It was now night outside, and the stairs were faintly illuminated by the single incandescent lamp which hung at their head in the hall of the second story. The sole indication that Mr. Converse was striving to allow nothing to escape his observation was the quickness with which he stooped, when near the top, and picked something from the stairs—something too small for Lynden to catch even a glimpse of—which, whatever it was, the Captain scrutinized intently a moment, and, without comment, dropped into the large pocket-book he brought forth from an inside pocket. The two continued on their way until they reached Doctor Westbrook's office.
Everything was as Lynden had left it, save for the fact that Doctor Westbrook, and the stranger mentioned by the young man, had been joined by several other persons.
One was a swarthy, lean man, whose face was pitted by small-pox, and whose rather dull eyes remained expressionless behind a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. He was standing aloof from the others, and seemed to be taking only languid interest in what was going forward. Occasionally he coughed in a manner that told much to the physician's trained ear; save for this, he remained silent. Mr. Merkel, the coroner, and a uniformed policeman were also present.
"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Merkel to Converse as he and his companion appeared. "So they have sent you, have they? How fortunate! how exceedingly fortunate! This, gentlemen," he continued, addressing the other occupants of the room, "is Captain Converse. He will pardon me, I know, if I add—the great detective. Nothing has been disturbed, Captain, nothing has been disturbed. You will find everything just as I did. It is a bad business, a bad business."
Mr. Merkel was fussy, important, and wholly incompetent; and the Captain was so accustomed to his repetitions of phrases that were not, to say the least, pregnant with meaning, that he ignored them and turned to an inspection of the dead man.
The body lay just as it had fallen. Somebody had placed a handkerchief over the face, a covering that also hid an ugly wound in the throat. Mr. Converse stooped and removed this, and began a minute but rapid examination of the still form. It reposed in the Doctor's reception-room, close to the wall, partially on its back and partially on its right side. The right arm was extended, the fingers of that hand still in a position as though upon the point of grasping something. Curved naturally across the breast, the left arm suggested restful slumber rather than death by violence; but whatever the eyes had last looked upon, before the film dimmed their lustre, it had stamped upon the handsome features an indelible expression of mingled terror and horror, which one could scarcely regard without an inward tremor of something very like fear. It was an expression likely to remain disagreeably in the memory for a long time.
A search of the dead man's pockets revealed nothing unusual, except that, in a petty way, he had been a violator of the law; for the first thing Mr. Converse drew forth was a nickel-plated, pearl-handled revolver of 32-caliber. The remainder consisted of a number of letters, all relating to business matters; two long envelopes, evidently but recently sealed, and addressed simply, "El Señor Juan de Vargas"; a purse containing money; a gold watch; a fountain pen, and pencil; two memorandum books; a silver match-box; a pouch of dark tobacco, and brown cigarette papers; a handkerchief; a penknife; a bunch of keys,—these were all.
When these effects were inventoried, while Mr. Merkel was assorting them at Doctor Westbrook's writing-table, the dark man with the pince-nez stepped forward. All eyes were turned toward him, excepting, apparently, those of Converse, which continued to give the body and the reception-room floor their attention.
"Pardon, señores," said the dark man, bestowing a bow upon the entire group, and ending it at the Coroner; "is there anything addressed to Juan Vargas, or Juan de Vargas? I am he."
Mr. Merkel looked at him sternly, and held up the two long envelopes.