It is probable that his presence and name were better known in every part of the State than those of any other living man. For the class which he represented was that noble body of patricians—handsome and recklessly brave men, and beautiful, high-minded women—who have given the world criterions by which human excellence and human weakness alike may be measured; and his position was a personal hobby, persistently and consistently ridden.

Of his standing he was perhaps pardonably proud. Besides his social position and that of his wife, who had been a Shepardson, and of his lovely daughter, Joyce, he had fought gallantly, if not brilliantly, through the war between the States; but he was just narrow-minded enough to allow his pride and egoism to exclude the rest of humanity.

There was but one uniting link between Mobley and his father and mother—the latter even more distant and unapproachable than her spouse—and that was the daughter and sister, Joyce. Whatever their differences, the family was held together by affection for this beautiful girl.

The love that bound Joyce and Mobley was deep and abiding. It is not surprising, then, when the question of his sister's marriage became gossip, that Mobley should have taken a stand on the subject which brought about a final and complete rupture from his father and mother. The name with which his sister's had been linked was no other than that of this same Alberto de Sanchez, who now lay dead, with a ghastly knife-wound in his throat, in the Doctor's own office.

James Howard Lynden—or "Jim," as Doctor Westbrook called him—had long been on intimate terms with the Westbrook family. And it was he who now accompanied the silent Mr. Converse through a small but curious group gathered about the entrance leading to the Doctor's office; the first stage of an intermingling of interests widely diverse; the bringing together of lives as far asunder as the stars.

CHAPTER II
THE FIRST PROBLEM DEVELOPS

Doctor Westbrook's offices were in the Nettleton Building in Court Street. It and its neighbor on the east, the Field Building, were of that solid old style of structure devoted to business, which knew not the elevator nor steam heat, nor any of the many devices that enter into the complexities, and often questionable conveniences, of the modern office edifice. They were not, and never had been, of an imposing appearance, boasting as they did only three stories; but they were nevertheless the blue-bloods among the city's commercial houses, preserving their exclusive position amidst the newer generation of garish sky-scrapers which rudely intercepted the vision on every hand.

The occupants of these monuments of the old regime were in full accord with their habitations,—solid, conservative, and even aristocratic. As often as not a modest sign—if it could be deciphered at all—notified the visitor that behind certain doors could be found "Harvey Nettleton, Estate of," or, "Richard Fairchild, Estate of," or some name equally well known, and associated with a glory that had departed. In most instances, well might the present owners of those family names cry "Ichabod!" for they had long since ceased to have any interest in the estates other than the shadowy interests which lie in memories and vain regrets.

As Mr. Lynden and his taciturn companion passed through the Nettleton Building entrance, where the curious little throng was restrained by the presence of a couple of mute policemen, the Captain's entire manner underwent a complete and sudden transformation; his expressionless countenance remained wooden, but into his eyes there arrived an intentness and brightness entirely absent from them before; his rather lethargic and apparently purposeless movements giving way to a brisk mode of proceeding which one would hardly have expected from his cumbrous frame. His demeanor was become at once alert and wary, and he had little to say to Lynden.