One of the plots suggested was indeed extraordinary. The letter went on:
"The heroine of my yarn was a certain Paquita. Does that strain your credulity? Well, it's a fact which you may easily verify when you come up with Clay. In my veracious legend Paquita stabbed herself with a magnificent jewelled dagger, the same having been the gift of a false lover. Could it have been your 'Silver Blade,' I wonder? .... I had this story from a certain Ignacio Monterde, who related it as a fact. He was once under me in a construction gang; but his wife came into some money,—according to his account, as a reward for her kind offices to Paquita during a time of stress and vicissitude."
Then followed Monterde's address, and the assertion that the story had held Fairchild "spellbound."
Which was not surprising, considering his knowledge of Doctor Westbrook's paper-knife. Indeed, Fairchild seems to have mentioned it immediately to his friend, volunteering to secure it for the purpose of confirming his statements concerning its existence. The weapon could not be found in its customary place, hence the sketch as an effort to convey some idea of its appearance.
The writer concluded by offering to appear in his friend's behalf, at any time, should the exigencies of the case demand it of him.
Mr. Converse laid the letter to one side, with a long-drawn "Ah-h-h!" expressive of extreme satisfaction. He carefully made a note of Ignacio Monterde's address.
After the unexpected intelligence had been properly digested it was time for dinner; Mr. Slade and the woman he had seen could very well wait until the following morning. Besides, Mr. Converse's other business had become much in arrears during the past few days, and there were a number of matters demanding immediate attention. He smiled grimly as he turned to the accumulation of letters and papers on his desk, and mentally contrasted his recent anxiety to run this same mysterious woman down, with his present dilatoriness—his admitted reluctance to hear her name from the lips of a witness whose testimony would be irrefutable.
The manner in which the name of Slade wound in and out of this maze, indefinitely and apparently without cause or purpose, had excited Mr. Converse's attention to such an extent that even now two subordinates were burrowing into the abstracter's past in an effort to unearth something that might clear up this distracting and irritating side-issue; but their efforts had been abortive in so far as the results aimed at were concerned, although—as he had informed Miss Charlotte—a number of seemingly irrelevant facts had been brought to light, which only made this phase more perplexing than ever. And now, Mr. Slade's remarkable visit to the Fairchild cottage, and what had happened there, were only added knots in an already badly tangled skein.
He next rang for the departmental stenographer, and for two hours was busy dictating letters and going over reports, with an energy that made his pale young amanuensis marvel. But as the Federal Building clock began to toll off eight strokes, he noted the impatience with which the young man consulted his watch.
"Julius, you are tired," he said, in a matter-of-fact way. "This is the last letter."