For a moment Converse felt a tide of anger rising within him; he all at once realized that, as an officer of the law—as a mere machine operating in a fixed routine—he had made a mistake; he had allowed a generous impulse to interpose and thwart an end of great importance; and now, when it was too late, he must make an effort to remedy his error. Without the least warning, he fastened his compelling, probing regard full upon Joyce. It was a look that had made hardened criminals tremble, and at last the girl's impassiveness gave way. With an involuntary clutching of the clasped hand she shrank closer to her brother. For a moment she returned the look; then her glance wavered—fell; the sooty lashes swept her cheeks, where two spots of color began slowly to appear, and the statue was quickened into life.
"And would you really care to know, Miss Westbrook, what I think of it?" he asked, with a significant quietness that startled her into speech.
"Yes—I—I—" she faltered and stopped. She looked wildly from the Doctor to the terrible figure confronting her; then with a mighty effort she regained control of herself, and concluded in a voice firmer, but very low, "It is of no interest to me."
Mr. Converse acknowledged the reply with a bow of exaggerated deference.
"You overlook Mr. Clay Fairchild," he remarked, dryly.
Another tightening of the clasped hands, and another tremor through the girl's slight frame, were the sole responses to this final chance shot, until Doctor Westbrook's voice broke in.
"Pardon me, I have not," said he. "But I wasn't aware that he was under consideration."
"Perhaps not," was the crisp retort, "openly. He is an important factor, however." His glance swerved to Joyce with a light that asked quite plainly, "Is he not?"
But only the Doctor replied. "Indeed?" with ingenuous surprise. "But he seems quite effectually to have effaced himself."
Converse shot another glance at Joyce.