooth-shaven, expression-
less — such a visage as one associates with some old sea-
[ 24 ]


Exit Señor de Sanchez
dog; a countenance that has long been subjected to the
hardening processes of wind and weather. As the young
man waited for a reply, the immovable features under-
went a curious change; the mouth gradually assumed a
pucker, as though the facial muscles were inelastic and
unused to such exercise; his right eyebrow lifted, which,
as the other remained motionless, was made all the more
noticeable, — the effect being an expression of inquiry and
speculation that seemed ludicrously out of place. Lynden
became familiar with this queer transformation later on;
he learned to associate it with the futility of seeking to
penetrate the wall of reserve which ever surrounded this
unusual man, and perceived that it came and went as a sort
of involuntary warning to place least trust in his frankest
confidences. Now it introduced the response to his question,
“Do you think Doctor Westbrook could have done it ?”.
“The Doctor is a strong, vigorous man, is n't he? I
don't see why he could n't.”
“My dear sir,” Lynden anxiously expostulated, “you
don't know Mobley Westbrook, or you never could enter-
tain such a thought.”
"Pardon me,” said Mr. Converse, carelessly,“ the thought
seems to be your own; I was simply giving you the first
fact that occurred to me, to justify your opinion. I have
formed none myself.”
"You interpret my words strangely.”
“No; your silence."
The young man, with another shudder, drew back to
the corner of the vehicle farthest from his companion.
The receding lights outside followed the carriage in
squares of diminishing illumination, which, shining through
[ 25 ]


The Silver Blade
the window, made strange play of light and shadow over that
inscrutable visage. All at once it became deeply portentous
to Lynden; as if by sudden divination he became possessed
of a conviction that it was destined to take a high place
in his affairs,— signifying, perhaps, the controlling influence
in a strange drama, the first scene of which was now upon
the boards.
“It is very remarkable,” the Captain mused, presently,
as if the episode were too much for him.
Lynden started from his reverie.
“Yes,” he murmured, not meeting the other's eye.
“Yes; it is very remarkable.” Both lapsed into a silence
that continued until the end of the ride.
As the vehicle proceeds, a few words about those whose
names have been mentioned, together with some others
who will figure in this narrative, will give a better idea of the
importance of the tragedy, the ill tidings of which Lynden
had been the bearer.
Both by reason of recognized ability in his profession and
of his high family connections, Doctor Mobley Westbrook
was leader of the medical fraternity in the city of his birth and
residence. He was still youthful in spite of his thirty-five
years; democratic in his tastes, immensely popular in every
class of society, and for these reasons considerably at odds
with his father.
Notwithstanding his popularity, his single excursion
into politics had only shown his unfitness for the national
game; a circumstance mentioned here because later on he
is to have it brought back to him in a manner both forcible
and disagreeable.
Singularly enough, for from another and altogether
[ 26 ]


Exit Señor de Sanchez
different sentiment the General himself was popular,-
General Westbrook was known to hold his son in some dis-
favor because he was so well and universally esteemed.
His exclusive nature could not brook the physician's demo-
cratic inclinations; it made the latter an alien. The
General did not understand it, and what he could not under-
stand he disliked.
The two personalities were remarkably divergent in every
way. General Peyton Westbrook was an exaggerated type
of the old-school Southern gentleman. Strikingly hand-
some, elegant in appearance, his erect and rigid bearing,
together with a falcon-like glance suggested a stature
which one in describing would be likely to pronounce tall
when in reality it was not much over five feet. His
graceful slenderness added considerably to the illusion.
His hair was white, his features cameo-like — aristo-
cratic, and stamped with the overweening family pride,
to which, with him, every other human emotion was sub-
servient.
It is probable that his presence and name were better
known in every part of the State than those of any other
living man. For the class which he represented was that
noble body of patricians — handsome and recklessly brave
men, and beautiful, high-minded women — who have given
the world criterions by which human excellence and human
weakness alike may be measured; and his position was a
personal hobby, persistently and consistently ridden.
Of his standing he was perhaps pardonably proud. Be-
sides his social position and that of his wife, who had been
a Shepardson, and of his lovely daughter, Joyce, he had
fought gallantly, if not brilliantly, through the war between
[ 27 ]


The Silver Blade
the States; but he was just narrow-minded enough to al-
low his pride and egoism to exclude the rest of humanity.
There was but one uniting link between Mobley and his
father and mother — the latter even more distant and
unapproachable than her spouse — and that was the daugh-
ter and sister, Joyce. Whatever their differences, the
family was held together by affection for this beautiful girl.
The love that bound Joyce and Mobley was deep and
abiding. It is not surprising, then, when the question of
his sister's marriage became gossip, that Mobley should
have taken a stand on the subject which brought about a
final and complete rupture from his father and mother.
The name with which his sister's had been linked was no
other than that of this same Alberto de Sanchez, who now
lay dead, with a ghastly knife-wound in his throat, in the
Doctor's own office.
James Howard Lynden - or“ Jim,” as Doctor Westbrook
called him — had long been on intimate terms with the
Westbrook family. And it was he who now accompanied
the silent Mr. Converse through a small but curious group
gathered about the entrance leading to the Doctor's office;
the first stage of an intermingling of interests widely diverse;
the bringing together of lives as far asunder as the stars.
[ 28 ]


CHAPTER II
THE FIRST PROBLEM DEVELOPS
OCTOR WESTBROOK'S offices were in the Net-
tleton Building in Court Street. It and its neigh-
bor on the east, the Field Building, were of that
solid old style of structure devoted to business, which
knew not the elevator nor steam heat, nor any of the
many devices that enter into the complexities, and often
questionable conveniences, of the modern office edifice.
They were not, and never had been, of an imposing ap-
pearance, boasting as they did only three stories; but they
were nevertheless the blue-bloods among the city's com-
mercial houses, preserving their exclusive position amidst
the newer generation of garish sky-scrapers which rudely
intercepted the vision on every hand.
The occupants of these monuments of the old regime
were in full accord with their habitations,- solid, conser-
vative, and even aristocratic. As often as not a modest
sign — if it could be deciphered at all — notified the visitor
that behind certain doors could be found “Harvey Nettle-
ton, Estate of,” or, “Richard Fairchild, Estate of,” or some
name equally well known, and associated with a glory that
had departed. In most instances, well might the present
owners of those family names cry “Ichabod!” for they had
long since ceased to have any interest in the estates other
than the shadowy interests which lie in memories and vain
regrets.
[ 29 ]


The Silver Blade
As Mr. Lynden and his taciturn companion passed
through the Nettleton Building entrance, where the curious
little throng was restrained by the presence of a couple of
mute policemen, the Captain's entire manner underwent
a complete and sudden transformation; his expressionless
countenance remained wooden, but into his eyes there
arrived an intentness and brightness entirely absent from
them before; his rather lethargic and apparently purposeless
movements giving way to a brisk mode of proceeding which
one would hardly have expected from his cumbrous frame.
His demeanor was become at once alert and wary, and he
had little to say to Lynden.
It was now night outside, and the stairs were faintly
illuminated by the single incandescent lamp which hung
at their head in the hall of the second story. The sole
indication that Mr. Converse was striving to allow nothing
to escape his observation was the quickness with which he
stooped, when near the top, and picked something from the
stairs — something too small for Lynden to catch even a
glimpse of — which, whatever it was, the Captain scrutinized
intently a moment, and, without comment, dropped into the
large pocket-book he brought forth from an inside pocket.
The two continued on their way until they reached Doctor
Westbrook's office.
Everything was as Lynden had left it, save for the fact
that Doctor Westbrook, and the stranger mentioned by the
young man, had been joined by several other persons.
One was a swarthy, lean man, whose face was pitted by
small-pox, and whose rather dull eyes remained expression-
less behind a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. He was
standing aloof from the others, and seemed to be taking
( 30 )


The First Problem Develops
only languid interest in what was going forward. Occa-
sionally he coughed in a manner that told much to the
physician's trained ear; save for this, he remained silent.
Mr. Merkel, the coroner, and a uniformed policeman were
also present.
“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Merkel to Converse as he and his
companion appeared. “So they have sent you, have they?
How fortunate! how exceedingly fortunate! This, gentle-
men,” he continued, addressing the other occupants of the
room, “is Captain Converse. He will pardon me, I know,
if I add — the great detective. Nothing has been disturbed,
Captain, nothing has been disturbed. You will find every-
thing just as I did. It is a bad business, a bad business."
Mr. Merkel was fussy, important, and wholly incom-
petent; and the Captain was so accustomed to his repeti-
tions of phrases that were not, to say the least, pregnant
with meaning, that he ignored them and turned to an in-
spection of the dead man.
The body lay just as it had fallen. Somebody had placed
a handkerchief over the face, a covering that also hid an ugly
wound in the throat. Mr. Converse stooped and removed
this, and began a minute but rapid examination of the still
form. It reposed in the Doctor's reception-room, close to
the wall, partially on its back and partially on its right side.
The right arm was extended, the fingers of that hand still
in a position as though upon the point of grasping something.
Curved naturally across the breast, the left arm suggested
restful slumber rather than death by violence; but what-
ever the eyes had last looked upon, before the film dimmed
their lustre, it had stamped upon the handsome features an
indelible expression of mingled terror and horror, which one
( 31 )


The Silver Blade
could scarcely regard without an inward tremor of something
very like fear. It was an expression likely to remain dis-
agreeably in the memory for a long time.
A search of the dead man's pockets revealed nothing
unusual, except that, in a petty way, he had been a violator
of the law; for the first thing Mr. Converse drew forth was
a nickel-plated, pearl-handled revolver of 32-caliber. The
remainder consisted of a number of letters, all relating to
business matters; two long envelopes, evidently but recently
sealed, and addressed simply, “El Señor Juan de Vargas"; a
purse containing money; a gold watch; a fountain pen, and
pencil; two memorandum books; a silver match-box; a
pouch of dark tobacco, and brown cigarette papers; a hand-
kerchief; a penknife; a bunch of keys,— these were all.
When these effects were inventoried, while Mr. Merkel
was assorting them at Doctor Westbrook's writing-table,
the dark man with the pince-nez stepped forward. All
eyes were turned toward him, excepting, apparently, those
of Converse, which continued to give the body and the
reception-room floor their attention.
"Pardon, señores,” said the dark man, bestowing a bow
upon the entire group, and ending it at the Coroner; “is
there anything addressed to Juan Vargas, or Juan de Vargas ?
I am he.”
Mr. Merkel looked at him sternly, and held up the two
long envelopes.
"I see the name of Vargas — er — ah - inscribed on
these. Are you Mr. Vargas ? "
The other remained unmoved, replying simply, “I am
Juan de Vargas."
"What connection have you with the deceased gentle.
[ 32 ]


The Silver Blade
Señor de Vargas acknowledged this speech with a grave
“Gracias, señor.” Turning to Mr. Merkel again, “ I hope
there will not be much delay ?” he queried, mildly, with a
certain precision of enunciation that alone marked him of
an un-English-speaking race.
Since he had comprehended the magnitude of the transac-
tion as disclosed by the deed and certificates, and after
Doctor Westbrook's interposition, the Coroner's manner
toward the Mexican had noticeably altered.
“No more than necessary,” he replied deferentially;
“no more than necessary, sir. I am sorry, but these papers
will have to remain among the deceased's other effects until
after the inquest, anyhow. Mr. Mountjoy, our district
attorney, is the proper authority for you to see.”
“Good!” returned the Mexican. “I desire not for my
humble affairs to stand in the path of justice." Bowing
once more, he returned to his former position away from
the others.
Converse suddenly passed over to the Coroner, and laid
a bloody dagger upon the table. Its silver blade, crimsoned
in part, was grewsome and startling beneath the bright glare
of the shaded incandescent lamp. Mr. Merkel involuntarily
drew back his hands, the strange gentleman who had been
with the Doctor since the tragedy visibly shuddered, and
for an instant — the smallest portion of a second — the
dull eyes of Señor Vargas took on a strange light, as though
the pupils had all at once distended, allowing a glimpse
to the uttermost depths, then became dull again. It was like
the abrupt opening and closing of a shutter. Otherwise
his features did not change, nor did he move. The more
phlegmatic policeman looked upon the little weapon without
[ 34 ]


The First Problem Develops
apparent emotion; the Doctor and Howard Lynden with
none at all.
However, as the Captain placed it upon the table his
eyes took in every occupant of the room in one rapid sweep-
ing glance, only to drop as he stooped and whispered to the
Coroner, who there upon nodded and turned to the waiting
group.
“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “this is not the inquest, of
course; but let us hear what you have to say about this.
You first, Doctor Westbrook; you first.”
“What I can tell you will seem much less than it should,”
the Doctor returned. “It was about five o'clock, and I
was sitting at my table — there, where you are now. I had
just finished a letter to no other than Señor de Sanchez
himself.”
“Is this it?" the Coroner interrupted, extending a letter
to the speaker. Doctor Westbrook replied affirmatively,
and proceeded with his recital.
“I had just completed and blotted it, and was preparing
to address the envelope, when I heard footsteps in the hall.
I paused, with the pen in my hand, and listened, for I was
expecting Señor de Sanchez to call at my office this evening,
though not so early, and I imagined the footsteps might be
his. As I listened, I noted that my door was not quite shut,
and the footfalls advanced steadily down the hall, approach-
ing my office. When immediately outside the door, and
while I was looking up expectant of the caller's entrance,
they ceased abruptly. There was a slight sound of scraping
on the floor of the hall, as though the man — whom I could
not then see — were endeavoring to rub something from
his shoe-sole on the boards, or had slipped slightly;
( 35 )


The Silver Blade
without the slightest warning, his whole weight plunged
against the door. It was thrown violently open by the
impact, and I was horrified to behold Señor de Sanchez
stagger through, his right hand extended in front of him,
as if groping for support. As he crossed the threshold he
lurched to his right and struck the wall, along which he slid
to the floor, just as you now see him.”
During his relation of these particulars, the Doctor's
manner was perfectly cool and collected. The next incident
fairly electrified his intent listeners.
“As he was falling," he continued, “I noticed the dag-
ger handle protruding from the left side of his throat.”
"Is this the one ?”
It was Converse's sibilant whisper which now rudely
broke into the recital. At the same time he thrust the silver
blade close to the other's face.
Doctor Westbrook at first merely glanced at the weapon;
but something about it evidently caught and held his atten-
tion, and an emotion vastly different from mere recognition
overspread his countenance; it was astonishment, pure and
simple.
"God bless my soul!” he gasped, in extreme amaze-
ment; "that is mine — my paper-knife — and I did not
recognize it! What does this mean?” He sat with his eyes
glued upon it, the centre of a dumfounded group. The
Captain continued a moment to hold it forward, his gaze
fixed inscrutably upon the physician's puzzled and be-
wildered countenance.
Presently Converse drew the weapon slowly back again,
and replaced it upon the table.
“So that is yours ?” the Coroner soberly asked.
[ 36 ]


The First Problem Develops
“It is,” replied the Doctor; "and I did not recognize it
until this minute. How did it — why — ” he began
vaguely; but Merkel interrupted.
“Well,” said he, with a wave of the hand that seemed to
dispose of all complications, “it will be time enough for
questions when you have finished.”
“De Sanchez was falling,” resumed the Doctor after a
moment's reflection, "when I noticed the dagger handle.
The body had scarcely touched the floor before I had
stooped and wrenched the blade from the wound. It did
not come easily; it required a severe tug to loosen it, and
the withdrawal of the blade was followed by such a gush
of blood that I knew some important artery must be severed.
The man's death was practically instantaneous. After I
had extracted the blade I had no time to render him any
further service; I simply stood dumfounded until Jim -
Mr. Lynden - grasped my arm and shook me.”
“But, Doctor Westbrook,” insisted Mr. Merkel, “was
there no one else in the hall ? Did you hear no other foot-
steps? Did n't you see or hear some one else when the door
was thrust wide open ? Surely the murderer could n't
have left so quickly without attracting the attention of some
one of you. It is simply incredible.” He grasped the arms
of his chair, leaning forward in his eagerness, his heavy
countenance overshadowed with perplexity.
As the Doctor started to reply, Converse glanced sharply
toward him; when Lynden's name was presently mentioned,
shifting his scrutiny to that gentleman.
“I must say no to all those questions,” was the Doctor's
reply. “I saw nobody but De Sanchez. I heard nothing
but his footsteps, and the noise he made in collapsing through
( 37 )


The Silver Blade
this door. Ask Jim Lynden, there; he was in the hall at
the time; he followed so closely behind De Sanchez that
he arrived here before the man died.”
Lynden merely shook his head, hopelessly, as if he had
no vocabulary to express himself. The Coroner was im-
pressed by the young man's mien, and after regarding him
a moment with a scowl, turned again to Doctor Westbrook.
“Was any one else present, Doctor?” he asked.
The physician's face was suddenly illumined.
“Yes; why, certainly. Howe!” he exclaimed. “Howe,
where were you ?”
The man, who apparently had been a stranger to every-
body in the room, now advanced.
“I was in there — your laboratory - looking into the
light-well.”
Converse noiselessly disappeared into the room indicated,
returning in a few seconds to eye the stranger with increased
interest
"And who are you, if I may ask ?” bluntly demanded
the Coroner.
"My name is Ferdinand Howe, sir,” the stranger re-
plied, with dignity. “My home is in Bruceville, Georgia,
and I am in your city on business for the bank of which I
happen to be the cashier. Doctor Westbrook and I are
old college-mates, and I know about as much of this affair
as he has told you; that is to say, I was there — the other
side of that partition in the laboratory — when the murdered
man fell where you now see him. The first intimation I
had that anything was amiss was when the outside door
crashed open and the body fell to the floor. I ran into
this room, saw the man gasp twice, and then lie motionless.
( 38 )


The First Problem Develops
I never saw him, and never heard of him, before this night.
That is all.”
Mr. Howe appeared to be about the Doctor's age, and
was a fair type of the American man of business. He was
well groomed, clean, and possessed of a clear, steady eye.
“And you saw and heard no one else ?” Mr. Merkel
persisted.
Howe shook his head. “No, sir; no one. There was not
the slightest thing to indicate – ”
He stopped. He shot a swift, startled glance at Doctor
Westbrook; but the Doctor remained unconscious of it, evi-
dently absorbed in his own cogitations. Mr. Converse's
eyes watched the speaker through mere slits, so nearly closed
were they; but a gleam came from between the contracted
lids that might have betrayed a quickened interest some-
where in the depths of his big frame.
"No," concluded Howe presently, in tones measurably
subdued; “I neither saw nor heard anybody else, but —”
With compressed lips he indicated by a nod the form on the
floor. “You must remember,” he concluded, “I was in
the next room, looking out the window into the light-well.”
Converse looked quickly from the speaker to Lynden.
That young man was staring strangely at Howe, evidently
impressed by something unusual in his concluding words.
Suddenly the young man caught Converse's intent look,
and his own eyes lowered. Next they shifted to Doctor
Westbrook, at whom he continued to look in a moody
silence.
The Coroner, apparently more and more at sea, stared
first at one and then another of the room's occupants, at
the partition which separated the reception-room from the
[ 39 ]


The Silver Blade
laboratory, and lastly through the open doorway into the
hall. The most extreme of the different points were not
over six feet apart; and for three men — wide awake and in
full possession of their faculties — to be so close to such a
crime and know nothing of it until it was all over! How could
human ingenuity supply an explanation for so incongruous
a circumstance? Had the man committed suicide? The
most cursory examination of the wound demonstrated be-
yond doubt that, however else it might have been inflicted,
Alberto de Sanchez was incapable of having administered it
himself.
Meanwhile the Captain was moving from one to another
of the group, his whisper barely audible, but persistent and
pervading the entire room. Occasionally he made a brief
memorandum upon an envelope, - cabalistic marks which
no one but himself could have deciphered. Then the
whisper again for a moment, followed by a deferential lower-
ing of his gray head as he hearkened to the reply. Had
one been observing him closely he would have noticed that
the circle of inquiry gradually narrowed. The policeman
he paid no attention to at all; he was soon through with
Señor Vargas; but from Lynden he passed to Howe; next
to Doctor Westbrook; and from one to another of the last
three, as a word from one suggested a new inquiry to be
asked of another. His movements were silent, his manner
unobtrusive, distracting no attention from Mr. Merkel and
his investigation. Now and then he paused and stared
contemplatively into vacancy for a moment, with the odd
lifting of his right eyebrow, and with his mouth thoughtfully
pursed; but the mask of his countenance told nothing,
and only once did he include the whole group with a question.
[ 40 ]


The First Problem Develops
It was after he had been whispering quietly for some minutes
with Howe.
“Who can give me young Mr. Fairchild's address ?
You, Doctor ?” he asked.
“Clay ?” Dr. Westbrook returned. “Yes. It is close to
the terminus of the Washington Heights car line. The
conductor can direct you to it; the houses are not num-
bered out there.”
Converse nodded, and chose a slip of paper from the
table. After looking at it, first on one side and then on the
other, it apparently did not suit his purpose; for he sub-
jected another bit of paper to a similar scrutiny before pen-
cilling a hurried line thereon, although he did not replace
the first slip. The note he handed to the policeman with a
whispered word, and the policeman instantly quitted the
room. Had one still been observing Mr. Converse he would
have seen him abstractedly place the first bit of paper in his
waistcoat pocket.
Well, it seemed that no one present could throw additional
light upon the manner of Señor de Sanchez's death. Mr.
Merkel arose from his chair at the Doctor's table, and looked
a pointed inquiry at the Captain, who responded by a short
negative shake of his head. As if relieved of a distasteful
responsibility, the Coroner said:
“Such of you as desire to go may do so. Captain Con-
verse and I will have to look about a bit. He must have an
opportunity to apply his wonderful skill, gentlemen; and
you will all be notified of the inquest; you will be duly
notified. .... Doctor Westbrook, I will send a wagon for
the body,” he concluded. “Good-night, gentlemen.” He
turned to the table again, and to a contemplation of the
[ 41 ]


The Silver Blade
dead man's personal effects, as though picking out an answer
to this latest riddle propounded by death.
Whatever of restraint had been upon the group, it was
released by the Coroner's words, and each member showed
it in his own way. Ferdinand Howe instantly advanced to
Doctor Westbrook, and, smiling, held out his hand.
“Well, Mobley," said he, as they grasped hands, “this
is a regrettable affair. It has been a shocking interruption
to my visit; a visit which I now suppose will be indefinitely
extended. If I can be of service, don't hesitate to call upon
me. I shall be at the hotel any time I am wanted. Good-
night.” And he quitted the room.
Next, Señor Vargas bowed before the Doctor, saying in a
low, conventional tone:
“My sympathies, Señor Doctor, that anything so deplor-
able should have occurred in your apartments.” He turned
to the Coroner:
“Don Alberto was a fellow-countryman,” he went on;
“ he had many relatives and friends, by whom he was much
beloved. But Mexico is far away, señor, and should there
be any delay in communicating with those relatives or those
friends, it is I, his countryman, upon whom you should call.
Upon my own responsibility I request that every attention be
accorded the body, and that no expense be considered. I
also will be at — what you call la posado? — the 'otel.
I thank you for your courtesy.”
His departure left, besides the Captain and Mr. Merkel,
only Howard Lynden and the Doctor; as the door closed
behind the Mexican, the Doctor said:
“Now, then, we here are all about equally interested; if
you have any idea how this dreadful crime was committed,
( 42 )


The First Problem Develops
pray enlighten us. Surely even vulgar curiosity is pardon-
able under the circumstances.” He looked inquiringly from
the Coroner to Mr. Converse.
The latter made no remark, but watched the Doctor
steadily, while Mr. Merkel dubiously shook his head, and
replied:
“It seems as though we scarcely had made a beginning
yet. We shall be obliged to go much farther, Doctor -
much farther.”
“I will begin right now, then,” Converse whispered.
“Mr. Lynden, you can help me if you will."
All four were in the act of emerging from the room, when
the Captain, as though an idea had just occurred to him,
turned suddenly and touched Doctor Westbrook upon the
arm.
“By the way, Doctor," he whispered, close to that gentle-
man's ear, “I notice you have several penholders on your
table; are you particularly partial to any one of them ?
No, no, don't stop; go on.”
The Doctor turned a surprised visage to his questioner.
“Why, yes, since you have mentioned it. I always
use the black celluloid holder. Why?”.
“It is just an idea of mine; I took a particular fancy to
that holder. .... And have you had occasion to put a new
point in it lately?”
Doctor Westbrook now did stop. He frowned heavily
as he pondered a moment, while the Captain watched him
steadily.
“Yes,” he presently said. “I placed a new pen-point
in it this evening. I found the other broken - bent —
quite useless.”
[ 43 ]


The Silver Blade
“Thank you, thank you,” Mr. Converse said, hastily.
“Good-night, Doctor Westbrook.”
While the Doctor and Mr. Merkel continued on out of
the building, Converse devoted his attention to the hall
window which opened into the light-well. There he stood
until the others had disappeared; whereupon he and Lynden
reëntered the Doctor's office.
( 44 )


CHAPTER III
A SEARCH FOR CLUES
DY running a board partition down the centre of
D the room nearest the ball, Doctor Westbrook had by
the simplest means given himself a place of reception;
one where his patients could wait while he was engaged
in the room overlooking Court Street, there being still
another for his drugs and medicines.
There was not much wasted space in the laboratory.
Against the walls stood cases filled with bottles of many
sizes and colors, and other cases displaying glittering, sinister
instruments; in one corner stood a carboy of distilled water,
and by the window, opening into the light-well, stood the
table where the Doctor compounded such prescriptions as
he did not send to a regular apothecary.
The light-well opened like a chasm between the Field
and Nettleton buildings; its bottom, on a level with the
second-story floors, was of heavy semi-opaque glass, so that
such rays of light as were not diverted into the windows
on the one hand or the other found a way to the shop space
on the ground floor. At present an arc lamp beneath this
skylight suffused a soft and mellow radiance throughout
the entire light-well.
Mr. Converse let himself down to a narrow ledge bordering
the skylight, and with an injunction to the young man to
wait, made his way around it to a window diagonally op-
posite, which the latter recognized as belonging to the offices
( 45 )


The Silver Blade
of Petty & Carlton, attorneys, in the Field Building. Here
the Captain drew himself up with remarkable agility, and
disappeared through the window. All the windows letting
into the light-well were open, the watcher was noticing,
when his attention was attracted by Mr. Converse's sharp
whisper.
“Stand where you are a few minutes, Mr. Lynden,”
said he. “I want to experiment a bit, and I shall call
on you for a report presently."
He lowered himself to the ledge again, passed over to
Nettleton Building side, and to the hall window of the latter.
There he stooped and scrutinized the ledge intently, and next
the window-sill; after which, with a little spring, he raised
himself to the window, and crawled through it into the hall.
A sudden quiet fell, — a quiet unbroken by any sound.
Standing there alone in the gloom, one undoubtedly would
have been impressed by the blank, staring windows that
were like wide and lidless eyes; and as he looked, Lynden
seemed to become sensible of a feeling of dread at the awful-
ness of the crime which had been committed so near at hand,
for he shuddered visibly, as if the windows had some purpose
in staring, as if they were in reality eyes that still retained
some expression of their horror at a deed witnessed but a
moment since.
Noting the alacrity with which Converse let his heavy
frame in and out of windows, a spectator might fancy it an
easy matter for one lurking in the light-well to do likewise,
at the ripe moment strike a swift blow, and then leap back
again.
But whatever the current of Lynden's meditations, it
was abruptly diverted. He fell to listening intently. The
( 46 )


A Search for Clues
door between the hall and the reception-room was being
slowly and cautiously opened; still slowly and with an
apparent effort to occasion no betraying noise, some one
advanced on tiptoe into the room. The young man faced
deliberately about until he could see the door in the partition,
and waited. Toward it the almost silent footfalls were
moving; presently there appeared at the aperture the ex-
pressionless face of Mr. Converse, who, when he perceived
Lynden's startled attitude, gave utterance to a low chuckle.
"I was not endeavoring to frighten you, Mr. Lynden,”
said he; “I was simply trying a little experiment. When
did you first hear me?”
“I heard the door open, and next, you tiptoeing across the
room. I did not know what to think.” He was pale and
trembling.
“Not another sound ? No footsteps in the hall ? Nothing
of that kind ?”
Lynden shook his head. “No; the first thing I heard
was the door opening,” he repeated.
“Well,” continued the Captain, reflectively, pursing his
mouth, and lifting his right eyebrow at the young man, “I
don't believe anybody could have made less noise than I
did in there”— he nodded his head toward the partition –
“nor more than I made in the hall. And you heard nothing
until the door began to open — h-m-m!” He looked around
the laboratory,- at the shelves of bottles, at the partition
not reaching quite to the ceiling; he stepped to the window,
and, leaning out, contemplated the hall window. “It's
confoundedly queer,” he concluded.
“What is ?”
“Why, the way noises act here. You know, that man –
( 47]


The Silver Blade
Mr. Ferdinand Howe — was standing at this window, and
heard nothing in the hall. I almost believe, if the deceased
had been shot instead of stabbed he would not have heard
it. . . . . But let us have a look at the other side of the hall.
... Let me see,” he went on, in a meditative way, “Room
4; that must be Mr. Nettleton's private office; as my
friend Mr. Follett would say,— his ‘lair.' He has no use
for lawyers.” He pushed open the door directly opposite
the Doctor's suite.
The room was large and had three windows opening into
the light-well. Through these windows sufficient light
from the arc lamp beneath the skylight found its way to
cause the furnishings to loom shadowy and ghost-like in a
sort of feeble twilight, and to make it easy to find an incan-
descent lamp, which Mr. Converse turned on, illuminating
the apartment with a brighter and more cheerful radiance.
He surveyed the room, and looked at Lynden.
· "I suppose,” said he, “the door has not been locked
this evening ?”
The young man merely shook his head. For some reason
since passing to this side of the hall, he had become strangely
taciturn, though he watched the Captain's every movement
eagerly, and cast many furtive glances toward the denser
shadows.
Converse knelt and examined the floor closely on either
side of the door. Lynden's nerves were at such a tension
that he actually started at a whispered ejaculation from the
Captain as he picked up a tiny hairpin,– the kind a woman
would have specified as “invisible.”
So, then, there had been some one behind this door —
and that one a woman!
( 48 )


A Search for Clues
Why should this circumstance affect Lynden so strangely?
for it would seem that, in the undisturbed stillness of these
deserted chambers, there was a potent, disquieting influence
which kept him in a qui vive of nervous expectancy,— an
invisible something in the atmosphere of the place filling him
with an apprehensive dread. It was really remarkable
that his observant companion did not notice his agitation;
and still it was difficult to imagine how he could, for he
was crossing the floor in a crouching attitude, apparently
directing his entire attention to the floor with a concentra-
tion that permitted no individual thread of the heavy carpet
to escape his earnest scrutiny.
Mr. Nettleton was a lawyer, and he occupied two rooms,
both of which opened directly into the hall. The two men
were now in the one that the lawyer used as his consulta-
tion room, and the course being pursued by Mr. Converse
would soon take him to the connecting door between the
two offices. Arriving at that point, he stood erect and paused
a moment, plunged in thought. He said nothing, and
seemingly had become oblivious of his companion's attend-
ance.
Just to the left of the connecting door, and in the general
office, stood the desk occupied during business hours by
Clay Fairchild. Above this desk was another incandes-
cent light, which the Captain lighted, after which he took
up whatever trail he had been following so closely, at the
exact point where he had left it, continuing, in a stooping
posture, to the hall door of the general office. From the
point where he had picked up the hairpin, immediately
within the entrance to Room 4, he had pursued a course
away from the hall, through the connecting door to Room 5,
[ 49 ]


A Search for Clues
but apparently permitting not the least article to escape his
observation, he made the circuit of the apartment, and
finally paused at Clay Fairchild's desk. Almost instantly
his eyes singled out one from among the mass of papers
which littered it. This he carefully folded, and placed,
with the article he had picked up on the stairway, which
Lynden had been unable to see, in the capacious pocket-
book. He seemed reluctant to leave this desk; after he had
turned away he paused and cast another look at it, sniffing
as one striving to locate the source of a faint odor. Lynden
paused too; he glanced hurriedly from right to left, his brow
lined, his expression troubled and perplexed.
At length they returned to Mr. Nettleton's private office,
which was subjected to as close and thorough an examina-
tion as had been the room just quitted. Only one thing
seemed especially to hold Converse's attention, and that
was the space beneath the lawyer's desk. Here he got
down to his hands and knees, and struck no less than five
matches in an effort to obtain a better light. Whether the
dusty space told him anything Lynden could not deter-
mine.
They passed back into the hall again. Converse walked
directly to the entrance of Suite 2, immediately adjoining
Doctor Westbrook's offices, on the side nearest the stairway.
A small card pasted on the ground glass of this door bore
the words “To Let.” Converse ignited another match,
in the added light of which he examined the door-knob.
His companion observed him touch it with the tip of a finger,
and shake his head, as if something incomprehensible had
all at once presented itself.
“Does the janitor sleep in the building ?” the Captain
( 51 )


The Silver Blade
inquired after a moment; when the young man nodded
affirmatively, he added: “Can you get the keys of this floor
for me? It will save some time and trouble, and I want
to finish before the reporters come.”
"Certainly. His room is in the third story.”
Converse watched him until he disappeared around
the corner toward the stairway, and straightway did some-
thing very strange. With the silence and speed of a cat he
made his way back to Fairchild's desk. Over this he
bent and smelt the papers which lay there. But that
would not do. Hastily he tried the top right-hand drawer.
It was unlocked — as were all the other drawers — and
opened easily. That for which he was searching was not
there, either. He turned rapidly to another drawer, and
another, and another, until every drawer in the desk had
been opened and closed again, its contents having been
hastily but thoroughly gone over; and still the object of
this hurried search was not found. Quickly he glanced
from side to side. To the left of the desk was a waste-paper
basket, which had not been recently emptied, and over this
he inhaled deeply, as one would drink in the fragrance of a
rose. He thrust a hand among the debris of papers, and
in a moment drew forth a dainty lace handkerchief, to which
clung the unmistakable odor of stephanotis. Again the
capacious pocket-book; and when Lynden returned with
the keys the Captain was contemplating the door-knob of
Suite 2 with unabated interest.
Lynden sniffed as the other ran over the key-tags in a
search for No. 2.
“What is that perfume ?” he demanded sharply.
“Ah, do you like that, now ?” rejoined Converse, with
( 52 )


A Search for Clues
the first display of enthusiasm he had yet shown. “That
is an odor I am very partial to, and hope to have more of —
if I can find where this came from.”
The young man moistened his lips, and his eyes turned
away from the other's steady look.
Converse now had the door to No. 2 open, but he did
not enter this room. It needed only the match he now
struck to disclose layer upon layer of dust, the undisturbed
accumulation of months.
“Now, then,” said he, as he closed and locked the door
again, "back to the light-well for a minute or two, and I
am through.”
He let himself out of the hall window, and made another
circuit of the ledge around the skylight. The light-well
was more or less a catch-all for the windows opening into it;
it therefore contained many scraps of paper, every one of
which he glanced at before casting it aside. Only one
thing here seemed to interest him,- something he picked
up far out on the skylight and scrutinized. Lynden was
afforded another glimpse of the pocket-book.
“What is it ?” he asked.
"A cigarette butt," was the reply; "interesting only
because it is the second one of the same kind I have found
to-night.”
Presently, when he announced that he had finished,
Lynden said it had fallen to them to turn out the lights and
lock the doors, as the negro janitor was too frightened to
venture into the second story that night. This was soon
accomplished, and the two had turned to depart, when
both abruptly stopped. A light had flashed forth through
the ground glass of Room 6.
( 53 )


The Silver Blade
“What room is that?” asked Converse; for the door
was bare of significance excepting for the single figure “6,”
now standing out boldly against the light behind.
“The record and abstract room of the Guaranty Trust
Company," was the reply. “He must have come in while
you were in the light-well.”
“He? Who?” Converse queried bluntly.
Both were standing as they had paused when the light
first surprised them, and Lynden turned to his interlocutor
with some surprise at the quickening eagerness of his tone,
but he answered merely:
“Slade,— William Slade; he prepares the company's
abstracts of title, you know.”
Converse's manner became completely impersonal again.
“Can you find some excuse for knocking ?” he asked.
“Would you mind doing so ? I should like to have a glimpse
of him.”
“Not at all; if I can make him hear. He's quite deaf.”
Lynden, after knocking once perfunctorily, did not wait
for a summons to enter. He immediately threw the door
wide open, crying, without much show of deference:
- “Hello, Mr. Slade! You work late to-night.”
A little, dingy, dreary figure of a man, perched on a
high stool, and bending over a huge canvas-bound volume,
slowly raised his head, and gazed at his unceremonious
callers with the vacant look that one sees in the eyes of deaf
people who have not heard distinctly. His smooth-shaven
face was like leather, shot and crisscrossed with a network
of fine wrinkles. Almost on the tip of his nose he was
balancing a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles, and the eyes
which now looked over them were remarkably bright and
( 54 )


A Search for Clues
sparkling, like a mouse's, conveying to the casual glance
an alertness which they did not actually possess.
“Howard Lynden, close the door," was the odd creature's
greeting, in a voice hoarse and rasping. The sharp little
eyes shifted to the Captain, and back to Lynden again.
There was no cordiality in either his tone or manner.
The young man took a step forward, laid his hand upon
the tall desk at which the little man was seated, raised his
voice and asked, “Did you know there had been a murder
committed on this floor this evening ?”.
“Murder?” querulously, and with no show of interest.
“ Murder ”
“Yes; murder. The man died in Doctor Westbrook's
office — stabbed.”
Without displaying the least curiosity at so unexpected,
so sensational an announcement, Mr. Slade slowly wagged
his head, saying only, “I heard nothing of it.” He dipped
his pen into the ink-well, with an air of dismissing his
callers and the subject alike.
“I saw your light, and just dropped in to learn if you
knew of it,” Lynden concluded, as he followed the Captain
toward the hall. Lowering his voice, and addressing the
latter, “Is there anything else ?” he inquired; at once the
wrinkled, meagre visage and twinkling eyes became sus-
picious and alert.
“What is that ?" demanded Slade, with obvious mistrust.
“Nothing," the young man returned shortly. “Good-
night.”
Mr. Slade's parchment-like countenance again bent over
the big volume, and his pen flew industriously. It was
startling, when the door had nearly closed, to have the
[ 55 ]


The Silver Blade
rasping voice come after them with the suddenness of an
explosion.
“Howard Lynden!” it cried. That gentleman, sur-
prised, thrust his head back into the room.
With pen poised in hand, with spectacles still balanced
near the tip of his thin nose, the ill-favored mask of Slade's
countenance was again confronting the detective and his
companion.
“What time was that murder ?” asked the abstracter.
“At five o'clock,” Lynden rejoined, he and the Captain
again advancing into the room.
“And the murdered man ?”
“General Westbrook's friend, Señor de Sanchez."
The little eyes turned once more quickly to the Captain
and back to Lynden as he asked the next question:
“Ah! And who was — the — murderer ?” He spoke
deliberately, his harsh voice lowering itself strangely.
“That the police would very much like to know."
Again the little eyes shifted to Mr. Converse.
“An officer?” inquired Slade.
The Captain nodded. Slade's brusque manner returned;
dropping his eyes to his work once more, he said, with an
air of finality:
“I am sorry, gentlemen, I can tell you nothing. This
is my first intelligence that a crime had been committed.
Good-night. Howard Lynden, close the door tightly after
you.”
When the two were once more in the hall the Captain said,
“Mr. Slade developed a mighty sudden interest.”
“Yes," returned his companion; "a queer bird —
irascible, and touchy about his deafness. His father was
( 56 )


A Search for Clues
an overseer, you know," as though this fully accounted
for Mr. Slade's undesirable qualities. “But his curiosity
got the better of him that time; he could n't let us go with-
out finding out more.”
“He and I would have some difficulty in getting along
together without a sign language,” remarked Mr. Converse,
dryly.
The two were near the foot of the stairs, but they were
not destined to leave the building without another interrup-
tion. A man came precipitately, though noiselessly, in at
the entrance, who, when he observed they were descending,
stopped short and awaited their approach at the foot of the
stairs. He was one of the two men who had followed them
from headquarters, and he now, after touching his hat
respectfully to Mr. Converse, looked askance at Lynden.
The Captain, with a nod of apology to the young man, drew
the newcomer to one side.
“Well, Adams ?” said he.
“We found Mr. Fairchild's all right,” the man whispered;
"but Mr. Fairchild was not there. He has not returned
from the office, and his sister and mother are very anxious.
The mother is something of an invalid — did n't see her
at all. Talked with the sister, who seemed, anyhow, to be
the head. Pretended to want a notary and quizzed her,
but she could tell me nothing. I don't believe horses could
draw anything from her if she did n't want to tell. Cap-
tain Converse, sir, she had an eye that looked right into me
all the time I was talking, and I know she thought I was
lying when I said I wanted a notary.” The man showed
two rows of glistening white teeth in an unpleasant grin.
"I did want a notary, but she did n't know I was so particu-
( 57 )


The Silver Blade
lar about which one. But I don't believe she knows where
he is. I left Barton to watch the house, and I came on to
report.”
“Very good.”
“And what shall I do now?”.
“Keep your eye on this man here with me until I can
send you relief; I shall keep Barton watching the house."
The manner of the man called Adams was both stealthy
and ingratiating; his visage seemed unable to rid itself of a
perpetual smile, which, taken with a pair of crafty, shifting
eyes, gave him a sinister appearance. During the entire
time he and Mr. Converse were talking, he kept looking past
the latter at Lynden; and that this surreptitious espionage
was extremely unpleasant was made manifest by the young
man's growing uneasiness.
Still smiling, shooting a last rapid glance at Lynden, he
departed as abruptly and noiselessly as he had come.
Converse turned to his companion, fixing him with a
steely eye; and what he said seemed unaccountably to agitate
the young man.
“I wish to remind you that you are a very important
witness in this affair. I shall venture a hint and a word of
advice: if you are not more circumspect on the witness-
stand than you have been to-night, you will have a mighty
bad hour; if you are contemplating a trip from the city,
why – change your mind.” With a curt “Good-night,"
he left Lynden speechless in the doorway of the Nettleton
Building.
Lynden remained motionless many minutes. When
he at last produced a cigarette from his pocket, the cupped
hands holding the lighted match trembled so he had diffi-
(58)


A Search for Clues
culty in igniting it. Abruptly he started away in a direc-
tion opposite that taken by the huge figure of the Captain.
Behind him moved a shadow so stealthily, its outlines
so dim, that it was scarcely to be distinguished from the
surrounding night.
( 50 )


CHAPTER IV
MR. CONVERSE APPEARS AS CHORUS
ARLY the next morning Mr. Mountjoy, the district
attorney, and the Coroner were seated in the former's
office with a flat desk between them. Upon this
set forth in orderly array, were the letters, papers, and
other personal effects gleaned from the pockets of the dead
man; dominating the whole was the sinister and grew-
some little silver blade,– Doctor Westbrook's paper-knife.
The regard of both officials rested upon it as they medi-
tated and waited for the Captain.
Remove those bloodstains and the weapon became a
dainty toy, but withal a dangerous one. The point was
like a needle’s, and terminated a slender, tapering blade,
silver-like in its brightly polished steel, two-edged, and of
indubitable fineness. The guard, a solid piece of beauti-
fully engraved gold, was shaped somewhat like a Cupid's
bow, while the hilt, of silver, was decorated with an in-
tricate, graceful pattern of chasing, inlaid with gold, and
surrounding a scroll upon which was engraved in script the
single word:
Paquita
The chasing, in addition to being an exquisite work of
art, possessed also the utility of supplying an excellent pur-
chase for any hand grasping it.
And what hand was upon that pretty hilt when last it
was held in anger? Whose fingers had tightened slowly
[ 60 ]


Mr. Converse Appears as Chorus
over the dainty feminine name, as the unsuspecting victim
approached ? Did “Paquita” contain a hidden charm -
some invisible potency — to guide the hand to its hideous,
self-appointed task ?
Alas, if it could but tell! If, instead of the prænomen,
redolent as it was of fresh maiden innocence, the scroll had
borne some word pointing to the assassin! And yet, after
all, could it be possible that the momentous intelligence
actually was there, and only human eyes were blind ? If
such be the case, it will require a vision more than human
to seek it out and read what is there written. Surely; for
the weapon bore no other mark or testimony.
The District Attorney's voice disturbed the quiet.
“It is an amazing thing,” said he, in a speculative tone,
"what a nice tangle this case is beginning to promise. Re-
late the bare facts, as we know them, to any disinterested
person, and he would instantly say that Mobley Westbrook
committed the deed. To be suddenly come upon, a smok-
ing dagger in your hand — standing over a dying man —
the provocation supplying a motive — and all that — h-m-m!
pretty bad.”
But Mr. Mountjoy the next instant laughed in a way that
signified it to be the height of absurdity to think of Doc-
tor Westbrook as a murderer.
“There is not a phase or side of the man's character,"
he continued, “with which the crime can be made to fit.
I can more easily imagine Mobley Westbrook — but of
course I know him so well that personal bias influences
me largely in his favor. It would require evidence quite
conclusive, though, to move me to proceed against him.
It's queer, anyhow, a family of their quiet, humdrum
( 61 ]


The Silver Blade
respectability being mixed with an affair of this nature,
even remotely; there is more behind it than we now imagine;
and I believe there will be plenty of work for one John
Converse.”
As if this colloquy had been a scene on a stage, and the
two last words a cue, the door opened, and the Captain of
detectives himself entered. He walked to the desk with
manner quiet and deferential, gravely returning the saluta-
tions of the two officials seated there.
“Here's John to speak for himself,” said the Coroner.
“Theseus has come to lead us from this labyrinth of
mystery,” laughed Mr. Mountjoy. “Silent and enigmatical
servant of Destiny, who knows what momentous knowledge
is hidden behind that impassive exterior ? John, are you
ready to point the stern and unrelenting finger of denun-
ciation at the guilty wretch, and say, 'Thou art the man!'?”
But the Captain did not respond to the lawyer's banter-
ing humor. Instead, he seated himself on one side of the
table, remarking merely:
“Gentlemen, this is a very serious case.”
“Serious!” cried the District Attorney, his mood in no
wise changing. “Serious ? which is but one method of in-
forming us that there has been a dearth of clues." He
suddenly leaned forward, rested his elbows upon the table,
and interlocked his slender fingers. “Come, John, what
have you discovered ?” he concluded more soberly.
For answer Mr. Converse drew forth his large and well-
worn pocket-book, from which he took one by one, and laid
upon the desk, two slips of paper, a small hairpin, two
half-consumed cigarettes — the paper of which was a dark
brown, like butcher's wrapping-papers - and lastly, a dainty
(62)



CAPTAIN CONVERSE WAS ENDOWED WITH THE IMPASSIVENESS OF AN INDIAN, NOR Could
ONE IMAGINE HIM AGITATED IN ANY CIRCUMSTANCES,





Mr. Converse Appears as Chorus
bit of cambric and lace, to which clung a delicate odor of
stephanotis,- a lady's handkerchief.
Mr. Merkel adjusted his spectacles; the District At-
torney became wholly serious; and together they bent over
the grotesque assortment, staring as though the mystery
might be disclosed then and there.
Presently both sat back in their chairs, and turned ex-
pectantly to Converse.
"Well, sir,” he began gravely, “I believe we must look
to a certain lady for a detailed account of her connection
with this case."
“A woman!” ejaculated the lawyer. “Well, I am not
surprised; it could not promise much without a woman
- no more than that affair of the Garden could have been
without Eve. . . . And do you know who she is ?”
Mr. Converse raised a protesting hand.
"No," said he; “not yet. But a woman was in Mr.
Nettleton's offices so close to the time the crime was com-
mitted that her presence is quite the most important factor
at present — that, and Clay Fairchild's disappearance.”
Both listeners showed their astonishment.
"So that young Fairchild has disappeared, has he ?"
remarked Mr. Merkel. “I always thought he was a steady
sort of chap. But you can never tell about these young
fellows, especially when they get tangled with a woman. I
wonder who she is ?” he added, musingly, and colored
when Mr. Mountjoy laughed.
“That is just a puzzling feature of the thing," the Cap-
tain resumed. “I have had no trouble in securing a com-
plete record of the young man's private life, and it proves to
be unexceptionably clean. No woman figures in it to any
[ 63 ]


The Silver Blade
great extent. Young Fairchild is very poor; but he is the
head of one of these old families here, and is on a footing
with people like the Westbrooks, the Nettletons, and their
class, that a great many with more money can't boast of.
He is one of the quality'; and though his poverty pre-
vents him from figuring at all in society, he is neverthe-
less a frequent visitor in many of the best homes in the city.”
"Aye, I know those Fairchilds," said Mr. Mountjoy,
nodding his head slowly; “fine old stock, but dropped
from sight since Dick, the scamp, went smash. There 's
a girl, too, is n't there? Mother an invalid ? Thought so.
Proceed, John.”
"It appears that he was always a studious boy,” Mr.
Converse went on, “and there is only one thing that seems
to be in his disfavor. It is this: although he has been
acting as Mr. Nettleton's clerk and stenographer, and is
a notary public, he entered Mr. Nettleton's office for the
purpose of studying law. Now, Mr. Nettleton says that
while young Fairchild was diligent in his duties, and pos-
sessed of no bad habits, he disappointed his patron by
evincing a lack of interest in his studies, which he gradually
came to neglect. It seems that he has literary aspirations,
and his present vocation is a necessity. His mother and sis-
ter, excepting for a little property belonging to the latter, are
both dependent on him, and he has always been particu-
larly solicitous of their welfare. I must confess that his
lighting out the way he has, and our failure to find the
slightest trace of his whereabouts, coupled with the cir-
cumstance of the woman, are at present very puzzling. But
we will get to this later; we can secure a better grasp of the
entire situation by commencing at the beginning.
[ 64 ]


Mr. Converse Appears as Chorus
"Well, when De Sanchez entered the Nettleton Building
yesterday evening there were in the east end of the second
floor at least five persons, – Doctor Mobley Westbrook,
who was in his reception-room; Fairchild, who was in one
or the other of Mr. Nettleton's rooms; Mr. Ferdinand
Howe, who was in the Doctor's laboratory; William Slade,
who was in Room 6; and some woman. Mr. J. Howard
Lynden entered the building only a few seconds after De
Sanchez, and both were bound for the Doctor's office. It is
self-evident that the criminal was present also, and I can
account for no one else. Indeed, unless the witnesses were
blind or are now resorting to deliberate falsehood, it is ab-
solutely impossible that any person besides those indicated
could have been present.
“Of the six individuals named we may at once drop
Slade and Howe, leaving us Fairchild, the woman, Doctor
Westbrook, and Lynden to be considered as possibilities.
"Beginning with Fairchild, and in connection with the
lady, I will preface what I have to say with the statement
that his place in the case is very difficult to determine; but
that it is at least of great moment, I am convinced.
“For the present there is only a hypothetical motive
for his curious behavior; but he was in the neighborhood
of the crime at the time of its commission, and did not leave
the building until several minutes afterward — and then
under very peculiar circumstances. The hypothetical
motive by which I shall try to explain his conduct is affection
for the woman.
“Now, the hall dividing the rooms in the eastern wing of
the Nettleton is just twelve feet wide, and we may take it
as an established fact that the blow was delivered between
[ 65 ]


The Silver Blade
Doctor Westbrook's entrance and the hall door to Mr.
Nettleton's private office, the two doors being directly oppo-
site each other. We may even go a bit farther and say that
De Sanchez was closer to the Doctor's door, for, owing
to the nature of the wound, all volition was immediately
removed from the deceased's movements. The act of his
falling through the door would indicate that he had already
turned to enter the Doctor's office, was close to it, and was
projected through the doorway simply by the momentum
of the speed at which he had been walking. That gives us
four possible routes whereby the murderer could have come
into contact with his victim at the spot mentioned, and it is
necessary to bear these in mind:
"1. Through the hall from the stairway;
“2. From Doctor Westbrook's office;
“3. Through the window at the end of the hall,
which opens into the light-well; and
“4. Through Mr. Nettleton's private office.
"Assuming the truth of all the statements, the story I
obtained from Lynden obviates the first; number two we will
set aside on the strength of Doctor Westbrook's statement,
partially corroborated by Howe. Regarding the third route
– that is to say, the hall window opening into the light-
well — we have two persons who were looking into the
light-well from two different points, from about five minutes
before, and during the time the deed was committed, until
several seconds thereafter. These two are Mr. Howe and
Judge Elihu Petty, of Petty & Carlton, who was looking
from his window in the Field Building, diagonally across from
where Howe was standing. Both these gentlemen are posi-
tive that no one entered or left the Nettleton hall window,
( 66 )


Mr. Converse Appears as Chorus
and that there was no movement of any kind at any of the
other windows during the time they were looking into the
light-well. Indeed, it seems impossible that there could have
been under the circumstances. Looking from any of the
windows mentioned, the entire light-well is within one's
range of vision; and while it is true that twilight had set
in, it was by no means dark or even nearly so when the
deed was committed; and we may assume that it was im-
possible for anybody to have entered the hall by way of the
light-well without attracting the attention of either Howe
or Judge Petty.
“Fortunately we have a basis from which to estimate the
exact time the blow was struck, and, in fact, all the other
known incidents in this affair. That was the five o'clock
whistles. We may set it down, then, as another estab-
lished fact, that the blow was delivered in not to exceed four
seconds of that hour. Howe knows the exact time he took
up his position at the laboratory window; it was there he
was standing when De Sanchez fell through the reception-
room door, and at that moment he heard the whistles begin
blowing. Judge Petty remembers the circumstance also,
and connects it with Howe's sudden disappearance from the
laboratory window; and Doctor Westbrook is now able to
recall the fact of the whistles blowing being coincident with
the deceased's tragic entrance.
“These facts confine us to Mr. Nettleton's private office
to seek a solution, and there we find a number of circum-
stances justifying a closer examination.
“The facts here warrant the following assumptions:
That between four-thirty and five o'clock yesterday afternoon,
Clay Fairchild and some woman — name unknown — were
( 67 )


The Silver Blade
in Mr. Nettleton's offices; that Mr. Fairchild did not depart
until after five o'clock; that the lady was familiar with the
arrangement of the second floor; that so far we know no
one who either saw her enter the building, or saw her while
she was inside it, or saw her leave; that she went into Mr.
Nettleton's private office from the hall, where she stood
behind the door for a while; that she next tiptoed on through
to Mr. Nettleton's general office, where she stopped again
at the connecting door, close by Fairchild's desk, at which
point, in her agitation, she dropped this handkerchief into
the waste-paper basket. She then made her way to the hall
door of Mr. Nettleton's general office, where she again
stopped behind the door, as though waiting for some one
to pass.
“Now, if this woman was the assassin, her actions are
easily explained. She stood behind the private office door
— whence, with the door ajar, one has a view down the
length of the hall to the stairway — and awaited the vic-
tim's approach; just as he turned to enter the Doctor's
office she sprang out and administered the death wound,
– in such haste to get back that she made no effort to re-
cover the weapon, but hurried on through Mr. Nettleton's
office to the hall door of the general office. Here warning
footsteps announce that there is some one else in the hall,
and standing close to the partially opened door, with her
hand on the knob, she waits until Lynden passes. It is
but a second after that he is standing at the threshold of the
Doctor's open door, overcome by the scene it discloses, and
both deaf and blind for a moment to all else. She takes
advantage of that moment to pass on down the hall to the
stairway, and so out of the building, probably unobserved
( 68 )


Mr. Converse Appears as Chorus
by any one except Fairchild. An agile person would have
had just about time before Lynden appeared at the head
of the stairs to strike such a blow as killed De Sanchez, and
then either spring into the light-well or run into Mr. Nettle-
ton's office.
“Now, all this could not have happened without Fair-
child's knowledge, and we are not lacking light on his
participation in the murder under the theory I am now un-
folding
“Under the circumstances, knowledge can mean only
connivance. The known facts coincide precisely, and ex-
plain every hypothesis upon which this theory is based;
and to get at his connection with the affair, please observe
these two bits of paper.”
Mr. Converse unfolded one of them, and flattened it on
the desk, and as he did so, asked:
“Is it not singular that two men, apparently unknown
to each other, should have betrayed interest in Doctor
Westbrook's paper-knife in an identical manner? But such
is the fact.
“This one was torn from a sheet of typewriter paper,
such as Fairchild uses; I found it on his desk. Here we
have a fairly good drawing of the dagger in question, made
painstakingly, and as though to illustrate a verbal description.
But he drew it from memory, as a close inspection of the
sketch will indicate. He has either omitted or distorted
several little details which not only appear quite plain on
the dagger itself, but are quick to catch the observer's notice.
But most convincing of this circumstance are the words
alongside the picture blade in Fairchild's handwriting,
‘about 6 inches.' The blade is, in reality, exactly five inches
[69]


The Silver Blade
long: then why, if he had it before him, together with the
office ruler, which lay on the desk, should he have guessed
at the blade's length ?
"This other came from Doctor Westbrook's desk in the
reception-room. It is widely different from Fairchild's
drawing, and was made by a person who is something of
an artist. Furthermore, he had the weapon before him, for
the intricate design on the hilt is copied faithfully; besides,
many trifling details, such as the peculiar shape of the little
knobs at each end of the guard, the script in which the word
'Paquita' is engraved, are all rendered exactly in the sketch.
From it we are even able to form an idea when it was
drawn: some time on the evening of November third, or
the day before the murder. So we may say that the weapon
had not been removed from the Doctor's table prior to that
time. Observe this spattered blot and the hole in the paper
beneath it. That was caused by the artist bringing the pen
down on the paper with such force that the pen broke, the
ink was spattered, and the paper perforated as you now
see it.
"Doctor Westbrook has four penholders on this table;
but he is so partial to a particular one of them that he in-
variably selects it in preference to the other three when he
wishes to write. He used it about four o'clock Tuesday
afternoon — the third — and did not have occasion to use
it again till yesterday evening, when he started to write the
letter to De Sanchez. Then he discovered that the point
was bent and broken; and we may infer the sketch to have
been made between four o'clock on the afternoon of the
third and five o'clock last evening.
“During that time a score or more of people were in and
(70)


Mr. Converse Appears as Chorus
out of the Doctor's office, and we have no handwriting to
guide us in this instance, as the word 'Paquita' here is a
faithful copy of the script in the scroll — too faithful to
betray many individualities. But still, it is easy to infer
who sketched this dagger. Observe the blot again: it is
located immediately at the end of the word 'Paquita,' and
was made just as the artist concluded that word. Now,
what emotions would cause one to so maltreat a pen ?
Anger or impatience,- the two being very near akin. It
follows there was some suggestion in the word 'Paquita'
which angered the artist; and this immediately suggested
to me the man Vargas.
“On the evening of the third he called at Doctor West-
brook's offices in company with Señor de Sanchez. He
and the latter were negotiating the deal involving the deed
and the shares of stock in the Paquita Gold Mining Com-
pany, and, as I have found out, Vargas was having some
difficulty in closing the matter, Only that afternoon had
they come to an understanding; but De Sanchez had not
yet delivered the papers. Vargas was becoming very
anxious and impatient over the delay of getting them into
his possession. When they called on the Doctor Tuesday
evening, the latter and De Sanchez retired to the consulta-
tion-room, leaving Vargas in the reception-room, and as he
sat idly at the table his eye was caught by the dagger, and
he fell to sketching it. The word 'Paquita’ on the hilt
brings suddenly to mind his anxiety and impatience; and
by a natural, involuntary gesture he ruins the Doctor's pen
and blots the drawing.
"I will interpolate here, so that we may dismiss him,
that this person Vargas attracted my attention owing to the
(71)


The Silver Blade
very fact of his presence in the city at this time, his association
with deceased, and the coincidence of the name 'Paquita'
occurring both on the dagger-hilt and as the name of the
mining company. But I have been able to follow the nego-
tiations between the two, and to trace Vargas's movements
all yesterday afternoon, and each succeeding fact tends
cumulatively to absolve him from any participation in the
affair. Warren, a clerk at the La Salle House, knew of the
deal; both parties frequently talked about it in his presence;
and it evidently was just what it appears to be. We are
extremely fortunate in having this unprejudiced witness to
save confusion upon this particular point. On the after-
noon of Tuesday De Sanchez and Vargas approached him
in rather an elated mood, and invited him to join them in
a bottle of wine to celebrate the consummation of the nego-
tiations. Right there, you see, this deal is removed from
the chance of being a motive. As the party separated, De
Sanchez mentioned half-past four on the following after-
noon, yesterday, as the hour for delivering the papers. Var-
gas was on hand promptly at the appointed time, but the
other was not; and after waiting, with growing impatience,
the former left the hotel and did not return until about six
o'clock. But it is not probable that he entered the Net-
tleton Building near the time of the murder, for it would
have been utterly impossible for him to do so without being
seen; and he was still awaiting De Sanchez when informed
of his death by the clerk, Warren. Then he hastened to
Doctor Westbrook's offices.
“Now, let us return to Fairchild. I learned a fact of
some importance from the Doctor this morning. Yesterday,
as he was leaving his office at about one o'clock, he met
[72]


Mr. Converse Appears as Chorus
Fairchild at the reception-room entrance; the latter, in a
hurried manner, asked Doctor Westbrook if he could bor.
row the dagger for a few minutes, to which the Doctor
assented. Doctor Westbrook continued on out, not giving
the matter another thought, while Fairchild went into the
reception-room. The Doctor don't know whether he got
the dagger then; as a paper-knife, the Doctor uses it only to
cut magazines or books, or the little papers in which he puts
up powders — and often, when it is not right at hand, he
resorts to his pocket-knife, rather than hunt for it in the
mass of magazines and papers that usually litter his table.
It could easily be absent from its place several days without
his missing it.
“Mr. Nettleton left his office yesterday afternoon at
four-thirty, and he had no lady callers during the entire
day; hence the following assumption — for want of a better
one —will fit the present theory: During the noon hour,
while Mr. Nettleton was at lunch, Fairchild and the woman
were together; the crime was contemplated and discussed
between them, the man volunteering to secure the weapon;
which he did, but was surprised by encountering the Doctor,
who generally goes out to make his visits at that time
of day.
“However, she was the active spirit; hers was the hand
that held the weapon, while the more timid man waited at
his desk in the adjoining room. There she paused in her
flight, and told him the deed had been committed; and
there he waited until about a quarter-past five, when, moved
by that irresistible impulse which leads some murderers to
gloat over their handiwork, he crossed the hall and looked
upon the dead man. This happened while Lynden was
[73]


The Silver Blade
on his way to headquarters with the news of the murder.
Fairchild's actions were so singular that they attracted
both Doctor Westbrook's and Howe's attention. Over-
come with horror, he turned and fled without a word. That
is the last seen of Clay Fairchild, and that is why I sent
a note to Barton and Adams, who were waiting below, to
find him.
“Under this theory I can as yet conjecture but a single
motive — Fairchild's interest in the woman; and as to what
hers is, we must wait until her identity is established.”
Converse paused. His eyes narrowed, and he ran the
tip of his tongue across his lips with a deliberate lateral
movement.
“I'd like very much to lay my hand on that fair lady,”
said he, presently, in a quiet manner; but an observer
might have remarked that a shudder convulsed the corpulent
figure of Mr. Merkel, and that Mr. Mountjoy shot at him
a quick, keen look, and then nodded his head in silent
approval.
The Captain went on at once.
“There is one incongruous element in this theory, how-
ever. When the blow was struck the deceased was in the
act of turning toward Doctor Westbrook's door, and con-
sequently his back was almost squarely presented to Mr.
Nettleton's. The wound, as you know, is not only on the
left side of the throat, but tends backward toward the spinal
column, which the point of the blade penetrated. Sus-
pended from the centre of the hall, and on a line with the
centre of the two doorways, is an electric light. Now, then,
the murderer coming from behind the victim could, under
the present circumstances, strike the blow in one of two
[ 74 ]


Mr. Converse Appears as Chorus
ways: it was either a left-handed person, or, if right-handed,
the murderer must have stepped to deceased's left, and a
little in front of him, facing in the same direction, and struck
to the right and backward. If the latter theory is correct,
the murderer would have been between De Sanchez and the
hall window opening into the light-well, and so close to the
window that he — or she, if it was a woman — would have
been not only plainly visible from the windows on the op-
posite side of the light-well, but would have cast a distinct
shadow because of the electric light. If the murderer was
left-handed he would not have been obliged to go so far to
De Sanchez's left, and consequently would have remained
so nearly beneath the electric light that the only shadow
would have been on the hall floor.
“Now, from the point where Judge Petty was looking
into the light-well, one cannot quite see Doctor Westbrook's
door through the Nettleton hall window; but the hall
window would be so far within such a person's range of
vision that the slightest obscuring of the light would attract
notice. Judge Petty recollects that the light was burning
at five o'clock yesterday evening, and he is positive that
there was no shadow at the hall window, and that no one ap-
proached close to it while he was looking into the light-well.
“Now mark this — at least, as a singular coincidence
- while Doctor Westbrook is not what you might call left-
banded, he can use both hands equally well.”
"Ambidextrous,” suggested Mr. Mountjoy.
Converse nodded. “Exactly,” said he; “ambidex-
trous.” He continued:
“Regarding the woman's identity, now there are one or
two little points deserving special attention. Lynden states
[ 75 ]


The Silver Blade
positively that he neither saw nor passed anybody in the hall
nor on the stairway; yet, there was something about Mr
Nettleton's offices and the indications of a woman's recent
presence there that disturbed him strangely. While in the
very act of asserting that he had neither seen nor passed
anybody, he stopped as though struck by a sudden doubt,
although he did not alter his statement. A similar inci-
dent happened with Howe while we were all gathered in the
Doctor's office last night after the murder. He also paused
in the midst of a statement that there was nothing to in-
dicate who the assassin might be, and Lynden was im-
pressed by his hesitation, as though it reminded him of his
own. Are these gentlemen trying to conceal anything?
What possible object could Howe have in doing so ? Yet I
believe that both of them are perturbed by some misgiving
which they hesitate to put into words. Their doubt may
contain the key to the whole riddle; but it will be a delicate
matter getting at it. Assuming that it points to the lady's
identity, we may surprise one or the other of them into
betraying it; but it is no easy task to make a man speak of
something which he will not admit even to himself.”
[76]


CHAPTER V
A TELEGRAM FROM `MEXICO
“VYOUR deductions seem natural,” said Mr. Mount-
joy, at length. “But this unknown woman? Is
there any one in the city to whom you could ascribe
a motive? Will you have to go into the past record of Señor
de Sanchez? And Fairchild — Heaven knows there can't
be anything between him and such a mysterious, blood-
thirsty female. How are we to account for his participa-
tion in the crime? I think it well to secure such a record;
also De Sanchez's association with General Westbrook in
Mexico. There is no telling how the darkness may be
illuminated from some unexpected quarter. At present,
John, to me it is completely baffling."
But Mr. Converse had neglected nothing that his ex-
perience suggested as being a likely means of casting light
upon the crime.
“Yes, sir," he rejoined, in his steady manner. “Yes,
sir; I admit the case offers many puzzling phases, and
apparently contradictory circumstances; but you must
remember that we have been at work on it less than twenty-
four hours; the woman's identity may be shown in a man-
ner we cannot now imagine, and any hour may bring the
news of Fairchild's apprehension.
“Besides, I have been beforehand in looking up the
deceased's past. I should receive a telegram from Mexico
to-day. The net is well spread, I think. A man is watch-
[77]


The Silver Blade
ing Fairchild's house — in fact, the whole department are
keeping a look-out for him; and the other actors are being
shadowed by capable men.”
“But from all the facts in your possession,” interrupted
Mr. Mountjoy, “have you considered the possibility —
aside from the statements of the witnesses, I mean, and
simply upon what you know to be the facts — of either
Doctor Westbrook or Howard Lynden being the assassin ?”
“Yes, sir, I have,” was the reply. “But for the present
we may dismiss them shortly, though I shall not cease to
consider every development in this case in the light of its
possible application to all the parties.
“Could the Doctor, then, have delivered the fatal thrust?
From the present facts we must give him the benefit of the
doubt, and abide the results of further investigation. It is
very fortunate for him that his friend Howe happened to
be present just when he was; and it is strange, his com-
ing all the way from Georgia to be a piece in this puzzling
game. But here he is.
“Howe's importance arises from the peculiar acoustics
of that portion of the Nettleton Building about Doctor
Westbrook's office.” Converse then told of his experience
with Lynden in the Doctor's laboratory, concluding:
“It is not at all surprising that Howe could not hear a strug-
gle in the hall, while, at the same time, he could hear such
faint sounds as the scratching of a pen and the rustling of
paper while the Doctor was writing in the reception-room.
“As for Lynden, we have to show he so quickened his
pace that he overtook De Sanchez at Doctor Westbrook's
door. He shared with all the frequenters of the Doctor's
office a knowledge of the dagger and where it usually re-
[78]


A Telegram from Mexico
posed. Under such a theory, however, Lynden's actions
would have displayed a carelessness and a reckless disregard
for consequences which I don't think the man capable of.
He did not know who had or had not gone home from the
other offices that line the hall, and the deceased was not
surprised by the sudden onrush of a determined murderer.
Had such been the case, how about Doctor Westbrook's state-
ment that De Sanchez came on steadily to the reception-
room door? — for, singularly enough, in the reception-room
one can hear quite distinctly sounds arising in the hall.
Besides, the Doctor does not remember having heard Lynden
at all until the young man grasped his arm.'
“Well, now, tell us of the cigarette stubs.” This from
the District Attorney.
Converse picked them both up, one in each hand, and
contemplated them with uplifted brow and puckered lips.
“Gentlemen," he began at length, “these two snipes
have caused me more mental worry - I have had more
trouble in fitting them into any place where they could be-
long — than anything else concerning this case.
"You will observe that both of them are but half con-
sumed, and that when rolled neither was moistened by the
tongue to hold it together. Any one who has travelled in
Mexico or the extreme Southwest will recognize this as a
national and local characteristic. The paper of both is
identical — coarse and a dark brown; and the tobacco is
from a black Mexican growth. I suppose, outside the Mexi-
can quarter you could not find a man in the city who smokes
such a cigarette — excepting Vargas. It is just such a
cigarette as nine out of ten of the lower class of Mexicans
- men, women, and children — smoke. Yet the tastes
[79]


The Silver Blade
of neither De Sanchez nor Vargas were too fastidious for
them; the papers and tobacco are identical with those
found in the deceased's pocket, and they are just like those
Mr. Vargas smokes.
“The first I picked up near the top of the Nettleton
Building stairway, while I was accompanying Lynden to
Doctor Westbrook's offices; the second I found on the sky-
light at the bottom of the light-well. The ends that had
been held in the mouth were still moist when I found them,
so they had not been long discarded. De Sanchez, of course,
is responsible for the first; but how about the other?
Could he, after throwing one cigarette away at the point
where I found the first, roll and light another and smoke
it half up as he walked down the hall, then flip the second
out the hall window into the light-well just before turning
toward the Doctor's door? I believe not.
“The second could have come from any window abutting
upon the light-well, of either the Field or the Nettleton
Buildings. But who threw it, and why was he there at
that particular time? Well, it took two men more than
an hour this morning to eliminate all except five windows
out of a possible twenty; and those five told nothing. I
examined them myself. Yet it might be possible that the
second stub came from the unknown woman.
“Did she steady her nerves and beguile the time until
her victim's approach, with a cigarette ? It may be —”
Here, for the first time, Mr. Merkel interrupted.
"A Mexican woman!” he fairly shouted; "some dark-
eyed señorita — ” His enthusiasm suddenly cooled as Mr.
Mountjoy's look of surprise at his outburst rapidly changed
to one of much meaning.
[80]


A Telegram from Mexico
At this juncture the door opened, and a clerk appeared
from the outer office, holding a telegram in his hand.
“For you, Captain,” said he, handing him the message,
Neither of the other two could conceal his impatience,
as, with annoying deliberation, Converse opened the yel-
low envelope.
“Well,” said he, presently, “it is indeed from Mexico —
the reply to my inquiry. Here it is.” He read aloud:
A. de S. has no police record, but have obtained follow-
ing facts: Age, 38; family, old, aristocratic, and very
wealthy; A. educated in Paris; returned here when twenty-
one. Was in banking and broking business several years
ago with P. Westbrook, but severed partnership about four
years ago. Reason not known. A. always prominent in
society; rather wild when young; but nearest approach to
woman entanglements are following: Engagement broken
with Señorita Aurora de Pacheco. Understood to have
been by reason of disagreement in marriage settlements.
She has since married into prominent family, and now on
best of terms with De S. family. A rumored liaison with
a circus performer, supposed to have committed suicide,
but unable to ascertain details; liaison with a Mme. Claude
Le Tellier, now residing Nice, France, on pension from De
S. family. For last twelve years A. de S. known as unusually
steady. Rumored he fell in love with Miss Westbrook
when she visited here about four years ago, and that he has
followed her for purpose of marrying. GRINNELL.
ason of T de Pachwing: Endlest approaent in
“Well!” said the District Attorney, “this is not promis-
ing: Señorita Somebody”— with a sidewise look at Mr.
Merkel —"now a matron and probably the mother of other
señoritas; a circus performer — "
"It's the madame that interests me,” Converse quietly
( 81 )


The Silver Blade
broke in. “Grinnell would not, of course, know whether
she is in Nice at the present time. I will go to headquarters,
ascertain who our correspondent at that place is, and send
him the lady's name. That should bring us what we want
to know about her.
“That is about all now," he concluded. “I have gone
over these different phases of the case in order that you might
formulate a line of inquiry to be followed at the inquest.
In the meantime, I will work out one or two little ideas of
my own, laying the results before you as soon as they mature.
Good morning.”
That day Mr. Converse received two more messages, one
of them a cable despatch. The first read:
Rumor connecting A. de S. with circus performer very
vague. Seems to have occurred in Paris 17 or 18 years ago.
No trace of her identity here.
GRINNELL.
The cablegram contained the following:
Mme. C. Le T. died Oct. 28.
GAILLARD.
He tossed the cable message to one side; but for several
minutes he pondered over the second message from Mexico.
He then prepared, with much care, a long despatch, which
was sent immediately to Paris.
Away from the presence of his superiors and those whose
concern it was to be put in possession of everything bear-
ing upon the case, John Converse was the last man to
advance any theory to account for Alberto de Sanchez's un-
toward end.
[82]


A Telegram from Mexico
His seemingly unerring judgment and his uniform success
in dissipating the clouds of mystery in which his associates
sometimes lost themselves were governed by an extreme
caution, and based upon a vast knowledge of humanity.
His had been an unusually eventful life. Of New England
parentage, he had early run away to sea; and to portray the
stirring experiences of this period of his life would require
a whole volume for itself.
But those experiences had given him wonderful powers
of observation, which were able to grasp and contemplate
every detail in its just proportions to the whole, a trait that
was simply the complement to his unemotional and method-
ical temperament.
If he hesitated, however, in advancing theories, the papers
did not, - either probable or improbable; and as it was
one of his maxims never to ignore a suggestion coming
from the outside, he followed these reports with the same
intensity of eagerness that characterized all his proceedings.
The murder, owing not only to the prominence of every
one concerned therein, but also to the suggestive veil of
mystery which surrounded it, had been "featured” every
day since the tragedy, and he was impressed by the unanimity
with which the press hit upon Robert Nettleton's offices as
the probable lurking-place of the murderer.
None of the papers, of course, was in as full possession
of all the known facts as the Captain was; but a certain
evening sheet, after theorizing at length on Fairchild's un-
accountable disappearance, concluded with the assertion
that the end would show the controlling factor of the mys-
terious murder to have been a woman.
“I believe that gentleman is eminently correct," was the
[83]


The Silver Blade
Captain's comment, as he laid the paper aside. “If his
insight had been only a little clearer, if he had looked only
a little farther, and seen who that woman is, it would save
a deal of trouble and worry.”
He left his private office and walked to the mail repository
at the police clerk's desk. He found several letters addressed
to himself; but one, the writing of which was very like
copper-plate engraving, caught his instant attention by the
peculiarity of its address. It read:
Far Detective on De Pancher Case,
Police Headquarters,
City.
After the Captain had returned to his desk he turned his
attention to this letter. The mark of the cancelling-machine
showed that it had been mailed at the main post-office that
morning. What the envelope contained made him suddenly
sit upright.
The writer knows that C. Fairchild had no hand in the
murder of the man De Sanchez. When you discover the
female who was in the second story of the Nettleton on Wed.
P. M., Nov. 4, at the hour of 5, you will know why C. F. has
vanished.
Again — the unknown woman!
There was no address to this brief epistle, no date, no
signature — nothing else; yet there was an added light in
Mr. Converse's gray eyes, as he laid the missive on the desk
before him, that lent something like an expression of satis-
faction to his almost illegible countenance. He scrutinized
( 84 )


A Telegram from Mexico
the single sheet of paper long and attentively before finally
folding and returning it to the envelope.
“Who in the city can write such a hand?” he mused.
After he had placed the anonymous missive in his
pocket-book, he drew toward himself a number of bound
typewritten sheets — the record of the De Sanchez case.
Turning until he found the paragraphs he sought, he read
the following:
Besides the front entrance, opening into Court Street,
the Nettleton has but one other outside doorway or means
of exit. Opening into a high-walled court in the rear
is a single door, used only for the purpose of admitting
fuel in the winter; during the summer it is open not more
than once or twice, when the trash-bin accumulations are
removed. During the interim it is locked by a bolt, a No. 4
Yale compound spring lock, and a common padlock passed
through staples. Inspection of this door revealed beyond
doubt that it had not been disturbed for weeks.
The reader turned back to the statements of the different
persons in the second story at the fatal moment, and his
glance passed them all over until it fell upon the following:
William Slade, 62; bachelor; abstracter of titles for the
Guaranty Trust Co. Is very deaf; was engaged in his
regular duties in Room 6 on the evening of Nov. 4, at 5
o'clock, yet it cannot be shown that he knew anything of the
murder. His statement is to the effect that he first learned of
it at about 8:30 o'clock that night.”
He closed the volume, placed it in a drawer of his desk,
and after securing his hat, left department headquarters,
and made his way to Court Street.
(85)


The Silver Blade
Here he consumed the better part of the day by inter-
rogating closely every individual whose place of business
had an outlook toward the Nettleton entrance, a quest the
results of which were purely negative. He called at all
the newspaper offices; and the next morning, again in the
evening, and for a week thereafter, every local paper con-
tained the following advertisement:
$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. Con-
verse had his lodgings; and whatever else he might think of
the De Sanchez case, it was evident he had become con-
vinced 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.
( 86 )


CHAPTER VI
THE INQUEST
M R. 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 court-
room, 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 expres-
sion 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. Oc-
casionally 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. Mount-
joy, John Converse, a stenographer, and various clerks
(87)


The Silver Blade
BUILDING
| PETTY & CARLTON'S
OFFICES
FIELD
HALL OF FIELD BUILDING
318
72MH171
BTWEEN
HELD ANO
METTLETON
BUILDINGS
LABORATORY
ROOM
DR NESTBROOK'S
CONSULTATION
0
ROBERT NETTLE TONS
OF FYCES
RECEPTION
ROOM
UNOCCUAED
SUITE
- COURT S
RECORD
AND
ABSTRACT
ROOM
HALL OF NETTLETON BUILDING
GUARANTY
TRUST CA
JT AIRWAY FROM STR
WI
PARTIAL PLAN OF THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE FIELD
AND 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.
( 88 )


The Inquest
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.
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 appli-
cation of the rule excluding witnesses. The witnesses are
duly excluded.
Captain Converse established the corpus 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 build-
ings 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 un-
derstanding of the evidence.
( 89 )


The Silver Blade
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 Build-
ing. 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 Build-
ing 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 Net-
tleton 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."
( 90 ]


The Inquest
"Did you see Señor de Sanchez?”
“Yes. Just as I began ascending the stairs he was turn-
ing 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 have n't a doubt of it. I remember the cir-
cumstance 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
[91]


The Silver Blade
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 dum-
founded 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
[92]


The Inquest
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 con-
tinued 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 thor-
oughly 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 recep-
tion 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
( 93 )


The Silver Blade
whispered a few words; whereupon — evidently on a sug-
gestion — he asked:
"Are you familiar with the arrangement of the second
floor of the Nettleton Building, Mr. Lynden, — more par-
ticularly, 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 West-
brook'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 stair-
way again, but on the opposite side of the hall whence we
started.”
“Then there are six doors — three on each side – open-
ing into the ball ?”
( 94 )


The Inquest
“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 disappoint-
ment 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 experi-
( 95 )


The Silver Blade
ence — 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 Novem-
ber 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
(96)


The Inquest
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 un-
fastened 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.”
(07)


The Silver Blade
“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 mo-
ment 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."
( 98 )


The Inquest
"Well, as you passed the door to Room 5 – Mr. Nettle-
ton's general office - you had not yet heard or beheld any-
thing 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 atti-
tude 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?”
( 99 )


The Silver Blade
“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?”
(100)


The Silver Blade
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 re-
mained 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 sur-
rounded the case was only becoming deeper as the investiga-
tion 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.
( 102 )


CHAPTER VII
THE VERDICT
N OCTOR 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 con-
tained 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
[103]


The Silver Blade
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 vertebræ, also
severing the spinal cord.”
Concerning the letter addressed to De Sanchez, to-
gether 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 Fer-
dinand Howe.
“It was about half-past four," the witness continued,
"when Mr. Howe entered my office. In the pleasant sur-
prise 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.”
[104]


The Verdict
“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 sub-
mitting to the wishes of her parents in accepting your atten-
tions, 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, know-
ing 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 par-
ticular phrase in the sense you did ? What occasioned it ?”
[105]


The Silver Blade
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 con-
vinced — 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 —”
( 106 )


The Verdict
“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 ex-
amination.
“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.”
( 107 )


The Verdict
Not that I now recall,” was the reply.
“But he knew of it, did n'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 re-
ception-room. The former began, in a polite enough man-
ner, 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 inca-
pable 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
( 109 )


The Silver Blade
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.”
[110]


The Verdict
“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 warn-
ing — before Howe or I could realize it — he darted through
the door and ran swiftly down the hall. Before that, how-
ever, 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 did n'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 disappear-
ance: 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 at-
tention 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
(111]


The Silver Blade
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 com-
pletely, but not entirely open ?”
“Yes; I believe that is correct. I have a strong impres-
sion 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
[112]


The Verdict
utterance was so convincing, that the truth of the Doctor's
statements could not be doubted. Still, there was that fleet-
ing 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 the primum 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 inevi-
table 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
(113]


The Silver Blade
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 agree-
ment; 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 expres-
sion 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 should n'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.
[114]


The Verdict
“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.
(115)


The Silver Blade
“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 evi-
dence regarding Fairchild's behavior when the latter en-
countered 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, at-
torneys, testified that on the evening of November fourth,
(116)


The Verdict
at about five o'clock, he was in his office in the Field
Building. After confirming the previous testimony regard-
ing the light-well and the impossibility of anybody having
entered the Nettleton hall window by that means, the wit-
ness 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 Var-
gas 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
(117]


The Silver Blade
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 what-
ever 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 num-
ber 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 confi-
(118)


The Verdict
dently 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 nego-
tiating 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 wit-
ness 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
[119]


The Silver Blade
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 Dis-
trict 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 with-
out 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 Gen-
eral Westbrook and De Sanchez. It appeared that the wit-
ness 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,
[ 120 ]


The Verdict
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 con-
jecture 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.
( 121 )


CHAPTER VIII
CHERCHEZ LA FEMME
M HE exterior of No. 18 Ash Lane did not present an
I 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 way-
farer 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
[122]


Cherchez la Femme
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 some-
thing 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. Con-
verse.
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 punish-
ment, 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 pur-
suing the investigation.”
Mr. Follett expressed his wonder in a prolonged whistle.
( 123 )


The Silver Blade
“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 rub-
bing 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 follow-
ing the argument, but offered no interruption.
( 124 )


Cherchez la Femme
“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 could n'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
have n'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 could n'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 some-
[125]


The Silver Blade
body 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 home-
stead. 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 some-
times 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 must n't get too con-
spicuous.”
“There's a good deal about Slade that is hard to under-
stand; 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 peace-
fully 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 break-
ing the current of the conversation, “reminds me of some-
thing odd. I don't know that you have ever heard of it,
but there is a peculiarity about Slade and General West-
( 126 )


Cherchez la Femme
brook 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 power-
ful 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 con-
fused 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 has n’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 Wednes-
[127]


The Silver
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er people's. You know, meddlin'
ess is the surest sign that you can't
at don't seem to be his style, so you
him mixin' himself in this matter on
hin' important behind it.”
ly enough, fell one of the familiar,
characterized the friendship between
aptain's manner soon began to reveal
oked innumerable pipes of tobacco —
ly way, but alternating between fits
ne for a space, and then permitting the
put. Several times he rose and walked
length of the room, his hands clasped
inseeing — oblivious of everything but
ich his tenacious mind was fastened.
sed at the window and looked out into
3 of extreme mental effort were to the
n the big chair so many indications that
ed upon an idea that he was revolving
Veither by word nor gesture would Mr.
n these cogitations until the other saw
The issue would be yielded in good
1 it in silent, patient eagerness.
ise threw one of the windows wide open,
rush of cool night air began rapidly to
which hung in well-defined strata of blue.
night was unbroken by any sound, until
ocks away, could be heard the faint
horse. As with all distant sounds in
uld now and then become completely
( 131 ]


The Silver Blade
day 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 ap-
pears 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 em-
barrassed exit. Now, Vargas did not show that he had no-
ticed 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
( 128 )


Cherchez la Femme
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 dis-
turbed — 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.”
“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.
( 129 )


The Silver Blade
“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' picay-
unish — 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, norc hewed 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 mur-
der."
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 bother-
( 130 )


Cherchez la Femme
in' 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
WAUCOS
( 131 ]


The Silver Blade
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, breath-
lessly. “You are to come to headquarters right away."
( 132 )


Cherchez la Femme
“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 mes-
senger 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 prognostica-
tion that the voyage of discovery was no longer to be con-
ducted 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 him-
self had been guilty of some unusual offence.
“Another murder, Converse!” he cried, with unsteady
articulation. “Good Lord, what kind of a force have I
Sily.
( 133 )


CHAPTER IX
THE SECOND PROBLEM
M HE 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 in-
spiring 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 glib-
ness 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.
(135)


The Silver Blade
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 cor-
ner — 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
could n't tell whether it was a shot or not; and anyhow,
neither of us could locate it. We waited quite a while, listen-
ing; 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!'
( 136 )


The Second Problem
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 Hart-
man 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 could n't see, and was try-
ing 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! Pey-
ton!' over and over again, like a machine, and it was some
time before we could get her to notice us.
( 137 )


The Silver Blade
“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 had n't fainted was
wild with terror.
( 138 )


The Second Problem
“Pretty soon, however, we came upon him in a down-
stairs 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 did n'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. Con-
verse; 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 the porte-cochère.
The house itself was a commodious colonial mansion,
possessing the familiar, massive-pillared Greek front. Set-
ting 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 bring-
[139]


The Silver Blade
ing 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 except-
ing the few needed, and the house was shrouded in the un-
broken 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 Gen-
eral 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 stair-
way, 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?”
[140]


The Second Problem
“No, sir; but efforts are being exerted to find him. It
appears that he is in attendance upon some suburban pa-
tient.”
“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 house-
hold library. Save for the door, the windows, and the nar-
rower spaces between the windows, its walls were entirely
concealed by book-laden shelves; the apartment was other-
wise scantily furnished.
By a large, old-fashioned fireplace in the southwest corner
stood a heavy leathern couch; besides this the room con-
tained nothing more in the way of large furniture except a
heavy oaken table which stood in the bay of the east win-
dow. 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 Cap-
tain 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
(141 ]


The Silver Blade
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 win-
dows 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 win-
dow? It faced the one before the desk, and their relative
positions irresistibly suggested a tête-à-tête, the silent figure
on the floor that this tête-à-tête had 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
[142]


The Second Problem
attention immediately after his first cursory glimpse; he
still stood just inside the doorway, and his eyes, after travel-
ling 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, stand-
ing 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 tele-
phone, overturned upon the blotting-pad, its hooks free of
the receiver. It was more than likely that when Miss West-
brook attempted to use the instrument in the hall, she
received no response from Central, the line already, doubt-
less, 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.
( 143 )


The Silver Blade
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 un-
spoken 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 con-
veniently at hand, but not one scrap of paper that had been
written upon, except one or two neat piles of envelopes con-
taining letters addressed to the dead man, and other docu-
ments of various kinds, none of which, probably, had en-
gaged 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 be-
tween 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
( 144 )


The Second Problem
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 evi-
dently 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 pre-
mature, 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
ste.
[ 145]


The Silver Blade
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 have n'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.
( 146 )


The Second Problem
“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 at-
tention ?"
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 had n'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.”
( 147]


The Silver Blade
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 Mc-
Caleb 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 curi-
osity, while he extracted the particle of fabric from the tiny
aperture.
“Ah, I see,” McCaleb continued; “General Westbrook
nearly winged him, did n'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 was n'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
( 148 )


The Second Problem
O
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
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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 Mer-
kel.” 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.
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"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 inter-
pretation 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.
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Footprints
"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
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. Simulta-
neously 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 heel-
mark; 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.”
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Nearly every step of this sally into the night presented
something novel to the two eager searchers. They had pro-
ceeded but a few yards, when of a sudden the leader once
more came to a halt, at the same time extending a restrain-
ing 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 obliter-
ated 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,
tne 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
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Footprints
radius of about a rod from where they had paused. Again
and again he returned to the footprints in the little depres-
sion, and once he passed swiftly back to the point where the
first trail diverged from the driveway so abruptly. He ex-
amined 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 ex-
plained. “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
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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 indi-
cated with the lamp the bordering bed of flowers.
“Just as I expected,” he observed; "here's where the
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Footprints
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, is n'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 — ” Con-
verse paused, tentatively.
"Well — er — ah — as to that,” returned the Coroner,
in his important, official manner,— “as to that, John, I can-
not 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 —”.
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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 West-
brook returned home last night, and if she returned alone;
second, was anybody at all seen skulking about the prem-
ises during the night; third, were any shots heard, how
many, at what time, and what was thought of the occur-
rence. 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
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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 in-
clined to be jocular, and the shock has not yet had time to
exert its sobering influence, so pray overlook any facetious-
ness or apparent levity.”
“Very good — if you will only fetch him.”
It was not difficult to calm Melissa when it became evi-
dent 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 forth-
coming
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 Mc-
Caleb, 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
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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 have n'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, is n'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 enig-
matic 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
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rear hall. About midnight he had been startled into wake-
fulness 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 dream-
ing.'” 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'l-
men 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
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Footprints
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!”
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The word was wrung from the figure in a sobbing, de-
spairing 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.
( 164 )


CHAPTER XI
A BURNT FRAGMENT
THEN 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
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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 coach-
man. 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 Far-
quier 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 mid-
night, at which time she appeared in much haste, command-
ing Stonewall to hurry. McCaleb continued:
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A Burnt Fragment
“Mrs. Westbrook seemed to be anxious and impatient
to get home. Stonewall noticed that all the way she con-
tinued 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. Is n't it pretty plain she had some reason to be
suspicious of the young lady's manquvres 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, Stone-
wall suddenly caught sight of a man in the act of turning
from Vine Street to Tenth. He was coming from the direc-
tion of the house, and he disappeared in the shadows beneath
the shade trees so quickly that he could n'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 fol-
lowing 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 near-
ing the corner, and all at once Mrs. Westbrook spotted Num-
ber 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 satis-
fied that any suspicions she might have had were unfounded.”
“What do you mean by that ? ”
“Of course Stonewall did n'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
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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 ap-
proaching carriage, and it 's plain he did n'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 did n't let it go at that, I suppose ? ” he asked.
“Oh, no. Sally's story amounts to this. General
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A Burnt Fragment
Westbrook has not been sick at all; he was hoodooed by a
black man that was n't a nigger.”
"'A black man not a nigger'?” Converse repeated,
vaguely. “What the deuce!” He clapped McCaleb up-
on 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. . . . Mon-
day 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 envel-
ope, 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 was n’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 sit-
ting at his desk with the 'conjure paper' in his hand; his
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face was the color of ashes, his jaw open, his eyes staring;
and he did n'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 report-
ing 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 pre-
cisely 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 expo-
sition of the irregularity of the proceeding, the “responsibili-
ties of his office," and the duties incumbent upon him, he
departed. Secretly, he cherished the idea of some time
(170)


A Burnt Fragment
overwhelming John Converse with a brilliant tour de force;
but the opportunity had never been perceptible to his obtuse-
ness, 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 won-
deringly, 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 under-
standing 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 ques-
tions.” 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;
( 171 )


The Silver Blade
you may not know that, in the death of your father, the cir-
cumstances involve her quite as clos — ”
“Stop!”
The Doctor sprang from his chair; the emotions beneath
which he had so lately been crushed were suddenly sub-
merged 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, in-
tent 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. Per-
haps you will see it in the light of necessity when I tell you
I have taken pains to secure this conference against inter-
ruption.” 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 -
u.
[172]


A Burnt Fragment
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 em-
inently 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, Doc-
tor 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.
[178]


The Silver Blade
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 is n'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 per-
plexity, "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.
“Have the ashes from the kitchen been dumped here since
you cleaned the library grate last ?” Converse inquired.
“Yes, seh; twicet.”
“Very good, Sam. You may go back to the house."
Once alone, Converse picked up a stick and began
carefully to rake off the top layer of ashes, penetrating into
the heap not more than a quarter of an inch at a time. He
repeated this operation no more than four or five times,
when he stopped, and with his fingers extracted a conspicu-
ous bit of black — unmistakably the ash of incinerated
paper. It was too small to possess any advantage in itself;
( 174 )


A Burnt Fragment
but it was the counterpart of many minute particles such as
he had picked with the point of his pencil from between the
bricks of the library fireplace.
After a brief examination he cast the flake of ash aside,
and proceeded more carefully to rake over the pile.
“If there is only a larger piece, only one that will show
the writing,” the delver muttered to himself, “ if there is only
one that has not been entirely burnt, my search will not have
been in vain. But these flakes are all too small and fragile.
... No such luck. . . . Ab-h-h!”
The final ejaculation was merely a breath, but pregnant
with satisfaction. The point of the stick had revealed a
small piece of paper, one edge charred, but containing a
number of written words - one a name which sent a thrill
through the searcher.
The fragment had once been the lower left-hand corner
of a sheet of the commonest kind of note-paper, and inside
the charred edge could be read the commencement of two
lines — evidently the last two — and a portion of the signa-
ture, all written in Spanish, and by a feminine hand:
Eso es
¿ Acabo V? No
Paquita y
At this moment Mr. Converse — for the first time in his
life, perhaps,— had reason to bless certain years spent with
Abram Follett in Latin America; for to his understanding,
and without any great knowledge of the Spanish language,
the words signified:
It is ... (or, is not?)
Are you ready? No...
Paquita and ...
[175]


The Silver Blade
Was this a portion of the “conjure paper”? Was this
the message that had hoodooed the unfortunate General —
containing, beyond the scope of the physician's skill, a potent
cause for mental distress? Was it the herald of his wretched
end ?
And Paquita — again the pretty feminine prænomen!
Disclosing no identity, it flaunted itself at every stage of the
investigation with a vagueness of allusion tantalizing and
vexing to an extreme; ever presenting to the mind's eye
no more than a faint, nebulous image of maiden loveliness,
at once procacious and ingenuous. “Paquita and —”
whom? What other name had completed the signature to
the destroyed missive ?
Mr. Converse produced the familiar and well-worn
pocket-book; and therein, with extraordinary care, he de-
posited the precious fragment of paper.
Further search disclosed nothing more of value, and in a
few minutes he went back to the house to confront Doctor
Westbrook and Joyce.
( 176 )


CHAPTER XII
A DOOR IS OPENED
AS Mr. Converse entered the library he stopped
A short almost on the threshold, conscious of a sudden
shock. Could that nonchalant, self-possessed girl be
the innocent —
Before the thought was complete his feelings took a pen-
dulum sweep backward: from extreme surprise and acute
disappointment that his sympathies had been wasted, to
admiration and pity, and a satisfying conviction that, after
all, his sympathies were greatly needed. He bent upon her
a keener, more discerning look, and all at once comprehended
that a wealth of profound and conflicting emotions were
possible behind the marble exterior presented to him.
Joyce cast at him a look of such dumb terror that for
once he was at a complete loss how to proceed. He realized
the many and varied potentialities for evil with which her
imagination must have invested him — what a terrible mon-
ster he must appear to her — and felt keenly the disadvan-
tage of his vocal infirmity, anticipating that it would further
prejudice him in her estimation. Yet he must speak, and
she must be made to hear him.
With the revulsion of feeling he advanced into the room.
And as he did so he perceived a tremor pass over the slight
frame; she groped an instant, blindly, with her left hand
until it found and interlocked with her brother’s.
The Doctor was seated in the Morris chair, while his sister
( 177 )


The Silver Blade
stood close by his right side. Now that she required its
support, his stronger masculine nature had asserted itself,
and, save for the haggard visage, Doctor Westbrook was quite
his natural self again. Whatever had passed between them
during the last half-hour, they had undoubtedly arrived at
an agreement to brave out the present interview together.
She was robed in a simple morning-gown of a dead and
dull black. The hint of fragrance, which seemed an aura
of her presence, had apparently lost its interest for Mr. Con-
verse.
"Miss Westbrook,” he began, and beheld his fears justi-
fied by another shudder at the first sound of his sibilant voice.
But he went on as evenly and as gently as his vocal defect
would permit. “Miss Westbrook, I have asked for this
interview out of a consideration for you and your family,
which the Doctor understands, I believe, and which you will
understand also, no doubt before we are through. As a
detective I am often called upon to do things that are dis-
tasteful to myself, and this is not the least disagreeable task
I have ever found before me. But I can't shirk a plain duty,
Miss Westbrook; so if I attempt to perform that plain duty
in a manner that will be the least distressing to yourself, may
I count upon your coöperation and approval ? ”
Without altering her attitude, or the slightest change in
her pale countenance, she slowly and silently inclined her
head the merest trifle in acquiescence.
“Very good, Miss Westbrook; thank you. You make
it lighter for all of us. Now, may I suggest that you be
seated ? At best we shall be engaged for some time.”
Her left hand was still clasped in her brother's; but
further than to indicate with her free hand a chair in which
(178)


A Door is Opened
Mr. Converse was at liberty to seat himself if he chose, she
made no response. He took advantage of the opportunity
to the extent of resting one knee on the chair-seat and his
elbows on the back — the straight-backed chair which had
stood by the veranda window.
“Now then, Miss Westbrook, let us go back to the even-
ing of November fourth,” Converse proceeded. He found
no encouragement in her frozen attitude; but his own
manner could have been no more cheerful, yet tempered by
a sense of his surroundings and the occasion, nor have be-
trayed more of an easy confidence, had he known that the
locked lips were to open, and by a word exorcise the spell of
mystery which held them all. “During the evening of No-
vember fourth — Wednesday — were you not in the Nettle-
ton Building ?” .
So promptly that it would have staggered a man less used
to surprises, came the reply: .
“I refuse to answer.”
Even the Captain was taken aback, although it was not
in his immobile features to yield a hint of the fact. As he
put the question, he noted a convulsive tightening of the hand
that still clasped the Doctor's; but the soft eyes did not
waver nor the beautiful face alter its expression. The words
were faintly spoken; nevertheless they were vibrant with a
determined and set purpose, and Converse was overwhelmed
with that sense of helpless impatience which is apt to assail
one in the face of mistaken obstinacy.
“This is very unfortunate,” he observed with deepened
gravity. “Miss Westbrook, I would not presume to advise
you, but you are wrong, wrong — and how can I convince
you ? ” He regarded the still figure, as unresponsive as a
(179)


The Silver Blade
waxen image. No assistance there. He glanced at Doctor
Westbrook, only to meet another pair of eyes showing an
unalterable purpose.
“This conversation might as well end here and now," he
at length concluded, addressing the Doctor; and added with
pointed deliberation, “You know what that means.”
Doctor Westbrook glanced at the silent, motionless figure
beside him, and moved uneasily. Was is possible that the
uncompromising attitude of this mere girl, and it alone,
was responsible for the deadlock ? To a certain extent she
was herself a mystery, an enigma, and what with her immo-
bility and silence, her dimness of outline in the darkened
library, she was as intangible and inscrutable as Paquita.
Out of the shadow that marked where she stood the violet
eyes glowed like two stars, the beautiful features, surrounded
by their halo of ebon hair, now only a denser shadow, loomed
as pallid as death, and the Captain was irritatingly aware of
his inability so far to grasp at anything definite by which to -
frame his speech. At any rate, whether or no she was the
controlling spirit, it would seem the Doctor endeavored to
temporize.
“Mr. Converse,” he began presently, “you have called
our attention to the fact that you are simply performing a
duty, — that you are doing so with a delicate consideration
for our feelings which perhaps we don't deserve,- but I
assure you, sir, we do appreciate your tact and thoughtful-
ness, and it must appear that we are making a poor return
for such kindness. But consider this: there are possible
issues to this crisis that may prove disastrous to persons
entirely unblameworthy. Can you not imagine the pos-
sibility of a situation in which we should be compelled
( 180 )



LORER
NEREN
Joyce Was HERSELF A MYSTERY, AN ENIGMA, AS INSCRUTABLE AS “PAQUITA."





A Door is Opened
to move with the utmost caution, wherein we must rely
solely upon our own judgment ? Good God!” he suddenly
exploded, “think of Joyce — my sister — think of a fair
young girl being entangled in anything so damnable!”
Converse cast a covert glance at the girl, to note the effect
of this outburst; but her manner revealed not the slightest
alteration. It was plain that such determination would
betray nothing by either a word or sign. But why? Specu-
lation upon this question led swiftly and surely to the darkest
possibilities — nay, probabilities — that might elucidate
her conduct.
He made another effort.
"If you would but dismiss the idea that I am an enemy—”.
“Ah,” interrupted the Doctor, quickly; “I understand
your impersonal attitude exactly, Mr. Converse. You are
not an enemy. If the way were clear before you to do so,
I think we could count on you as a trustworthy friend to
extricate us from our difficulties. On the other hand — well,
to be brief, it is this impersonal attitude which may prove
inimical to us. I-I— pardon me, I can't be more ex-
plicit.”
“I might construe such a statement to mean that, were I
to perform my duty in the light of actual facts, the operation
would be — well, disagreeable to you.”
The response was a lifting of the brows and a shrug of the
shoulders, which said quite plainly — perhaps more plainly
than the Doctor intended, — “I cannot prevent your placing
any construction upon my words you may see fit.”
“If you will permit the observation, Doctor,” Converse
remarked, dryly, “your words are contradictory to come
from a man entirely innocent.”
( 181 )


The Silver Blade
A flash from the physician's eyes gave warning of an
angry rejoinder; but another unconscious movement of the
hand which held his so tightly brought his sister sharply
to mind, it would seem, and the words, when uttered, be-
trayed a note of helplessness.
“My God!” he exclaimed, “don't I know it? But what
do mere denials amount to in the face of this suspicion ? "
“Yet there is something within your knowledge, and
arising out of these crimes, which you unequivocally refuse
to tell me."
"I have nothing to say, Mr. Converse.”
“Not even in the face of evidence seriously compromising
Miss Westbrook ? ”
Of a sudden the alert Captain became aware of a change
in the statue-like girl. It was slight, indefinable — tele-
pathic rather than openly perceptible, — but he fancied the
fixed look with which she regarded him assumed an added
intentness at this stage. He even felt for one brief instant
that she meant to speak; but if such had been her purpose,
a second thought prevailed, and she remained motionless and
silent. He turned abruptly to her.
“Miss Westbrook,” said he, “is it of any use for me to
make another appeal to you ? ”
Although he waited for an answer, she made no sign that
would indicate she had heard. With an air of finality, he
presently pushed back the chair and stood upright.
"Well,” he went on, “after the course this talk has taken
there remains but one thing for me to do. I regret that you
feel you would be conferring a favor instead of accepting an
opportunity – which happens to be the situation; but I -"
Doctor Westbrook raised a protesting hand.
(182)


A Door is Opened
“Just a moment,” he interposed with anxious haste.
"You assert that my sister's situation is critical.” Again
the Captain had the feeling that Miss Westbrook's impas-
sivity cloaked a strained attention; but, as before, if the emo-
tion existed, her frozen attitude yielded no token of it. Was
she anxious for an expression of his views upon this point ?
“Suppose," the Doctor continued, “the least admission on
our part would lead to complications which would hopelessly
involve her, is it our place to speak ? If the situation is
such that a full explanation cannot be given, — tell me, is
not our position onerous — unbearable ? ... Now then,
Mr. Converse, be candid,” he concluded, with an abrupt,
confidential dropping of his voice, “is it not the truth that
you would not have asked her if she was present that evening,
if you could prove that she was ? And tell me, what has
all this to do with last night's crime ?”
For a moment Converse felt a tide of anger rising within
him; he all at once realized that, as an officer of the law —
as a mere machine operating in a fixed routine — he had
made a mistake; he had allowed a generous impulse to inter-
pose and thwart an end of great importance; and now, when
it was too late, he must make an effort to remedy his error.
Without the least warning, he fastened his compelling, prob-
ing regard full upon Joyce. It was a look that had made
hardened criminals tremble, and at last the girl's impas-
siveness gave way. With an involuntary clutching of the
clasped hand she shrank closer to her brother. For a
moment she returned the look; then her glance wavered -
fell; the sooty lashes swept her cheeks, where two spots of
color began slowly to appear, and the statue was quickened
into life.
[183]


The Silver Blade
“And would you really care to know, Miss Westbrook,
what I think of it ?” he asked, with a significant quietness
that startled her into speech.
“Yes —11—” she faltered and stopped. She looked
wildly from the Doctor to the terrible figure confronting her;
then with a mighty effort she regained control of herself, and
concluded in a voice firmer, but very low, “It is of no interest
to me.”
Mr. Converse acknowledged the reply with a bow of
exaggerated deference.
"You overlook Mr. Clay Fairchild,” he remarked, dryly.
Another tightening of the clasped hands, and another tre-
mor through the girl's slight frame, were the sole responses to
this final chance shot, until Doctor Westbrook's voice broke in.
"Pardon me, I have not,” said he. “But I was n't
aware that he was under consideration.”
"Perhaps not,” was the crisp retort, “openly. He is
an important factor, however.” His glance swerved to
Joyce with a light that asked quite plainly, “Is he not ?"
But only the Doctor replied. “Indeed ?” with ingenu-
ous surprise. “But he seems quite effectually to have
effaced himself.”
Converse shot another glance at Joyce.
“Well, as for that,” he said, slowly, “I have reason to
believe that I might have laid hands upon him, if I had been
in this neighborhood last night between – h-m-m-m -- be-
tween ten and twelve o'clock.” If he expected this avowal
of what he imagined the circumstances to be to make any
impression upon the girl he was disappointed; for she was
again the frozen image, not to be swayed by any influence
under his control.
( 184 ]


The Silver Blade
"See here, Mr. Converse," the Doctor broke in, rather
sharply; “I don't know what this is all about, but I protest
against the personal nature of this question. My sister is
neither on the witness-stand nor accused — ”
With a single imperative gesture, the speaker was silenced.
“Tell me, Miss Westbrook, were you alone ?”
The lovely, subdued eyes flashed forth a startled look;
but Joyce made no reply.
“Miss Westbrook, I will go further in offering you this
opportunity: I will say that I know you were not alone.
Come, now, who was with you ?”
Still silence. The mention of Fairchild's name had pro-
duced no effect; it might be well to try another.
"Was it Mr. Lynden ?”.
The girl responded precisely as she had to the first ques-
tion, the same words uttered in the same tone:
“I refuse to answer.”
Another shrug of the shoulders signalized the end of Mr.
Converse's forbearance. He strode hastily to the door, but
turned and paused with his hand upon the handle.
Was it a stifled cry that had reached his ears ? The girl
was now standing with the back of her free hand pressed
tightly to her lips, and in her eyes was a look of despair that
smote him to the heart. Great heavens, what did she
mean? Was man ever confronted by such perverseness, or
beset by a more irritating perplexity! Why did she not speak ?
“I make one more appeal to you," he said, after regard-
ing her a moment. “Do not misconstrue this. If you do
not speak, my alternative is to arrest you. Do you compre-
hend that ? When I open this door, it will be to introduce
an officer who will become your custodian. Will you not
( 186 )


A Door is Opened
believe that my motives in thus appealing to you are prompted
solely by a desire to spare you the distress that will be in-
flicted if you do not open your lips ? Consider before you
answer; will you give me your confidence? Shall the door
remain closed — or shall I open it?”
For one brief moment Joyce had all the appearance of
some hunted thing hopelessly cornered. She looked wildly
from the officer to her brother, who sat with set and rigid
features, and back to the officer again. All at once, it seemed,
her resolution was made; or, if she had hesitated, strength
was given her to maintain her purpose. .Her agitation
vanished, and she returned Mr. Converse's look fearlessly
and half defiantly.
“I have nothing to confide,” was the response, uttered
with firmness and the quiet of a determination not to be
swayed.
With a bow, Converse threw open the door.
“Come in, McCaleb,” he said, his manner now brisk
and business-like; then, turning to the Doctor: “This man
is an officer who, for the present, will be responsible for Miss
Westbrook's movements. Now then, Doctor, hear my final
word. I have made one mistake in allowing consideration
for your sister — young and inexperienced as she is – to
come between me and my duty. I am going to assume the
risk again by offering you another opportunity. I see that
you feel the matter keenly, but this issue of our conference
is the fault of you two. Still, it is terrible thus to thrust the
stigma of such a crime upon a mere girl — little short of the
crime itself, — and in the hope that I can soon clear up this
fog of mystery, I am going to be guilty of a dereliction. Give
me your word that Miss Westbrook will neither attempt to
( 187 )


The Silver Blade
leave the house nor communicate with anybody outside,
without first reporting to McCaleb, and for the present
- until it becomes unavoidable to act otherwise — she may
remain here."
With a sudden movement, Doctor Westbrook released
Joyce's hand, and pressed his own hand to his brow.
“Good God!” he groaned, “this is intolerable. Joyce -
dear sister — tell —”
But he got no further. The final word acted like the
touch that releases a taut spring, and she fairly precipitated
herself upon him, sending one look of such utter terror and
desperation at Mr. Converse that his perplexity deepened
into blank amazement, and at the same time she clapped a
hand over her brother's mouth.
“You swore you would not,” she whispered, almost
fiercely. “Mobley, you swore. If they were to tear me
limb from limb before your eyes I would not consent to have
you tell.”
The Doctor's head dropped, and with a gentle movement
he took the small hand from out his beard, kissed it tenderly,
and sat abstractedly caressing it.
Joyce's lovely countenance grew beatific in its exultation.
“Converse,” despairingly, “I give you my word.”
“Unless you or the young lady cause it to be otherwise,"
said the Captain, softly, “the matter may remain private
among us four — unless, of course,” he supplemented, “the
next day or two fails to reveal something substantial to lay
before the District Attorney. I do not extend any false hopes.
The seriousness of Miss Westbrook's position can scarcely
be magnified.... McCaleb, you have heard; act accord-
ingly until you receive other instructions."
(188)


A Door is Opened
"May my sister retire ?” asked Doctor Westbrook.
“Certainly. Her movements are not to be restricted or
spied upon, or interfered with in any manner or degree —
within the house, of course. You understand this, Mac.”
The young man nodded. His manner was extremely
sober; it was quite patent that he was not insusceptible to
the beauty of his charge.
Joyce started slowly toward the door, close by which
McCaleb yet stood. She was probably half-way between
the group of two — her brother, old and haggard in the chair,
the other as menacing and inexorable as Fate,- and the
younger man who looked at her with frank pity, when she
paused and turned to her brother. There was a faint smile
upon her lips; her eyes were soft, and it appeared as if she
were about to speak. But before any one of the three could
offer her the least assistance, she sank quietly to the floor,
unconscious.
( 189 )





She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that 's best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes,
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent, -
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.
- BYRON.
This is as strange a maze as e'er men trod;
· some oracle
Must rectify our knowledge.
- THE TEMPEST.


CHAPTER I
MISS CHARLOTTE WAITS IN THE HALL
COMEWHAT more than a score of years before the
opening of this story, Richard Fairchild, after quietly
contemplating the parcelling of his once fair estate
among a horde of clamoring, quarrelling creditors, chief of
whom was his erstwhile overseer, William Slade, the elder,-
strolled leisurely into the country, as quietly placed a pistol
to his head and blew out his brains. He did not leave
behind property of sufficient value to defray his modest
burial expenses.
This succession of disasters at one stroke transformed
the wife from a famous and envied beauty into a broken
invalid, petulant, querulous, and exacting, living only in the
memory of her days of happiness, and made of her daughter
Charlotte a strangely quiet and sedate woman, bound to
her helpless mother's side as with hoops of steel. Clay was
then but a babe.
The tiny cottage that received the invalid mother, the
dark-eyed daughter, and the infant son was part of a slender
legacy bequeathed Charlotte by a maiden aunt; and with
the passing years the old homestead became merely a mel-
ancholy ruin, half hidden by weeds and underbrush, infested
by owls and bats, and an occasion for wonder at the probable
motives which prompted the present Slade so to neglect it.
Nothing stirred now beneath the crumbling roof-tree but
rats and mice — and shadows.
[193]


The Silver Blade
If those persons who marvelled at Slade's parsimony or
queer ideas of economy could have been present at a scene
which occurred at the cottage on the evening of the night
General Westbrook was assassinated, they might have found
an answer to their mental queries. Yet we may only know
what Miss Charlotte herself saw and heard.
To begin with, she was startled by a sound of unfamiliar
footsteps on the front porch, an uncertain movement to-
ward the door, and finally by a knocking upon the door
itself.
She took up a lamp and advanced down the narrow hall
to the small reception-hall. Without any hesitation she
unlocked the door and opened it wide at once; and it is prob-
able that no apparition of any person, dead or living, could
have affected her so profoundly as what she then beheld in
the light of the lamp. She was so astonished at sight of the
crusty abstracter that she stood quite speechless. On the
other hand, it is noteworthy in estimating Mr. Slade's char-
acter that he snatched off his hat and ducked his head, much
as he might have done in the old days when he stepped
aside from the road to allow the family coach to roll by.
Plainly, he was uneasy, out of his element, and the shallow,
jet-like eyes at once became shifty before the unfathomable
ones which regarded him with such frank surprise and dis-
pleasure.
But her expression rapidly altered: her eyes darkened,
their light hardened — if the expression is permissible —
and her lips compressed; never before had a Slade stood in
the doorway of the cottage. The brightly glowing flame of
hospitality was extinguished before this unexpected blast.
This silence was something more than Slade could endure.
( 194 )


Miss Charlotte Waits in the Hall
Nervously, he emitted a dry, deprecatory cough behind
his knuckly fingers.
“Miss Charlotte, is it not ? ” he finally ventured.
“What do you want ? ” was the blunt reply.
Propitiation was difficult for Slade, especially in the face
of such obvious, uncompromising antipathy. His nervous-
ness measurably increased, and he replied, rather incohe-
rently
“Pardon me, Miss Charlotte, I know it seems strange
– why I am here, I mean; but I must see — dear me, I
can't explain. . . . Can't you hold the light a little more
out of my eyes ? Oh, very well. . . . Your mother – Mrs.
Fairchild – I must see her on business — very important,
Miss Charlotte."
Her amazement only deepened.
“Business with mamma!” she cried, incredulously.
“Why, that is ridiculous — absurd; mamma has transacted
no business for years. What in the world do you mean ? "
He seemed to be painfully aware of his awkward, ungainly,
and untidy appearance, and of the harshness of his voice; he
was overcome by a sense that this woman, who looked him
through and through as if he were transparent, would regard
any misfortune that might befall him with precisely the
same expression. He made a strenuous effort at composure,
with the result that his naturally sour and churlish disposition
was given an opportunity to assert itself.
"My business goes behind those years,” he said; "and
if you please, it is none of yours.”
“Indeed ? ” The rising inflection soared to glacial
heights. “If you will excuse me I will close the door.
When my brother returns — ”
( 196 )


The Silver Blade
A sudden look of cunning in the little jet eyes checked her.
“Hear me a moment,” he presently said. “My errand
affects —” He paused briefly and looked at her with a
slightly different expression, as if determining how far to
trust her; but he uttered no confidence. “Come, Miss,"
he at last finished, “if you don't admit me you — your
mother — your brother — your brother, eh? — will suffer
for it.”
Still inflexibly barring the entrance: “Do you mean that
your errand concerns Clay ? ” she asked. Unconsciously,
a note of anxiety had crept into her voice, which, in spite of
his deafness, Slade caught, and he was quick to take ad-
vantage of it.
Doubtfully, still a little bewildered, but her hostility for
this man not in the least abated, she stepped aside at last,
and coldly bade him to enter. She placed the lamp upon a
table in the tiny hall. “Wait here,” she enjoined, briefly,
without offering him a seat, and so left him.
Charlotte Fairchild was one of those very tall women,
with whom we rarely meet, who are not awkward. Instead,
when she walked every movement seemed to flow in graceful
ripples from feet to shoulders, beginning without abruptness
and dying gradually away like the wavelets on the surface
of a disturbed pond. A couplet of Herrick's pictures her:
“Then, then (methinks), how sweetly flows
The liquefaction of her clothes."
And yet her step was firm and swift, giving her a bearing
exquisitely impressive.
Her hands and feet were beautifully formed, long, slender,
and tapering, as becomes a tall woman; and her voice was
( 196 )


Miss Charlotte Waits in the Hall
one of those rich, liquid contraltos, always effective because
always subdued. It was in accord with her habitual repose;
but it hinted at unlimited possibilities of elemental strength,
and the presence of many and varied forces behind her calm
exterior.
Her command to Mr. Slade was imperative, and he
stood uncertainly watching her as she walked down the hall.
At its end she opened a door, and even the man's faulty
hearing could catch the high, impatient voice in the room
beyond; a voice which had an odd effect upon him, too, for
the lean, irascible visage actually brightened, and a light
very like eagerness shot from the jetty eyes.
“Child, who was it ? ” the voice was saying. “What kept
you so long? Is there any news of —” And the door closed
again.
Mr. Slade was obliged to stand there many minutes, fin-
gering his rusty felt hat, before Charlotte reappeared and,
with a single queenly gesture, beckoned him to approach.
But when he finally advanced into the room, Mrs. Fairchild,
paralyzed from the waist down, might have been a chatelaine,
and he the overseer, the steward, seeking audience on affairs
concerning the estate. So did the inherent and ineradica-
ble traits of relative breeding naturally and unconsciously
manifest themselves. Although he had secured the coveted
admission, the manner of his reception was undoubtedly
discouraging to his purpose. Mrs. Fairchild's first words
and her mien were a further check to approaching his
object.
"Well, Slade,” she began, with unconscious but none the
less galling patronage, “what can I do for you? Dear me!
You do not favor your father in the least. ... Daughter,
[197]


The Silver Blade
hand me my glasses. . . . Thank you. ... He was such
a large, florid man. But probably your health —”.
“Mamma,” Charlotte gently interrupted, “Mr. Slade
has come on business. Perhaps he cannot be detained.”
She had taken a position behind her mother's chair, and had
leant down until her lips were close to the lace cap. As she
stood upright again, Mrs. Fairchild protested petulantly:
“Yes, yes, child; I know. I do not mean to detain him.
....What were you saying, Slade ? ”.
That individual presented a spectacle of overwhelming
embarrassment. He had not opened his mouth since enter-
ing the room, and now, when he did, it was to appeal to the
daughter.
“For God's sake, Miss Charlotte,” he whispered hoarsely,
as if he did not intend the mother to hear, "for God's sake,
leave us. What I have to say is very private; indeed it is.
I will have done as soon as possible.”
Charlotte remained motionless behind her mother's chair,
returning to this astonishing outburst a look of wonder. The
older woman also regarded the man with an expression of
surprise.
On rare occasions — especially under any sudden mental
shock or access of feeling — Mrs. Fairchild's intellect as-
sumed something of its old-time activity and brightness.
Slade was sensible of such a change now, though unable to
define it; he felt the personality manifesting itself in her
look, and he turned from Charlotte to her with whom lay
his first interest.
“I cannot imagine the occasion for such an extraordinary
demand, Slade,” the afflicted lady said at length; "but if it
may be of any advantage to you my daughter shall retire.”
(198]


Miss Charlotte Waits in the Hall
"No, no, mamma," Charlotte protested, quickly. “I
fear to leave you with this — this man. I shall be deaf and
blind, but I cannot leave you.”
Never before had such a request been made of her, and
a growing dread had awakened in her bosom that Slade's
errand boded ill for her mother. Whence come these pre-
monitions of impending evil? To what mysterious depths
of our being do they owe their source, and why is it customary
to deride them? Experience certainly justifies that we
bestow upon these inward promptings a serious considera-
tion, yet we almost invariably ignore and ridicule them.
And now the silent warning cries, “Stay!”.
With a design quite patent, Charlotte again addressed
her mother.
“Do not forget Clay,” she remarked; and the vagrant
memory instantly fastened upon the name.
“I remember perfectly that we were discussing Clay,”
was the petulant retort, “when I was directed away from the
topic. Pray do not intimate that I am forgetful, Charlotte.
I hope you do not so far forget the duty and respect you owe
me that you can entertain such a ridiculous idea, to say
nothing of uttering it. Proceed, Slade, with what you were
saying about my son.”
He fixed his beady eyes upon Charlotte, and coughed
dryly behind his knuckly hand.
“When the girl goes,” said he, recovering in a measure
his composure. “Remember, I asked for and you granted
an audience — private."
“An audience ?” — the word caught —"a conference ?
Why, certainly, Slade.” The request was granted with a
sudden assumption of dignity — a fleeting, simple remnant
( 199 )


The Silver Blade
of other times — that caused the daughter much concern.
Charlotte feared the result of a refusal to withdraw quite
as much as she feared to leave her mother alone with
Slade; but with many misgivings she reluctantly turned
away and departed from the room, closing the door behind
her.
No earthly interest was powerful enough to allow her to
remain where she might overhear one word not intended
for her ears; still, the feeling of dread, in spite of Mr. Slade's
assurances, was real and insistent; above all things she
wanted to linger within sound of her mother's voice.
What powerful motive had dictated to-night's intrusion ?
For, earnestly as she despised the man, she could not imagine
him pushing his way into the house upon a mere whim, or
for any trifling matter. She cast back over the past as far
as her memory could penetrate, but no circumstance ap-
peared to afford the slightest explanation of the mysterious
visit, unless — unless it had, indeed, to do with her brother.
And here her thoughts faltered, for there were many reasons
why the idea should increase her anxiety.
She glided noiselessly to the front door, and throwing it
open, looked out into the night. An overwhelming sense
of her loneliness and isolation fell upon her. The feeling
was but momentary, however, since she attacked such en-
croachments of depression with as much ardor as she could
muster forth from her dauntless spirit. Occasionally the
black humor mastered her, but it would not do to give way
to-night. What did William Slade, son of a treacherous
steward, want of her mother — the poor wreck of woman-
hood who could bestow nothing? But Atropos, in severing
the past from the present, was cutting with her shears a
[ 200 ]


Miss Charlotte Waits in the Hall
strange pattern, the outlines of which neither Charlotte's nor
any eye could perceive.
The faint murmur of voices came to her where she stood,
and although she strove not to permit her interest to acquire
listening ears, it was unavoidable that she should hear and
note certain things: that the caller was doing most of the
talking; that, while the words were wholly unintelligible,
he seemed to be speaking with vehemence, and that her
mother's share in the conversation was apparently limited
to occasional ejaculations of surprise. This continued for
many minutes, during which Charlotte stood motionless,
her tall, willowy form drawn into a rigid erectness. Under
the tensity of her anxious expectation, her sensitive nostrils
distended and contracted, and her eyes glowed, in the dimly
lighted hall, with an unnatural brightness.
Of a sudden the voices ceased, and she heard Slade take
a step or two. Next, the faint crackling of paper, the in-
advertent snapping of a rubber band, were barely distin-
guishable — and silence. .
Her stretched imagination insensibly portrayed a vivid
picture of the scene: the man probably had handed her
mother some document, and was awaiting her perusal of it;
he stood awkwardly fumbling that ridiculous hat, while her
mother searched vainly — no, she had her glasses. Pos-
sibly, under stress of the excitement, her faculties were quite
normal. If so, she was reading the document — and what
was its effect ?
But if Mrs. Fairchild was indeed reading, she did not
read far. A sudden horrified exclamation almost caused
Charlotte to hasten into the room; but it was followed so
quickly by the voices again that she paused. Now her
[ 201 ]


The Silver Blade
mother was talking volubly. Charlotte even fancied she
could detect contempt and scorn in the tones. Such being
the case, the usually clouded faculties must now be abnor-
mally active. Slade was by turns protesting, pleading, and
giving way to his peevish temper. The spirited colloquy
came to an abrupt end in a single piercing cry:
“Charlotte!”
For an instant her heart ceased beating; a benumbing
chill paralyzed her power of volition; then she rushed to the
door and threw it open with a crash.
What she beheld explained but little to her alarmed
senses. Her own appearance must have been awe-inspiring,
for simultaneously with her advent, Slade recoiled in obvious
alarm. She could see that her mother had been powerfully
moved by some recent agitation, the exciting influence of
which had by no means subsided; and whatever the differ-
ent phases of that emotion might have been, they had un-
doubtedly crystallized into a violently active antipathy for
Mr. William Slade. Her right hand was extended toward
Slade, palm outward, as if to ward off an expected attack;
or was it to guard the papers crushed so convulsively in
her left hand and pressed so fiercely against her laboring
bosom?
As for the man, it was patent that the situation was an
unexpected and deeply disappointing outcome of his visit.
More than that, he appeared overwhelmed, stunned, crushed,
as if the issue involved an essential to his being. Never-
theless, however, whether his conduct had been intentional
or not, an anger, terrible in its quietness, gushed from the
deep well of Charlotte's passionate nature, stirring the man
from his despondency by its very intensity.
(202)


Miss Charlotte Waits in the Hall
"Go!” she commanded, her flexible voice striking its
deepest note; and Slade stepped back as though he had
been slapped in the face.
With a swift, lithe movement, Charlotte stooped and
gathered her mother's head to her own heaving breast. Slade
opened his mouth, as if to speak, but the words were stopped
by a repetition of the inexorable, compelling, low-voiced
command:
“Go!”
He retreated nearer the door, and all at once his malig-
nant nature was reflected in his face. He regarded Char-
lotte with a look of mingled malevolence and fear, and had
his been the stronger personality he might have done her
violence. But as it was, his bloodless lips were drawn back
in a snarl of hate and baffled purpose, although he was plainly
cowed by the wrath blazing in the eloquent eyes. He made
an effort, nevertheless.
“My papers,” he hissed. One hand was extended, the
bony fingers crooked like a vulture's claw. “My papers -
Elinor, you have no right — "
“Go!”
Slade was not an Ajax to defy the lightning of that
glance; without another word, with but one more glance
of malice and fruitless hate, he slunk from the room —
from the house - beaten and confounded.
The busy little clock on the mantel — with which time
was indeed fleeting — at once became the most conspicuous
object in the room; falling embers on the hearth told of a
dying fire, but to unheeding ears; a gust of cool, moist air
swept in through the unclosed front door, and the two
women maintained unaltered positions — ten minutes
( 203 )


The Silver Blade
— fifteen – until Charlotte felt a tremor pass through her
mother. Her expression softened rapidly, and her look and
tones were all gentleness and solicitude as she bowed her
head to the invalid's face.
"It's all right, mamma," she said, coaxingly. “He's
gone. He could not have hurt you, dear; he is too con-
temptible a coward.” In spite of the soothing voice, her
expressive upper lip involuntarily curled. “Think of some-
thing else," she went on; "think of being here — in my
arms — safe.” But she was distressed to see that her words
and calm manner made not the least impression; that her
mother was utterly deaf to them. The invalid was plainly
laboring under a fixed idea which neutralized every other
influence; and suddenly she thrust Charlotte away from her.
It did not relieve the daughter to know that the action was
involuntary; that the mother was oblivious of her presence;
instead, her fears were rapidly intensified by a biting doubt
of the probable result of this extraordinary excitement. The
expression of fear and horror had not faded from the distended
eyes, and the papers were yet clutched to her breast with a
grip that left the knuckles white and bloodless.
“Mother! Don't — don't look like that!” Charlotte
cried in sudden alarm. “What is it? What has that horri-
ble man done to frighten you so ? Come, dear; lay your
head here, and tell me all about it. There, there; nothing
can harm you, mamma dear.”
Quite as abruptly as she had pushed Charlotte from
herself, Mrs. Fairchild now suddenly extended toward her
daughter the papers still clutched so closely by a trembling
hand. Even in her nervous anxiety Charlotte remarked
that there were quite a number of them, and that they were
[ 204]


Miss Charlotte Waits in the Hall
typewritten and bound, after the manner of legal docu-
ments.
“Here — child — take these!” The words came con-
vulsively, in quick, nervous gasps. “The fire — hold them
down — until the last vestige is destroyed.” Her utterance
rose to such a mad vehemence that the words became almost
incoherent. “Don't look! Don't look at them! Burn
them! — burn them! — burn them! ”
Charlotte's heart was throbbing with a maddening terror,
her thoughts whirling aimlessly, like a flock of frightened
birds. Without warning, Mrs. Fairchild reached out and
clutched both her daughter's hand and the papers together.
"Swear, child,” she went on, in the same frenzied man-
ner; “swear to your helpless mother that you will not look
at them; swear that you will burn them here before my
eyes — now. Swear!”
“Mamma!” Charlotte protested, with a fleeting idea of
possible future consequences, - again, the inward prompt-
ing,— “Mamma, have I the right ? What may happen if I
obey you? Oh, mother dear, wait! Wait until you are
calmer; you are overwrought now; you do not know what
you are exacting. Dear — dear mamma, I shall not look
at them; but let me place —”.
But this earnest though gentle opposition so fanned the
fire of excitement that Charlotte instantly regretted her words.
“Child, obey me!” the mother commanded, with almost
savage fierceness. “Hesitate one instant longer, and I shall
hurl my worthless body to the floor and drag myself to the
fireplace with my two hands.” Then, in a quick transition,
“O, God!— Charlotte!- my daughter!” she moaned;
“to think I am helpless in this awful hour!”
( 205 )


The Silver Blade
“Hush, hush, dear; I will do as you say, instantly. I
will hold them down to the coals until nothing remains but
ashes. See — ”
But stay your hand, Charlotte! What if you now hold
the only existing evidence — the only barrier that stands
between dear ones and disaster! Is it some premonition of
the truth that causes you to hesitate ?
Alas, the papers flutter to the coals!
“See, mamma; they burn."
When the last flame had expired, when nothing but flakes
of black ashes were arising on the draught and vanishing up
the chimney, Mrs. Fairchild began to laugh — violently,
dreadfully.
It was a night of horror for Charlotte. Quite ignorant
of the cause of her mother's fearful condition, she was obliged
to tend the frail body through alternating fits of hysterical
laughter and weeping, and to hearken to wild, disordered
monologues, in which the names of Peyton Westbrook, Wil-
liam Slade, and her own dead father were repeated over and
over again, incoherently, in a grotesque, unintelligible asso-
ciation.
However, out of the incomprehensible jumble of words
and scraps of sentences, Charlotte began at last to construct
a meaning — very vague and unsatisfying, to be sure, and
exciting an almost unbearable curiosity to know more; but
still a meaning. The three names seemed to be mingled
in her mother's distraught mind, intimately interwoven with
some nameless horror; and the poor shattered intellect was
struggling beneath an obsession that a dire calamity threat-
ened General Westbrook.
And also, as she listened, there came presently to her a
( 206 )


Miss Charlotte Waits in the Hall
most peculiar fancy — woven of such stuff as dreams are
made of, but sufficiently tangible to cause her to wonder; a
fancy that caused her to murmur incredulously, “Mamma
and General Westbrook!” and to contrast the woman as
she now was with a certain portrait of Elinor Clay which
graced the daughter's chamber; to picture the General as
he appeared when a young man. A great feeling of newly
born pity for her helpless mother stirred in her bosom. How
incredible that this querulous, and in many ways childish,
invalid could have retained such a secret so many years.
Indeed, what a strange coupling of names ! What tragedy of
starved romance lay hidden here!
But what threatened General Westbrook ?
Charlotte was destined never to hear from her mother.
When the clamorous little clock told her that dawn was near,
Mrs. Fairchild began to grow quieter, and at last to doze; and
from that sleep she can scarcely be said to have awakened,
unless to be deprived of the least volition of every member,
to be unable to utter an articulate sound, to be more helpless
and dependent than a babe newly born, is to be counted
among the quick instead of the dead.
( 207 )


CHAPTER II
MISS CHARLOTTE ENTERTAINS A CALLER
TT will be remembered that when Mr. Converse's last
I tête-à-tête with Mr. Follett was interrupted by the sum-
mons to appear at headquarters, he had just terminated a
long period of reflection with the announcement that he at
last knew the means of finding young Mr. Fairchild. De-
spite the night's turbulent events, when he left the Westbrook
home in charge of McCaleb and another plain-clothes man
detailed from headquarters, it was in pursuance of a plan
that had been incubating in his mind during the hours when
other matters were apparently occupying his exclusive atten-
tion. Immediately after his unsatisfactory interview with
Joyce and her brother, he went as directly to the Fairchild
cottage as the street cars would carry him.
The humble abode of the Fairchilds nestled snugly in a
covering of climbing roses, honeysuckle, and feathery-fronded
cypress. Flowers bloomed everywhere; for upon her gar-
den Charlotte lavished a love otherwise denied expression,
and Mr. Converse's eyes kindled when they caught this riot
of blossom. Should a human analyst attempt a dissection
of this man's character, he would be very much astonished
to find an inborn love for beautiful flowers among its other
unusual traits.
A certain aged fragment of the old family ménage, known
familiarly as Polly Ann, ushered the Captain into the tiny
entrance-hall; and when Miss Charlotte appeared he seemed
[ 208 ]


Miss Charlotte Entertains a Caller
somewhat startled. He had never seen her, that he knew of,
and from the account the man Adams had given of his
experience on the night of the De Sanchez affair, while try-
ing to find Clay, he had come prepared to deal with a sour,
crabbed female of uncertain age and an uncompromising
manner. The quiet entrance of this handsome, graceful
woman left him disconcerted for an instant. A woman with
such an air, with such remarkable eyes, was no ordinary
woman, and she could not be dealt with in an ordinary way.
One might as well try to move a mountain as to intimidate
a person who regarded one so fearlessly; who met the sharp,
compelling glance with a look of polite inquiry which clearly
indicated that it knew not how to falter.
Converse's plans to find the young man suddenly evapo-
rated; but another idea, vastly farther reaching, arose in his
mind instead.
“Converse ? ” Charlotte repeated when he had announced
his identity; and after a slight hesitation she asked, “The
detective engaged in the De Sanchez case, are you not ? ”
Her dark eyes continued to regard him steadily; there was
not the faintest play of expression in her face, which seemed
merely sad and worn and white; but during the brief hesi-
tation he noticed that she laid one hand above her heart.
“I am either going to have plain sailing here,” the caller
mentally observed, “or in about two minutes there begins
the devil's own time for John Converse.” To her question
he answered:
“Yes, Miss Fairchild; and I hope my unceremonious
call does not startle you. While you must grant me your
indulgence, let me assure you at the outset that there is not
the slightest occasion for alarm.” The keen gray eyes
( 209 )


The Silver Blade
became all at once fixed and compelling, giving a forceful
meaning to the concluding words. “I have come here to
give you an opportunity to help a friend out of a very serious
trouble.”
For an instant she regarded him blankly; then quickly
her countenance, her glance, became fairly electrified.
“A friend ? — trouble ? — whom ? " she demanded, briefly
and directly.
As we know, it was not Mr. Converse's custom to take
strangers into his confidence, to express theories, nor to yield
up motives; but if he was certain of anything at this moment,
it was a conviction that whatever success was to come from
this meeting depended entirely upon his sincerity and abso-
lute frankness. If such eyes and such a manner did not
mean constancy and unshakable loyalty to friends, then these
virtues did not exist. If he concealed anything at all, it
would be to spare her feelings.
There was a pause after her question. The cold, mas-
terful gray eyes returned the look of the fearless, lovely dark
eyes during a silence wherein each sought to read the other's
purpose. Then he replied:
“Miss Fairchild, it will take some time to answer your
question; it involves so much, and I shall have to tell you so
much before you can understand, that I fear your patience
will — "
“But a friend,” she interrupted; "you said a friend was
in trouble. Who? I do not understand.”
He bowed. “That is what I wish to tell you. Am I to
take it that you will hear me; that I may tell it in my own
way ?”
Charlotte contemplated him a moment longer, while he
( 210 )


Miss Charlotte Entertains a Caller
returned the look earnestly and gravely; then, apparently
satisfied, she indicated by a gesture the front room.
And suddenly he fell to scratching his head with an air
of comical embarrassment.
“If you will pardon me, Miss Fairchild,” said he, "allow
me to suggest the porch this pleasant morning. I want to
enjoy those lovely flowers while I may. I declare, I never
saw anything like them in my life. I noticed a variegated
chrysanthemum — very large bloom — remarkable! Some
time — that is, if the occasion ever presents itself — I should
like to ask — to ask you —” He stopped, as if overcome
by the smile which all at once illumined her features. He had
struck a responsive chord; for Charlotte was undisguisedly,
girlishly pleased at any honest admiration of her cherished
possession. To the porch, by all means.
The Captain filled his prodigious chest with the sweet
air. “It is like wine, Miss Fairchild,” he said, quietly; "you
can't imagine what this means to a city man like me. It's
hard to think of evil at such a time.”
“Oh — don't!” she protested, still smiling; “think of
the flowers instead. I am glad you like them. Any one
who loves flowers sincerely can think of evil only to hate
it.”
“Very true,” he returned, looking gravely at her; “very
true. But hating the evil does not affect it. . . . Ah! a
mocking-bird!”
If this one touch of nature did not quite make the whole
world kin, it at least brought the spirits of these two into so
much closer harmony that it was comparatively easy to plunge
into confidences.
“Hating evil does not affect it,” Converse went on, after
[211]


Miss Charlotte Entertains a Caller.
began plucking at a spray of honeysuckle. But her voice
was steady when she rejoined:
“I suppose your coming here has to do with my brother,”
she said without looking up,—“with Clay?”.
"Primarily, yes. But my errand involves a deal more.
... However, before I begin I want to make a confession.
When I started here it was with a determination to resort
to every method known to my calling to secure the informa-
tion I am seeking; to bully you if necessary; to frighten you
if I could — in short, to use every art and device that ex-
pediency might justify. Those methods are often cruel;
they are not always honest — but in my calling you have
to meet craft with craft, Miss Fairchild; cunning with cun-
ning — and they are not such as you would associate with
the word “gentleman.'”
“And now ?” She looked at him inquiringly.
"Well, now - I have considerably revised that deter-
mination.”
“Thank you.” Once more her face was illumined by
the winning smile.
"No, no; don't thank me; thank yourself. If more
of the people who are tangled up in this business considered
it less a game the object of which is to conceal as much as
possible, and, instead, exercised a grain or two of common
sense, we might have been out of the woods before this. As
it is — ” He paused and frowned at the denuded spray of
honeysuckle.
“Well ? ” queried Charlotte, looking up once more and
casting the spray from her. He faced her abruptly.
"Well,” he went on, "as it is, there are one or two indi-
viduals who are well on the way to losing themselves entirely
[213]


The Silver Blade
– that is, if some well-intentioned person does n't step in
and show them the road out.” Again he paused.
"And so you have come to me?" she asked.
He nodded. “But before we can show them the way
out we have to be pretty sure of it ourselves. As a game of
hide-and-seek, you would be surprised at the ingenuity dis-
played in keeping things hid from me. . . . Miss Fairchild, I
am going to be blunt. Your brother has acted very foolish-
ly. The different factors in this game have been suddenly
thrown into a panic; like a crowd at a theatre when
the cry of fire is raised, they impede each other, and do not
help themselves. Mr. Fairchild's move was as silly and
uncalled for as any I have yet encountered.”
“You do indeed make me anxious,” said Charlotte; “but
I am very ignorant of this wretched affair.”
“Yes; I do not doubt that now,” he quietly interposed.
“But I also know that you can be a very powerful factor
in clearing up the mystery.”
She regarded him incredulously. “Oh, no,” she pro-
tested; "what can I do?” Then, after waiting a moment,
she faltered: “But tell me, Mr. Converse, do – do you
believe him — my brother — ".
He laughed. “Do you ?”
"Mr. Converse," her dignity was impressive, “I have
his word.”
Again he laughed. “Miss Fairchild,” said he with an
abrupt transition to seriousness, " at this moment the idea of
bullying or frightening you would strike me as being absurd
were I not humbly contrite for ever having entertained such
a thought; but the emergency is so urgent — a certain per-
son is threatened by so lively a peril — that it is really im-
[214]


Miss Charlotte Entertains a Caller
perative that something be done for that person immediately.
If you and I should get at cross-purposes — why, I believe
now that I could only step to one side and let events take
their own way. To prove that I am contrite, I am going to
warn you against myself.”
Charlotte said nothing.
“You have been in communication with your brother
since he disappeared. No," he went on hastily, as she
seemed about to speak, “I am not going to take any unfair
advantage of you. Instead, with your permission, I intend
taking you into my confidence; go over the ground from my
knowledge of the facts; and then lay before you my deduc-
tions therefrom, together with the immediate motives for my
intrusion. Afterward I shall ask you what I wish to know.”
He waited with his gaze fixed sharply upon her. She
sat for some time thoughtful.
"As I have told you, I am very anxious. From your
manner I know the occasion to be serious, and that you are
striving to temper its seriousness. You say that a friend is
in trouble, Mr. Converse; well, that is enough to spur my
interest, were any such spur needed. But I can only repeat
that I am very ignorant of this matter. Still, I will say this,
in the hope that it will cause you to speak freely. You have
somehow inspired my confidence; I feel sure you have come,
led by a tender consideration for somebody's feelings, and
that now you are governed by a consideration for my own
feelings. It would be a poor return, indeed, if I withheld
any aid that might lie within my power. I will pledge
myself to lend you every assistance I can; but it cannot be
much. From what I have heard of you, I consider it quite a
compliment that you should thus tender me your confidence.”
[215]


Miss Charlotte Entertains a Caller
At first she blushed slightly; then suddenly the last vestige
of color ebbed from her cheeks, and for the second time the
slender hand rested upon her bosom.
“Yes,” she whispered with bated breath. “Why ?”
“Then, Miss Fairchild, I am afraid I am the bearer of
very sad — ”
As a leopardess might have sprung, she stood quivering
above him, her eyes tragic, her slim fingers interlocked in a
convulsive clasp before her.
"Quick!” she demanded in a tense whisper, “has any.
thing happened to Mobley ?”
"No, no; be assured. It was —”
“Oh, not Joyce ?"
“General Westbrook.”
She caught her breath sharply, and seemed unable to
speak; and like a blind person, returned to her seat. But
in a moment she was more tranquil and very earnest.
“Tell me plainly, Mr. Converse — is this the — the
trouble ?"
“It is bad enough, Miss Fairchild; the General is-dead.”
“Dead! General Westbrook dead! Oh — "she checked
herself, the back of one hand upon her lips, and waited.
“Yes. It looks very much as though he had been —”
he hesitated, doubtful whether to tell her; but the plain
truth being unavoidable, he concluded, “ assassinated.”
With an exclamation of horror, she clasped her hands.
There was a moment of tense silence, during which she
regarded him with wide, startled eyes — a look which told
piteously that this abrupt announcement had penetrated
her susceptible heart, searching out, with callous cruelty,
each tender spot that could be lacerated and hurt.
[217]


The Silver Blade
4.
At last she cried aloud, in blank, utter dismay: “Mr.
Converse! Oh, this is awful! Joyce! poor child! - and
Mobley!” She buried her face in her hands, and, rising,
rushed precipitately into the house.
The Captain sat motionless, in a dilemma whether to
depart or to wait; wondering what Charlotte herself wished
him to do; deeply moved by her distress, which was so much
greater than he could possibly have expected.
But Polly Ann immediately set his doubts at rest. The
face she presented to him was both troubled and wrathful.
“Miss Cha’lotte she say fo' you ter wait,” she said with
unaccountable severity. The announcement had much the
nature of a peremptory command.
“All right, Aunty,” responded the Captain, absently
"Don'yer 'aunty' me.” Her voice rose rapidly. “I
hain't no aunty er yo'n. All yer has ter do is ter des wait –
heah.” She designated the porch with a stern and accusing
finger. “Mon, whut yer do ter Miss Cha’lotte ?"
At last the reason for this anger became plain. "I
brought her some very sad news,” he replied.
“La! is dat whut 's de matteh ?” Then, in a hoarse
whisper, “ Anything happen ter Docteh Mobley Wes’brook ?”
she asked.
“His father was killed last night.”
Incredulity and astonishment overspread the black face,
and Polly Ann threw aloft her hands. Mr. Converse was
obliged, briefly, to detail the particulars. Polly Ann in-
quired, anxiously:
“Is you a docteh ?”
“No, Aunty. Why?”
She advanced nearer and lowered her voice. “Kase I’se
[218]


Miss Charlotte Entertains a Caller
worried 'bout Miss Elinor, seh. Miss Cha’lotte done send
fo' Docteh Mobley already dis mawnin'; but I don' spec' he
come now wid he pa daid."
Polly Ann shook her head dubiously as she moved slowly
back into the house. “Hit don’ look right,” she muttered,
“ 'bout Miss Elinor, an' I’se nowise satisfied in my min'.
. . An' de General daid! Lawd! Lawd! Hit sho'do
look lak er jedgment; hit sho' do!”
[ 219]


CHAPTER III
“PAQUITA – WHAT DO YOU SPELL?”
D RESENTLY Charlotte reappeared, composed and
I listless, her pale countenance subdued with sorrow.
“ You must pardon my having left you so uncere-
moniously,” she began, her quiet voice even quieter than
usual; “but your news was so shocking — my rest has been
so broken — that I was not strong to bear it. It is appalling,
Mr. Converse; I don't fully realize it yet. It troubles me
greatly to be so situated that I cannot go to Joyce.”
“I, too, regret that you cannot,” he returned, with a
meaning hidden from Charlotte.
She wanted to hear the particulars, and after he had
complied, briefly, she turned to him and asked:
“What do you make of it ?”
Before replying, he ran a hand thoughtfully through his
gray hair.
“There are two or three questions I should like to ask
you before going into that,” he returned, “if you please."
After a slight pause, taking her silence for consent, he pro-
ceeded:
“In my investigation of the two cases I have encountered
several coincidences so striking and suggestive that they
require the fullest elucidation. Whenever I set my mind
to working upon any phase of the duplex problem, one mystic
word immediately becomes the pivot about which everything
else begins to circle; whatever reasonable theory I may
[ 220 ]


“Paquita - What Do You Spell ?”
begin to develop, it sooner or later encounters 'Paquita,' and
I am unable to get beyond her, or to see anything very clearly
for the shadow she casts. And now, in the face of evidence
all pointing quite another way, I have become possessed of a
conviction that 'Paquita' embodies the crux of the entire
problem. Paquita — what do you spell ? Silence is the
only answer.” Suddenly he caught the intent look with
which she was following him, and he laughed in a depre-
cating way.
“Heaven knows, I am prosaic enough myself, Miss
Fairchild,” he continued, “but I overlook no possibilities,
however slender they may be; and it is particularly aggra-
vating to have a circumstance like this remain so completely
inexplicable — so insusceptible to the most determined
efforts. It is as if the minx were mocking me. I have
spent a number of years in Latin America, and am tolerably
familiar with their customs; but everything I have endeav-
ored to ascertain of the shadowy Paquita has been as barren
of results as my father's old Connecticut farm. That mys-
terious name suggests an element of romance which appeals to
the average individual; but the romance is not forthcoming."
“Does the name appear elsewhere besides on Doctor
Westbrook's paper-knife ?”
.
For answer he drew forth his pocket-book, and pro-
ducing therefrom the bit of paper he had found in the West-
brook ash-hopper, handed it to her.
“This is all that remains of a letter received by General
Westbrook day before yesterday, and burnt by him some
time during the same night. I was searching for something
altogether different — a writing upon which he was engaged
shortly before his death — and was led to this.
( 221 )


The Silver Blade
“The newspapers, as you know, made the most of the
'Paquita’ on the dagger-handle; you are familiar with the
unknown and mysterious señorita of the press, betrayed and
revengeful, striking from the grave through the medium
of Doctor Westbrook's paper-knife; but in reality she is not
only unknown, but there is not the slightest evidence that
any such person ever existed. I could imagine a secret
enemy of the General's choosing that name behind which
to mask his identity, especially at a time when it is fresh in
everybody's mind; yet the fact that the letter itself is written
in Spanish is strongly against this idea. That letter was
concluded in such a manner that the signature was an im-
portant part of the context.”
“You have heard the story of the dagger, have you not ?”
“Yes. But the truth is far from being so romantic; it
is quite sordid, in fact.”
“The truth? I fail to understand.”
“Yes. You know that we police in the different cities
all over the civilized world work together to a certain extent,
and assist each other whenever we can; complete and sys-
tematic records are kept of each detail — no matter how
unimportant or trivial it may seem — of every matter com-
ing to us in an official way, and those records are always at
the disposal of the police in any city.
"I dislike spoiling the pretty romance of the dagger,"
with an apologetic smile; “but the facts are these: A Mexi-
can girl, of the peon class, went to Mexico City some six
or seven years ago from the United States. She was accom-
panied by her brother, also an ignorant and extremely dirty
peon — what we call a “greaser' here. They had no money,
apparently were animated by no greater desire to acquire
( 222 )


“Paquita – What Do You Spell ?”
any than usually inspires the average peon, and they lived
in a hovel in the poorest quarter of the capital. Now, if it
had n't been for that rather remarkable dagger they would
have been forgotten long ago. They were both dead within
a month after their arrival, - smallpox. She killed herself
during delirium; he died a few days later in a pest-camp. It
is sordid enough, you see. It is that very unusual weapon
alone that has saved them from oblivion. How did they
come by it? It is impossible to say — stole it, probably;
but if so, it has been advertised enough of late, in all con-
science, to attract its owner if he be alive anywhere on the
face of the earth. But there are enterprising newspapers
also in the City of Mexico, and enterprising dealers in curios;
so there you have the genesis of the story of the Doctor's
paper-knife. So much for it. . . . Now then, question
one: Did you ever hear of any other Paquita ?”.
Charlotte's answer was a decided negative. “If you are
trying to establish such a person as ever having been a living
reality, and as ever having had interests involved with the
past of the Westbrook family, I believe it will lead to nothing;
unless — unless — ”
“Well ?”
“Well, unless it can be found in General Westbrook's
life in Mexico. But think of his character, his integrity, his
extraordinary family pride — are they not incompatible with
the existence of such a secret ?”
Converse nodded. “And I might add,” he said, “that
here again the pretty complete facts do not warrant the
slightest ground for such a theory.”
“But – ” Charlotte hesitated, "what has all this to do
with a friend in trouble ?”
[ 223 ]


The Silver Blade
“Patience, please; I shall get to that in good time. I
want you to know certain facts first, for without this pre-
amble the name will occasion a shock that all the after-
assurance and reasoning may not remove. You must be
prepared for the name before I blurt it out.”
“Very well, I am resigned,” she returned with a faint
smile. Since her return to the porch all the brightness had
left her face and eyes; the caller noted that she looked no
more down the roadway toward the city, and even her smile
was colorless and without the least spark of animation.
“May I ask you a question ?" she concluded.
“Certainly, Miss Fairchild; certainly."
“How about that man — the Mexican — Vargas ? Even
though I know but little of these dreadful affairs, I have
thought a great deal. And that man: what do you know of
him ?”
“I am glad you asked this question, because it touches
upon a point about which I wish to speak fully."
The Captain then recounted Vargas's testimony at the
first inquest, adding that it had since been fully corroborated
and amplified by exhaustive inquiries in Mexico.
“But still,” continued the speaker, “there is a point where
Señor Vargas comes into our mystery. He is shrewd and
aggressive, and has more than doubled his wealth since
taking up his residence in Mexico. He has only one rela-
tive - a nicce. She is merely a child who has spent all her
life in a convent; as commonplace, as ignorant of the world,
and as innocent as only such a child — and especially a
Spanish child — could possibly be. Bear in mind, Miss
Fairchild, that these are established facts. I am relating
them as briefly as possible; but they are necessary in leading
[ 224 ]


“Paquita - What Do You Spell ?”
up to my next question. Here is a point I wish you also to
remember; you will see why as I proceed. A year or two
ago Vargas purchased a hacienda from the administrators
of the estate of one Don Juan del Castillo, which he so lav-
ishly remodelled that it is now a veritable palace. Don Juan
had been a very wealthy man at one time, having a vast
estate; but his decease disclosed the fact that his affairs were
in a chaotic condition, and that he was practically bankrupt.
This man had never married, and all the formalities, besides
a diligent search, failed to bring forward an authentic heirs.
In short, none have ever appeared.
“These facts concerning Don Juan are interesting for
four reasons: first, the banking house of De Sanchez and De
Sanchez - of which General Westbrook was at that time a
partner — was administrator of the Castillo estate; second,
last night and shortly before his death, the General was en-
gaged in the compilation of a document headed ‘Memoran-
dum of Castillo Estate,' which document was taken from his
desk before the officers arrived; third, that while the county
records have been carefully searched for the purpose of
ascertaining if any of these foreigners had ever held any
property interests here, it was not until a day or two ago that
a single thing was found to justify the trouble. What that
was is queer enough.
"In November, eighteen fifty-nine, a mortgage was filed
for record by one John S. Castle.”
“Castle!” Charlotte became suddenly alert.
"Ah, I see the name is not unfamiliar to you; but let
me finish. The property mortgaged, among other parcels
of realty, included your old family homestead. Of course
the mortgager was your father. Now, with the name of
( 225 )


The Silver Blade
John S. Castle to guide us through the index to the mortgage
records, we find the next item of interest just three years
later — namely, in November, eighteen sixty-two — when
the mortgage was renewed. In another three years — that
is, in November sixty-five — it was again renewed; then,
in November, eighteen sixty-eight, an assignment of mort-
gage was filed, transferring this particular one to William
Slade, senior, your old overseer. Here John S. Castle dis-
appears for good and all; what followed concerning the
mortgage is irrelevant; but the point I wish to make is, that
the name John S. Castle is the English equivalent of Juan
S. Castillo. This is the fourth reason why Vargas interests
me. I have been unable to find any other trace of Castle.
And now, can all this be mere coincidence ?
“My next question to you is: Have you any knowledge
of Castle, or Slade, or is there any event in your family his-
tory that may by any chance throw light into these dark
places ? Or could either your mother or Mr. Clay do so ? ”
“Mr. Converse, this is all so marvellous that I am a little
bewildered. I never should have imagined that these dread-
ful tragedies could involve so much. How ever in the world
did you discover so many details ? But I am unable to tell
you much. As to mamma, I cannot say. Her memory,
of course — such as it is, Mr. Converse — goes back farther
than mine. But Clay – I am certain he could be of no
assistance; he is always impatient of dwelling upon our
more prosperous days; mamma, at times, is rather inclined
to — to — well, to contrast our present circumstances with
what they were before papa died, and Clay invariably leaves
the room on such occasions. John S. Castle was always
considered a fiction in our family, behind which the elder
[ 226 ]


“Paquita — What Do You Spell ?”
Slade masked his treachery; or, perhaps, it is more exact to
say that he came to be regarded as a fiction. It is very certain
that he never appeared at all. Slade, senior, in his younger
days was of a roving disposition. During the Mexican War
he enlisted in the army, I believe, and was with General
Scott in Mexico. He learned to speak the Spanish language,
I know; and that might explain John S. Castle; they
actually may have met in Mexico.”
"That is true; it may be merely one more of the coin-
cidences, signifying nothing at all. But I am not of a dispo-
sition to dismiss them thus.” He fell into a thoughtful
silence, from which he roused himself presently to say:
“It has occurred to me, Miss Fairchild, — to digress a
moment, — that all these details of the man Castle, and the
manner in which his name was utilized by the elder Slade,
might hide some sort of chicanery. Everything about that
old mortgage may not have been perfectly straight and
aboveboard; and if that is the case — why, there is no telling
what interest may be due you out of the property. Some of it
is very valuable now, and the matter is worth looking into.”
"Indeed ? ” returned Charlotte, without interest. “To
find a fortune for us would be a strange ending of a search
for the assassin of a man so completely a stranger.”
“Oh, I merely mentioned it as a result of my delving
into musty records. I do not wish to inspire any hopes that
may be disappointed.”
“Truly,” with more warmth, “I thank you. My lack
of enthusiasm arose from the impossibility of inspiring any
such hope at all. I shall tell Clay, though, what you have
just told me. Should we be entitled to any such interest,
he would assuredly exert an effort to regain it.”
[227]


The Silver Blade
He bowed a dismissal of the topic.
“But now, Miss Fairchild, does it not occur to you as a
bit remarkable that out of all the developments not one cir-
cumstance has appeared tending to throw any light on the
mysterious Paquita ? ”
Of a sudden she threw the back of one slender hand to
her lips — obviously a characteristic gesture; her look
assumed an expression of startled surprise. Charlotte's
customary repose of manner was so placid that the invol-
untary movement was doubly impressive and significant.
“Ah,” said Converse, quietly, "something has recurred
to you."
“That is true,” she at last returned, “and perhaps I
should not have mentioned it. But you certainly have en-
listed my sympathies, even though I might have no personal
interest in these tragedies; and God knows I am anxious
enough to see Clay, Mobley, all my friends freed of this
wretched nightmare. What struck me so abruptly was this:
ever since Joyce's trip to Mexico, and the presentation of
the dagger paper-knife to Mobley, he has playfully ad-
dressed his sister as 'Paquita.' I had forgotten it; but the
nickname spread among her intimates, and she subscribed
her letters to them usually in that way. The name appealed
to her, and I suppose I have notes now from Joyce signed
'Paquita.'”
“This is certainly very interesting,” said he with marked
gravity; and Charlotte continued with increased animation:
“It just occurred to me that the circumstance may have
become known to some one who has used it with a special
significance, at present unknown to you."
“Possibly. But I was not thinking of it in that way."
( 228 )


“Paquita - What Do You Spell ?”
Although she waited, he vouchsafed no further explana-
tion. Instead, he remained, for possibly a minute, in quiet
reflection; then turning to Charlotte, he asked in a matter-
of-fact way:
“Do you think you could lay your hand upon any of those
notes ? I should like to have a glimpse of Miss Joyce's
penmanship.”
She brightened as at a sudden pleasant thought. "If
so, they are in my escritoire. Just a moment, please.”
She glided into the house and returned in a few moments
with a half-dozen or so heavy, cream-tinted envelopes. With-
out comment she handed them to Converse, eyeing him
expectantly as he took up one at random.
It was inscribed, “Miss Susan Sunshine,” — evidently
a playful sobriquet designating Charlotte, — and a bit of
violet-hued wax bore the Westbrook crest. He merely
glanced at the legible and flowing characters; noted that,
as it bore no stamp, it had obviously been delivered by pri-
vate messenger, and then shook his head. “I have never
seen that handwriting before,” was his only spoken obser-
vation as he handed the parcel back to Charlotte. It is
impossible that she could have imagined the feeling of antici-
pation, almost if not quite anxious in its intensity, that stirred
within him in the face of the rapidly forming pattern into
which immediate events were patently shaping themselves.
But the curiosity now animating her had not yet been
satisfied. “Look at this,” she persisted, hastily selecting
another envelope from the lot. “I have read of marvellous
feats of a detective reading a person's entire life from a scrap
of that person's chirography. I have a curiosity to know
what you make of this.”
( 229 )


The Silver Blade
“I have read of such things, too,” with a little laugh;
“but I am afraid they are mostly confined to fiction. Still
a fragment of one's handwriting is often a great aid in — ”
He stopped, and his brow shot into a pucker as his glance
fell upon the envelope now in his hand. “This is by an-
other hand,” he concluded, sharply.
“You are correct; yet — yet — ”
He glanced up quickly, giving Charlotte a rapier-like
look. “Miss Westbrook wrote it ? ” he completed her
sentence.
She nodded brightly.
“Then she is —” He searched his memory for a word
which the District Attorney had suggested to him on a simi-
lar occasion; and as Mr. Mountjoy supplied it then, so did
Charlotte now.
“Ambidextrous,” said she. “Her left hand is reserved
for the ‘Susan Sunshine' letters and all such whimsical cor-
respondence, while this last is her individual handwriting.
Equal facility in the use of either hand is a hereditary West-
brook trait.”
He remained still so long that she began to manifest
some impatience. “You attach no importance to it, do
you ? ” she asked with some misgiving
He did not respond immediately. Now was an occasion
when his ability absolutely to conceal all feeling could serve
him admirably. Looking at Charlotte he had not the heart
to tell her that she was innocently supplying such serious
connecting links to the chain of evidence tightening about her
beloved friend. While the handwriting on the second envel-
ope in no wise resembled the writing on the charred fragment
of the “Paquita” letter, further than that both were feminine,
( 230 )


“Paquita — What Do You Spell ?”
yet that circumstance of Joyce's ambidexterity — how por-
tentous it was!
So, when he finally responded, he plunged into another
phase of the subject, as if he had not heard her question.
“Miss Fairchild,” briskly, “I must progress toward the
final and most important matter which I came here to present
to you, and again I take occasion to warn you that this part
of my recital will require a great deal of your fortitude.
You must believe, now, that I have worked untiringly –
unceasingly — in this matter?”
“I believe that, Mr. Converse."
“Very good. Now, endeavor not only to keep before
you what I have already told you, but please follow me as
closely as you can. ... First, however, assure me upon one
point, though it may seem inconsequential and even presum-
ing in me to speak of it; but before I am done you will under-
stand. Is there any attachment between your brother and
Miss Westbrook ?”
She regarded him with serious eyes.
“Mr. Converse," she began, with a sudden assumption
of reserve and restraint, “that is a very delicate and, to me,
sacred matter; but I-" She checked herself, and once
more regarded him gravely; her manner quickly changed,
and again she became frank and open. “I do not believe
you would ask it were it not important that I answer you
frankly. Never have Clay and I exchanged a word upon
the subject; but I am a woman — his sister — and I love
him dearly; I see a great deal more than he would ever
suspect. Mr. Converse, please respect this confidence: I
believe there has never been a time when Clay did not love
Joyce, dear, darling, beautiful girl that she is. As for her,
( 231 )


The Silver Blade
I do not know. She has a warm attachment for Clay; she
admires him; still, she is so young — her life has been so
gay and light-hearted, so entirely free from any care and
responsibility — that it is pleasant to think no strong emo-
tion has yet laid its touch upon her heart. To her, Clay
has been a playmate, a loved comrade, a friend; whether
he is destined ever to be more, I cannot say. But I believe
I have told you the exact status of their intimacy, for it has
occupied my thoughts often, often, often."
'This confidence has not injured your brother; and you
have my word of honor that it is as sacred with me as with
yourself.”
“That will do; I can now hear anything you have to tell
me.”
He paused a moment. He knew he must hurt her, how-
ever carefully he might unfold the intelligence he had come
to convey, and so why prolong the anxiety by trying to
temper it? So he said, slowly, deliberately:
“Miss Fairchild, the one person that we have so far been
unable to account for, to whom we must look for the ex-
planation of these crimes is – a woman."
A slight gasp from his hearer caused him to pause again.
Briefly he gauged her strength.
"That woman was alone with your brother about the
time of De Sanchez's death. In short, the assassin could
have been no place but in Mr. Nettleton's office; and no
one was there besides those two."
“Merciful God! Clay!”
“Wait!” hastily. “Your brother is innocent - I am
sure of that — but the woman — "
Charlotte sat quivering as if with an ague, deadly white.
( 232 )


“Paquita — What Do You Spell ?”
"Who ? — who ? " she gasped, huskily, when he paused.
“The facts all say – Joyce Westbrook.”
“Oh, don't — don't!” She arose and stood unsteadily
confronting him. “I can't — I will not listen to this. It is
abominable. You have stumbled into some terrible error
that may be explained. Why, Mr. Converse, this will kill
Joyce. Oh, how horrible! how horrible!”
“Error ? ” said he, with extraordinary gentleness. “Ah,
Miss Fairchild, I hate to pain you so, but somebody must
be stirred to action. I cannot reach to the Doctor's or his
sister's sensibilities in their morbid state of mind; and if
she will not unlock her lips, I cannot speak of the result.
Error? I admit its possibility. I spent an exceedingly
bad half-hour this morning trying to persuade Doctor West-
brook and Miss Joyce that I was more than willing to meet
them on this ground. But no. If I have, as you say,
stumbled into a bog of error, they left me to get back to
terra firma again as best I could. If we can agree upon this
point, we have an excellent position from which to operate;
and for the young lady's sake I would so agree.”
“Mr. Converse, Mr. Converse," moaned Charlotte, as
if a mortal physical wound had been dealt her. “Wait!
I can't bear it! The idea is so hideous -- so monstrous — ”
“With all respect, dear lady, I sincerely hope that she is
the victim of an extraordinary concurrence of circumstances
- and no more. But her position is even far more desper-
ate and dangerous than you could possibly imagine.”
Charlotte sat down again, and quietly — very quietly —
watched her interlocutor. She appeared stunned. Pres-
ently she asked with bated breath:
“What will happen ? My God! do you wish to lead me
( 233 )


CHAPTER IV
MISS CHARLOTTE BECOMES A FACTOR
THAT Joe's errand had carried him to the Westbrook
home in search of the Captain, and thence to the cot-
tage, could signify only a matter of the utmost emer-
gency; so Converse watched his approach with some curiosity,
wondering why his friend, Mr. Follett, should be in such haste
to find him. He thought of the advertisement seeking
information concerning the unknown woman.
The negro approached and handed him a much-soiled
envelope; and this is what he read:
Slade was here this A. M. Claims to have seen and recog-
nized woman in Nettleton Bldg. at time of De S. murder.
Holds out for more money, so be careful. He is up to some
game; but I think he really knows.
It was indeed from Abram, and had been hurriedly
penned at No. 18 Ash Lane.
After the message was delivered, and while it was being
read, Charlotte noted that it had the effect of producing a
peculiar change in the countenance of the reader: his mouth
puckered, as if for a whistle, though none was emitted; while
his right eyebrow lifted in a manner that left a queer, quiz-
zical expression on his weather-beaten visage.
He pocketed the missive without comment; scratched a
word of acknowledgment on the envelope, which he handed
to Joe — temporarily an ebon-hued Mercury — with an
injunction to return at once to Mr. Follett.
[ 236 ]


Miss Charlotte Becomes a Factor
For a time he sat in a silence that was pensive, even though
his inflexible frame and countenance were not. How strange
that the message should come to hand just at this juncture!
— at the moment when he was obliged to admit the absence
of a witness that had seen the woman. And that witness
Slade! Was Joyce Westbrook the woman? There was
that in the bare fact of Slade's being the person who was
possessed of this knowledge which made the Captain feel
that the coil was tightening irresistibly about the girl, for he
was beginning to acquire his own idea as to what “Slade's
Blessing” might signify; an idea utterly different from the
more universal one. But he would say nothing further to
harrow this much troubled lady beside him. After a while
he turned to Charlotte with some abruptness.
“Now then, Miss Fairchild, you pretty well understand
the status of both the cases. The main thing is, now, do
you”— he emphasized the pronoun –“appreciate the seri-
ousness of Miss Westbrook's position ? If you do not, if
this hour spent with you is barren of results, I shall be
obliged openly to take her into custody, put Mr. Mountjoy
in possession of the case, and let the law take its course.
If I do not, some one else will. I dislike being so blunt, but
these issues must be met squarely.”
“I cannot be further shocked, Mr. Converse. I will
do all that lies in my humble power. If Joyce was in the
Nettleton Building that afternoon, it had been far better
for Mobley to have announced it at once, whatever the
result might have been."
Her hearer considerately refrained from again mention-
ing the possible reason for silence. Instead he said:
“You are now prepared to hear the main object of my
( 2371


The Silver Blade
call. The early part of last night I spent in going carefully
over all that I have set before you, but more particularly as
it concerns your brother's disappearance. It has become
plain that, whatever our attempts to locate him may have
failed in, they have at least proved one thing — that he
never left the city. Who should know better where he is
than his sister ?”
: “Believe me, Mr. Converse," she began quickly; but he
held up a restraining hand.
“Wait,” said he. “Let me finish. This is when I re-
solved to bully and frighten you — to get the information
from you willy-nilly, — and behold to what that resolution
has come! Now, I am not going to embarrass you at this
time by asking you where Mr. Clay is, or even if you know
where he is; but I do expect that by to-morrow night,” he
gave her a look full of meaning, and repeated, “that by to-
morrow night, Miss Fairchild, some result will come from
this interview; either that I shall hear from your brother,
Doctor Westbrook, Miss Joyce, or all of them.”
“What I started to say when you interrupted me is, that
I do not know where Clay is. There is where I have been
kept in ignorance.”
“The reason being,” he added, “that something very
like this interview was foreseen – not because you could n't
be trusted -- no, no: it was to spare you from ever being
obliged to refuse divulging your knowledge. Knowing of
his whereabouts, you could never have met an examination,
such as you might have been subjected to, with a plea of
ignorance.”
“I can only act as you have suggested,” she returned;
"and I will make my arrangements accordingly as soon as
( 238 )


Miss Charlotte Becomes a Factor
I possibly can. While Clay is absent it is very inconvenient
communicating with the city.”
"I shall be glad to convey any message you wish to send.”
“Thank you. It is Doctor Westbrook that I wish to see.
I sent him word this morning regarding mamma's illness;
but I expect now that he will not come — soon.”
"Well, Miss Fairchild,” the Captain arose briskly, “I
have accomplished my errand, and if nothing else ever comes
of it, I shall always retain a delightful remembrance of these
flowers. I shall call here again Thursday morning early —
that is, if I have to come to you for results. That will be
day after to-morrow, and I shall make no open move until
after I have seen you. Now write your note, and I will
see that the Doctor gets it. I shall wait in the garden.”
When, after a few minutes, she reappeared and handed
him the envelope, he said, as if the matter had just occurred
to him:
“By the way, Miss Fairchild, when I first mentioned last
night's affair a while back, you spoke of William Slade:
why ?”
Immediately she became grave and thoughtful.
“Because,” after an appreciable pause,“ he called here last
night to see my mother, and his visit had to do with General
Westbrook.” She stopped in sudden alarm at an abrupt
change in the Captain's manner. “What is it ?” she asked.
The response was a string of ejaculations.
“Slade!— Here! — General Westbrook!” he cried in
utter astonishment.
Charlotte was startled at this surprising manifestation of
interest.
"It is very remarkable,” she presently resumed, “and I
( 239 )


The Silver Blade
cannot in the least understand what it means. That it was
extraordinarily serious, mamma's condition this morning
testifies to. Does the circumstance tell you anything?”.
The detective was regarding her in a most peculiar man-
ner. His expression seemed to say that nothing in the
whole gamut of possible disclosures touching upon the two
mysteries could take him more unawares than this simple
statement of Charlotte's; but she had by no means told him
all, and his face at once became impassive again.
“Please finish,” said he, quite calmly; “I don't know –
yet.”
She obeyed, narrating at length her experience of the
preceding night. He listened with attentive silence until the
burning of the papers was mentioned. The look of the gray
eyes brought something like consternation to Charlotte.
“Miss Fairchild!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, I knew it was very, very wrong,” she cried, sorely
troubled at his obvious dismay; “but what could I do?
Mamma was not herself; she wanted me to swear that I
would not even look at them — to burn them instantly.
She was so excited — ".
“Never mind — never mind,” he broke in with a re-
assurance he did not in the least feel; “don't distress your-
self. I see — I will take it for granted that you could not
have done otherwise than you did; that your excellent com-
mon sense bade you pause — ”
“Indeed, indeed, that is true,” fervently.
“You had no alternative, and I will not blame you;
but — " and his mouth closed grimly.
“ 'It is unfortunate, nevertheless, you would say. Is
the loss irreparable ?"
[ 240 ]


Miss Charlotte Becomes a Factor
“How can I tell now? But you must appreciate the
importance of those papers in the light of what occurred
after Slade's call. . . . By the way, what time did he de-
part ? "
“About half-past nine or ten o'clock. . . . And to think,
had I disobeyed mamma, I might have averted — " She
shuddered and did not finish.
The Captain made no response. The subject afforded
too wide a field for speculation to indulge idly in probabil-
ities. The papers being irretrievably gone, the salient facts
upon which his mind fastened were, that Slade had some
knowledge that the General's life was threatened, and for some
reason — another mystery in a veritable network of mys-
teries — he had imparted the intelligence to Mrs. Fairchild.
But why ? — why, of all persons, to her ? Mr. Slade had
at last assumed a position that was susceptible of scrutiny.
After a number of questions, to which Charlotte could
return no satisfactory replies, Converse said:
“If it is possible, I must see your mother as soon as she
is able to bear the strain of an unpleasant interview. Try
to prepare her against my next coming, Miss Fairchild.”
Charlotte promised to do her best.
The talk was broken in upon by an abrupt change in her
countenance. All at once she became beautiful; a warm
tide of color mounted to her cheeks; her head became re-
gally erect; and she shot a look down the pergola of locusts
and elms that lined the roadway, such as an eagle might
flash from one mountain-peak to her mate upon another.
Instinctively Mr. Converse turned and descried in the dis-
tance an approaching horse and buggy. So the Doctor
was obeying her first summons, after all. The Captain
[ 241 )


Miss Charlotte Becomes a Factor
“Have I any reason — " he repeated, blankly. “I don't
understand; who has been talking to you ?” But light
suddenly broke, and he concluded: “So that was that con-
founded detective fellow who just left here.”
“Mobley, you are unjust.” It was quite plain to her
why he should think with irritation of Mr. Converse. “Al-
though a stranger, he has treated me fairer than you have:
he has given me his confidence.”
The Doctor's eyes, yielding a sudden light of apprehension,
became glued to Charlotte's; but he remained silent.
“I know you have been terribly troubled,” she went on,
evenly; "but have you been afraid of me, Mobley ?”
"My God, Charlotte, no! I have simply wanted to spare
you. There has been no reason why you should be drawn
into this damnable mess, nor is there any more reason now.
That man will have to answer to me for this.”
“No, no, he will not, Mobley. I believe he has told the
truth. I think that Joyce – oh, poor, darling girl, how my
heart bleeds for her! — I think that innocent dear is the
victim of the most diabolical set of circumstances I ever
heard of. They will inevitably ruin her if she is not freed
from them; and if it lies within our power to do so — do
you hear me, Mobley ? — if it lies within our power to do so,
we must find a way.”
“Dear, dear girl," he groaned. “If I had told him this
morn – ”
But she calmly interrupted him.
“You must drive down to Mrs. Florian's and bring her
here in your buggy; I am going home with you. Your
entire course in this matter has been wrong," — firmly.
“ Joyce is innocent, of course, and the truth can't hurt.”
( 243 )


The Silver Blade
“But you don't know,” he still persisted.
“No; that is very true," she returned, looking steadily
at him; “but I will shortly. ... Come — let us go in now.”
And together they entered the house.
At once the condition of the sorely stricken mother drove
everything else temporarily from their minds. John Con-
verse nor any other person would ever again hear a sound
issue from those moveless lips.
So another door was closed.
[ 244 )


The Silver Blade
crime itself. Before he entered the reception-room he must
have known that the Doctor or some other person was there,
for a light was burning brightly therein; that the deed had
been discovered; and it was certain that even then the police
were on their way thither, if they had not already arrived.
Yet he entered the office unhesitatingly. Again, no powerful
emotions were betrayed by him until after he had seen the
body, and then his first change of expression betokened
surprise and bewilderment. The rapidly succeeding horror
and terror were present while he was looking at Doctor
Westbrook, and not at the body. “I was quite as much
astonished by his behavior," was Mr. Howe's testimony
hereof, “as by anything that had happened before. ... The
mere sight of the body did not, to my mind, account for the
extremity of emotion depicted on his countenance, which
seemed completely to overwhelm him.” There was a
quality about the look with which he regarded Doctor West-
brook so dreadful that it spurred the Doctor from his own
preoccupying excitement and agitation to demand an ex-
planation.
Did Clay Fairchild, puzzled over Miss Joyce's excited
and unexpected appearance, go to Doctor Westbrook's
office seeking enlightenment, and were his unspoken questions
there answered by the dead body of Alberto de Sanchez ?
And now there was a witness who could establish the
identity of the unknown woman.
Possibly the last consideration had as much weight in
influencing Mr. Converse to a decision which he made
while riding back to the city, as the reasons therefor which
he gave in his own mind; but, trifling as that decision may
appear to be, it was destined to entail consequences of the
[ 246 ]


The Silver Blade
Construction Co.," and had been postmarked at Monterey,
Mexico.
The missive was very long, and as it entered into a num-
ber of matters quite foreign to this narrative, it will be con-
densed. It purported to be written by one Morris A. King,
now a civil engineer in the employ of a Mexican construction
concern, and the author asserted that he and Clay Fairchild
had been schoolmates, and that a warm friendship yet existed
between them. The letter ran:
“My parents reside in New York and on the first of last
October I had leave of absence to pay them a visit. On my
return I shortened that visit by a day in order to surprise
Clay, and I stopped with him two or three hours on No-
vember fourth.” Here the reader's interest suddenly quick-
ened. “The mysterious sketch of the dagger mentioned by
the papers was made on that day solely for my benefit.”
The writer went on to say that Clay had confided his
literary ambitions to his friend, and that the latter had urged
him to come with him to Mexico, “the land of romance, love,
fighting, tinkling guitars, and sloe-eyed señoritas." He
held out many inducements to Fairchild in the way of material
for stories; but the young man persisted in his inability to
accept the invitation.
One of the plots suggested was indeed extraordinary.
The letter went on:
“The heroine of my yarn was a certain Paquita. Does
that strain your credulity? Well, it's a fact which you may
easily verify when you come up with Clay. In my veracious
legend Paquita stabbed herself with a magnificent jewelled
dagger, the same having been the gift of a false lover.
Could it have been your ‘Silver Blade,' I wonder? ....
I had this story from a certain Ignacio Monterde, who related
( 248 )


The Silver Blade
The manner in which the name of Slade wound in and
out of this maze, indefinitely and apparently without cause
or purpose, had excited Mr. Converse's attention to such an
extent that even now two subordinates were burrowing into
the abstracter's past in an effort to unearth something that
might clear up this distracting and irritating side-issue;
but their efforts had been abortive in so far as the results
aimed at were concerned, although — as he had informed
Miss Charlotte — a number of seemingly irrelevant facts
had been brought to light, which only made this phase more
perplexing than ever. And now, Mr. Slade's remarkable
visit to the Fairchild cottage, and what had happened
there, were only added knots in an already badly tangled
skein.
He next rang for the departmental stenographer, and for
two hours was busy dictating letters and going over reports,
with an energy that made his pale young amanuensis marvel.
But as the Federal Building clock began to toll off eight
strokes, he noted the impatience with which the young man
consulted his watch.
"Julius, you are tired,” he said, in a matter-of-fact way.
“This is the last letter.”
It was not to be written that night, however. His state-
ment was punctuated by the telephone bell, and, shoving the
desk instrument toward the stenographer, he said:
“Talk for me.” Without such aid, he was shorn of this
device's convenience in long-distance communication.
The stenographer presently announced that Mr. Mc-
Caleb desired to talk with Captain Converse.
“What does he want ? ” sharply demanded the latter.
It required a minute's maltreatment of the telephone to
( 250 )


A Decision and a Letter
elicit the further information that Captain Converse's pres-
ence at the Westbrook home was urgently desired.
Wondering much what this summons might portend, he
donned his hat and overcoat, and strode forth to intercept
a street-car.
At the same time Mr. William Slade, wrapped in a dingy
and much frayed dressing-gown, with a ghoulish light of
exultation smouldering in his mouse-like eyes, sat in his dingy
hole of a room, and went over again in his mind a recent
conversation between himself and Mr. Merkel. What he
had told the Coroner that evening had caused the worthy
official to stare in speechless amazement — a feeling which
rapidly grew into one of eminent satisfaction after Mr. Slade,
with much precision and circumstantiality, had embodied
his statements in a written affidavit.
So Mr. Slade now reviews this colloquy.
“What's twenty-five dollars!” he mutters, laughing
noiselessly and without mirth, and cracking his knuckly
fingers. “What is any money to this! You may have de-
feated one purpose, my dear; but, to a man of talent and
resource, there exist an infinite variety of ways. To be sure,
what 's twenty-five dollars to this!” And he glances at an
open paper displayed conspicuously on the table.
“GEN. PEYTON WESTBROOK THE
VICTIM OF AN ASSASSIN."
By the feeble illumination of the candle could yet be
read, in letters an inch high, this “scare head” extending
across the entire front page.
[ 251 ]


CHAPTER VI
FAINT RAYS FROM STRANGE SOURCES
EANWHILE the Captain narrowly escaped missing
a car, and as he ran for it he fancied he heard a news-
boy crying an extra edition of some evening paper.
Idly wondering what could call forth an additional issue so
soon after the regular evening edition, he took his seat, and
straightway forgot the incident.
His cogitations in a little while assumed the form of a
resolution to avail himself of the present opportunity to ask
Mrs. Westbrook several questions which had been restrained
only by the circumstances of her bereavement. He dis-
liked obtruding himself upon her privacy at such a time;
but he felt that, since the morning, she had had occasion
within which to compose herself and to become expectant
of the entrance of the police into the tragedy of her husband's
death.
Upon arriving at the Westbrook home, he was met at the
wide veranda steps by McCaleb himself.
“Sorry to have troubled you,” whispered the latter, hur-
riedly. “I will tell you why I sent as soon as I get a chance.
But wait; if my reason is not good, Miss Westbrook gave
me one that is.”
McCaleb paused. He seemed with only indifferent suc-
cess to be curbing an inward excitement, and his manner
lent a special significance to his next words.
"She has been inquiring for you,” he added.
( 252 )


Faint Rays from Strange Sources
Converse did not appear at all surprised; but knowing
his chief as he did, neither did McCaleb seem surprised at
the reception of his pregnant announcement.
“Come with me; I have something mighty queer to show
you.” And after word of the Captain's arrival had been
sent to the ladies, McCaleb led the way around to one side
of the house, coming to a halt in the dense darkness beneath
the porte-cochère.
“After I 'phoned, Miss Westbrook came to me and asked
if there was any likelihood of your coming to the house soon.
She was a good deal confused and embarrassed; but the
question so stumped me — after what happened this
morning, you know,- that I forgot my good manners, and
asked her "Why?' But she replied that she had something
to tell you alone, which she thought you would be glad to
hear — that it was of such importance that you would doubt-
less pardon a summons to.come at once. Then I told her
you were probably on your way here now; and with that she
turned away, apparently satisfied.”
McCaleb caught the other's arm and drew him onto the
lawn, away from the house and from beneath the porte-
cochère. Again lowering his voice to a whisper, he said:
“Look up at those two windows, there, right over the
roof of the carriage-entrance.”
Converse did so, and noted that the carriage-entrance
roof formed a balcony upon which the two windows gave, and
that the room beyond was evidently brightly illuminated,
for faint rays of light found their way through minute inter-
stices in the curtains:
“Well ?” he queried at length.
“That is Miss Westbrook's bedroom.”
[ 253 )


The Silver Blade
“Yes ? And what 's queer about that ?”
McCaleb considered a minute.
"Well, sir, I saw her at that window to-night, waving a
lighted candle about, as though signalling some one.”
“Ha! Which way was she looking - up — down?”
“Straight ahead, sir, — west. She seemed to be looking
at or trying to see something about on a level with her head.”
“On a level with her head, eh? That would be some-
what above our own." And the Captain involuntarily faced
about to the west. Raising his eyes to an approximate level
with those of a person standing at the window, they encoun-
tered nothing but the night sky, against which were silhouetted
in dense blackness the blended outlines of trees and a gable
of the house across Tenth Street. All sense of perspective was
lost. And surely nothing there that a candle might aid one
in seeing: its tiny light would be as insignificant — if the
contrast is not already plain — as a dewdrop in the crater of
Vesuvius. Finally he brought back a questioning eye to
the young man's sober countenance.
"It was queer,” McCaleb at once continued. “But I
have n't told you the queerest part. I looked around, try-
ing to see what she could be after — only I walked about
quite a bit; but I saw nothing more than usual. Every-
thing was perfectly quiet; no one even passed in the street
all the time I was waiting here, and look as I might, I saw
no one to whom she could have been making signals — not
an answering light anywhere.”
The speaker stopped with a start. A sudden accession
of light caused both to look up, and Converse perceived the
slight, graceful figure of Joyce Westbrook standing by one of
the windows. The blind was now raised, and all the lights
( 254 )


Faint Rays from Strange Sources
in an electrolier behind the girl threw a flood of reflected
radiance upon the beautiful countenance. The light cast
an aureole about her wealth of hair — ebon tresses which,
if unbound, would dissolve into the fluent blackness of night,
like water into water. Either by a trick of the light, or in
reality, her loveliness was so etherealized as to make this
motionless apparition positively weird.
At last she turned slowly away and disappeared, without
drawing down the shade. A disheartening sense of depres-
sion, such as he had experienced after leaving Miss Char-
lotte, came over Converse again, while the detective instinct
was uncompromisingly alert to McCaleb's words. Whether
the vision of Joyce evoked any such feelings in the younger
man, it would be impossible to say; his hawk-like gaze
remained riveted upon her while she stood at the window
- as if she were merely an enigma hard to solve — and as
soon as she was gone, he resumed speaking in unaltered tones.
“The incident was mighty puzzling, and I began a quiet,
systematic quizzing of the servants, with an idea of clearing
up this side-mystery. First, I got from Miss Westbrook's
woman the fact that her mistress had for a week or two left
a light at that window every night. Upon being pressed
closer, Melissa told me the light was first placed there on
the night of Saturday, the seventh; that it was always at that
particular window, and that it was allowed to burn all night.”
“Do you mean, Mac, that of those two windows so close
together the light is never by any chance left at the other ? "
“That's it, sir; it's always the southernmost window."
“And you say these windows can't be seen from the
street ? ”
"No, sir; they cannot.”
[ 255 ]


The Silver Blade
“Very good. I fancy if a person were on a level with
that window when the candle-play is going on, he could see
something off there to the west that can't be seen from any
other point. We'll have to know what it means, Mac,
before the night is many hours older.”
As he entered the house Converse was somewhat sur-
prised at being notified by Sam that Mrs. Westbrook would
receive him at his convenience, in the mouing-room. “The
mother instead of the daughter; now, what does that
mean?” he observed, mentally. He reflected that, in the
whirl of events, he had taken but small account of this lady.
What little he knew of her — merely such vague reports as
may come to one of any individual's personality — pictured
for him a cold, selfish, distant woman, indifferent to most
matters that did not affect her directly; and so far there had
been no occasion for giving her any unusual attention.
Mrs. Westbrook was a tall, stately woman of a superb
figure. Her mere physical appearance, the unconscious
ease of her carriage, the uncompromising uplift of her head,
were all remarkably impressive; but there was much beyond
this. To begin with, she had been wonderfully neglected
by Time. One might fancy that the hauteur of this grande
dame was as discouraging to the harbinger of immortality
as it was chilling to individuals who failed in any of the many
qualities necessary to meet her full approval. Like the
General, there was a repellent frigidity in her customary
glance, and her clear, almost faultless features were marred
by the aptness with which they could emphasize scorn or
disdain at the expense of an ability to reflect any of the softer
feelings. If she had ever possessed any of the illusions
common to girlhood, they had been dispelled — forgotten
( 256 )


Faint Rays from Strange Sources
- long, long since: a woman temperamentally beyond the
influence of the smaller courtesies and amenities of life, it
was quite patent that she could not have lived that life more
alone had it been cast in the midst of a desert isle; and it
was difficult to imagine her so shaken from her aplomb as
McCaleb and Clancy had beheld her the night before.
Perhaps Time had indeed passed her by as needing none of
his attentions.
Years ago Louise Shepardson had been much sought
after by the bachelor gentry of her circle. There existed a
strange allurement for the masculine nature in her statu-
esque beauty, an enticing incentive to kindle it into flame; but
the Pygmalion for whom this lovely Galatea might have
quickened into life never appeared, and one by one her suitors
retired to direct their ardor along paths of less resistance.
The lady was standing facing the door when Sam ushered
in Mr. Converse. It was plain from her attitude that she
intended to remain standing throughout the coming inter-
view; that she expected her guest to do likewise; and that
the interview itself was to be very short. It cannot be said
that the Captain's susceptibilities were particularly sensi-
tive; yet he felt the condescension with which Mrs.
Westbrook received him, and all at once his scruples for the
intrusion vanished. He bowed low.
“Madam,” he began, his impassive features as free from
any emotion as her own, “I apologize for disturbing you;
I have postponed the matter as long as I could; but there are
some ques — ”
She interrupted him without the slightest consideration,
her enunciation deliberate and incisive.
“You will please dispense with any preamble,” she said,
[ 257 ]


The Silver Blade
coldly. “Ask your questions as briefly and concisely as
possible.”
He did not hurry. It was too patent that, if she did not
choose to answer, she would ignore any interrogation he
might frame. Abruptly his look became as hard as flint,
and all of his moving personality seemed to be concentrated
in one steady, piercing glance. But her pale eyes continued
to meet the steely gray ones, boldly, and as inscrutable as the
granite orbs of a sphinx. Nobody had ever seen behind
those eyes.
“Mrs. Westbrook,” he presently retorted, his manner
calculating and unsympathetic, “I regret that you meet me
in this spirit of antagonism. You are making a difficult
situation infinitely more diffi — ”
She started to interrupt.
“Wait, please!” he peremptorily commanded. He
remained silent a moment with his gaze fixed squarely upon
her; then, with a sternness that would brook no trifling,
continued: “Out of a common courtesy I requested this
interview; but do you know, Mrs. Westbrook, if need be I
could enforce it? I want to be as gentle and considerate as
it is possible for me to be, but my patience has its limits.
I will choose my own time and my own questions, and you
will refuse to answer them at your peril.”
She shrank from him as if he had struck her in the face.
“Allow me to pass,” she demanded; but he neither moved
nor spoke. In a moment her lip curled witheringly. “Am
I to suppose that I am under arrest also ?”
"If you insist on leaving the room, yes,” was the blunt
answer. She threw a hand to her throat and recoiled another
step, overcome with a blank, horrified amazement.
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Faint Rays from Strange Sources
“Me!” she gasped. “Arrest me!”
All at once she broke into a little laugh of biting contempt.
"Why, I believe you are insane — irresponsible — that
must be it. That is the only way to explain such extraor-
dinary conduct. Now you will please step aside, and al-
low me to pass.” She confronted him with a sudden flash
of indignation before which any less masterful personality
surely would have quailed. But Converse remained quite
undaunted. His response was to produce his watch, with
some ostentation, and stand holding it in his hand.
“As it happens,” said he, easily, “I am in a hurry myself.
I shall give you just two minutes to decide whether you will
remain here and answer a few questions, or answer them at
the police station; it is all one to me."
It is not likely that he was exacting about the time, for
more than two minutes elapsed before Mrs. Westbrook gave
any indication that she was not turned to stone; then slowly
her rigidity relaxed, her pale eyes fell before his, a spot
of color glowed on either cheek, and the man knew he
had conquered. He was far from relishing the necessity
for his conduct; he did not exult; but on the contrary, he
responded to her capitulation with an air of deference and
gentleness.
“Now then, Mrs. Westbrook," he resumed, in tones
vastly altered, “I trust you have chosen the wiser course.
I am asking little of you."
Her back was now turned to him, and she did not meet his
regard.
“What is it you want ?” she asked over one shoulder, and
almost in a whisper.
"Well, first,” becoming abruptly business-like and
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impersonal, “ did you ever hear General Westbrook men-
tion a certain Don Juan del Castillo ?”
He paused, for the back turned to him betrayed a
start.
"Because,” he continued at once, “I believe it is through
Don Juan that this mystery may be cleared.” He hesitated
again, curious to see her face.
Mrs. Westbrook astonished him. Quite without warning
she wheeled about and took one or two rapid steps toward
him. Her eyes were wide with a terror the existence of
which nothing within his knowledge would account for;
but it was plain that he had at last penetrated her reserve.
“What — what do you know of him ?” she demanded in
a hoarse, distressed whisper. “Who — who — Good God,
what are you? What do you know ?” As she awaited his
reply her bosom- rose and fell tumultuously.
“Mrs. Westbrook — calm yourself — there is no occa-
sion for this excitement,” he returned, sorely perplexed at
this unexpected turn. He hesitated to press this woman
whose agitation was so profound, yet incomprehensible;
but she offered him an opportunity which duty sternly bade
him take advantage of. “If you will be seated for a few
minutes - " he added; but she again interrupted:
“Tell me — at once -- what wrong has my husband
done? My God! my God! Is his name to be smirched –
to be dragged in the mire — now — now that he is dead ?”
He considered his reply.
“Mrs. Westbrook, I have not come here to inquire into
General Westbrook's conduct while he was alive, further
than is necessary to aid me in finding who is responsible for
his death. Of still greater importance than this is the
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Faint Rays from Strange Sources
necessity of freeing your daughter from the cloud of suspicion
which now rests upon her — if it be possible.”
Something very like a sob escaped from the woman's
tightly compressed lips.
“Can — can — you — you — can you save Joyce,” she
faltered, “without dishonoring my — without dishonoring
the dead?”
Could he ? He weighed his answer carefully, and when
he finally spoke it was to make an attempt at reassuring this
agitated woman.
“You know, I suppose, that General Westbrook was a
joint administrator of the Castillo estate ?”
“Yes.”
"Well, then,” he spoke with much earnestness,“ so far as
my investigations have been carried into the mutual affairs
of your husband and Alberto de Sanchez, not a circum-
stance has appeared that is not strictly honorable. The
matter has been gone into fully; the records are correct in
every particular — full and complete — and nothing what-
ever points to anything not strictly honest and fair.”
Again Converse was surprised. Mrs. Westbrook sudden-
ly sank into a chair and burst into tears.
( 201 )


CHAPTER VII
A VOICE IN THE NIGHT
\HE woman who presently turned to Mr. Converse was
1 a very different woman from the one who had met him
but a few minutes previously. As soon as the brief
emotional outburst had exhausted itself her admirable poise
and self-possession returned, and with it all the frigid reserve,
the air of aloofness and apparent unconcern. But there was
this immense difference:— where her attitude had been
condescending and inflexibly hostile, it now conveyed a
subtle suggestion of surrender, by recognizing some tremen-
dous advantage which this man seemed to possess; she was
no longer hard and unyielding, but ready to comply with
any demands he might make; and he knew that every ob-
stacle which served to seal her lips had been swept away
as by a breath. Such was the potency of a name.
“Please be seated, Mr. — Mr. Converse,” she finally
said, her voice tense with controlled passion. There was
no attempt at explanation, no apology, unless this con-
cession could be counted such,- and she faced him placidly,
wholly at her ease.
"Was it of this,” she continued, “that you talked to
Charlotte Fairchild this morning ?”
No doubt now why Joyce had inquired for him. So
this leaven was at work.
“Yes, to a limited extent,” was the cautious reply.
“You insinuated nothing — nothing —” she hesitated
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A Voice in the Night
and still further lowered her voice, in which there was now
a dominant note of anxiety, "you did not allow her to gather
the idea that there was anything discreditable in General
Westbrook's —”
“Pardon me,” he broke in quietly. “I could hardly
insinuate anything derogatory of the General's character,
when I am ignorant that any such circumstance exists.”
She looked at him doubtfully, narrowly, as if she would
probe his thoughts, and presently sighed.
“If I only knew — " she breathed, vaguely.
“What, Mrs. Westbrook ? I will tell you if I can.”
“Well — ” she still hesitated, “ if I only knew what your
knowledge amounts to. You say General Westbrook was
innocent of any wrong-doing; how should you know? What
reason have you had to consider the possibility at all, if some
suspicion has not been engendered in your mind ? Then,
what occasioned that suspicion? You see, I am torn by
doubts and anxieties.”
“Yes, Mrs. Westbrook, so I perceive. But it would
require half the night to go fully into this matter; and still,
to free you from your doubts and anxieties, I may tell you
this: that the tragedies of which Señor de Sanchez and your
husband were the victims are very closely connected, and I
have many reasons for believing that whatever light may be
thrown upon one will correspondingly tend to clear the other.
The name Castillo — or Del Castillo — bears a close rela-
tion to both; therefore it is essential that every circumstance
bearing upon that relation should be known and under-
stood. It is evident that you know something of Don Juan
of which I am ignorant; it is also evident that whatever
you know troubles you. Now, I may be able to remove
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the cause of that trouble, and you to give me some valuable
information.”
She pondered quite a while.
“Mr. Converse, I am a proud woman,” she announced,
simply; "to go into such intimate family matters — thus
openly to discuss topics which I hesitate to contemplate even
in the privacy of my own thoughts — is to me a very real tor-
ture; but for the sake of my dead husband, I owe you some
sort of explanation. When you mentioned that name it fright-
ened me; it made me suspect that you had the power of divin-
ing what is forbidden my own mind, and I naturally wondered
to what extent that divination was capable of penetrating.
“But, after all, my fears have been based on a mere
phantom - a name spoken in the dark — and in hearken-
ing to it and pondering upon it, I have allowed myself greatly
to wrong my husband. God forgive me!... Has not
the entire matter become irrelevant ? ” she abruptly finished,
with obvious reluctance to proceed.
"Far from it — far from it,” was the reply, uttered em-
phatically; "you must let me be the judge of that. There
are so many ramifications to these two tragedies, that you
cannot even remotely realize how significant and important
the most trifling particular may be."
“But it does not affect Joyce — in any way you imagine.
... Please be seated, Mr. Converse."
He obeyed this second injunction, drawing the chair
around so that he directly faced her. He waited quietly
for her to proceed.
“Do you still wish to hear?” she asked presently; and
when he bowed a courteous intimation that he was waiting,
she continued:
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only by portieres. We had both retired long since; I was
dimly conscious of the lateness of the hour; and I had no
reason to believe otherwise than that the General had been
many hours asleep. But as I waited, I found that I had not
been dreaming. I heard him say distinctly, 'I had rather
see her dead at my feet than wife to such as you.'
“Now thoroughly alarmed, I switched on the light and
hastened into his room. My husband was standing in the
middle of the floor, and I perceived instantly that he was
asleep. This merely increased my fright, for in all the years
of our married life he had been a healthy sleeper, though
retiring late and rising early.
"I caught his arm and called him by name. He awoke
at once and looked at me in a dazed way; then he became
unaccountably angry, and demanded to know if he had
spoken. And when I told him, he explained his words as
the vagaries of a bad dream. Far from satisfied, I accepted
this explanation, scorning to question him concerning any
matter which he did not choose to tell me voluntarily; and
I returned to my own apartment in some chagrin, for his
manner had offended me. I believe neither of us slept
much the remainder of that night.
“Well, Mr. Converse, that was merely a beginning –
four years ago. It may be difficult for you to understand
my conduct under such trying circumstances — why I never
questioned my husband; why I permitted my doubts and
fears to continue without an effort to remove them; but
General Westbrook and I to a certain extent lived our lives
apart,” — the listener fancied he detected a note of bitter-
ness in this statement, — “and we were not in entire accord
upon all matters. Don't get the idea that any ground for
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A Voice in the Night
trouble existed between us,” she hastily added; “no, no,
- but there was a certain restraint, a lack of sympathy,
characterizing our entire married life, which led naturally
to a repression of those confidences without which such
a condition cannot be perfect. God help me, perhaps I
was to blame; but so it was. And besides, I did try to
remove my doubts — to quiet my fears, as you shall pres-
ently see.
"Two nights passed before I heard other dream vagaries,
as he was pleased to call them, and I first heard the name
Del Castillo upon this second occasion. I failed to catch the
sense in which it was used, but after a long silence he began
to say, over and over again, 'Paquita is not dead — Paquita
is not dead.'”
Paquita again! Verily, she was not dead,— if her in-
fluence over the destinies of so many of the living signified
anything at all.
“I listened until it nearly drove me mad, and again I
awoke him. When I repeated his words he was angry, as
he had been before, and at the same time confused. But
he tried to laugh it off, and demanded that I think no more
of the episode. In short, his manner was so strange and
unnatural that I was worried nearly to distraction. How
could I refrain from thinking of it? Of what use was it to
bid my thoughts occupy themselves with other matters when
they continued to circle about this dreadful secret which
preyed so heavily upon his mind? Mr. Converse, you can't
imagine the expedients I adopted to dissipate my fears, the
casuistry I employed to banish my doubts. I would argue
that his sense of honor was so exalted, his standard so high,
that a very little thing might grievously trouble him, which
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might appear trivial to another man. But how could this
idea be reconciled with his wild words of death ?
“The next morning he announced to me that he would
thenceforward sleep in another room. I made no comment,
but superintended the removal of his things.
“I lay awake all that night and most of the next; then —
then ”
Once more she paused. She plucked nervously at a fold
of her skirt, manifesting the greatest reluctance to go on.
But her nature was not to be swayed by trifles; if a painful
confidence were once undertaken, it was quite plain she
would press it to the end, sparing neither herself nor whomso-
ever else it might affect. All at once she folded her hands
with an easy, natural movement and continued:
“Mr. Converse, where I would not openly seek light, I
was not above listening in secret: in dressing-gown and slip-
pers I stole to his door during the early morning hours, and
knelt with my ear to the keyhole.
"Many times I was rewarded with no spoken words —
only the evidences of a troubled and broken slumber. At
other times I heard him say things that made my blood run
cold: 'Man, before you do this thing I will kill you with my
own hands’; again, 'Why did you not tell me this man is
living?' At times he cursed some one in a terrible voice, and
once — once — ” She leant suddenly forward and fixed
upon him a gaze moving in its intensity. “Mr. Converse,
is this confidence buried within your own bosom? ”
“It is,” he replied, with convincing gravity.
“Once,” she went on, leaning back again, “I heard him
groan, ‘Elinor, I may never look upon your face again; mea
culpa! mea culpa!'” Of a sudden she clenched one hand
[ 268 ]


A Voice in the Night
convulsively and struck smartly an arm of the chair.
“Good God! what could that mean? ” she cried with a
startling fierceness; then, one quick intake of breath, and
she was again her usual tranquil, collected self. She at-
tempted a little smile. “You see,” she said, in a deprecat-
ing way, “that those confidences to the night have not yet
lost their power to disturb me — and I am not easily moved.”
She remained silent for a time, as if collecting her thoughts;
presently she resumed the narrative.
“There were certain names mentioned by him times
innumerable. I have heard Castillo, Alberto de Sanchez,
Paquita, my daughter's name, and Fernando —”.
“Fernando ?” Converse interpellated, sharply.
“Yes. Do you recognize it? I know no more of it than
that.”
He shook his head. “It is new to me. . . . But proceed,
please.”
“Well, at best the names were so confused and uttered
in such a way that I could gather no connection, and oftener
than not his words would trail off into incomplete sentences
and unintelligible mutterings.
“But so it went on. Night after night I would hearken
to the incoherencies of my sleeping husband, overcome with
a nameless terror in the cold dark hall; in the broad glare of
day my anxieties and fears would shrink almost to insig-
nificance — but oh, the night!
“However, as time passed, whatever was preying on
General Westbrook's mind began gradually to abate its evil
influence; his sleep became once more healthy, and abruptly
he returned to his regular apartment.
“Naturally, my own fears subsided somewhat; but a
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suspicion of unknown wrongdoing had been awakened in
my mind, casting a continual shadow over my thoughts.
Oh, that terrible worm of doubt that gnawed forever at my
brain! After this, I believe, my poor husband could have
made no explanation that would have destroyed it utterly.
“Of course, Mr. Converse, slight as was my knowledge
of General Westbrook's affairs, I knew about his association
with Señor de Sanchez. I also knew that Señor de Sanchez
was a distinguished gentleman, of great wealth and excellent
family; and when the question of his eligibility as a husband
for my daughter was broached, I -1-1- Well, it was
an honor of which any mother might have been proud.”
“Mrs. Westbrook, I cannot believe that you are express-
ing your true feelings in this regard.” The look that ac-
companied this announcement was sharp and meaning.
“Were you satisfied with such an arrangement ?”.
She returned his scrutiny a little doubtfully; but at last
asked:
"Can this be of any benefit to Joyce?”
“If you did not sanction Señor de Sanchez's proposal, I
could scarcely overestimate its importance as an aid to
clearing up some matters as they concern the young lady.”
"Well, then I shall be frank. At first I did not give my
approval; I had other ideas for Joyce's future; but one
morning General Westbrook sent a request that I come to
him in the library. The instant I entered I comprehended
that he was struggling with some recent trouble. In the
course of the conversation which followed he informed me
that a very grave reason existed why we should consider
carefully before definitely rejecting Señor de Sanchez's
offer; and while he did not tell me what that reason was, I
( 270 ]


A Voice in the Night
was given to understand that it involved some scandal
threatening my husband, and that De Sanchez had the
power to remove it.
“ 'Otherwise ?' I inquired. He turned to a drawer of
his desk and produced a pistol.
“ 'Otherwise,' he said with a smile, ‘I might still escape it.'
“'Do you contemplate murder?' I asked.
“ 'Louise!' he cried in a hurt tone, as though pained
that I could entertain such a thought; “is it possible you can
so misconstrue my words ?'
“ 'I do not know how else to interpret them — nor your
actions,' said I.
“ 'Then I shall be more explicit,' he rejoined; ‘I would
place the muzzle of this pistol — '
“ “You need not continue,' I interrupted. “Is it so seri-
ous ?
ca.
“ 'It is,' said he, very soberly.
“ 'And do you think now that I could see Joyce go to
such a man?' I asked.
“ 'You do not fully understand,' he persisted. "The
situation is this,' — and he repeated that Señor de Sanchez
would have the power to do away with the impending scandal.
We concluded by agreeing to leave the matter with Joyce.
“Her manner of taking it greatly relieved the situation.
'Give me six months,' was her response. 'If at the end of
that time you still consider it necessary, I will marry him.'
She looked at her father with open scorn. Then she went
on, ‘You may inform him; but this promise rests on three
conditions: that it be kept a secret; that it is never referred
to in my presence, directly or indirectly; and that he make
no attempt to see me till the six months have expired.'
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The Silver Blade
“The General said, 'I am afraid he will receive the mes-
sage with a sour smile, my dear.' But Joyce's manner
showed a complete indifference. “Moreover,' went on my
husband, your word once passed, there must be no backing
down — no retreat.' She flashed another scornful look at
him, but merely said, “Do not forget to emphasize the three
conditions when you see Señor de Sanchez.'
“And such was the arrangement at the time of Señor de
Sanchez's death.”
The Captain fixed his regard upon the cold and hand-
some woman before him, and strove to harmonize her ap-
pearance with the remarkable marital condition revealed
by her most amazing disclosure. Was it possible she sat
as tranquilly as she now was sitting, and discussed in those
arctic tones the chances of her husband committing suicide,
with this same air of easy indifference? It was impossible
not to believe her; yet such utter sang-froid was almost in-
conceivable.
In a moment Converse pulled himself together.
“With your permission, I will ask you a few questions
concerning Miss Joyce. First, do you know why she re-
mained silent before my questions this morning ?”
She lowered her head, and sat for a time in deep reflec-
tion. When she again turned to him, it was not to reply
directly to his question.
“I am not fully in my daughter's confidence in this
matter, although I believe I do know what motives — or
impulses, rather — are controlling her. I may add that
they have my reprobation; but the interests involved are
quite serious; Joyce has unexpectedly developed a phase
of character astonishing to me, and for the first time in my
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A Voice in the Night
life I hesitate to interfere in her affairs. The matter does
not affect her own welfare alone, and I must refuse to go
further into it with you. She has assumed a terrible responsi-
bility, and however severely I may condemn her conduct,
she has commanded my admiration. I feel that I must at
least coöperate to the extent of respecting her silence. She
wishes to see you, I believe. Hear from her what she has
to say.”
“Does your reticence include the interchange of messages
between Miss Joyce and Mr. Fairchild ?”.
She looked at him with a quick accession of interest.
"No," was her reply. “Why should you ask that?”
He waved the question to one side. “It's immaterial.
Possibly there has been no such interchange. ... There is
but one more question, Mrs. Westbrook. While you were
returning from Mrs. Farquier's last night, why did you peer
so closely into the darkness ? Whom were you expecting to
see?”
A faint flicker of wonder penetrated the mask of her
countenance, but quickly disappeared.
"I suppose all this is necessary ?”
“It is, indeed.”
“Well, I expected to see one of two young men."
“Ah! Then the one you did see — the fact of its being
Mr. Lynden — removed a cause of worry?”
"You are correct. I could not consider him seriously in
any light.”
That was all. As she arose, she inclined her head slightly.
"Joyce will see you here,” she said.
Had every incident of the past half-hour been a dream ?
Here was the identical woman who had given him such a
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The Silver Blade
glacial welcome, now leaving him with the same air of re-
serve and aloofness. No, not quite. She was nearly to the
door, when of a sudden she faced about and advanced close to
him; and for the third time during this extraordinary inter-
view he was so taken aback that he was at a loss for words.
She stood motionless for a time, her pale, cold eyes fixed
intently on his serious gray ones. Then she spoke.
“Look closely, Mr. Converse.”
He was disconcerted, and made no response. Presently
she went on.
“You think I am a strange woman, do you not ? — cold,
callous, indifferent, incapable of any feeling ?”.
Still he was at a loss for words.
“You, who read me so well, — who seemed to divine all
of Joyce's thoughts and actions,— look deep into my eyes.
Am I such a woman ?”
Then, to him who gazed so earnestly, it was as if a miracle
had happened; as if the icy shell which encased this hand-
some woman had all at once melted — vanished from before
his eyes — and it was given him to read the naked soul
beneath. It was as swift in passing, but as vivid, as a flash
of lightning
He retreated a step and bowed low to her.
“Mrs. Westbrook, forgive me; I have misjudged you.
I see that your daughter's welfare is as indissolubly a part
of your own as if your two lives were one.” He paused a
moment, then concluded earnestly, “I'll do what I can for
her — to free her from this coil. You have my word.”
She moved to the door before making any response.
With her hand on the knob she turned and faced him again.
“God aid you,” she whispered, and was gone.
[ 274]


CHAPTER VIII
THE CORONER’S COUP
D OSSIBLY ten minutes elapsed before Miss Westbrook
entered the room; had she been a witness of her
mother's departure, she would have known that Mr.
Converse had not stirred during that time. His attention
was evidently drawn forcibly back from distant spaces and
fixed upon her with an effort. In seeking this meeting she had
prepared for an ordeal, but now she became sensible of the fact
that other concerns besides her own might occupy his mind,
and that those unwavering, piercing eyes, the scrutiny of
which was so disconcerting, were able to look at and through
her without being aware of her presence. She was reluctant to
break in upon a concentration which so candidly ignored her.
Her appearance was unaltered from what it had presented
that morning, save, perhaps, for a faint tinge of color in the
pale cheeks and the added light of some purpose in the depths
of her violet eyes. Notwithstanding the high spirit revealed
in the unconscious flash of her glance, she was, after all, very
slight, very fragile, and very feminine; and she was soon to
have dire need of all the support that could be rendered her.
Quite suddenly she became aware of recognition in his
regard. She moved impulsively toward him, her hand for
a moment tentatively outstretched; as she spoke, her color
deepened.
“Mr. Converse,” she began with shy hesitancy, “I-I
have come here to beg your forgiveness.” Her voice was.
low and soft, her manner winning.
[ 275]


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“Well, Miss Westbrook,” he retorted, a note of raillery
in his speech, designed to place her completely at her ease,
“I am a sorely wronged person; however, I am not — ”
But, still impulsively, she interrupted him.
“Mr. Converse, I was unpardonably rude this morning;
I must have appeared wretchedly mean and ill-bred; but
you have no idea what doubts and anxieties --” But now
he stopped her.
“Tut, tut, Miss Westbrook; I do know. I understand
perfectly, and sympathize with you."
“Still,” she persisted, “if I had only known this morn-
ing! If — ”
The talk was becoming a series of interruptions.
“Ah, 'if,'” he took her up. “You are familiar with the
saying about one convinced against his will, eh? This
morning I recognized the necessity of a — er — a softening
influence — the ineptness of a mere man. If you had been
in the same mood then that you are now, I should have
missed one of the pleasantest hours of my life. So you see,
that even a young lady's whims and caprices are not without
their compensations. What have you learned that has
moved you to kindlier feelings?” He spoke lightly; but
there was an intelligible purpose in his concluding question.
“About Clay — about Mr. Fairchild,” she murmured,
shyly. Another wave of color, deeper than before, dyed her
cheeks. “Is it true you do not suspect him of — of — "
Converse sobered before her earnest, searching inspection.
“My dear young lady,” he returned, gravely, “it is entirely
owing to Mr. Fairchild himself and to you, that any suspi-
cion was ever drawn to him. Between the two of you, each
has done about all that could be done to make me suspect the
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She shook her head doubtfully, as if the matter remained
an insoluble riddle.
“However,” he continued, “she was right, and I believe
her opinion is in harmony with your own.”
“Yes; I shall keep nothing back.” The color all at once
ebbed from her cheeks, leaving them white and cold. Her
sensitive lips trembled, yet her voice remained steady and
even, and she looked at him without a sign of confusion, as
she made the simple statement: “I love Clay, Mr. Converse.
Does that explain anything ?”
He regarded her with undisguised admiration.
"It explains a great deal,” he replied, “but not all — not
all.”
"Well, I hardly know how to begin,” she said, slowly
and thoughtfully; “my thoughts seem anchored to that great
fact; it is so sufficient to my own mind — ” She paused.
“You are sure you can trust me now, Miss Westbrook ? "
“I intend to — freely, fully."
“Then begin at the beginning. Tell me about the after-
noon of the fourth — at what time you went to the Nettleton
Building, and what took place there; just what you saw and
heard.”
As he spoke, her face clouded.
“Well,” was the response, “I - I was — ”
But there came an unlooked for interruption. A sudden
sound of hurrying footsteps and excited voices, somewhere in
the house below, broke upon their hearing, expropriating the
attention of both. The girl stood rigid, startled, while the
Captain turned hastily toward the door as the clamor resolved
itself into a rapid approach to the room in which they were.
Before he could lay his hand upon the knob, a loud rap
[ 278]


sounded on the panel, and a shaking voice called aloud Miss
Westbrook's name. She paled, and it forced a little cry
from her; the door burst open, and a strange group poured
in upon them.
First came Lynden clutching a crumpled newspaper, his
face bloodless and twitching with intense agitation. He
surged forward as though forcing his way through a mass
of obstacles; his usually fastidious attire was dishevelled.
Close behind him followed McCaleb, much calmer, but
plainly showing signs of excitement; and beyond McCaleb
stood Mrs. Westbrook, the placidity of her handsome features
unruffled, her equanimity not at all disturbed by the tumult.
Before Lynden's unceremonious entrance Joyce recoiled,
with an involuntary look of scorn and indignation which
engaged Mr. Converse's interest. Lynden hastened directly
toward her, without the least notice of any one else. He
extended the paper, and, in tones hoarse and tense, cried,
“Joyce! Good God! what does this mean?”
She glanced indifferently at the sheet — shaking in
Lynden's hands so that it rattled — to start next instant and
utter a little gasp.
“Tell me,” Lynden insisted with furious vehemence,
“what does this mean? Who has betrayed you ? "
She quickly recovered herself.
“I can't imagine,” she replied coolly, “unless some spy
has done so.” There was an inflexion of indignant con-
tempt upon the word, glaring to every one but Lynden.
"Spy? Spy ? ” he repeated blankly. “I don't under-
stand.” But of a sudden he did, and in turn recoiled from
Joyce. For the first time he became aware of the presence
of others besides himself and the girl, and he shot over the
( 279 ]


CHAPTER IX
THE LIGHT BRIGHTENS — AND DIMS
ADDED to the tumultuous occurrences of that day,
Lynden's advent with the published evidence of the
Coroner's fatuity produced a condition in the West-
brook household amounting to consternation. For a time
Joyce managed to infuse a semblance of calmness into her
mien; but as the brutality of the narrative impressed itself
upon her, as realization grew in her dazed mind of the
callous indifference with which her own feelings were ignored
in the light of the mere sensation, she seemed gradually to
sink as if beneath a crushing weight; her lips became blood-
less and drawn, and the lovely eyes took on a wistful, helpless
expression pitiful to see. She became strangely quiet, and
it was noticeable that no one seemed inclined to disturb
her where she sat, still encircled by the arm of her silent
mother.
Lynden, obviously, was overcome by an intense shame
and mortification; by degrees he managed to arrive close to
the open door, and in the stress of the moment to slip away
without eliciting a farewell of any nature, unless the discon-
certing look with which the eyes of both the officers followed
him and somewhat hastened his exit may be so regarded.
As for the Captain himself, he was angry clear through,
and for a while not a little dismayed. His thoughts flew
rapidly during the few minutes which followed his hurried
reading of the article; presently, when he turned to Mc-
[ 283 ]


The Silver Blade
Caleb, that young man missed a flint-like gleam which had
been flashing the admonition that it was not an opportune
time for engaging his chief's attention; but now, in the face
of a familiar pucker, and an elevation of the eyebrow, he did
not hesitate to advance toward the older man, who stood with
his hands thrust deeply into his trousers pockets, a massive
figure of grim determination.
“Mac,” said Converse, "go at once to Mr. Mountjoy's
residence and ask him to come here immediately — bring
him with you. Hurry! . . . Miss Joyce,” he continued,
wheeling to the two drooping figures in the corner, " tell me,
please, where Mr. Fairchild is.”
She looked wildly at him, and all at once her look became
vacant. She made no response. His eyes narrowed as he
noted that glance, and he addressed the two women no more.
But as he was on the point of leaving the room, he was
arrested by the elder lady's voice.
“Don't — don't leave us,” she whispered, with an appeal
that might have made him smile at another time. Quite
without warning, she clasped the girl to her. “Good God!”
she cried despairingly, “they will be here presently to
carry Joyce to - to jail!” She sat panting, as if she had
been running."
“Oh, no, they will not,” he rejoined quietly, his inflexion
satisfyingly convincing. “Officers will be here by and by
I have no doubt; but Miss Joyce shall remain beneath this
roof to-night. Don't worry, Mrs. Westbrook; matters are
not so bad as they appear just now.”
“How can you prevent it ?” she demanded anxiously.
"Leave that to me. Stay here with your daughter until
I return. If I encounter Melissa, I will send her to you."
[ 284 ]


The Light Brightens — and Dims
In the hall he reflected an instant, then made his way
directly to Joyce's bedroom. As he unceremoniously threw
the door open, he was met by a startled cry from the young
lady's maid.
“Go to your mistress — in the morning-room,” he com-
manded; and the woman, meeting his glance, obeyed
without a word.
Before the southernmost of the two windows facing the
west stood the small table of which McCaleb had spoken,
upon it an unlighted lamp and a wax taper in a brass candle-
stick. A tablet of letter paper lay beside these.
After first closing and making fast the door, he picked
up the tablet and tossed back the cover, and there, in young
Fairchild's hand, was the code of signals. After studying
it at some length, he presently replaced the tablet on the
table, and, leaving the window, switched off the lights.
But the blackness did not remain long unbroken. He
was moving with an agility which was none the less swift by
reason of its being noiseless, and as soon as the incandes-
cent lights were extinguished, he struck a match, lighted the
candle, and waited, looking intently through the window into
the night.
Almost instantly he uttered a satisfied ejaculation.
Straight ahead, but seemingly as distant as a star, the dark-
ness was penetrated by a single tiny spark of light. It was
so small and feeble that it certainly would have been swal-
lowed up and lost had there been any other intervening
illumination; but there it glowed, a single coruscation against
the velvet pall of night.
Upon moving slightly to one side, the light at once van-
ished; but it again appeared when he resumed his former
[ 285 )


The Light Brightens — and Dims
grimly and muttered: “The old Fairchild homestead!
Now, that young man displays a resourcefulness and clever-
ness that I admire. I'll wager he and I are face to face
before morning."
He switched on the lights again, extinguished the candle,
and quitted the room.
In the morning-room he was again confronted by the cold
light of Mrs. Westbrook's pale eyes. Her expression of
indifference had taken on a new meaning for him since he
had first come face to face with her there to-night; it hid a
history of which the world indubitably would never scan a ,
page. To him it now afforded an illumination into hitherto
hidden phases of the dead husband's character rather than
an index to her own repressed nature; and his manner
toward her remained gently deferential. Joyce still sat with
her head pillowed on her mother's shoulder, her appearance
betraying complete physical relaxation.
“Now, Mrs. Westbrook,” he began, “when to-morrow
dawns, matters are going to be in a far different condition
than they are just now. In spite of my efforts, the cat seems
to be out of the bag; but I believe the worst has happened.”
Joyce sat suddenly upright.
“The worst!” she exclaimed, laughing bitterly. “Pray,
sir, how long is this suspense to continue? Why do you
delay ?” She thrust forward two little white hands, two
slender wrists. “Here! why do you not place the hand-
cuffs upon me, and drag me to prison? You began your
work this morning — tell me, why do you torture me with
this delay? Is a prolongation of it a part of what I have to
endure? O my God! my God! let my humiliation be com-
plete!” She was quite hysterical, her manner so wild and
[ 287]


The Silver Blade
unnatural that he felt the futility of attempting to reason
with her.
“The worst!” she repeated. “God knows how bad it
is when I am conscious of a feeling of gladness that papa
— cruelly as he died — is not here to witness it.”
“Hush, Joyce!” commanded the mother.
"I will say it,” Joyce cried; "it is but the truth. Were
poor papa not dead, this would kill him! What was it he
dreaded ? What was it he feared ? Mamma, you know !
Oh, God help me! God help me!” Throwing her arms
about her mother's neck, she once more hid her face on the
other's shoulder, and burst into a storm of weeping.
“The first time," whispered Mrs. Westbrook, unmoved
- meaning, doubtless, that it was the first time Joyce had
found the relief of tears. She strove to soothe the distressed
girl; but her nature, clearly, had forgotten how to spend
itself through the gentler and more gracious feminine chan-
nels, and for the moment she appeared stiff and awkward.
With manner subdued, as if he were in a sick-chamber,
Mr. Converse addressed the mother, striving through her
to reassure the almost frenzied girl.
“I shall presently know a number of things which have
been kept from me until now,— which I should have known
days ago. I hope your daughter's and Mr. Fairchild's
reasons for silence will have been removed. With the facts
known as they should be, Miss Joyce's causes for anxiety
and worry will disappear in a large measure, and she need
no longer fear that I shall misunderstand her or place a false
interpretation upon circumstances over which she has had
no control. There has been too much that is false: her
position has been false, as has been the Doctor's and
( 288 )


The Light Brightens — and Dims
Mr. Clay's. She had come to a realization of all this for
herself.”
“It was Charlotte,” Mrs. Westbrook interpellated in a
strange, hard voice. “It was Charlotte Fairchild who in-
fluenced Joyce to speak.”
Converse eyed her curiously.
“Well, at any rate, she was about to take me into her con-
fidence, when Lynden appeared. Try to impress upon her
that I will do in her behalf everything consistent with my
duty. As soon as she is able to continue what she started
to relate, why, the quicker can we get things shipshape
again. The whole mystery hinges upon what happened in
the Nettleton Building that day. Retire, if you desire; but
I expect the District Attorney here presently, and you will
be interested in what takes place.”
On the instant Sam announced that Mr. Mountjoy
was waiting below. Converse cast an inquiring look at
Mrs. Westbrook, who inclined her head.
“Conduct Mr. Mountjoy here, Sam,” was the result of
the look.
Joyce disengaged herself from her mother's embrace, and
sat upright once more, looking to her disordered tresses
with certain deft and subtle touches. She turned to the
Captain with a calmness which showed that his recent words
had not been lost upon her: the deep violet eyes yielded a
faint light of hope; the sweet face became rapidly more
composed.
Mr. Mountjoy paused a moment in the doorway; catch-
ing sight of the two ladies, he hastened toward them.
“My dear Mrs. Westbrook — Joyce,” said he, taking
a hand of each in turn. “It is distressing to see you thus."
(289)


The Silver Blade
His voice was full of sympathy and condolence, but he made
no further effort to frame his feelings with words.
Mr. Mountjoy was well past middle age, but not far above
middle height. He was slender and gray, and his thin, hand-
some features were saved from asceticism only by the innu-
merable fine lines of humor about his eyes. However, he was
serious enough now, as he looked to the Captain for an ex-
planation.
“I suppose you have seen the extra edition of the Her-
ald ?” the latter asked.
Mountjoy nodded affirmatively.
“Did it occur to you that the unnamed lady was none
other than Miss Westbrook ?”
The lawyer looked his astonishment, but said nothing.
“Well, it's a fact, Mr. Mountjoy; and I wish to say, first
of all, that that ass — that Merkel — never did a worse bit
of blundering in his life.”
“It seems beyond belief,” was Mountjoy's commentary,
“that he would give a matter of this nature to the news-
papers.”
Converse grunted, and cold type cannot express the
amount of scorn he managed to inject into it. “It's done
— all that he could do to tie my hands.”
Mountjoy noted that the inscrutable gray eyes were rest-
ing upon Miss Westbrook, as if their owner's thoughts had
taken a sudden flight beyond their present environment;
and he in turn looked at her, too, and considered.
The idea of associating this girl with such a crime was
preposterous; yet the District Attorney had an unbounded
confidence in the chief of detectives, and at the same time
he was sensible of a feeling of dismay and alarm. He knew
( 290 )



Mr. MOUNTJOY's Tun, HANDSOME FEATURES WERE SAVED FROM ASCETICISM ONLY BY
THE LINES OF HUMOR ABOUT His EYES.





The Light Brightens — and Dims
her for an intrepid, high-spirited girl, governed largely by
capricious impulses, but sane, and at heart pure and gener-
ous; he felt that she was more likely to act upon the spur of
the moment, and cope with consequences afterward, than
regard the consequences first; but all such traits, while they
might account for an ordinary offence, were alone very far
from being adequate reasons for connecting her with a charge
of so grave a nature.
“Let us get at it ab initio,” said he quietly, seating him-
self. “Sit down, John.”
Converse availed himself of the opportunity, but slowly
and with an unaccountable hesitancy of manner. His brow
was knotted, and he sat pondering.
“After all,” he began at length, "it's going to be a hard
matter for me to tell you just what you ought to know.”
“Why ? ” asked the lawyer, surprised at this reluctant
confidence.
Converse eyed him narrowly a moment; and then, evi-
dently, his mind changed.
“No, I am not going to tell you anything — now," he
said, grimly. “I did n't send for you to hear me talk, but
to hear what Miss Westbrook has to say. I can't anticipate
how her words will affect you, Mr. Mountjoy; but whatever
their tenor, pray do not forget that I still have charge of this
case, and until I am ready — ”
During his last words Joyce had arisen and approached
the speaker. Now she interrupted by laying a hand upon
his arm.
“Then let me speak,” she said, “while I can. Let me
tell what I started to when I was interrupted.” She turned
and faced Mountjoy.
[ 291 )


The Silver Blade
"It is true that Mr. Howe and my brother have been keep-
ing something back, but when you hear what it is, see if you
can blame them. When Mobley testified at the inquest that
he had no reason to believe any other person was in the Net-
tleton Building besides those known to be present, he uttered
merely the truth; he was assailed by a great fear; but at
that moment he did not know that I had not yet departed.
Oh, dear me!” she suddenly exclaimed; "the truth some-
times is so hard to tell — so hard! What I have to say
seems, even to myself, so wild and impossible, that I some-
times wonder if I am not the victim of a wretched night-
mare. But, Mr. Mountjoy – Mr. Converse - I trust you
will believe me.” She clasped her hands and looked an
earnest appeal from one to the other.
The lawyer now was grave, his thin features yielding no
decipherable expression; Converse's mien was wholly en-
couraging and sympathetic.
“Pshaw, Miss Westbrook," said the latter, heartily,
“don't let such a doubt worry you for an instant. You have
no idea what my credulity will stand.”
Again she glanced from one to the other, and thenceforth,
after returning her hand timidly to the Captain's brawny
arm, addressed herself directly to him.
“I stepped from Mobley's office into the hall that after-
noon, leaving him and Mr. Howe together; and within two
seconds thereafter Señor de Sanchez was killed. Although
I saw it done – ”
“My God! Miss Joyce!” burst suddenly from Mount-
joy. He started violently at her last words and stared wide-
eyed at her. “And you have kept that back all this time!”
“Wait,” she returned. There was a strange ring in her
[ 292)


The Light Brightens — and Dims
the hall, realizing that I was none too soon; for, sure enough,
Señor de Sanchez was coming toward my brother's office.
“I watched him with a sort of fascination, and for the
first time I experienced a strange, shrinking dread of the
man — a fear I had never known before. For the first time
I seemed to be looking at the man himself, — not at a hand-
some animated mask — and what I saw made me shudder.”
And so did the bare recollection. Once more the per-
sistent veil had to be swept aside — this time with a nervous,
agitated hand — and the recital was taken up again, pre-
cipitately, in a veritable rush of words. As the crisis was
gradually approached, the suspense became almost unen-
durable; the effect of what the actuality had been upon the
tender, thoughtless witness thereof became more and more
manifest – undoubtedly a shock and a horror too deep and
far-reaching for expression. The gravity of the situation
could scarcely be overestimated. The issue now hanging
in the balance was so vital, so momentous, that at least two
of the auditors were in a state of anxious, doubtful eager-
ness which blinded them to the girl's true condition.
“As Señor de Sanchez came nearer between the two doors
- Mr. Nettleton's and Mobley's — I was obliged to widen
the crack somewhat, or else the man would have passed from
my view. So great was the spell in which his undisguised self
held me, that I did so without being aware of the act until too
late. But I need not have feared that the movement would
attract his attention—" The little hand clutched the unyield-
ing arm convulsively, another shudder swept over the slight
form, and her voice all at once lowered and became hoarse.
“I had no thought at all,” she continued, receding from
the one point for which they were all so eager, yet feared to
[ 295]


The Silver Blade
interrupt the recital of to hear. “I was aware of nothing but
a blind, unreasoning instinct to escape. I ran wildly toward
the door opening into the next office, where I almost ran into
Clay. But I did not pause; his speechless astonishment
made no impression upon me; I thought nothing of it when
he hastened by me into the room I had just quitted, as if to
learn the cause of my agitation and unceremonious intrusion
upon his privacy – I was simply wild to escape, and I ran
on to the other hall door, where I stopped again. Other foot-
steps! I thought that terrible man would be for ever in pass-
ing, and I crouched there, clinging to the door-knob and
whimpering like a terrified child. Then, quite suddenly,
through the crack of the door, I caught a glimpse of Howard
Lynden; he too was going towards my brother's — ”
She paused and placed a hand to her throat, and all at
once Converse became sensible of the fact that the pressure
of the hand on his arm was increasing; that now, instead of
lying there to hold his attention, it was in reality supporting
the speaker. It seemed as if her will were putting forth its
last effort to bear her up until she had finished.
“But what you saw — " he demanded. “Hurry, Miss
Westbrook; what was it you saw before you fled ?”
“As — as Señor de Sanchez got between me and — and
Mobley's door, Howard —”
"Lynden ? ” sharply, from the detective.
“No, no. What was I saying? Howard was not there.
Why do you draw so far away from me ? ”
The veil was becoming more persistent, the effort to
remove it weaker and more unavailing. Unnoticed by
Joyce, Mrs. Westbrook glided to her side, and for the second
time that night passed a supporting arm about her daughter's
[ 296]


The Light Brightens -- and Dims
waist. At the same time Converse clasped the trembling
hand on his arm; he felt its hold loosening.
“Just one word more, and this thing must end,” he said,
with abrupt authority. “De Sanchez got between you and
the Doctor's door,” he prompted. “What then?”
“Why — why — he all at once became terrified at some-
thing in front of him. Oh, the dreadful expression of his
face! He — he — ”
“ Which way was he facing ?”
“Straight ahead — toward the end of the hall. At that
moment his face became frozen with a nameless terror; he
threw up a hand to ward off the blow; but — but — ”
“Yes, yes — then?”
“Then I-I-saw – Mamma, what ails the lights ?
— they are becoming so dim.”
“Good God, Miss Joyce, hasten! You saw — "
She turned a hazy look toward him.
“I-1-saw — "one more futile effort to brush away
the veil — “I – I saw — " and the girl, her face like wax,
hung limp and silent between the Captain and her mother.
It had indeed ended.
With a movement that disengaged the motionless figure
from Mrs. Westbrook's encircling arm, Converse lifted Joyce
lightly and deposited her upon a couch. The look which he
bestowed upon the white, pinched face was one of concern,
and for an instant he laid one hand lightly upon her marble-
like brow, then felt her pulse.
“I was afraid of this,” said Mountjoy. “How insensi-
bly a man can be a brute. Poor child, she has fainted; the
strain – ” He paused suddenly, catching a peculiar look
from the Captain
[ 307]


The Silver Blade
The latter shook his head.
“Telephone for her brother," said he to the motionless
mother, his manner free from any quality that might alarm;
“send for Doctor Bane. Don't be frightened,” he added,
hastily, noting the startled attitudes of the other two; “it is
simply a matter of not assuming any unnecessary responsi-
bility. What this poor child has experienced deserves the
best medical care at command.”
As he had some knowledge of all things under the sun,
he was also something of a physician, and knew that this coma
was more than a simple lapsing into unconsciousness.
In silence the detective and the lawyer descended the
stairs, and that silence was not broken until they arrived at
the sidewalk.
“What do you think?” asked Mountjoy.
“Brain fever,” was the laconic reply.
[ 298]


BOOK III.
SLADE'S BLESSING


CHAPTER I
OPENING WAYS
D EFORE Converse and the District Attorney separated
D that night they had come to an agreement that con-
siderably mystified Mr. Mountjoy. It was no less than
the assertion of a determination by the former to disappear
for a time, and an assurance by the District Attorney that he
would keep the Captain informed about affairs local during
the latter's absence.
"Ah, and I am to provide the red fire ? ” inquired the
lawyer, mildly, in his precise way, “to see to the braying of
the trumpets and the clashing of the cymbals ? "
“There is to be no red fire. I wish to vanish as incon-
spicuously as possible, my absence to remain unnoted;
but while I am gone I should like to feel sure that matters
here will remain just as they are."
“How long is this absence to continue ? ”
Converse shook his head. “That I can't say: a month,
possibly — maybe two; at any rate, until I get what I'm
going after,” he ended grimly.
This determination was noted with silent approval; but
the lawyer at once said:
“Since it is not your custom to furnish material for that
pavement which is made up of good intentions, I will refrain
from touching upon your objective. I suppose I must take
you as heretofore, on faith. All right. ... And how am
I to keep you informed on the march of events ? ”.
[ 301 ]


The Silver Blade
“Communicate with No. 18 Ash Lane, care of Abram
Follett, junk dealer.”
For a moment Mr. Mountjoy's astonishment was quite
frank and decidedly patent.
“Abram Follett!” he cried, "junk dealer! Who the
devil is Abram Follett, junk dealer! John, I must admit that
behind your adamantine front there exist depths which I
despair of ever sounding, and — and — " he finally stam-
mered, “confound it! do you suppose me absolutely devoid
of curiosity ? "
But the reply was given imperturbably.
“Well, sir, Abram Follett is — Abram Follett; his address
is No. 18 Ash Lane.”
The attorney looked up at the whimsically elevated brow,
the pursed lips, and, with a hopeless shrug of the shoulders,
wrote the name and address in his memorandum-book. In
a few minutes they parted.
Converse went directly to a large and imposing structure
which stood close by the City Hall, — the headquarters of
the local telephone system.
The lower story, given over to the offices of various de-
partments, was at this hour of the night dark and apparently
untenanted; but the soft glow of many shaded incandescent
lights from the upper floors indicated the nucleus of an end-
less activity.
Without hesitation, Mr. Converse entered the dimly
lighted lower hall, passed the ornamental iron cage of the ele-
vator, now bearing a card which announced with direct
brevity, “Not running,” and ascended a wide marble
stairway. He arrived presently before a glass swinging door
and into an atmosphere so quiet that it made a conversation
[ 302 ]


Opening Ways
which was then in progress somewhere farther on to his left
come to him with unusual distinctness.
His attention was held by the voices, emanating, appar-
ently, from a lighted room farther along the hall. The sub-
ject of the colloquy was so singularly in harmony with the
object of his present visit, that he came to an involuntary
pause.
“But about Miss Carter, Henty," said one of the voices;
“sure she did n't dream it after reading the papers this morn-
ing?”
“Oh, no. She called me over some time after midnight
and said the line had been open a long time — told me then.”
"Well, I sure would tell the police, Henty,– or Captain
Converse. He's the fellow to see.”
“You may tell me now, gentlemen, if it is your pleasure,”
said a quiet, peculiar whisper from the doorway; and the two
occupants of the room sat petrified with astonishment.
The two young men had been seated comfortably with
their feet on the flat-topped desk between them; one, it
appeared, had been pursuing the somewhat exacting under-
taking of coloring a meerschaum pipe, upon which he
bestowed many a solicitous glance. The other puffed ner-
vously at a cigarette.
“I believe you and your friend were discussing the very
matter that brought me here,” Converse began pleasantly,
advancing into the room. “I could n't help overhearing
something of what you were saying, and I should like to talk
with that young lady – Miss Carter, did n’t I hear you
say?”
One young man now arose abruptly, and after proffering
the Captain his chair, departed.
( 303 )


The Silver Blade
Converse sat down. His stolid composure was not with-
out a suggestion of affability, which was perhaps the more
effective by reason of its being reserved rather than brought
into play.
“First of all, Mr. Henty, when a receiver is taken down
from its hook, Central pretty soon asks what number is
wanted, don't she?”
“Well — yes.”
“And whatever 's going on at the other end of the line
— whether some one asks for a number or not — is pretty
likely to be heard, is n't it?”
Henty nodded.
“And Miss Carter, I take it, heard something unusual
last night — must have, to hold her attention, eh? Now,
I want to see the young lady that answers night calls coming
in on Main two-one-two-four.”
“Operator Twenty-two,” said Henty. “That's Miss
Carter, all right. I'm night manager, Captain, and — "he
hesitated, “er — our strictest rule – ”
“You need not fear that I will divulge any matter that
may be repeated to me,” suggested Converse, seeing the
young man's quandary. “But if you anticipate any ill
results from what you or the young lady may say, I can
assure you it will be all right with your general manager.
Mr. Patterson and I have a little unwritten agreement cover-
ing contingencies of this kind.”
In the end the young man departed from the room, re-
turning presently with a young woman.
“This is Miss Carter,” said he by way of introduction.
“Miss Carter, Captain Converse.”
She proved to be very fragile appearing, very blonde,
( 304 ]


Opening Ways
very small and slender, and, moreover, very tired and unin-
terested.
“Captain Converse has called in regard to what you
heard last night — you know, Miss Carter. It will be proper
- perfectly — to repeat it.”
She directed her faded blue eyes to the officer and began
at once to speak in a quiet, colorless little voice, as if the
matter were of the commonest every-day occurrence — a
familiar part of her regular routine.
"About midnight last night, the signal-lamp of Main
two-one-two-four – ”.
"Signal-lamp? ” Converse queried, vaguely; "you mean
the signal indicating that some one had taken down the
receiver ?”
“That's it,” the night manager interpellated; "a small
incandescent lamp lights up, you know — that 's the signal
to Central.”
“Very good. Proceed, Miss Carter.”
“Well, before I had time to ask what number was wanted,
I heard something that made me forget to ask at all; or at
any rate, for a minute or so. I heard some one saying in
a loud voice — ” She hesitated and looked at Henty, un-
easy under the piercing gaze with which the caller was insen-
sibly regarding her.
Converse was leaning forward, an elbow upon one knee,
the clenched fist of one hand supporting his chin. He was
absolutely motionless, impassive, save for that wonderful
look of the eyes, which played and scintillated like live fire.
Quite suddenly Mr. Henty realized the tenseness of the
situation, the magnetism of the silent force which dominated
them both.
( 305]


The Silver Blade
“Go on, go on,” he said, a trifle nervously. Dropping
her glance to her thin clasped hands, Miss Carter did so.
“The voice said, “You miserable hound! How dared
you make this thing known to that then came a word
that I failed to catch. Next the voice, still very loud and
angry, said, “Take that!' and two pistol shots followed in
rapid succession. The whole thing happened in a second.”
The ensuing silence was presently broken by Mr. Con-
verse's sibilant voice, and it was obvious that the others were
measurably relieved thereby.
“Did you then ask what number was wanted ? ” he in-
quired.
"No, sir," came the reply, in the same colorless, even
tones. “It was so remarkable — I was so overcome — that
I simply sat there listening.”
“Did you hear anything more? ”
“Well — yes, sir.” The words came haltingly. “But
I can't tell what it was.”
“Try to describe the nature of the sounds. Take your
time, Miss Carter; think hard.”
She pondered.
“Well,” she began after a moment, “I should say that
what I next heard was made by some one pounding the
transmitter with a hammer, and at the same time rubbing
it with sandpaper; that is the best way I can describe it."
“You know,” the night manager again interposed, “a
very loud sound close to the transmitter sometimes be-
comes indistinguishable; it produces simply an ear-piercing
noise that is mighty trying upon the operators.”
“It was nothing like that,” the young woman added. con-
fidently. Converse asked:
( 306 ]


Opening Ways
"If you had been familiar with the sound, could you have
identified it ? ”
“Yes, sir. But I never heard anything like it before.”
Converse considered, regarding Miss Carter thoughtfully.
Presently he stirred and sat upright.
" 'Like being rubbed with sandpaper, and pounded
with a hammer,' ” he mused aloud; then became attentive.
“Are you familiar with many of the voices — of the old
patrons, that is ?” he inquired.
“Yes, a good many of them. Some voices I recognize
immediately; but, of course, to me the great majority are
merely voices, and no more.”
“I see. ... Could you recognize General Westbrook's
voice ?”
She smiled slightly, as though the question were amusingly
reminiscent. “Yes, sir,” she said; and again the gray eyes
kindled.
“That's good — very good. And was the voice you
heard last night General Westbrook's?”
“I don't know.”
“Don't know ? ... How's that?”
Miss Carter bestowed a hasty side-glance upon the night
floor-walker.
“Well, you see, sir,” she replied, with some hesitation, but
also with a certain air of gratification, as though she were
glad of the opportunity for making the confidence, “that
while his voice and manner were well-known to most of the
‘girls — very cranky and supercilious he was, and they all
detested him — he was not very close to the transmitter last
night.”
Mr. Henty coughed, deprecatingly, behind his hand.
( 307 )


The Silver Blade
“Undoubtedly,” he again supplemented, “the unfortunate
gentleman — I understood you to say so, Miss Carter? -
spoke in a very loud voice — ”.
“That is correct,” Miss Carter broke in. "It was only
because he spoke so loudly that I was able to catch such
words as I did.”
Mr. Converse rewarded the girl with a nod of compre-
hension and approval. “Your graphic description will be
of incalculable benefit,” said he in a tone of quiet cordiality
that brought the faintest of pink flushes to her pale cheek.
And then he turned to the night manager.
“Mr. Henty, I should like to try an experiment; I believe
I can duplicate the sounds which Miss Carter described so
vividly. May she go to a 'phone in an adjoining room
while I make the effort with this desk instrument, here?”
“Sure — if you don't intend to pound it with a hammer or
rub it down with sandpaper,” he added lightly. . . . . “Miss
Carter, go into Mr. Bascom's office, and answer over his
'phone. The light is burning.”
“Give me half a dozen or so sheets of paper,” Converse
now said; “then get the young lady for me, and I 'll do the
rest.”
Henty complied with an alacrity born of curiosity.
“All right, Captain; she answers.”
“Tell her to listen carefully, so she may compare what
she will presently hear with the sounds she heard last night.”
Converse laid the several sheets of paper on the table, and
after overturning the desk telephone — but gently, in this
instance - he placed the instrument just as he had found
the one on General Westbrook's desk and so that it reposed on
the sheets of paper. Holding it with his left hand, he hastily
[ 308 ]


The Silver Blade
later; he proceeded candidly and leisurely to take an in-
ventory of Mr. Clay Fairchild, who, considering that he had
been an object of diligent search by the police, bore an atti-
tude of admirable unconcern.
Tall and spare, his features somewhat sharp in outline,
he was far from imparting an unfavorable impression. The
dark, intense eyes, the determined, lean jaw, all suggested
Charlotte in many striking details. Although he was slender,
an observer could not miss the strength and virility of his
individuality. He was undoubtedly a strong, resolute young
man, who thoroughly knew his own mind, and was deter-
mined not to be awed or moved by Captain John Converse
or any one else.
Fairchild contemplated the Captain's huge figure with
some show of interest — as if at a loss to surmise what might
come forth from a source so doubtful and uncertain. He
noted suddenly that the gray eyes were remarkably
keen, that they possessed a glint like the surface of polished
steel, and that they seemed to be searching out the inner-
most recesses of his mind. But after he had detected it, he
returned their scrutiny steadily until the enigmatic figure
spoke.
“Sit down,” said Converse, pleasantly, shoving a chair
toward the young man. “I am glad to see you, Mr. Clay
Fairchild.”
“I don't doubt it,” was the dry, drawling response.
Nevertheless he accepted the tendered chair, and waited.
“Yes; I'm glad to see you, young man; perhaps, after
all, you 'll do.” The Captain was not displeased at Fair-
child's self-possession and apparent determination to remain
non-committal.
[310]


Opening Ways
“Thanks. Is it permissible to inquire what particular
purpose you think I may serve ?”
The inquiry was ignored. Converse sat quietly apprais-
ing the young man; and at last he abruptly said:
“Would you like to go home?”
"I! Go home!” his amazement was extreme. “Do you
mean that I'm not wanted ?”
“Not here, at any rate. But I 'll have to lock you up,
whether or no, if I can't count on your keeping yourself out of
view a while longer. I'm half inclined to think I did wrong
in stirring you from your hiding-place.”
Fairchild gasped.
“Some explanation is due you, however," the other went
on calmly; “but I have neither time nor inclination to go
into it. Your sister — ”
“Charlotte ? What have you to do with Charlotte ?”
“A good deal, young man. You will learn a lot before
you are many hours older. Miss Joyce and I have come to
a pretty good understanding, and it was I who signalled you
to-night. Oh, you don't need to look so astonished; the
sooner you realize that I am sole boss of this affair, the less
trouble you will cause yourself. You go and talk with your
sister. You will be glad enough to talk to me afterwards.”
"Do you — do you — mean that Joyce — that Miss
Westbrook has voluntarily told you —"
“Exactly. She has voluntarily taken me into her con-
fidence. But it chanced she suddenly became ill, and some
things which she fully intended to tell — well, she will not be
able to tell them for a while. Otherwise you could still be
roosting undisturbed in your old garret. Clever idea, that.”
Fairchild was dazed. He looked at the Captain blankly,
(311 ]


Opening Ways
acute distress to keep them back unasked and unanswered;
but the manner in which the big, impassive man had ter-
minated the colloquy was so decisive that he could only
manage to blurt out one of them.
“Stay a moment!” he cried. “I'll go crazy if you leave
me in this way. You tell me to talk to Charlotte: do you
mean that she — that Charlotte — can explain the turn
affairs seem to have taken ?”
The gray eyes, expressionless, met his for a moment.
“Exactly.”
Fairchild departed from headquarters like a man walk-
ing in his sleep.
( 313 )


CHAPTER II
FAIRCHILD REDIVIVUS
N the morning of the day on which the Captain of de-
tectives chose to efface himself from the stage of
the “Westbrook-De Sanchez Drama” to a position
behind the scenes, two things came to his notice that had for
him more than a passing interest. The first we may present
as it appeared, set in modest and inconspicuous agate type,
among the court notes of a certain newspaper.
No. 26004. In re Estate of Peyton Westbrook, deceased. Report of appraisers
approved and filed. The report shows that there are no assets under the will except
the homestead, which is reserved to the widow.
The other matter was embodied in a communication which
lay on his desk at headquarters. It was the resignation of
one of his subordinates — the man Adams, him of the shifty
eyes and stealthy ways, whose manner the night of the De
Sanchez affair had made Lynden so uncomfortable.
The fact that General Peyton Westbrook was actually
penniless came like a bombshell to a community that had so
long looked up to him as a leading citizen, a man of affairs
and affluence, whose very name was a synonyme for business
acumen and success; but the fact became only more certain
with the passing days, though the public learned little more
of it than was contained in the notice quoted.
Converse sat musing for a time, then he tossed Adams's
letter into a pigeonhole. “Going to start a private agency,
eh? Very good; I wish you luck. Now there's a place
for McCaleb.” He dismissed the matter from his mind,
(314)


Fairchild Redivivus
and at once remembered the morning's chief engagement.
It was time to keep tryst with Miss Charlotte and her brother.
When he arrived at the cottage Charlotte welcomed him
cordially, while Clay turned to him with a new interest,
acquired overnight, and frankly extended a hand.
“We nearly made a mess of it, did n't we? ” were Clay's
first words after greeting. He laughed at the whimsical look
with which he was being regarded.
“But I am afraid I am going to disappoint you,” he con-
tinued. “I fear things will appear more puzzling and per-
plexing than ever. After hearing what Charlotte had to say,
it seems marvellous – I am more at sea than ever.”
The other nodded a brisk comprehension. “We are all
at sea, more or less,” said he. “But being at sea in a rudder-
less craft, without a navigator, and off the usual routes of
traffic, is one thing; to have a stanch bottom beneath you,
a stiff breeze off the quarter, and your course well marked
off, is quite another.
"I take it, then, that after you and Miss Joyce passed
each other in Mr. Nettleton's office,- after you went into
the private office to see what had occasioned her bursting
in upon you so unceremoniously,- you were more puzzled
than ever; that you saw nothing whatever to explain the
occurrence ?”
Was it prescience that prompted this conclusion? for
hear the answer:
“That is correct.”
And again:
“There was no one there ?”
“No one; no evidence that anybody besides Joyce had
been in the private office.”
( 315]


The Silver Blade
Where, then, had the assassin been ?
But Converse, though his mien became a little grimmer,
did not pause.
“After you had ascertained that Miss Westbrook was
indeed gone, you seated yourself once more at your desk
— but not to resume your work. Your mind was engrossed
by the recent episode; presently you noted that a very famil-
iar perfume was still conspicuous, as if in passing she had
left a pleasant evidence of herself loitering about your desk,
and you fell to searching for it. You scattered the papers
on your desk; you looked to the floor – all about you — but
did not locate the source of that delicate fragrance."
Noting the young man's frank amazement, he chuckled
silently.
“No; I was not there,” he went on,- “not until later.
But I found it. In her agitation, she had dropped her hand-
kerchief into your waste-paper basket.”
“And that,” gasped Charlotte, “was what directed you
to Joyce!”
"Miss Fairchild,” said the Captain, soberly, “it was a
clue that could not be ignored. You have seen the Countess
Zicka in ‘Diplomacy.'”.
“Go on," urged Fairchild, while his sister nodded her
comprehension.
“Very well. You remained at your desk ten or fifteen
minutes longer, but never got your mind fixed upon your
work again. At last you donned your overcoat and hat
and passed over to the Doctor's office, with a vague idea of
finding an explanation there. As you opened his door, you
were still trying to account for Miss Westbrook's transit
through Mr. Nettleton's offices, and when your eye fell upon
(316)


Fairchild Redivivus
the form of De Sanchez, no idea was at first conveyed to
your brain; it was so far beyond anything that you possibly
could have imagined. Next instant a concept of what had
happened burst upon you; a false one, to be sure, but quite
natural under the circumstances. I can see that it was a
tremendous shock to you; for the moment you were dumb,
paralyzed with terror; then like a flash your faculties were
startled into an abnormal activity, and you realized that you
had become an important factor in a deed of blood. There
sat Doctor Westbrook, and Howe — a stranger to you - in
an ominous silence, their own faces reflecting something of the
deed's horror; Alberto de Sanchez lay dead at their feet and
at yours, and with electric swiftness you reviewed the facts
as you knew them, — the ground of contention between the
Doctor and the dead man, the still bleeding body, the familiar
weapon lying conspicuously on the floor, — all told an awful
story. You did not try to reason it out or give a name to
what you beheld; you were simply dismayed, overwhelmed
by a consciousness that in some way the situation was fraught
with the gravest peril for some one very dear to you,— some
one whose well-being and happiness were of far more
importance than your own — and you acted upon the blind-
est of impulses. No one but yourself knew that Miss Joyce
had been there; no one would ever ascertain it from you,
and you fled madly, with no definite aim but to get away
- to hide yourself safe from all pursuit.”
Clay sat watching the speaker, rapt by the recital.
“This is truly remarkable,” he now said, with a quiet-
ness born of deep feeling. “You relate the conditions as
if you had experienced them yourself. Could I have im-
agined for a moment that the investigation was to be con-
( 317 )


The Silver Blade
ducted with such insight and comprehension, why, I should
never have fled. What slaves we are to impulse!”
“Aye, to the young it is the refinement of wisdom, as my
friend Mr. Follett would say.”
“There was yet another element augmenting my feel-
ings at that moment,” Clay went on; “do you care to
hear?”
“Assuredly. I should like to hear any conclusions you
may have formed.”
“Well, that very morning Miss Westbrook and I had had
a conversation concerning Señor de Sanchez, to which his
sudden taking off and the manner of it were an awful climax.
Never, never again will I lightly consider the chances of a
person's living or dying; the dénouement was like an answer
to an unexpressed wish.”
“But now, then, Mr. Fairchild,” interpellated Converse,
but stopped to ask, “You know, of course, about Miss Joyce's
illness ?”
“I do; but I am miserably in doubt regarding its serious-
ness.”
“The conditions are all in her favor: youth, health, splen-
did constitution; so you need not worry about that. What
I started to say is, that I wish to direct your attention to the
mainspring of the whole matter. To-night I must leave the
city for a time, and before I go I want to know what it was
she saw in the hall. It was while striving to tell this that she
collapsed. Poor girl; I hope that some time she may find
it in her heart to forgive my persistence.”
For a bit the natural seriousness of the young man's
countenance was deepened by the evident care with which
he was framing a reply. The visitor awaited that reply
( 318 )


Fairchild Redivivus
with his customary impassiveness; but Charlotte, who had
been following the conversation with rapt interest, now sud-
denly leant forward and watched her brother with some
anxiety.
“Captain,” Clay began at length, “if Joyce — if Miss
Westbrook and I had had better opportunities of discussing
the matter since the death of De Sanchez, we might have
come to a better understanding; but I was haunted with an
abnormal fear of discovery, and I shrank from exposing
myself unnecessarily, because I did n't know what dire dis-
aster it would mean for her and the Doctor.” Of a sudden
his eyes kindled. “I saw her but three times,” he concluded,
"and then only briefly."
“Three times ?”
“Yes — ”
But Charlotte's gentle voice interrupted. “Let me
explain,” said she, directing a glance of sympathy toward
her brother; "it will give you an added insight into Joyce's
character, which will not injure her in your estimation, I am
sure. Dear, brave, impulsive girl! Mr. Converse, can you
imagine Joyce going alone at night to Clay's hiding-place,
that dismal, forsaken house that was once our home?”
“I can believe anything of her courage, Miss Fairchild.”
"Well, she did — so soon as she learned where Clay was
and why he was there. I have it from Mobley, Mr. Con-
verse; the transformation which this intelligence worked
in her amazed him and Mrs. Westbrook. That night,
unknown to any one, she went through the darkness, through
those wretched, creepy halls and silent, deserted rooms, to
tell Clay — But I shall not relate what she said or what
occurred.”
[319]


The Silver Blade
Indeed, it was not necessary that she should; a glance at
the young man's glowing countenance was sufficient.
Converse laughed knowingly.
“That was on — let me see, what night was it?” he
inquired.
“The next night after De San — Thursday night,”
Charlotte replied.
The Captain nodded appreciatively.
“That clears up the code,” said he.
“The code went to Joyce in a returning lunch-basket,”
observed Fairchild.
“By way of the Doctor ?” the Captain added.
“Doctor Westbrook, do you mean?” said Clay, surprised.
“Oh, no; Mr. Nettleton's negro, President, was the happy
medium, the manna-bearing raven in my wilderness, always.”
“Did Mr. Nettleton know of this arrangement ?” asked
Converse.
“Why, yes," was the perplexed reply. “I don't know
what idea you have, but this is the way of it. When I first left
the Nettleton Building, I went rushing through the streets
like one distracted. I was, I suppose. But presently I
came to myself and realized, if I wished to expunge myself
quietly, that I must get my wits together and think out a
plan. So I walked on more composedly, penetrated the
depths of the East Side to a small hotel conducted by a
Mexican of whom I know. Oh, I was terribly upset — clean
knocked out; for while I was in the dingy office a most
remarkably beautiful girl entered. I uttered a cry that
frightened her, and sat staring at her with open mouth. She
was the living image of De Sanchez — or so my distraught
brain fancied.
[320]


Fairchild Redivivus
but it is a fact. ... I should say now, as a guess, that one
of the three times when you saw Miss Joyce was night before
last, eh ?”
“Yes, sir,” was the reply.
And so it may be seen that, however old the Captain might
be, he had not forgotten the wisdom of Polonius's admoni-
tion to “give every man thine ear, but few thy voice.”
Their eager questions remained unanswered, and they
failed to note.
“I wish you would tell me what you were doing in the
Westbrook yard,” Converse continued; "what you saw
and heard while there."
“Did Joyce speak of that?” was the unnecessarily cau-
tious response.
“In a way, yes; but I want impressions at first hand.”
The young man considered a while before proceeding.
“Well, you know about our code of signals,” he said at
length, “mine and Joyce's. I arranged that code, and was
very proud of it until we attempted to use it; then a diffi-
culty arose: Joyce's inability to read half the signals, and
mine to read the other half. Still, the chief object was at-
tained: nightly we assured each other of our well-being, and
I was enabled to glean pretty well how affairs were progress-
ing.
“But there were one or two occasions when I was left in
a perplexing doubt. I became intolerably anxious and
impatient, and throwing caution to the winds, I met Joyce
in her yard. Our signals of meeting, fortunately, were
iever difficult of interpretation.
“So it was on Monday night. Of course I was anxious
to be with her at all times, but then the whim seized me all
[ 323]


Fairchild Redivivus
regret that I can't express myself to him. If you only knew
how he has watched her, how he has made her life a weari-
ness — ”
“I do know something of it.” Converse laughed dryly.
“If her word carries any weight with him, he knows it too.”
As his auditor's look became inquiring, the Captain
narrated what had occurred at the Westbrooks'.
Clay put a period to the recital with a satisfied “Good!”
“Does Lynden regard Miss Joyce with any unusual
warmth of affection ?”
“Does he!” with an indignant stare. “Why, he's head
over heels in love with her. Did you ever hear of such pre-
sumptuous conceit ?”.
Very soberly, Converse replied that he had not.
“That 's what makes his conduct all the more annoying,”
this confidence went on; "it is as if he suspected her of some-
thing. Why, he might even think she had something to do
with the De Sanchez business."
“Sure enough.” The idea was illuminating. Presently
Converse inquired how much the young man knew of De
Sanchez's determination to marry Joyce.
“I knew that De Sanchez came here for the express pur-
pose of marrying her," was the reply. “That could mean
only a resolution formed when Joyce was a mere child.”
He abruptly paused. “What is it?” he asked.
Converse had suddenly become electrified into a tense
alertness. He grasped the chair-arms, as if imminently upon
the point of springing up. Quite suddenly, again, his
normal impassiveness reasserted itself.
“Go on, go on,” said he, with a haste not altogether free
from eagerness.
( 325]


The Silver Blade
“Do my words suggest anything ?”
“They do. But go on.”
“Well,” resumed Clay, “when Joyce took that trip to
Mexico, she was too young and inexperienced to appreciate a
fact that later became susceptible of interpretation. Look-
ing back to that time, she could not fail to see that his
conduct was then directed toward herself; that it greatly an-
noyed her father, although General Westbrook seemed to
handle the situation easily; and that the subsequent sever-
ance of all relations between the two men, which presently
followed, was not entirely without an explanation. Joyce
was blind to the man's attentions, except now and then
when some incident of unusual ardor instinctively struck a
note of warning, causing her to wonder dimly, then it passed
and was forgotten. The fact is, that De Sanchez must have
been struck all of a heap, for he seems to have inaugurated
a campaign of wooing of characteristic Latin warmth, ready
to override all other considerations. Joyce is of the impres-
sion that her father discouraged this design of the other
man's in no uncertain manner.”
The speaker paused. It was obvious that he was arrang-
ing his thoughts, and Converse waited without moving
“Next, De Sanchez appears here, and soon events begin
to shape themselves in a way that, seemingly, can't be ex-
plained. For instance, when you consider what happened
in Mexico, and the hiatus between that time and De Sanchez's
appearance, how can you account for the endeavors in his
behalf which gave him an immediate social prestige locally ?
How can you account for the fact that his suit was not only
favored, but that pressure was brought to bear upon Joyce
to gain her consent ? Knowing that she regarded the man
[ 326 )


Fairchild Redivivus
with especial dislike, how can you explain her hovering on the
very verge of giving in ?”
“Did she never enlighten you ?” The Captain was re-
garding the young man curiously.
"No." A tinge of bitterness crept into his reply. “She
merely said her father had convinced her that it was her duty
to marry De Sanchez."
“You did not know, of course, that Slade witnessed her
departure from the Nettleton Building ?”.
“Did he ? It is he, then, who has caused all this recent
trouble ? ”
“In a way, yes. He furnished the material. I want to
ask you something about that. Shortly after you disap-
peared he addressed an unsigned note to me, saying, in
effect, that, if I found the woman — then much of a mystery
- I should know who killed De Sanchez. He also said that
you were innocent. Why should he make so obvious an
attempt to divert suspicion from you ?"
“I can't imagine. While I do not share with mother
and Lottie the bitterness which the name of Slade arouses,
yet I know very little of him; merely enough to nod in pass-
ing. The father was, doubtless, an unconscionable scoun-
drel; but William, in spite of his repulsive qualities, is in no
wise to blame for that. I've always felt a sort of sneaking
pity for him. The old fellow eyes me often in a peculiar,
ruminative way — somewhat as he did when bestowing his
'blessing' upon General Westbrook. But he's a harmless
crank.”
“ 'Slade's Blessing,' ” mused the Captain.
Clay nodded and went on: “You've heard of it, I see.
He's a little touched, I believe. He sometimes mumbles
( 327 )


Fairchild Redivivus
“Yes,” said he. “I know of the very place — Mr.
Nettleton's plantation. It is only about seven miles beyond
here, and I can walk it easily.”
“Very good.” Then, as if the matter had for the first time
occurred to him, Converse added:
"By the way, who is the proprietor of the East Side hotel
where you wrote your letter to Mr. Nettleton ?”
The question seemed of trifling importance.
“Ramon Velasquez. Mr. Nettleton has done some legal
work for him.”
“Very good. Whatever you do, keep yourself out of
sight. You seem to know how, so I 'll not offer any sugges-
tions. Good-bye.”
But Mr. Converse was still to be much in evidence that
night. He found a number of things to detain him, and it
was not until the afternoon of the next day, the nineteenth,
that he quietly disappeared from his customary haunts.
[ 329 ]


“ The Thunderbolt Has Fallen"
that seemed to be sleeping in the Sunday calm of Ash Lane.
It was very quiet, and he advanced doubtfully to the
closed double door and rapped loudly upon its begrimed
panels.
He was not entirely devoid of curiosity as he awaited
the issue; so when the door opened to reveal a negro of
gigantic proportions, his countenance reflected something of
the surprise which the encounter afforded.
“Mr. Follett ?” he queried vaguely.
The huge darkey grinned.
“No, seh," was the reply. “De boss 's in de yahd.”
Joe regarded Mr. Mountjoy's Sunday attire with un-
certainty. “If you 'll step to de otheh doah,” with tones
respectfully lowered, “I'll fotch him; dis yere 's de stoah-
room.”
As he was bidden, Mr. Mountjoy stepped to the other
door, a single one at a corner of the structure, and after some
minutes of waiting, footsteps within told that it concealed a
stairway; then it was opened by the negro, who invited
the visitor to ascend.
Mr. Mountjoy had no sooner entered the front apart-
ment than he mentally ejaculated: “Why, of course! An
ancient mariner like John would live just so, with some
battered and weather-beaten shipmate, comrade of many an
adventurous cruise; nothing more natural.” He experienced
a sudden admiration for the feeling which prompted the big,
taciturn detective to keep his vocation from intruding upon
his private life. The lawyer's glance was scrutinizing when
it rested upon the twisted, limping figure which presently
entered. He had deposited his hat and coat upon a locker-
like box, noting as he did so that its surface was scrupulously
[ 331 ]


“ The Thunderbolt Has Fallen"
sive attention and endeavors; having the requisite postage
attached, all that is now necessary to forward this envelope
upon its way, is — the address.” He tossed it upon the
table. “There, I leave it to your care.”
“It shall go to John to-day,” quietly remarked Mr. Fol-
lett. His face assumed a thoughtful expression as he slowly
filled and lighted a pipe.
“Lawyer,” he went on after a puff or two, “I'm glad
you come just when you did. There 's a matter I want to
talk to you about; John would want that you know it.”
“Very well,” the guest acquiesced; and with much diffi-
culty Mr. Follett arose and made his way to the mantel,
where. he extracted a letter from a mother-of-pearl box
standing there.
“Look at that,” handing the missive to the lawyer and
resuming his seat. “Read that an' tell me what you make
of it.”
The envelope, very much soiled and crumpled, bore the
simple superscription, in pencil, “ La Señorita Dolores,"
and nothing else. One end had been torn open, and there
appeared a portion of a sheet of note-paper upon which
was written, also in pencil, four words, “El rayo ha
cáido.”
"Well,” said Mr. Mountjoy, presently, “I make very little
of it. Spanish, I suppose ? ”
“That means," was the impressive reply, “that means,
"The thunderbolt has fallen.'”
Mountjoy made no effort to hide his curiosity and wonder.
“Tell me about it,” said he, settling himself more com-
fortably.
For a time Mr. Follett smoked in silence; then, ignoring
( 333 ]


The Silver Blade
his pipe further, he confronted his caller with the suddenness
of one who sees his way clear before him, and began:
“There's a machinist, Hunter by name, who works nights
at the compress. Him an' his wife an' a half-dozen or so
oʻchildren live in one o' them little cottages near by, just off
Ash Lane. Well, last night Hunter an'a dago friend o'
his 'n stopped one o' the night men on this beat, sayin' they
had a matter that was a-puzzlin' them mightily, an' they
wanted to have a talk about it — not that the dago could
make himself understood to any great extent, but Hunter
had him along to kind o' back ’im up. Hunter said what
he had to say, an' the policeman, knowin' that John lived
near by, brought the two o' them here. O course he
did n't know about John bein' away; but enough was said
for me to ask a question or two, an' I finally got the hull story.
“Hunter has a boy nine years old, who sells papers morn-
in's an evenin's, an’ when he sells out he never has more 'n
thirty or forty cents, or thereabouts, to show for it. Every
night the boy brings this money home an' turns it over to his
mother. A good lad, you see.
“Well, two or three days ago the mother found a silver
dollar tucked away under a little vase that stands on a shelf
in one o' their rooms. She knew that none o' the family had
lost a dollar; she knew she had n't put it there herself —
they ’re not so plentiful in the Hunter home — so it worried
her a hull lot. She took all the children to task, one by one,
an' to make a long story short, she finally got it out o’ the
nine-year-old that he'd put the dollar under the vase. He
was so back’ard in ownin' up an’ in talkin' about it, that she
just natcher'lly kep’ at him until she drew out a bit at a time
the boy's story o’the dollar.”
[ 334 ]


“ The Thunderbolt Has Fallen"
The speaker paused and seemed to be much interested
in the nodding head of his auditor. Mountjoy sat with the
tips of his fingers pressed lightly together and his thin lips
tightly closed.
“I follow you,” he now said; “pray continue.”
“Not very excitin' so far, but necessary,” said Mr. Fol-
lett. “Now, hear the rest. This here's the way the boy's
yarn went.
“One evenin', a week or so before the findin' o' the
money, he saw a man step from the Palace Drug
Store — "
Mountjoy's eyebrows suddenly shot upwards, and he sat
up straighter in his chair.
" — which, as you know," the other went on at once, “is
catty-cornered across from the Nettleton Buildin' on
Court Street. He ran up to this man to sell him a paper
an' the man stepped up in the shadow of a doorway an'
asked the boy would he deliver a letter if he — the man -
bought all the papers. The boy hung back; then the man
pulled out a dollar, sayin' he'd give that too if the boy 'd
only hurry. The little lad then agreed to take the letter
which the man handed him, together with the dollar, an'
twenty cents for the four Expresses he still had. The man
then told the boy to listen sharp while he learned where the
letter was to be delivered. After bein' satisfied that the boy
understood, the man hurried away.
“It seems that the more the boy thought about it, the less
he liked the job. The address told him was in a part o’
town the boy did n't know much of, an' it begun to loom
pretty prominent in his mind that he was scairt to go there
after night. So it ended in him a-goin' home an'hidin'
[ 335]


The Silver Blade
the letter an' money, gettin' rid o' the hull thing easy, like
a boy can, you know.
“But when Hunter himself heard about it, he went into
the matter further an' found out a bit more.
“What did the man look like? The boy could n't tell,
as he had not only been in the shadow, but his coat collar
was turned up an' a soft hat was pulled down over his eyes;
but he had been mighty polite an' soft spoken, an' the lad
knew that his clothes were extra fine - a‘swell dresser,' as
Hunter put it.
“Next, what night was it? This soundin' by an' by
struck deep water an' a clear way ahead: the night o' the
murder in the Nettleton Building.
“What time that night? The boy could n't say exactly,
but it was about half an hour before he got home. A little
figgerin' fixed this time at somewheres 'round five o'clock.
Do you see?”
Mountjoy, very grave now, merely nodded.
“Hunter thought right off he'd found a clue. He opened
the letter, an' o' course could n't make head nor tail of it.
He puzzled over it days when he 'd ought to been asleep,
an' nights when he'd ought to been attendin' to his work;
an'at last he calls in his dago friend for a conference. Funny,
war n't it?
“The friend thought it looked like dago writin' all right,
but he could n't read this particular kind. Queer how them
furriners can talk an' read some outlandish lingo an' not
know good plain English, ain't it?
“Well, the dago thinks the thing to do is to take it to the
policeman on this beat, though how he ever made Hunter
understand is beyond me. They does it, as I have told you."
( 336 ]


CHAPTER IV
SOME LOOSE ENDS
A S may be imagined, Captain John Converse, in the
A steady, unostentatious performance of his duty, was
not the only one to whom success signified a reward
as large as the twenty thousand dollars offered by the
De Sanchez estate. About the time of his quiet leave tak-
ing there was a great gathering of soi-disant specialists,
investigators, and detectives, like corbies to a feast. But
they only created, for a time, a distracting tumult, and
were soon forgotten — with a single exception. The man
Adams, also working quietly and unostentatiously, is still to
be heard from.
In the early part of January three incidents happened,
bearing more or less directly upon the two tragedies, each of
them attended by circumstances that caused more than one
individual to regard a probable clearing up of the mysteries
with the gloomiest doubt. We may not know how they
impressed Mr. Converse, for he had not yet returned, but
Mr. Mountjoy, and Miss Charlotte especially, viewed the
outlook with dark forebodings.
First of all, after hovering between life and death for
many weeks, Joyce one morning quite suddenly looked again
upon the world with eyes in which shone the light of intelli-
gence. Doctor Westbrook chanced to be present, and the
[338]


The Silver Blade
means so sanguine himself: it was also not uncommon that
memories so lost were never recovered.
During a black night of tempest and pounding sleet with
out, of high-leaping fires assaulted by gelid gusts within,
Mrs. Elinor Fairchild's spirit winged its flight from the poor
earthly frame that had enchained it. So imperceptible was
the transition, that Charlotte, star-eyed and sibylline, brood-
ing by the glowing hearth, marked it not.
Some hours later, when bestirring herself to retire, she
laid her slim fingers for a moment upon her mother's fore-
head, withdrawing her hand with a suddenness that marked
the swift quickening of questioning dread. But after all, if
the Spectre be really confronting us, how certain is his
presence! Instantly her intelligence was submerged by
conviction.
With a thought of Mr. Converse flitting incongruously
through her mind, it occurred to her that the closed door
was locked for ever.
( 340 )


CHAPTER V
MR. SLADE RESIGNS
NHE third incident has to do with Mr. William Slade.
With the cold days of January, there came over him
a noticeable change; quite suddenly — in a day —
he seemed to have aged, to have shrunk and become dod-
dering. It was an effort for him to climb the one flight of
stairs to Room 6, and when once there, a still greater effort
to go about his business. He began to be late of mornings
and to commit trifling irregularities which, it was obvious,
were due to a failing memory; the beady eyes — though
with a waning brightness — regarded impartially and with
open suspicion and hostility all who approached him –
eyes unmistakably like a mouse's when that diminutive
animal debates the chances of getting safely from one cover
to another under the supervision of an alert cat.
The change was observed and commented upon in the
main office across the hall. After much idle speculation one
morning on the part of a clerk and the book-keeper as to
the extent of Slade's wealth and its probable disposition in
the event of his death, the book-keeper said:
"And there's another thing. Have you ever noticed
him — "he cast a hasty, covert glance toward the entry door,
and leaning suddenly forward, lowered his voice to a whisper,
—“have you ever noticed him when he comes in or goes out
of the abstract room — lately, I mean?”
The clerk shook his head.
[341]


Mr. Slade Resigns
But the secretary hardened. “We 're not hurrying you,”
said he. “You have till February first — practically a
month — and in the meantime you can do pretty much as
you please. Understand ?”
During the rest of that day Slade conducted himself like
a man dazed. There was a forward droop to his knees,
to his shoulders, and to his head; and altogether he pre-
sented a most unlovely spectacle of irresolution and help-
lessness.
From long force of habit he did not leave Room 6 until
five o'clock; but at that hour he got slowly into his overcoat
– once black, but now plum-colored where the light struck
upon it - and donned his hat, preparatory to departing
for the night. The clerks across the hall, the occupants of
the other offices, passed out one by one or in couples, their
brisk homeward-bound footsteps clattering cheerfully in the
hall; and when he finally turned off the light the building
was deserted save for himself and one other. As he slowly
descended the stairs, clinging tenaciously to the railing,
Doctor Westbrook passed him, also descending, - and
as he did so, bent a keen look toward the meagre, tottering
form and the parchment-like countenance, drawn by acute
physical pain and overcast by an unhealthy pallor. He
nodded as he went by, but Slade did not observe it; neither
did he see that the physician paused at the foot of the stairs
and looked back at him.
Somehow Slade arrived at his single cheerless, disordered
apartment. It was dirty, damp, and fireless. He lighted
a candle — so primitive were his conveniences — which
with some difficulty he stood upright on a corner of the
table, where it was held steady by its congealed drippings.
[ 343 ]


The Silver Blade
And all that night, and until well into the next forenoon,
Slade left the bare table only once or twice: once to get
from a shelf a bit of bread and a tin box of sardines. The
latter, after several vain attempts to open, he cast aside and
contented himself with the crust. The rest of the night he
wrote sedulously, though slowly and with much labor; and
when he had finished, a considerable pile of numbered pages
reposed by his hand. About ten o'clock in the morning
the cold enveloped him like an icy mantle; the pen slipped
from his nerveless fingers, and he allowed it to remain where
it fell; he dropped upon a cot which stood against the wall,
pulled the covering closely about him, and slept immediately.
In the afternoon he was awakened by a vivid dream and sat
suddenly upright, his eyes once more jet-like with the light
of a newly formed purpose.
The drifting shadows of the old Fairchild homestead
were destined to behold strange sights and to hear strange
sounds before being finally banished from beneath the crum-
bling roof.
Within the roomy dining-hall a heavy table has lost its
identity beneath a thick coat of dust and a heap of plaster,
sometime fallen from the ceiling; yet it is of solid mahogany,
with legs richly carved, and hides a warm, brilliant lustre
under its coat of dirt and neglect.
The shadows deepen. The chilly mist without becomes
a rain, dripping mournfully from the decaying, moss-covered
eaves, and filling the old house with strange, hollow echoes,
weird and fantastic.
Without warning, these quiet, melancholy sounds are
disturbed by another, loud and startling. It is like a groan,
( 344 )


Mr. Slade Resigns
dominating all other sounds and awakening its counterpart
in every portion of the building.
Immediately uncertain footsteps, marked by many
shufflings, as of some person laboring beneath a bur-
den, approach the dining-room door; a load of some nature
is eased to the floor without; next, the door itself turns on
screaming binges to reveal a dim form. The form enters,
drags a prodigious bundle after it, upon which it collapses
as if its endurance were quite spent, and discloses the sallow,
marasmic countenance of Mr. William Slade.
He presents a spectacle of utter physical exhaustion as he
sits all huddled together on his recent burden. But after
a while he gets unsteadily to his feet and busies himself
about the apartment.
Strange is this final scene upon which the shadows, mar-
shalled in wonder in the farthest corners, are destined to
look to-night; stranger still and more weird are the sounds
that echo and re-echo through the empty, dark rooms. In
all its history of comedy and tragedy the mouldering roof
has never sheltered an act so incongruous as this.
Behold the heavy table spread for a feast and lighted with
the soft glow of many wax candles; behold the flames on the
cluttered, mossy hearth struggling for access up the choked
chimney; and above all, behold the solitary figure seated at
the board, fingering a wine-glass and seeking with rheumy
eyes to penetrate the darker limits of the vast room — indeed,
a spectre at the board. Mad, mad, clearly mad!
Yet, look closer still and this madness reveals a certain
method: a ghastly significance may be traced in the details,
in the man's actions and the words he mutters ceaselessly;
and although the spectacle remains incongruous, it ceases
[ 345]


The Silver Blade
to be ludicrous. The fire on the hearth and the wan light
of the tapers only accentuate the cheerlessness and squalid
ruin of the place — of Slade himself, and of that spread
table which is a thing to shrink from.
There are two covers laid — even a bouquet of hothouse
roses, somewhat wilted and crushed from having been too
tightly packed in the bundle. But where is the guest of this
eerie banquet ? Has one of the shadows been summoned
forth from the dismal chambers to share it ?
The second chair is oddly decked with fabrics of faded
hue and ancient design, inasmuch as they are plainly articles
of feminine apparel marking a mode dead these twoscore
years. Most conspicuous of these decorations is a faded
lavender skirt of silk with many flounces, cut long, long ago,
not to fit any woman's shape, but with the prodigality de-
manded by the wide hoop of the period. The garments
were arranged on the chair with an obvious attempt to suggest
a human occupant; but the effect is ghostly and repulsive,
the semblance pitiful.
It is unlikely that Mr. Slade could have found anything
with which he was less familiar than champagne, unless
indeed it were the art of presiding at such a feast as this one
pretended to be; for, witness! — merely two spoons and forks
and glasses served all requirements. Mere ghost of a dinner
- a shadow among the innumerable other shadows of the
place Slade's gaucherie was not even relieved by a hint
that he had ever been present at an actuality of the kind.
The wine mounted quickly to his head and infused a tempo-
rary vitality into his dry frame; the lack-lustre eyes became
jet-like once more; even a tinge of color glowed feverishly
in his sallow cheek; more wonderful still, his tongue was
( 346 )


Mr. Slade Resigns
loosened to an unwonted loquacity. But his voice remained
harsh and rasping, his movements stiff and awkward, and
no slumbering trace of amiability was quickened into life.
Clumsily he opened the bottles, losing half their con-
tents as he dodged to escape the flying corks.
“Drink, my dear,” he said, nodding to the draped chair
with a sorry attempt at joviality. “That's right. Great
thing, champagne; sorry I did n't know it before."
He leaned across the table and tried to fill the second glass,
already full many times over, and gave the sopping cloth,
which had been spread regardless of the dust, another liba-
tion. “Drink. Drink and be merry, as the old saying is –
Epicurus, eh? Wonderful how it warms your heart. ...
And to think I never knew how champagne could fire one!”
He tossed off the contents of his own glass and clacked his
tongue.
“But I have been working,” he went on with sudden
cunning; “working for you, Elinor. This is our home-
coming; all my life, my dear, I've pictured you and me
sitting here and facing each other, and the niggers waiting
on us. Niggers 'fraid to come, damn 'em! But 's all
yours — within bounds, of course — within bounds. I'm
rich, I am — moderately so — perhaps not rich, but enough;
with economy, enough for comfort.” He waved the glass
about at arm's length, noticed that it was empty, and refilled
it. “All yours — and mine. And here we are! I forget
the past — 's all wiped out — your children shall be my
God, and my children your – You know; 's in the Bible.
Wherever I goest you goest —”.
There was a phonetic allusion in the repeated verb that
cast a sudden damper over his exuberant spirits.
( 347 ]


The Silver Blade
“Ghost!” he muttered, bending a dark look upon the
lavender skirt, the time-stained cashmere shawl, the yellow
bit of lace that adorned the chair facing him. Sitting so, he
fell into a long, brooding silence.
The fire slowly sank upon the hearth, and the candles
guttered unheeded down on the table. Without, the rain
had settled into a steady downpour, its unbroken roar
being intensified, in a muffled way, by the vast, empty house;
a cold, penetrating wintry rain, such as drives the belated
wayfarer to shelter however scant, and early empties the
drenched streets of every living thing. And with a fre-
quency growing more insistent as the minutes pass, the
chill and the damp strike to Slade's very heart. Often
now he fumbles with bottles and fills his glass — never for-
getting the one opposite him, though it is never emptied —
and at length the black mood is driven forth, only to stand
once more at his elbow. Of a sudden he laughs harshly —
a laugh that certainly would have startled any occupant of
the room, had one been present to hear, for the laugh was
both bitter and malignant.
“Come, drink up, m' dear. You ’re no ghos'— not
you! Ha!” The glass rattled upon his teeth. “That
damn' Peyton Wes'brook; he's a ghos', hey? Well, he is.
Here's to the ghos’. Thought he'd get you, Elinor; but
you're no ghos'— 's lie, tha 's what 't is — lie. You 're
mine. All mine — house — money — you — all mine, at
las'. We'll show 'em, curse 'em!” His unsteady hand
overturned the brimming glass, but he poured on just the
same; and when presently he noticed that the bottle was
drained, he threw it with a wild laugh to a far dark corner,
where it splintered against the panelling with a crash of sound
( 348 )


The Silver Blade
The rain still reverberated from the roof; the candles
flickered out one by one; occasionally the dull embers in the
fireplace crackled faintly until they too became cold —
nothing but gray, sodden ashes.
Then it was that the wan light of day began to show
through the boarded windows; the shadows once more to
flit through the chambers and the echoing halls; then it
was that a venturesome mouse advanced to the centre of the
floor, where, in the untouched comestibles of last night's
feast, he discovered enough to maintain himself and his
colony royally for many weeks.
And encountering nothing to alarm him, he remained.
( 350 ]


CHAPTER VI
AN ARREST
TT is in life's supreme moments that destiny calls the
| loudest.
Miss Charlotte stands in the Westbrook morning-
room, her demeanor plainly indicating nervousness and
irresolution. From time to time she looks in a hesitating
way at Doctor Westbrook's broad back, as he stares out of
the window. Presently she speaks, as if with an effort;
but her deliciously soft and gentle voice in its free and ex
pressive play falls upon the listener's ears so like a harmony
struck from silver strings, that to say it breaks the silence is
to use a phrase too harsh.
“I don't consider our age — that is, seriously,” she is
saying; “but, Mobley, there are other things.”
She paused and contemplated his back a moment.
“If what you see from that window is of more consequence
than what I am saying,” she observed, “I will — ”
The Doctor wheeled about instantly, before she had
done.
"Believe me, Charlotte,” he made haste to protest, “you
had my undivided attention. I saw nothing out of the window
- or elsewhere; I was conscious only of your words.”
His obvious sincerity satisfied her. She smiled and pro-
ceeded, the man watching her with sober, thoughtful eyes.
“I will confess something to you, Mobley, and perhaps
you will understand better — why — why I hesitate.” She
[ 351 ]


SS
2
CS
AND

PL
SA
Ar TIMES CHARLOTTE BECAME BEAUTIFUL; A WARM TIDE OF Color MOUNTED TO HER
CHEEKS; HER HEAD BECAME REGALLY ERECT.





An Arrest
sweep him from his feet and leave him pouring out his
passion in fervid incoherencies, kneeling there before her.
“Charlotte, I can only repeat that I love you. I have
waited. But, dearest, now — now,” he came quickly close
up to her, “now can you make this confession and still hesi-
tate? Can you look at me and still say that any obstacle
stands between us ? Oh! Charlotte, Charlotte! My love
can no longer be denied!”.
Her eyes were downcast, her bosom rose and fell tumultu-
ously; but when he would have taken her in his arms, she
stopped him.
“Oh, don't — don't, Mobley,” in a whisper. “There -
are — there are other things.” Although he obeyed her, he
stood with arms outstretched, his attitude an impassioned
appeal from which the woman turned away her eyes.
“Since you have been here with Joyce," he resumed,
after a moment, “it has been a delight to watch you go
about the house; for it made it so easy to fancy that you
would come and go thus always. . Charlotte, dear heart,
look at me.”
Slowly the beautiful eyes, suffused with wonderful soft-
ness and light, rose to the appealing hands, to his own eager
orbs, and straightway dropped again.
“Charlotte, will you not stay? Dear?”.
“Mobley, I–I can't.”
Quite suddenly she clenched her slim fingers together in
a little gesture of helplessness. Her next words were incon-
sequential.
“Oh, why does not Mr. Converse return? Where can he
be? Has he abandoned us?”
The Doctor, being ignorant of the connecting links of
( 353 )


The Silver Blade
Adams made a peculiar sound with his tongue and ac-
companied it with an expression of protestation.
“Don't take that way with me, Doctor,” said he; "you 'll
regret it presently, I'm sure. If you don't care about the
lady being present I'm sure I don't. It was only out of a
consideration for her feelings — and yours, too, Doctor —
that I threw out the suggestion.”
“And once more, I tell you there is nothing privy between
you and me, Adams. Be brief.”
“Very well.”
With a movement that was again almost like prestidigita-
tion, Adams had the door open, and there appeared the
familiar, now puzzled, countenance of McCaleb.
“That's the man,” Adams went on, pointing to Doctor
Westbrook,- assuredly, direct enough now. “I charge
Mobley Westbrook with the murder of Señor Alberto de
Sanchez.” With extraordinary adroitness, he placed Mc-
Caleb between himself and the physician.
For a moment the silence could almost be felt, tense and
breathless as it was. McCaleb was the only one present
who evinced any embarrassment; he had every air of a man
suddenly and unwillingly thrust into a ridiculous position.
Charlotte was too dazed to comprehend at once what was
going forward, and she simply sat motionless and stared at
Adams with a blank look. That individual, by his recent
manæuvre, had placed himself near the open door, and he
was, moreover, again smiling and flashing his teeth. As
for the Doctor, he seemed for the time being overcome with
astonishment; then he laughed harshly and unnaturally;
and what he said was quite unaccountable:
“So it has come at last. Well, I have been expecting it.”
( 356 )


An Arrest
He sat down suddenly and fell to stroking his beard. His
glance seemed to pass casually to Adams, who, when his
shifting eyes caught it, swallowed hastily and edged still
nearer the door.
A sudden anger burst from the Doctor.
“Close that door!” he thundered. “Don't let that rascal
slip away till we see how far he means to push this thing.”
With the Doctor's first enigmatic words McCaleb seemed
to recover his sang-froid. Briefly he regarded the other with
a startled look, as if the words were unexpected and sur-
prising; now he turned to Adams, his surprise very manifest.
He closed the door.
“I must warn you, Doctor,” said he, “that anything you
say may be used against you; yet, if you wish to make a
statement, you are at liberty to do so. It is true that you
have been charged with this — this crime; I have the
warrant here, sworn to by Adams.”
The Doctor had not moved his look from Investigator
Adams, who now betrayed every sign of uneasiness. Once
or twice that wonderfully flexible right hand stole toward
the region of his hip pocket, but each time it came stealthily
back again, to pluck uncertainly at his prognathous chin.
“McCaleb, do your duty!” said he.
“When I get good and ready,” McCaleb returned, with-
out looking at him; he was still waiting on Doctor West-
brook. The latter now spoke.
“Oh, I have no statement to make; why should I? The
whole wretched business has been such a nightmare that I
have n't the heart to attempt a defence.”
Once more he turned to Adams.
“So this is your revenge, is it?" he asked. “This is
( 357 )


The Silver Blade
your way of getting back at me for the old Civic Reform
League; it's a pity I did n't stay with it until I had smoked
you out, you scoundrel.”
He looked again to McCaleb. “Well, I suppose I must
go with you; I am ready.”
But there came an interruption from an unlooked-for
source. Before any one was aware of it, Charlotte had
arisen and was between the Doctor and the other two men.
She faced them magnificently — like a tigress at bay.
“You touch him if you dare!”
The words were uttered with ominous quietness. If a
look could convey any physical effect, McCaleb and Adams
would have been seared and scorched and blasted by the
lightning-like fire of wrath that blazed about them. All
of her moving personality showed plainly in that look,
dominating the situation as if the other actors therein were
no more than wooden marionettes. McCaleb recoiled;
Adams cowered behind him.
“Mobley, tell him that he lies — there, that wretched
creature hiding behind the other."
She levelled a potent finger at the abject Adams.
“Charlotte,” Doctor Westbrook whispered in her ear,
“this is only making matters worse; believe me, this is not
the place to correct whatever mis — ”.
Charlotte stamped her foot with fierce impatience.
“Tell him that he lies; make him swallow those vile words
before either of you leaves this room.”
That terrible, menacing finger was to Adams like an iron
spit upon which he, impaled, was being held up to a threaten-
ing multitude. McCaleb essayed a diversion.
“This is unfortunate, Miss Fairchild. You know mo
( 358 ]


An Arrest
pretty well; you know that I must serve this warrant; you
know I would never do it were it not — ” But she was not
paying the slightest attention to him. He turned helplessly
to the Doctor.
At last the awful look in Charlotte's eyes, the menacing
finger, became unbearable. Adams, like the well-known
worm, turned. He also squirmed, worm-like, and was
heard to mutter something.
“What does the creature say?" demanded Charlotte.
“He says that he has an eye-witness to the murder,"
McCaleb interpreted.
Two regal strides, and she was standing above Adams,
an incarnation of outraged womanhood, of implacable,
devastating wrath.
“Who is your witness ?”
For once his eyes had ceased to rove; they were held by
Charlotte's — hypnotized by their compelling magnetism.
“Who is your witness ?” she repeated, sternly — not to
be denied.
“Don't — don't touch me,” he hissed. “Keep away!"
“Touch you, you filthy thing? Ugh! Who is your
witness ?”
Of a sudden McCaleb sprang toward them.
“Here, none of that!” he cried through clenched teeth.
Something flashed for an instant between the two men, and
when he stepped back again he was holding a pistol in his
hand and regarding the unfortunate Adams with anger and
contempt.
“Who is your witness ?” She was apparently oblivious
of the little by-play.
There was no escaping it. In the end he stammered
[ 359 ]


An Arrest
“Did you bring it ?” he asked.
For answer the lawyer drew a manuscript from his pocket.
His manner was sober, and unconsciously it foreshadowed
the gravity of what was about to transpire. A spirit of
expectancy animated everybody present; a dawning realiza-
tion that at last the crisis was at hand, that the veil hiding
the mystery was about to be rent. So far as this is con-
cerned, they were soon to learn that the rending of one
veil was to disclose but a single one of many complexities
and yet another concealing veil beyond; that while the
enveloping mists were surely dissipating, they passed but
slowly, revealing only a little at a time.
“While we are waiting for the others, Mr. Nettleton will
read this aloud,” said the Captain.
“What is it ? ” from the Doctor.
“I suppose you might call it the 'Ante-Mortem State-
ment of William Slade, Deceased,”” Mr. Nettleton replied;
and Converse interjected, “ 'Slade's Blessing.'”
“Good,” the lawyer rejoined. “That would not be an
inept title. It came to me this morning through the mail,
and evidently was only lately written.”
Again Converse spoke. “How is Miss Joyce ? Could
she be present ?” He proceeded no further, when he noticed
the Doctor shaking his head in a decided negative.
“She is rapidly regaining her strength,” the latter added;
“but of everything that happened up to the time of returning
consciousness, she remembers nothing."
“Dear me!” ejaculated the Captain; "that is unfortunate.
Is this blank likely to be permanent ?”
“God knows that I hope not. It is too early to hazard
a positive opinion."
[363]


An Arrest
may; but to read it here aloud will be a terrible ordeal.
What are your wishes ?”.
“Bob,” the Doctor returned, “we have all borne so much
that the fact of this being an additional ordeal weighs but
little against the assurance that we are to see this web of
mystery and suspicion untangled. I think the three of us
most concerned will agree to that?” He looked to Char-
lotte and Clay, who nodded acquiescence. Converse also
nodded his head vigorously, adding: “My idea, exactly.
You will hear the dead vilified and yourselves damned
roundly; but, dear me, what of that?” he asked, cheerfully.
“Slade was as cracked as a brick sidewalk, and he could n't
do anything else.”
Mr. Nettleton smiled. “It would n't do to go too far
into that, Converse; remember the will.”
“Well,” the other retorted, “that is the most sensible
thing he ever did. He was sane enough when that was
drawn. You must remember, it is fourteen years old.”
Now the lawyer turned to Clay and Charlotte. “It is
agreed, then, that I shall read this aloud ?” he asked, looking
from one to the other.
“Fire away,” from Clay; and his sister supplemented,
“If we can't bear it, we can stop you."
Although there were times during the reading when she
hid her face in her hands and wept softly; when Clay or the
Doctor or both sat with white set faces, with clenched hands
and rigid jaws, to the credit of their self-control may it here
be set down, that there was no interruption until Mr. Nettle-
ton had quite finished.
That which follows is merely a précis of what constituted
a remarkable document. Those portions deleted, compris-
( 365 )


The Silver Blade
ing quite a half of the writing, are nothing more nor less
than a manifestation of Slade's arrant egotism, his innate
selfishness, an almost fiendish vindictiveness, and a seem-
ingly inborn malevolence that was baffled at every turn.
Indeed, the one bright spot in the entire writing — his pro-
fessed affection, if so tender an emotion can be associated
with his nature — is all the more extraordinary because it
stands alone among all the man's ungenerous impulses and
thwarted ambitions. Those portions may well be dispensed
with; they are simply unpleasant reading. Otherwise the
document is given as he wrote it.
( 366 )


“Slade's Blessing"
could have husbanded it! Even at this late day the thought
of the small fortune that he wasted upon his niggers alone
makes me quiver with indignation. No; such learning as I
have was come by through sore labor. His mean gift was
thrown to me as a bone is tossed to a vagrant cur.
But no mortal could have saved that man. My father's
error lay in taking payment twice, and somewhat over, for the
money he had lent him. The highest tribute I can pay to
Richard Fairchild's astuteness is that he never suspected
this, although, during a period covering many years, he made
many payments to my father, and probably had continued
doing so had not every resource become exhausted.
My father used to say, in his vulgar way: “I fit for my
country against the greasers,”— meaning thereby the Mexi-
cans,— “and while I am too old to fight now, I may save
some of these broad acres. But old association cannot be ig-
nored; so long as my poor neighbors have a chance of keeping
up their brave show, my small means are at their service. If
they go down — well, I shall not.” And not to place upon
them any sense of obligation to an overseer, they never knew
whence the money came. I might observe that, had they
known, they would not have touched a penny of it. But thus
my father went about his charitable work, with his tongue in
his cheek, and one eye knowingly closed.
Also, I may say here that my father was a conscienceless
liar. He never fought anything but occasional virtuous
impulses, the same being ever put to an inglorious rout; for
during the Mexican War he was nothing more nor less than a
sutler, although there is much to be commended in providing
nourishment, raiment, and refreshment to those who are
battling for their country's honor. But he prospered, and
( 371 ]


The Silver Blade
in Mexico became connected with a certain young hidalgo
of Spain who had moneys to invest. Why this partnership
was severed I can only conjecture. My father was wont to
accuse him of ingratitude, saying that Don Juan del Castillo
was an ungrateful creature, who turned upon those that
befriended him; but at the same time my parent would
loudly forgive him for certain dim and unspecified wrongs,
the which, I shrewdly suspect, were of my father's doing
rather than the Spanish gentleman's. However that may be,
it was largely the latter's money that went to Richard Fair-
child as a loan for such of his acres as remained unincum-
bered. My father could well be the agent of Don Juan in
these transactions, even though the gentry would not tolerate
him as a principal. My father was a shrewd rascal.
As I have already stated, the money advanced to Richard
Fairchild was repaid more than twice over. (A schedule will
be found in the envelope with my will.) Hence, I have been
no more than a trustee — a faithful one — of Richard
Fairchild's property. Take it, Clay and Charlotte; I ask
nothing for my lifetime of toil and care, because I know it
will not be granted me. It is yours, freely and joyously
bestowed. I have added to it many fold; but that is of no
moment. I seek no credit for this generous impulse. I
could not have the desire of my heart: Elinor has gone from
me for ever. I want nothing else. Heaven give you happi-
ness in the property that I, William Slade, the overseer's
despised son, have laid up for you. ....
Only one single time did fate, or Providence, favor me,
and then only to turn in the end and discomfit me. But
for Elinor's sake, I may not tell all thereof.
On a night shortly after the Mexican man was overtaken
[372]


“Slade's Blessing”
by a most righteous wrath in the Nettleton Building, certain
evidences that Peyton Westbrook had for once gone a step
too far in his villany came to my hands. I gave thanks to
God that I should have been the one chosen as the humble
instrument of that man's undoing. The testimony was irre-
fragable — as we lawyers say, conclusive — and I held him
in the hollow of my hand. Here, my lifelong affection led
me into error of judgment — something that I am not often
guilty of; my tenderness of heart blinded me to my hatred of
this man, and instead of stripping him of his smug and gaudy
trappings of virtue, and showing him up to be the scoundrel
he was, I ended by allowing that evidence to be taken from
me — I standing by complaisant — and the opportunity to
unmask him to be destroyed. So did gentle Elinor reward
him for his base heartlessness of other days! What is the
use for me to say that Peyton Westbrook was a scoundrel, if
I cannot prove it? Although it is the bare truth, I will
refrain from telling it. Besides, sweet Elinor has begged me
not to. ...
For a time I thought of that snip of a girl who bears the
Westbrook name with about as much dignity as really invests
it -
But enough of her. I was wrong, and I bear her no ill
will for being a witless butterfly. Butterflies, I dare say,
have their uses in the vast scheme of creation.
To return to my error of judgment. When I had satiated
my senses by gloating over this evidence, I was possessed of
an idea. Never had I breathed a word to any living soul of
my love for Elinor Clay; it was a secret locked safely in the
treasure-house of my heart; and now I could overwhelm her
with gratitude. I would go to her — now that her foolish
( 373 ]


The Silver Blade
girl sentiment for the bowelless Westbrook had long been
dead — and at once show her what a hypocrite he was, how
basely he had treated her, and then present the immense
contrast offered by my lifelong devotion and generosity.
Could any mortal — especially a woman — resist such an
appeal ? I pride myself on my knowledge of the sex; to the
intelligent, observant mind they are as open books; and I
unhesitatingly answer, No. But alas for human frailty !
When I appeared to my beloved Elinor, I had not taken into
account her years of enervating illness; I failed to consider
that she was not the woman she had been; but I did not hesi-
tate — to me she would ever remain unchanged.
When she comprehended the tenor of my errand, the
shock was too much for her gentle nature; she was quite over-
come and rendered irresponsible, and all unconsciously she
reviled me,- she who had ever been all gentleness and ten-
derness,- and treated me with a harshness that was very,
very painful. What could I do but deliver my testimony
over to her? How could I refrain, when her delirium or
hallucination was so great that it actually led her to defend-
ing Peyton Westbrook! to calling him by many endearing
names! And presently, her daughter — who, I make no
doubt, had been listening at the door — entered, and I
thoughtfully and considerately desisted in my importunities
for the testimony's return (for my beloved Elinor had it at
the moment); and I decided to leave her until a more propi-
tious time. Alas! that time was destined never to come.
But enough. I reap from my trust no material benefit.
The envious call my conduct Miserliness; I spell it differently;
Fidelity.
Charlotte, Clay, dear children of my beloved Elinor, take
[374]


BOOK IV.
THE DANCER AND THE MOUNTEBANK


The tongues of dying men
Enforce attention like deep harmony.
Where words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain,
For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.
- RICHARD II.


CHAPTER I
“THAT IS PAQUITA”
HEN Mr. Nettleton came to the end of the extraordi-
nary composition from the hand of William Slade,
his listeners were sitting in a tense stillness that
was fairly galvanic with many mingled emotions. Doubtless,
Converse realized the conflicting feelings animating the three
individuals most concerned; he arose immediately, and
began speaking with an assumption of brisk determination
designed to hold their attention to the programme as he
intended it should be carried out.
“I have taken the liberty of ordering two carriages,” said
he, addressing the Doctor; “and as Miss Fairchild is to
accompany us”— he bowed to Charlotte —“let me beg that
you hurry. Time is of some moment now.”
“I am to go ?” she returned, wide-eyed. “Where?"
"To hear the final chapter; to be present at the lifting of
the veil.”
And at once she gave a satisfying example of how rapidly
a woman may make herself presentable under the spur of
excitement and irresistible curiosity.
What with the introduction of the man Adams into the
enigma, the Doctor's arrest, the assertion that Lynden had
been an eye-witness of De Sanchez's murder, Converse's
abrupt and unexpected advent after so long an absence,
Slade's confession, and — to cap each of these climaxes —
an assurance that the mystery was a mystery no longer, it
( 379 ]


“That is Paquita”
Almost at once Converse and McCaleb, Mr. Mountjoy and
the Coroner appeared before the carriage door.
The first-named shot a quizzical look at her, but still
vouchsafed no explanation more than the fact that they were
at their journey's end.
After stepping under the balcony which roofed the walk,
she was enabled to read on one of the door-panes the
words, “La Posada Mejicana, R. Velasquez,” which she did
with a little start. It was the place whither Clay had fled
upon that memorable day, and where he had written to Mr.
Nettleton. She glanced at the latter now, but he appeared
unwontedly sober. The Doctor's curiosity was frank,
though speechless; he doubtless had resigned himself to
await the issue.
The door was opened by a short stout man, whose features
were broad and dark. His hair was very black and straight
and coarse, and to this man Converse spoke a word or two
in Spanish. He responded volubly, and smiled a bright
welcome upon the remainder of the party.
“Coom een,” he said, cordially; “entre Ustedes — ah,
Señor Nettletone — como está U sted? Entre! Entre!” To
which the lawyer responded gravely.
"Eet ees a fine day — si?” vociferated the stout little
man, cheerfully; and when the last of the party had entered
he closed the door once more and placed himself beside Mr.
Converse.
"Lead on," said the latter with a gesture; "you know.”
“Dees way.” He piloted them down a chilly, dark
corridor to a flight of stairs.
The party presently arrived at the second floor, Charlotte
holding the Doctor's arm tightly, and the way led through
[381]


The Silver Blade
another dim corridor to a door, before which the guide
paused. His manner had become all at once comically
mournful.
“Ah, el pobre señor — he ees un seeck hombre — mucho
malo,” he whispered hoarsely. “I must go.” He departed
on tiptoe, and Converse tapped lightly upon the door.
Full of wonder, his companions waited in silence. They
heard a soft fall of feet on the other side, a softer swish of
feminine skirts, and the door opened.
Both Clay and the Doctor uttered low exclamations of
astonishment, for the open portal revealed a vision of daz-
zling loveliness. But it was not the remarkable, melancholy
beauty of the young girl that moved them so power-
fully; not the faultless, ivory-tinted features, nor the wealth
of silky tresses - black and wavy, like Joyce's; nor yet
the liquid black eyes which were almost a counterpart of
Charlotte's: they were wonderful eyes, but oh, so sad!
Instead, it was the unexpectedness of the apparition, a con-
viction of having seen that beautiful face before — the
unparalleled incongruity of associating it with its present
setting — that occasioned such intense surprise. Clay at
once identified her with the girl he had seen while in this
same building on the day of his flight; to the Doctor the
fancied resemblance was fleeting, incapable of being fixed.
But he succeeded in doing this later on.
Beyond this lovely girl with the sad, heavy-lidded eyes
could be seen a large room with whitewashed walls, lighted
by two high, barred windows which overlooked a paved
court strewn with bottles and empty wine-casks. The
room's furnishings were austere and uninviting: a high
wooden bed, a plain table beside it, another on which were a
( 382 )


“ That is Paquita”
ewer and basin, and a long bench extending around two sides
of the apartment constituted all the conveniences. They
might have served a monk, but scarcely a sick man.
Still wondering, the party followed Mr. Converse into the
room, and as they did so, they received another shock.
A wild, terrifying figure reared up in the bed, and, sup-
porting itself on an elbow, glared at the intruders like some
fierce animal of the wild disturbed in its den.
“Good God!” burst from Doctor Westbrook as he recoiled
from this spectacle. “How came you here and in this plight ?”
It was Señor Vargas. The Doctor's countenance was
eloquent with horror and amazement, and he stood petrified
– unconscious of Charlotte clinging to his arm, blind to all
else except the wretched creature, fever-flushed and emaci-
ated, now staring at him from the bed. Suddenly he read
aright; he recalled the significant cough while the man was
in his office, and again at the inquest; an unconscious
exposure to the rigor of an unfamiliar climate, and a severe
cold, had forced the issue of life and death.
Converse drew near to Charlotte and glanced at her with
a whimsically lifted brow.
“And this is what you discovered ?” said she.
“Here is where I have spent the last few weeks. As soon
as Vargas became ill he had himself removed here — to be
with the girl.”
“Oh, there are so many things I cannot understand,”
she returned. “What did that creature Adams mean by
saying that Howard Lynden — ”
A quick alteration in his manner made her pause and
regard him anxiously. At once Converse made a little
grimace of disgust.
( 383 )


The Silver Blade
Paquita, the sunshine and gladness of my father's house, was
more beautiful, more graceful, and lighter of foot — ah, such
a tiny foot it was ! — than any woman within the length and
breadth of Spain.
“Señores, it is her brother who is telling the tale; he
loved her with a tenderness beyond the power of words to
express. But you should have beheld her in those days:
beautiful — beautiful she was, her voice like a bird's for very
sweetness; and there was none who could make such a
living, breathing poem of a tango or a joto; none who could
glance at you with such sparkling eyes, firing the blood and
the brain like old wine; none that could flash such pearly
teeth between such coaxing lips — lips like the soft petals of
a crimson rose. It was her fame that spread beyond Seville
to Madrid, and even to Paris.
“In Paris the fame of Paquita and Fernando — for so
were we known — was on every tongue. God knows she
was innocent enough then, and content with the love and
companionship of her brother. God knows that in those
days we were sufficient each unto the other, and happy,
señores — happy. ...
“But it ended.”
De Sanchez, at that time attending college in Paris, on
the strength of his knowledge of Castillo's uncle, Don Juan
Sebastian del Castillo, attained an intimacy with Paquita
and Fernando that led to disaster for the girl. Don Juan
had long been a resident of Mexico, and was a man of
wealth and affairs.
“There was a certain dance of my sister's,” said Vargas,
- or Castillo, to give him his proper name,—“that always
held the audience spellbound. It was of her own devising;
[ 386 ]


The Serpent Strikes
born of her warm Southern blood and her romantic heart.
Ah, señores, it was a thing of beauty — a perfect treasure
of art. With the lithe movements of her dainty body, the
dropping of her lashes, the flashing of her starlike eyes, the
curving of her ripe, crimson lips — either in a smile of witch-
ery or of scorn and disdain,- she told a tale of love and
disappointment, of betrayal and revenge. Truly was it in-
spired of the evil that later was to befall herself.
“When, at the end, she would flash a dagger from her
garter with the swiftness of a serpent darting from its coil,
the audience would rise to her and cry ‘Brava!' until the
walls reverberated. Ah, it was marvellous! Is it strange that
I adored her?
“Upon the very night, señores, that she innocently re-
vealed her love for De Sanchez, he brought to her a dagger.
Many days passed before I knew of this, because, for the first
time, I was not remembered with a gift also.
“ 'Paquita mia! ' I cried, holding the pretty toy in my
hand, ‘Paquita mia, how could you do me, your brother,
this cruel wrong ? '
“ 'He loves me,' she whispered, for the first time in her
life not daring to look me in the eyes.
“ 'Loves you!' I cried. “Have I not loved you since the
day you were born ?' And right there, señores, the first
great lesson of this life came to me. For the first time there
was no response in her bosom to the emotion in my own -- to
the yearning of my heart ---- and I became faint, my spirit sick.
“ 'I love him,' she gasped, faintly, her hand on her heart,
and bending her head still lower.
“ “O Paquita! Paquita!' was all that I could say in my
sorrow. “Love him? This is madness. Behold, you are
(387)


The Silver Blade
year previous to their arrival, and that his property had been
entirely dissipated in a series of disastrous investments cover-
ing a period of several years before his death. The banking
concern of De Sanchez & Westbrook were the administra-
tors of the Castillo estate.
“Then, señores, almost without warning came the blackest
time of all.
“Of a sudden, a scourge of smallpox fell upon the city,
and in a day those who lived in the poorer quarter were
dying like flies in a frost. My beloved sister was among the
very first upon whom that horrible blight fastened, and she
was sorely stricken.
“There is a period during those days that is lost from
my recollection; my senses were dulled as by an opiate,
and I can remember only a bit here and there, as one
remembers parts of a nightmare. The sickness came so
suddenly that I had no time to send the little Paquita
away; but by the mercy of the Holy Mother did she escape
the terrible evil that had laid its hand so sorely upon her
mother.
“But my sister, señores! Steadily she grew worse;
steadily she sank lower and lower; and one day — the day
she was at her lowest — I gave to the doctor the last gold-
piece.
“He would come no more.
“So I sat by my sister. In her madness she talked, now
of the times when we were happy together; now of the times
when Alberto de Sanchez, el mas perfído, came into her life.
More often it was of him.
“Asi, as I sat, I was myself stricken; my head suddenly
became heavy, and a pain as from a knife thrust seized upon
( 390 )


The Serpent Strikes
my loins. I was giddy and weak; but at that moment I rose
up and passed out of our house.
“Señores, you will not believe it of me — a dying man;
but, I swear by the Virgin of Guadalupe, that what I now
tell you is true. I forgot everything — everything but my
present distress; and I went to seek aid for my sister of los
Señores de Sanchez and Westbrook, where they sat at ease
in their banking-house. God, but I was desperate!
“I might have known how it would fall out. Had De
Sanchez then shown a little tenderness, señores, a little
compassion, a little remorse for the past, I might have
forgiven him; but he merely stood silent, eyeing me sideways
with an odd look.
“Of a sudden it came to an end. He grasped the Señor
Westbrook's arm and drew him to the farthest corner of the
room.
“ Back!' cried he, ‘al instante — immediately; this fel-
low is in the delirium of smallpox.'
“How I was thrust forth into the street, how a great
night of forgetfulness closed down upon me, how I awoke
many days later in the pest-camp, is not to be told by me.
“Now, señores, oiga — listen.
“While I lay in my sleep of forgetfulness, Paquita crept
to where the gold and silver dagger was kept, and thrust it
into her heart.
“So did it end for her.
“Certain poor women of the neighborhood tended my
sister and cared for the little Paquita. These had once
survived the smallpox, and they feared it not. Heaven give
them many days to enjoy the life that I was afterwards able
to make easier for them!
( 391 ]


The Silver Blade
“By the hands of one of these the dagger came to me -
all that I possessed in the world except the humble clothes
upon my back, poor and much worn.
“I looked into a mirror, and I laughed, señores. I laughed
the laugh of a man whose heart is dead. Then I threw my
sera pe over my shoulder and strode from the pest-camp.
“In the old days, señores, I was accounted a handsome
man; I was vain and much of a dandy. My complexion
was lighter than you see it now; there was a curl to my hair
that I was proud of; my features were regular, and there was
an erectness to my figure, a nimbleness in all my movements,
and a suppleness that had followed naturally on the practice
of my calling.
“Now, what I beheld in the mirror was a man altogether
different, and I had no fear that any one might recognize me.
I drew the dagger from my sash; I pressed my lips to the
dark stains upon its silver blade.
“At that moment, señores, Fernando del Castillo died to
the world; and Juan Sebastian de Vargas was born —
bound irrevocably to a vow of vengeance.”
After his return to the city Castillo sought out his niece.
Let him speak again:
“Mi Paquita poco,' said I, taking her sweet face between
my hands — so — when she had come to know me for her
uncle and the tears of her greeting were dry, ‘Paquita mia,
henceforth, and in memory of the great sorrow that was
thy mother's and mine, thou shalt be Dolores. May God
and the Blessed Virgin ever fend you from the like!' And,
repeating my vow inwardly as a prayer, I kissed her solemnly
and departed, leaving her in the care of the women, who had
come to love her as their own.”
( 392 ]


The Serpent Strikes
After pawning the dagger to an American dealer in
curios, he departed for the mines. Thence onward his
progress was marked by success from a worldly point of view,
and he was soon able to establish intimate business relations
with the object of his hatred. Two incidents marked his
return to the city, both of which were destined to exercise a
powerful influence over the future. One was the fact that
the dealer with whom he had left the dagger as a pledge had
departed, no one knew whither, and the dagger was not to
be found; the other was the astonishing intelligence, acquired
by an infinity of toil and patient waiting, that De Sanchez
and General Westbrook were responsible for his uncle's
bankruptcy. The General was straightway included in his
hatred and scheme of vengeance.
But a controlling strain of fatalism and superstition in the
man stayed his hand; he was convinced that his sister's
dagger would come to him again; that its return would be
the signal to strike; and he bided the time, watching De
Sanchez as a cat might watch the mouse marked for its prey.
With instinctive caution, though, Castillo had avoided Gen-
eral Westbrook, so the latter never became familiar with his
presence and appearance. He continued:
“I gradually won the confidence of Alberto de Sanchez;
soon we had immense interests in common — here — there –
everywhere; and these, I always took care, should be profit-
able for him, even though I might lose thereby myself.
“But never, for some reason, could I gain his unreserved
friendship, though I strove to that end daily. There was
something intangible, unnamable, unseen by either of us,
that ever stood between him and me, and this I could not
overcome. Nothing could have surprised my mask of a
[ 393]


The Silver Blade
face or my near-sighted eyes into betraying, by so much as
would cover a needle's point, the seething fire of hate for
this man that burned within; but as I watched him, unceas-
ingly, I caught now and then a puzzled look in his eyes as
they regarded Juan de Vargas — an expression in which
there was something of fear; and I knew that he was re-
minded, in a dim way, of the evil he had done. There was
something in my presence that made him ponder without
understanding, and would not allow him to forget.
“In many ways Alberto de Sanchez, without knowing it,
allowed to escape him that upon which his mind was turning
when his brooding glance rested upon me. Once, at the
organization of a mining company in which I then had some
small interest, the question of a name arose. The Señor de
Sanchez was regarding me with the wondering look that had
become so familiar.
“ Paquita,' he said, half aloud, as one musing, “The
Paquita Gold Mining and Milling Company.' And I,
señores — I perforce led the laugh that followed, the while
my fingers twitched for his throat.
“What emotions stirred uneasily in that dark bosom,
señores ? Quien sabe ?”
During this time General Westbrook was usually in the
United States. On one occasion Joyce accompanied him to
Mexico, and De Sanchez fell madly in love with her.
“As you know,” said Castillo, “the Señor Westbrook's
one virtue was his regard for and pride in his family; for
their sake had he resorted to infamy. He knew the Señor
de Sanchez to be a rascal; he might do very well as a business
associate; but deliver his cherished daughter into that
rascal's possession ? No. On the other hand, De Sanchez
( 394 ]


The Silver Blade
light-well? Gracias, señor. Not too close, for there might
be some one to observe me at the other windows. Looking
across the light-well, I could see the whole length of the other
hall — that along which he was to approach me. Ah, how
beautifully it was all arranged, for I was in darkness, while
he would be in the light.
“So I stood there smoking my cigarette, one arm folded
across my breast — so — the hand thereof resting on the
dagger in my pocket — for I had taken it from the Señor
Doctor's desk; and presently I saw a woman flit swiftly
across the hall from the Señor Doctor's office and vanish.
I had no time to wonder at this, for at the same instant I
beheld Alberto de Sanchez appear at the head of the stairs
and turn toward the Señor Doctor's office — toward me!
“Was there then a thought of Paquita — of Fernando
del Castillo in his mind ?
“Listen, and you shall judge.
“As he approached nearer and nearer, the light before
the Señor Doctor's office shone with a growing brightness
upon his handsome face; and presently I noted there the
look of doubt, as though the soul were asking a question of
his memory which it could not answer; the look with which
he had ever regarded Juan Vargas.
" When he stands beneath the light,' I whispered —
'then!'
“Ah, and then!
“When he arrived beneath the light, I threw my cigarette
out of the window, seized the dagger by its silver blade —-
as in the old days — and raised it above my head. Whether
it was one or the other of these movements that caught his
eye, I do not know. He was facing me then, and suddenly
[ 398]


Which is the Last
“The Señor General was writing at his table,” said Cas-
tillo of this occasion, “waiting and watching for me. I
crossed the gallery without noise, and beheld him before he
could see me, I being in the dark. He had twisted his chair
around so that it faced the window, which was like a door.
“How nervous the gallant Señor General was! When I
advanced, unannounced, into the square of light before the
window, he was so startled that he sprang from his chair,
colliding with it as he moved backward, tripping over its
legs so that he would have fallen had it not been waiting to
receive him again.
“This is not the ghost of Fernando del Castillo, señor,'
I said; 'perhaps it would be pleasanter for you if it were —
si?' But he composed himself quickly. He was still white
and worn; still nervous and distracted; still a very old,
broken man; but he did not forget that he was beneath his
own roof, and that a visitor was trusting to his hospitality. ...
• Enter, Don Fernando,' said he, in his grandest manner, 'I
cannot express in words my appreciation of your courtesy
in responding to my request. Enter.' And I advanced
into the room. ...'You may show it,' said I, ‘by telling
me quickly why I am so honored. With a breaking voice
he said: “Señor, señor, this night I pray God to soften your
heart. 'T is not for myself — no, no! God knows it is not;
but my wife — my daughter — my son — think of them;
think of the humiliation and disgrace more bitter than death.
Do not spare me, but pity them.' ... 'Were you so
immersed in thought of them,' I asked, 'were you so solicitous
of their welfare, that you failed to hear me pleading for my
dying sister?' ... 'You do not understand,' he moaned;
'you do not understand. It is of that that I desire to speak.
[ 401 ]


The Silver Blade
leaped from them; I read a subtle meaning in their depths;
and then the arm that had been lying so supinely on the
table began to draw slowly back toward the drawer by his
side. So slowly did that arm glide, señores, that, had I not
been watching for that very thing, it might have passed un-
observed, and I should not now be relating how it fell out.
But I did remark that stealthy action, señores, and again I
smiled.
“ 'It is of no use, señor,' I said. “Believe me, I suspected
what is now in your mind. Pause before it is too late; do
not add murder to your other villanies.' ... 'Suppose
I did ?' he muttered, still eyeing me with that crafty look;
“suppose, now, that I did ? — it would save my daughter.'
... 'You err,' I retorted, pleasantly; ‘I have taken great
pains to guard against this very contingency.' I recounted
for his benefit my plan to utilize the Señor Slade — of the dis-
position I had made of the carefully prepared testimony.
“Madre de Dios! the change that swept over the man at
the mention of the Señor Slade!
“ 'You miserable hound!' he shouted, leaping to his
feet; and quick as a flash his hand was in the drawer beside
him, and a pistol was levelled at my breast. “You miserable
hound!' he shouted again; 'how dared you make this thing
known to that scum! Take that!' And the room was
filled with a crash of sound.
“But, señores, we had risen together. Even before his
finger had pressed the trigger, the silent death shot from my
hand to his heart; yet, will you believe it, señores ? while he
was sinking to the floor - while my right arm was still out-
stretched — he fired again. That time it was a very narrow
escape for me: the bullet went up my sleeve, searing my arm
[ 404 ]


The Silver Blade
“Bethink you, señorita, that she is of no common blood
— that she is the possessor of a wealth far beyond anything
the Señor Westbrook ever dreamed of. Relieve a dying
man's last hour. Swear!”
For a moment she faltered. She stood irresolute, one
hand grasping her throat; then she advanced firmly to
the bedside, and bestowed upon Castillo the benediction of
her serene eyes.
“I swear,” she whispered, and left him immediately.
The dying man knew that the girl's future was assured.
“I have nearly finished,” he said at length. “What else?”
“What became of that document ? ” from Converse.
“Ah, yes. When I beheld that the Señor Westbrook was
a dead man, I hurried to his desk and gathered the loose
sheets from under the overturned telephone. One, the last,
had not been detached from the pad. It bore his signature -
the name of the Señor Peyton Westbrook - and I tore it
loose and thrust it into my pocket along with the rest. Here
was a confession of that gallant señor's infamy over his own
signature; and what did I with it? You will believe, señores
- senorita”— for the first time he recognized Charlotte's
presence as an auditor - “that I meant to take pity upon
his daughter, when I tell you that I destroyed it. But it was so.
“Next I turned off the light, so that my departure might
not be witnessed. And I was none too soon, señores; there
were a man and a woman in the driveway, striving to locate
the shots; so I dodged into the shrubbery, and made my
way from the grounds as noiselessly as I had entered, screened
by the black shade of the trees.”
( 406 )


Which is the Last
CINIA E
Theatre
but
(LETTER FROM MRS. MOBLEY WESTBROOK TO JOHN CON-
VERSE, FORMERLY CAPTAIN OF DETECTIVES.)
Dear Mr. Converse:
Among all the honors being showered upon you, signalizing
your retirement from the Police Department, I feel that Mobley
and I should have some recognition. I remember how you
loved my flowers; I remember your oft-repeated determination
some time to retire with your friend Mr. Follett and Joe to a
cottage like the dear little cottage which was so long a home to
mamma, Clay, and myself; and above all things, I remember
that to-day we owe our happiness to you. Somehow it seems
that you have gone out of our lives, and I don't like it to be that
way. Clay and Joyce are happy in the old homestead (your
fault again, sir!), and only you — poor man! — now that
Headquarters shall know you no more, are homeless.
Now, dear Mr. Converse, the cottage has stood vacant for
more than a year. It is too much for me to keep up the garden
there and look after my own household too, and I can't bear to
see the garden die away in neglect. So to-day we hand you a
deed to the place, which must not at all be considered a reward
like the twenty thousand dollars you received, but merely as a
token of our undying gratitude and esteem.
Truly your friend,
Charlotte May Westbrook.
pliant
Tarici
True
a luat
P. S.— Mobley and I reserve the right to come and gather
a bouquet whenever we want to !
ada
THE END











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