"As I have told you, I am very anxious. From your manner I know the occasion to be serious, and that you are striving to temper its seriousness. You say that a friend is in trouble, Mr. Converse; well, that is enough to spur my interest, were any such spur needed. But I can only repeat that I am very ignorant of this matter. Still, I will say this, in the hope that it will cause you to speak freely. You have somehow inspired my confidence; I feel sure you have come, led by a tender consideration for somebody's feelings, and that now you are governed by a consideration for my own feelings. It would be a poor return, indeed, if I withheld any aid that might lie within my power. I will pledge myself to lend you every assistance I can; but it cannot be much. From what I have heard of you, I consider it quite a compliment that you should thus tender me your confidence."
In scornful deprecation he exclaimed against the attributes with which her words invested him. "I never sincerely complimented anybody in my life,—unless, perhaps, I was after something; so you had better take care. Seriously, though, the things I have told you are merely necessary statements of fact. I am not secretive by nature, Miss Fairchild, though you could find a good many people whom it would be hard to make believe that. That I am at all is far from complimentary to those with whom I daily mingle. The bright spots in my life are when I meet with somebody with whom I can be as open as the day.
"But I haven't answered your question yet: Do I believe your brother guilty of any participation in De Sanchez's death? No. Nor of any participation in last night's affair."
Charlotte stared. "Last night's affair!" she cried. "Do you refer to—to Mr. Slade?"
"Slade?" he repeated,—and reflected. Here was a consideration which, the instant it flashed into his mind, caused him to wonder why it had not occurred to him before; but that everybody who could read or was not stone-deaf knew of the Westbrook tragedy was to be taken as a matter of course. Yet it was impossible that this woman could be so at ease—her manner so tranquil—and at the same time have knowledge of the recent assassination. But Slade—what is this of Slade?
"Miss Fairchild," he asked at length, "don't you get a morning paper here?"
"No. We have never taken one at the house; Clay usually brought the papers home from the office."
"And your relations with the Westbrook family are very close, are they not?"
At first she blushed slightly; then suddenly the last vestige of color ebbed from her cheeks, and for the second time the slender hand rested upon her bosom.
"Yes," she whispered with bated breath. "Why?"