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 Westbrook 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 bloodless 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 disconcerting 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 McCaleb, 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."

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 commanded; 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 incandescent 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 darkness was penetrated by a single tiny spark of light. It was so small and feeble that it certainly would have been swallowed 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 vanished; but it again appeared when he resumed his former position. A movement to the other side had the same result: evidently, through the trees and buildings of various kinds which stood between the Westbrook house and the source of the mysterious point of light, there was but one straight passage free from obstructions and leading directly to the centre of this window.

He consulted the tablet, and moved his own taper slowly up once and then down again, to the table. Immediately the distant spark appeared to rise an inch or so and settle once more to its former position. Thus was a familiar greeting flashed through the night, and answered: "Hello!" The manipulator of the distant light, of course, had no idea that another than Joyce was engaging his attention by means of this novel wireless telegraphy; and Mr. Converse resolved to try the effect of the most startling announcement he could find--not without a clearly defined purpose.

The code contained nothing that could convey an adequate idea of the close surveillance under which Joyce had been all day, nor of the events of the past twelve hours; it was impossible to say what intelligence she had imparted when McCaleb observed her with the candle earlier in the evening; but after a brief consideration, he selected the announcement:

"All is discovered."

The effect was instantaneous. The little spark waved frantically, and at times so vehement were its movements that it disappeared altogether: it darted about so erratically--stuttered, one might say--that it was impossible to catch an inkling of what it intended to convey; and then it abruptly vanished, not to reappear.

After waiting several minutes, he presently chuckled grimly and muttered: "The old Fairchild homestead! Now, that young man displays a resourcefulness and cleverness 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 handcuffs 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 complete!" She was quite hysterical, her manner so wild and 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 channels, 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 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 influenced Joyce to speak."

Converse eyed her curiously.

"Well, at any rate, she was about to take me into her confidence, 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; catching 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." 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, handsome features were saved from asceticism only by the innumerable fine lines of humor about his eyes. However, he was serious enough now, as he looked to the Captain for an explanation.

"I suppose you have seen the extra edition of the _Herald_?" 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 newspapers."

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 resting 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 her for an intrepid, high-spirited girl, governed largely by capricious impulses, but sane, and at heart pure and generous; 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 himself. "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, evidently, his mind changed.

"No, I am not going to tell you anything--now," he said, grimly. "I didn'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.

"It is true that Mr. Howe and my brother have been keeping 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 Nettleton 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 sometimes is so hard to tell--so hard! What I have to say seems, even to myself, so wild and impossible, that I sometimes wonder if I am not the victim of a wretched nightmare. 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 encouraging 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 afternoon, 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 Mountjoy. 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 voice, which was firm and even, although she was visibly trembling. "Although I saw that man done to his death, I did not realize at the moment what was happening before my eyes. Please do not interrupt. It is hard enough to make myself understood when I tell you just what happened and in the way it happened, and I hesitate to go on. Dear me! dear me! I know--I know you can't believe my story of that dreadful, dreadful afternoon."

The lawyer withdrew his concentrated gaze from her white face and glanced at the expressionless detective. He said easily and with obvious sincerity:

"Your sensitiveness makes you forget, Miss Joyce, that we could not doubt a statement made by you. You may be wrong in your conclusions, but never in intent."

Unconsciously, her hand was yet lying on Converse's arm, and again she turned and searched his rough countenance earnestly. What she found there was evidently satisfactory, for she proceeded at once:

"From the moment I crossed the threshold of Mobley's door, every circumstance seems to have incriminated me. I knew that the poor man was expected by my brother, for Mobley and I together framed the letter which you found on his desk."

"You were there--with Howe and the Doctor, eh?" asked Mountjoy. "But pardon me; please go on."

"We excused ourselves to Mr. Howe, and Mobley wrote it. Next, glancing at my watch, I saw that it was five o'clock, and I left right away, for I wished to avoid a meeting with Señor de Sanchez. But I had no sooner stepped out of the office into the hall than I heard footsteps on the stairway. I paused one instant. They were coming steadily up, and the person--whoever he might be--and I would be face to face in the hall."

Converse felt the little hand tremble on his arm. The girl's eyelids all at once drooped wearily, but she pressed her other hand lightly across them, as if to brush away an obstructing veil.

"At that instant," she went on immediately, "I noticed that Mr. Nettleton's door was ajar. It was but a step to its shelter, and without thinking twice, I ran to it and--and--"

She faltered with an air of having forgotten what she would say. The others were hanging upon her words in a silence that was almost painful: Mountjoy intensely eager; the officer once more impassive; while Mrs. Westbrook had risen and approached a step or two nearer her daughter, whom she stood watching strangely, as if puzzled by something beyond and behind her words.

"You ran to the door--" suggested Converse; again the girl tried to brush away the persistent intervening veil.

"I feel so queerly," she said; "everything is whirling around so."

"You have been tried beyond your strength," interposed the lawyer; "perhaps we had better postpone--"

"No, no, no!" She checked him with sudden vehemence. "I must go on--I must. If I don't tell now, I never may. Where was I?" The lovely eyes glowed unnaturally bright; unconsciously she lifted her hand and struck the officer's arm with feverish impatience.

"You hurried to Mr. Nettleton's--"

"Yes--I pushed open the door and got behind it. My sole idea then was to escape a meeting with that man. I didn't close it entirely. I wheeled about and peeped down 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 handsome animated mask,--and what I saw made me shudder."

And so did the bare recollection. Once more the persistent veil had to be swept aside--this time with a nervous, agitated hand--and the recital was taken up again, precipitately, in a veritable rush of words. As the crisis was gradually approached, the suspense became almost unendurable; 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 eagerness 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 unyielding 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 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 footsteps! I thought that terrible man would be for ever in passing, 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 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 something 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--I--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 insensibly a man can be a brute. Poor child, she has fainted; the strain--" He paused suddenly, catching a peculiar look from the Captain.

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 responsibility. 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.