A slight gasp from his hearer caused him to pause again. Briefly he gauged her strength.
"That woman was alone with your brother about the time of De Sanchez's death. In short, the assassin could have been no place but in Mr. Nettleton's office; and no one was there besides those two."
"Merciful God! Clay!"
"Wait!" hastily. "Your brother is innocent—I am sure of that—but the woman—"
Charlotte sat quivering as if with an ague, deadly white.
"Who?—who?" she gasped, huskily, when he paused.
"The facts all say—Joyce Westbrook."
"Oh, don't—don't!" She arose and stood unsteadily confronting him. "I can't—I will not listen to this. It is abominable. You have stumbled into some terrible error that may be explained. Why, Mr. Converse, this will kill Joyce. Oh, how horrible! how horrible!"
"Error?" said he, with extraordinary gentleness. "Ah, Miss Fairchild, I hate to pain you so, but somebody must be stirred to action. I cannot reach to the Doctor's or his sister's sensibilities in their morbid state of mind; and if she will not unlock her lips, I cannot speak of the result. Error? I admit its possibility. I spent an exceedingly bad half-hour this morning trying to persuade Doctor Westbrook and Miss Joyce that I was more than willing to meet them on this ground. But no. If I have, as you say, stumbled into a bog of error, they left me to get back to terra firma again as best I could. If we can agree upon this point, we have an excellent position from which to operate; and for the young lady's sake I would so agree."
"Mr. Converse, Mr. Converse," moaned Charlotte, as if a mortal physical wound had been dealt her. "Wait! I can't bear it! The idea is so hideous—so monstrous—"