Chapter VIII: The Coroner's Coup

Possibly 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.

"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 morning! 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 suspicion was ever drawn to him. Between the two of you, each has done about all that could be done to make me suspect the other. Then the Doctor--well, among you all, you've succeeded in getting things badly tangled up."

"That would make me very happy were there not so much else to distress me."

He regarded her with the utmost seriousness. What peculiar conception did she have of her position? She seemed utterly blind to its peril--or else was recklessly disregardful. But it was an easy matter to adapt himself to her present compliant humor.

"Still, Miss Westbrook," said he, "there is much yet that needs clearing up. After all this delay the situation has become serious and will require extraordinary deftness in its handling--especially as concerns yourself. If you and Mr. Fairchild cannot lend me a very considerable aid, my task will be prodigious. The additional distress which you may be obliged to endure I hesitate to point out."

She waited while he took a turn up and down the room.

"In the first place," he resumed, coming to an abrupt pause before her, "I must have absolute frankness from you, from the Doctor, and Mr. Fairchild. Nothing must be kept back. The older heads are the wiser, Miss Westbrook. Your mother sees this thing as I do."

"Do you know," she interposed, her voice betraying a sudden awe and wonder, "that mamma advised me to be perfectly open and candid with you?" She gazed at him as if trying to fathom what other mysterious forces lay behind his blank, rough visage. "She came from you to me with such an admonition."

"I am not at all surprised. Mrs. Westbrook is a very sensible woman, profoundly interested in what affects her daughter."

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 afternoon 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 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 contempt upon the word, glaring to every one but Lynden.

"Spy? Spy?" he repeated blankly. "I don't understand." 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 assembled group a glance at once accusing, fearful, suspicious, and revealing a sense of shame and embarrassment too deep for the insinuation alone to account for its existence. Shame-facedly and abashed, he looked from Converse to McCaleb, and muttered an unintelligible apology to Mrs. Westbrook.

But Joyce, who had not removed her steady gaze from him, followed his glance, and in tones that must have penetrated him like knife-thrusts, said:

"Pray, Howard Lynden, do not attempt to place a misconstruction upon my words. When I said 'spy,' I did not refer to either of these gentlemen. Although they are officers of the law and I seem to be in a miserably compromising position, they have not dogged my every movement; they have not stood off at a distance and looked suspicion at me every time I met their eyes; they have not made my condition more wretched by all sorts of innuendoes and vile insinuations, and yet--and yet--" for a moment she was almost in tears; her throat filled, and she had to pause; but the weakness was conquered almost at once, and she continued, with flashing eyes, her voice quivering with indignation,--"yet, Howard Lynden, you--you have pretended to be my friend. As for that"--she advanced a step toward him, and pointing an accusing finger at the paper in his hand, concentrated all her feelings in her next words. So scathing were they that Lynden winced visibly at each syllable, as if it had been the lash of a whip,---"as for that, I think of it as I do of you--you spy; you sneak! Go, go! never let my eyes rest upon you again!"

Completely discomfited--overwhelmed by the sting of her words,--he offered not the shadow of a defence. Abruptly, the girl's mood changed. It was like the snapping of a string drawn too taut. One convulsive sob escaped her, she seemed of a sudden to droop, and the next instant Mrs. Westbrook, moving noiselessly, was at her side. Calmly and without a word she passed an arm about her daughter's waist and drew the girl close to her side.

"Mamma, mamma," Joyce faltered, her voice breaking as though she had reached the limit of endurance, "don't read it! Don't look at it! Oh!--Oh!--help me!" Shuddering she hid her face upon her mother's shoulder, her slender form quivering with sobs that could not be restrained.

With features sternly set, Converse advanced and snatched the paper from Lynden's passive fingers. It required no search to find the one important item that it contained. In letters which any who ran might read, appeared the following headlines:

DE SANCHEZ MURDER
----
Startling and Suggestive Discovery
Made by Coroner Merkel
----
IMPORTANT WITNESS FOUND
----
Saw Lady Running from Scene of Crime at
Time It Happened
----
MYSTERIOUS WOMAN NOW KNOWN
----
She is Prominent in Society and May Also Account
for the Westbrook Tragedy

As might be expected after this scare head, what followed was sensational enough. The name of neither Joyce nor Slade was mentioned; but for one familiar with the case it was easy to comprehend that the abstractor was the witness and Joyce the woman.

For the moment the Captain was overwhelmed with this unforeseen result of his delay in calling upon the abstractor; and what next occurred in the Westbrook morning-room is especially worthy of preservation as constituting the one and only time that John Converse is known ever to have given a free and untrammelled expression to his inmost feelings.

"The damned ass!" he ejaculated vehemently; at the same time rending the paper in halves and tossing the fragments from him with a violence that caused every one in the room to jump.