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, and presently he laughed—mirthlessly, but a laugh signifying 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 remarkable 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 sympathetic 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, expressionless—such a visage as one associates with some old sea-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 underwent 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, isn't he? I don't see why he couldn't."
"My dear sir," Lynden anxiously expostulated, "you don't know Mobley Westbrook, or you never could entertain 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."