Chapter I: "that Is Paquita"

When Mr. Nettleton came to the end of the extraordinary 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 may be believed that Charlotte's tranquil exterior belied the tumult of thought and emotion which presently came to possess her, increasing the more as she pondered. Added to the other agitating influences was a lively apprehension of what form the pending disclosure would take--upon whom it would now fasten its fangs of accusation. But her habit of self-control came admirably to her aid; to a certain extent she was able to busy her tired brain with other matters, although patience had become a virtue forgotten.

Naturally, Converse had assumed the role of master of ceremonies, and the others watched him with curiosity. Into the first of two waiting carriages he ushered Charlotte, her brother, Doctor Westbrook, and Mr. Nettleton; and as soon as the door was banged to, the vehicle started with an assurance and speed signifying foreknowledge on the part of the driver. The two officers entered the other conveyance, which, just as it emerged from the driveway, was met by the Coroner and Mr. Mountjoy in the former's buggy.

Aside from the fact that it was taken without a word being uttered by any of her companions, Charlotte retained but the most nebulous memory of that ride.

In a little while the carriage was penetrating a neighborhood wholly unknown to her, and presently it swerved to one side and drew up at the curb.

Charlotte looked out with some interest. The building before which they had stopped stood on a corner; it was two-storied, of stuccoed brick, and made gloomy by wide galleries resting on brick and stone arches. It exhaled a strong odor of cooking onions and garlic, of wine from the wine-room at the corner, and she insensibly drew back. 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 esta Usted? 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 another dim corridor to a door, before which the guide paused. His manner had become all at once comically mournful.

"Ah, _el póbre 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 dazzling loveliness. But it was not the remarkable, melancholy beauty of the young girl that moved them so powerfully; 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 conviction 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 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, supporting 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 emaciated, 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.

"It was very simple," said he. "Lynden was a poor weakling, without any will of his own. Adams merely bent him to his own purposes. Lynden saw the Doctor standing over the dying De Sanchez; Adams made him think he had seen the rest. It presents a peculiar psychological condition, fortunately rare, but by no means unprecedented. That young fellow has very wisely effaced himself. You will never see him again."

At this moment Charlotte caught the melancholy eyes of the beautiful girl directed toward her.

"How superb!" she murmured. "She is like a breath from the Orient; she fills the mind like Coleridge's 'damsel with a dulcimer.' Who is she?"

"That," whispered Converse, "is _Paquita_."