"I make one more appeal to you," he said, after regarding her a moment. "Do not misconstrue this. If you do not speak, my alternative is to arrest you. Do you comprehend that? When I open this door, it will be to introduce an officer who will become your custodian. Will you not believe that my motives in thus appealing to you are prompted solely by a desire to spare you the distress that will be inflicted if you do not open your lips? Consider before you answer; will you give me your confidence? Shall the door remain closed—or shall I open it?"
For one brief moment Joyce had all the appearance of some hunted thing hopelessly cornered. She looked wildly from the officer to her brother, who sat with set and rigid features, and back to the officer again. All at once, it seemed, her resolution was made; or, if she had hesitated, strength was given her to maintain her purpose. Her agitation vanished, and she returned Mr. Converse's look fearlessly and half defiantly.
"I have nothing to confide," was the response, uttered with firmness and the quiet of a determination not to be swayed.
With a bow, Converse threw open the door.
"Come in, McCaleb," he said, his manner now brisk and business-like; then, turning to the Doctor: "This man is an officer who, for the present, will be responsible for Miss Westbrook's movements. Now then, Doctor, hear my final word. I have made one mistake in allowing consideration for your sister—young and inexperienced as she is—to come between me and my duty. I am going to assume the risk again by offering you another opportunity. I see that you feel the matter keenly, but this issue of our conference is the fault of you two. Still, it is terrible thus to thrust the stigma of such a crime upon a mere girl—little short of the crime itself,—and in the hope that I can soon clear up this fog of mystery, I am going to be guilty of a dereliction. Give me your word that Miss Westbrook will neither attempt to leave the house nor communicate with anybody outside, without first reporting to McCaleb, and for the present—until it becomes unavoidable to act otherwise—she may remain here."
With a sudden movement, Doctor Westbrook released Joyce's hand, and pressed his own hand to his brow.
"Good God!" he groaned, "this is intolerable. Joyce—dear sister—tell—"
But he got no further. The final word acted like the touch that releases a taut spring, and she fairly precipitated herself upon him, sending one look of such utter terror and desperation at Mr. Converse that his perplexity deepened into blank amazement, and at the same time she clapped a hand over her brother's mouth.
"You swore you would not," she whispered, almost fiercely. "Mobley, you swore. If they were to tear me limb from limb before your eyes I would not consent to have you tell."
The Doctor's head dropped, and with a gentle movement he took the small hand from out his beard, kissed it tenderly, and sat abstractedly caressing it.