Chapter II: Fairchild Redivivus

On the morning of the day on which the Captain of detectives chose to efface himself from the stage of the "Westbrook-De Sanchez Drama" to a position behind the scenes, two things came to his notice that had for him more than a passing interest. The first we may present as it appeared, set in modest and inconspicuous agate type, among the court notes of a certain newspaper.

No. 26004. In re Estate of Peyton Westbrook, deceased. Report of appraisers approved and filed. The report shows that there are no assets under the will except the homestead, which is reserved to the widow.

The other matter was embodied in a communication which lay on his desk at headquarters. It was the resignation of one of his subordinates--the man Adams, him of the shifty eyes and stealthy ways, whose manner the night of the De Sanchez affair had made Lynden so uncomfortable.

The fact that General Peyton Westbrook was actually penniless came like a bombshell to a community that had so long looked up to him as a leading citizen, a man of affairs and affluence, whose very name was a synonyme for business acumen and success; but the fact became only more certain with the passing days, though the public learned little more of it than was contained in the notice quoted.

Converse sat musing for a time, then he tossed Adams's letter into a pigeonhole. "Going to start a private agency, eh? Very good; I wish you luck. Now there's a place for McCaleb." He dismissed the matter from his mind, and at once remembered the morning's chief engagement. It was time to keep tryst with Miss Charlotte and her brother.

When he arrived at the cottage Charlotte welcomed him cordially, while Clay turned to him with a new interest, acquired overnight, and frankly extended a hand.

"We nearly made a mess of it, didn't we?" were Clay's first words after greeting. He laughed at the whimsical look with which he was being regarded.

"But I am afraid I am going to disappoint you," he continued. "I fear things will appear more puzzling and perplexing than ever. After hearing what Charlotte had to say, it seems marvellous--I am more at sea than ever."

The other nodded a brisk comprehension. "We are all at sea, more or less," said he. "But being at sea in a rudderless craft, without a navigator, and off the usual routes of traffic, is one thing; to have a stanch bottom beneath you, a stiff breeze off the quarter, and your course well marked off, is quite another.

"I take it, then, that after you and Miss Joyce passed each other in Mr. Nettleton's office,--after you went into the private office to see what had occasioned her bursting in upon you so unceremoniously,--you were more puzzled than ever; that you saw nothing whatever to explain the occurrence?"

Was it prescience that prompted this conclusion? for hear the answer:

"That is correct."

And again:

"There was no one there?"

"No one; no evidence that anybody besides Joyce had been in the private office."

Where, then, had the assassin been?

But Converse, though his mien became a little grimmer, did not pause.

"After you had ascertained that Miss Westbrook was indeed gone, you seated yourself once more at your desk--but not to resume your work. Your mind was engrossed by the recent episode; presently you noted that a very familiar perfume was still conspicuous, as if in passing she had left a pleasant evidence of herself loitering about your desk, and you fell to searching for it. You scattered the papers on your desk; you looked to the floor--all about you--but did not locate the source of that delicate fragrance."

Noting the young man's frank amazement, he chuckled silently.

"No; I was not there," he went on,--"not until later. But I found it. In her agitation, she had dropped her handkerchief into your waste-paper basket."

"And that," gasped Charlotte, "was what directed you to Joyce!"

"Miss Fairchild," said the Captain, soberly, "it was a clue that could not be ignored. You have seen the Countess Zicka in 'Diplomacy.'

"Go on," urged Fairchild, while his sister nodded her comprehension.

"Very well. You remained at your desk ten or fifteen minutes longer, but never got your mind fixed upon your work again. At last you donned your overcoat and hat and passed over to the Doctor's office, with a vague idea of finding an explanation there. As you opened his door, you were still trying to account for Miss Westbrook's transit through Mr. Nettleton's offices, and when your eye fell upon the form of De Sanchez, no idea was at first conveyed to your brain; it was so far beyond anything that you possibly could have imagined. Next instant a concept of what had happened burst upon you; a false one, to be sure, but quite natural under the circumstances. I can see that it was a tremendous shock to you; for the moment you were dumb, paralyzed with terror; then like a flash your faculties were startled into an abnormal activity, and you realized that you had become an important factor in a deed of blood. There sat Doctor Westbrook, and Howe--a stranger to you--in an ominous silence, their own faces reflecting something of the deed's horror; Alberto de Sanchez lay dead at their feet and at yours, and with electric swiftness you reviewed the facts as you knew them,--the ground of contention between the Doctor and the dead man, the still bleeding body, the familiar weapon lying conspicuously on the floor,--all told an awful story. You did not try to reason it out or give a name to what you beheld; you were simply dismayed, overwhelmed by a consciousness that in some way the situation was fraught with the gravest peril for some one very dear to you,--some one whose well-being and happiness were of far more importance than your own,--and you acted upon the blindest of impulses. No one but yourself knew that Miss Joyce had been there; no one would ever ascertain it from you, and you fled madly, with no definite aim but to get away--to hide yourself safe from all pursuit."

Clay sat watching the speaker, rapt by the recital.

"This is truly remarkable," he now said, with a quietness born of deep feeling. "You relate the conditions as if you had experienced them yourself. Could I have imagined for a moment that the investigation was to be conducted with such insight and comprehension, why, I should never have fled. What slaves we are to impulse!'

"Aye, to the young it is the refinement of wisdom, as my friend Mr. Follett would say."

"There was yet another element augmenting my feelings at that moment," Clay went on; "do you care to hear?"

"Assuredly. I should like to hear any conclusions you may have formed."

"Well, that very morning Miss Westbrook and I had had a conversation concerning Señor de Sanchez, to which his sudden taking off and the manner of it were an awful climax. Never, never again will I lightly consider the chances of a person's living or dying; 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 seriousness."

"The conditions are all in her favor: youth, health, splendid constitution; so you need not worry about that. What I started to say is, that I wish to direct your attention to the mainspring of the whole matter. To-night I must leave the city for a time, and before I go I want to know what it was she saw in the hall. It was while striving to tell this that she collapsed. Poor girl; I hope that some time she may find it in her heart to forgive my persistence."

For a bit the natural seriousness of the young man's countenance was deepened by the evident care with which he was framing a reply. The visitor awaited that reply with his customary impassiveness; but Charlotte, who had been following the conversation with rapt interest, now suddenly leant forward and watched her brother with some anxiety.

"Captain," Clay began at length, "if Joyce--if Miss Westbrook and I had had better opportunities of discussing the matter since the death of De Sanchez, we might have come to a better understanding; but I was haunted with an abnormal fear of discovery, and I shrank from exposing myself unnecessarily, because I didn't know what dire disaster it would mean for her and the Doctor." Of a sudden his eyes kindled. "I saw her but three times," he concluded, "and then only briefly."

"Three times?"

"Yes--"

But Charlotte's gentle voice interrupted. "Let me explain," said she, directing a glance of sympathy toward her brother; "it will give you an added insight into Joyce's character, which will not injure her in your estimation, I am sure. Dear, brave, impulsive girl! Mr. Converse, can you imagine Joyce going alone at night to Clay's hiding-place, that dismal, forsaken house that was once our home?"

"I can believe anything of her courage, Miss Fairchild."

"Well, she did--so soon as she learned where Clay was and why he was there. I have it from Mobley, Mr. Converse; the transformation which this intelligence worked in her amazed him and Mrs. Westbrook. That night, unknown to any one, she went through the darkness, through those wretched, creepy halls and silent, deserted rooms, to tell Clay--But I shall not relate what she said or what occurred."

Indeed, it was not necessary that she should; a glance at the young man's glowing countenance was sufficient.

Converse laughed knowingly.

"That was on--let me see, what night was it?" he inquired.

"The next night after De San--Thursday night," Charlotte replied.

The Captain nodded appreciatively.

"That clears up the code," said he.

"The code went to Joyce in a returning lunch-basket," observed Fairchild.

"By way of the Doctor?" the Captain added.

"Doctor Westbrook, do you mean?" said Clay, surprised. "Oh, no; Mr. Nettleton's negro, President, was the happy medium, the manna-bearing raven in my wilderness, always."

"Did Mr. Nettleton know of this arrangement?" asked Converse.

"Why, yes," was the perplexed reply. "I don't know what idea you have, but this is the way of it. When I first left the Nettleton Building, I went rushing through the streets like one distracted. I was, I suppose. But presently I came to myself and realized, if I wished to expunge myself quietly, that I must get my wits together and think out a plan. So I walked on more composedly, penetrated the depths of the East Side to a small hotel conducted by a Mexican of whom I know. Oh, I was terribly upset--clean knocked out; for while I was in the dingy office a most remarkably beautiful girl entered. I uttered a cry that frightened her, and sat staring at her with open mouth. She was the living image of De Sanchez--or so my distraught brain fancied.

"Well, there I managed to frame a note to Mr. Nettleton, in which I explained the circumstances as best I could, dwelling upon the imperativeness of my resolution, and trusting to his honor for secrecy. I pointed out how useless it would be to involve Joyce; that if I was not called upon to testify, the matter would be cleared up without her ever being brought into it at all--in short that if my absence would spare her any scandal, why, I would remain absent as long as it might be necessary. I don't believe the Doctor at any time knew where I was; for at the very start we all agreed to keep our own counsels, on the theory that a secret is best kept when shared by the fewest people. The searching inquiry that was to follow was anticipated, and the fact was pressed home to Joyce by both Mr. Nettleton and myself, that it would prove far more expedient for the Doctor honestly to plead ignorance than to attempt evasion; so he was told nothing, and not even Charlotte was given a hint of my whereabouts. Joyce was to be saved at all hazards."

"Dear boy!" softly interposed Charlotte.

"Lottie, don't distract me that way, please," protested her brother; "you make me forget where I am."

"And Mr. Nettleton entered into this mad scheme, did he?" asked the Captain, much interested.

"He agreed with me that,--for the time being, at any rate, or until something developed to give an idea which way the cat was likely to jump,--it was just as well that I exile myself; offering the one objection, that I was likely to direct suspicion to myself. That was a contingency encouraging rather than deterring, and he promised, finally, to lend me every aid.

"Next day he confided the plan to Joyce, who immediately elected herself the guiding spirit of the enterprise: President might be the intermediary, but no other hands than hers could prepare the food. God bless her!"

"But we have wandered far from the point," the Captain remarked tersely. "What did Miss Joyce see in the hall?"

"To be brief, Mr. Converse," returned Clay, "I don't know. I was trusting, before you came, that you yourself would know. The little time we were together she would not speak of it. Whatever it was, it had affected her profoundly, filling her with a horror she could not banish. But I do know that she did not see the assassin: she said as much."

"Ah-h-h! Did she say directly that she had not?" The gray eyes suddenly narrowed.

"Yes. I asked her if she had."

"And her answer?"

"Was no."

A gleam shot between the contracted lids, which obviously was irrepressible.

"I am glad the situation yields you something, at any rate," said Clay; and Charlotte added anxiously, "What is it, Mr. Converse?"

He made a grimace of deprecation.

"Have I permitted my feelings to show themselves?" he asked, and shook his head mournfully. "I told Mr. Mountjoy last night that I was aging; I reckon it is only too true. I have a trifle laid by, and when it amounts to enough to purchase a little home--like this--say--where I can have plenty of flowers, you'll never hear of me interfering with any more such cases; no, indeed. You may laugh, my boy, but it is a fact.... I should say now, as a guess, that one of the three times when you saw Miss Joyce was night before last, eh?"

"Yes, sir," was the reply.

And so it may be seen that, however old the Captain might be, he had not forgotten the wisdom of Polonius's admonition to "give every man thine ear, but few thy voice." Their eager questions remained unanswered, and they failed to note.

"I wish you would tell me what you were doing in the Westbrook yard," Converse continued; "what you saw and heard while there."

"Did Joyce speak of that?" was the unnecessarily cautious response.

"In a way, yes; but I want impressions at first hand."

The young man considered a while before proceeding.

"Well, you know about our code of signals," he said at length, "mine and Joyce's. I arranged that code, and was very proud of it until we attempted to use it; then a difficulty arose: Joyce's inability to read half the signals, and mine to read the other half. Still, the chief object was attained: nightly we assured each other of our well-being, and I was enabled to glean pretty well how affairs were progressing.

"But there were one or two occasions when I was left in a perplexing doubt. I became intolerably anxious and impatient, and throwing caution to the winds, I met Joyce in her yard. Our signals of meeting, fortunately, were never difficult of interpretation.

"So it was on Monday night. Of course I was anxious to be with her at all times, but then the whim seized me all at once, and--well, I went. I heard the shots--just as I was leaving--but had no idea they came from the house, and neither had Joyce. We differed about their exact location, but that was all; we heard no more nor saw anything. I did not approach close to the house at any time."

"Shortly after hearing the shots--just before you left--did you hear no sound, as of some one approaching from the house?"

Clay shook his head. "Not a thing," he said.

The next question, "Did you see Howard Lynden Monday night?" caused his face to darken.

"Howard?" he asked, uncomprehendingly. "No. What of him?"

"You did not know that he was near you Monday night--" The speaker stopped in the face of the other's expression. Clay's brow knotted, his lips compressed, and he watched Converse intently through half-closed lids. He glanced swiftly at his sister. It was quite plain that Lynden, as a topic, was extremely distasteful.

But Clay merely said:

"So Mr. Howard Lynden followed her from Mrs. Farquier's, did he? What have you to say to that, Lottie?"

"Maybe not, Clay, maybe not. Don't be--"

"No; he did not," interposed the Captain; "but started out to look for her as soon as he missed her from the company."

"It's the same," said the young man; and again he fixed an intent, half-veiled scrutiny upon the visitor.

"I believe you understand," he abruptly resumed. "Charlotte is inclined to stand up for him,--she would for anybody, for that matter,--but he is a little-- Well, I regret that I can't express myself to him. If you only knew how he has watched her, how he has made her life a weariness--"

"I do know something of it." Converse laughed dryly. "If her word carries any weight with him, he knows it too."

As his auditor's look became inquiring, the Captain narrated what had occurred at the Westbrooks'.

Clay put a period to the recital with a satisfied "Good!"

"Does Lynden regard Miss Joyce with any unusual warmth of affection?"

"Does he!" with an indignant stare. "Why, he's head over heels in love with her. Did you ever hear of such presumptuous conceit?"

Very soberly, Converse replied that he had not.

"That's what makes his conduct all the more annoying," this confidence went on; "it is as if he suspected her of something. Why, he might even think she had something to do with the De Sanchez business."

"Sure enough." The idea was illuminating. Presently Converse inquired how much the young man knew of De Sanchez's determination to marry Joyce.

"I knew that De Sanchez came here for the express purpose of marrying her," was the reply. "That could mean only a resolution formed when Joyce was a mere child." He abruptly paused. "What is it?" he asked.

Converse had suddenly become electrified into a tense alertness. He grasped the chair-arms, as if imminently upon the point of springing up. Quite suddenly, again, his normal impassiveness reasserted itself.

"Go on, go on," said he, with a haste not altogether free from eagerness.

"Do my words suggest anything?"

"They do. But go on."

"Well," resumed Clay, "when Joyce took that trip to Mexico, she was too young and inexperienced to appreciate a fact that later became susceptible of interpretation. Looking back to that time, she could not fail to see that his conduct was then directed toward herself; that it greatly annoyed her father, although General Westbrook seemed to handle the situation easily; and that the subsequent severance of all relations between the two men, which presently followed, was not entirely without an explanation. Joyce was blind to the man's attentions, except now and then when some incident of unusual ardor instinctively struck a note of warning, causing her to wonder dimly, then it passed and was forgotten. The fact is, that De Sanchez must have been struck all of a heap, for he seems to have inaugurated a campaign of wooing of characteristic Latin warmth, ready to override all other considerations. Joyce is of the impression that her father discouraged this design of the other man's in no uncertain manner."

The speaker paused. It was obvious that he was arranging his thoughts, and Converse waited without moving.

"Next, De Sanchez appears here, and soon events begin to shape themselves in a way that, seemingly, can't be explained. For instance, when you consider what happened in Mexico, and the hiatus between that time and De Sanchez's appearance, how can you account for the endeavors in his behalf which gave him an immediate social prestige locally? How can you account for the fact that his suit was not only favored, but that pressure was brought to bear upon Joyce to gain her consent? Knowing that she regarded the man with especial dislike, how can you explain her hovering on the very verge of giving in?"

"Did she never enlighten you?" The Captain was regarding the young man curiously.

"No." A tinge of bitterness crept into his reply. "She merely said her father had convinced her that it was her duty to marry De Sanchez."

"You did not know, of course, that Slade witnessed her departure from the Nettleton Building?"

"Did he? It is he, then, who has caused all this recent trouble?"

"In a way, yes. He furnished the material. I want to ask you something about that. Shortly after you disappeared he addressed an unsigned note to me, saying, in effect, that, if I found the woman--then much of a mystery--I should know who killed De Sanchez. He also said that you were innocent. Why should he make so obvious an attempt to divert suspicion from you?"

"I can't imagine. While I do not share with mother and Lottie the bitterness which the name of Slade arouses, yet I know very little of him; merely enough to nod in passing. The father was, doubtless, an unconscionable scoundrel; but William, in spite of his repulsive qualities, is in no wise to blame for that. I've always felt a sort of sneaking pity for him. The old fellow eyes me often in a peculiar, ruminative way--somewhat as he did when bestowing his 'blessing' upon General Westbrook. But he's a harmless crank."

"'Slade's Blessing,'" mused the Captain.

Clay nodded and went on: "You've heard of it, I see. He's a little touched, I believe. He sometimes mumbles when he looks at me,--a way he has; but pshaw! I never paid any attention to it; his incantations are harmless. In the early eighties, when the elder Slade closed in on dad, and dad died, William was still struggling with the law. Lord knows, I have reason to sympathize with him. Next, his father died, and he gave it up."

The young man asked how Slade came to see Joyce.

"In the most natural manner in the world," replied Converse. "Five o'clock is his customary hour for quitting work, as you probably know; he was just in the act of emerging from Room 6 when Miss Joyce ran past him. In fact, he had to step back to avoid a collision. This was immediately after she had surprised you, and she was so intent on getting away that she did not observe him at all, it would seem. She was running on tiptoe from the direction of the upper end of the hall and toward the stairs. That is the substance of an affidavit made by him before the Coroner."

Though the two talked some time longer, the discussion yielded nothing more until Converse was in the act of departing. He was standing on the veranda, when he said:

"By the way, it would be a good idea if you could make yourself inconspicuous for a while longer--until you hear from me, at any rate. If the reporters get a line upon what you happen to know, there will be the devil to pay."

"I can remain in the house indefinitely," Clay suggested.

The Captain shook his head. "That will merely add stimulus to their efforts. I wager that somebody who knows you saw you last night. Isn't there some friend upon whom you can impose temporarily?"

The young man pondered a moment, and presently his face brightened.

"Yes," said he. "I know of the very place--Mr. Nettleton's plantation. It is only about seven miles beyond here, and I can walk it easily."

"Very good." Then, as if the matter had for the first time occurred to him, Converse added:

"By the way, who is the proprietor of the East Side hotel where you wrote your letter to Mr. Nettleton?"

The question seemed of trifling importance.

"Ramon Velasquez. Mr. Nettleton has done some legal work for him."

"Very good. Whatever you do, keep yourself out of sight. You seem to know how, so I'll not offer any suggestions. Good-bye."

But Mr. Converse was still to be much in evidence that night. He found a number of things to detain him, and it was not until the afternoon of the next day, the nineteenth, that he quietly disappeared from his customary haunts.