"No, sir; they cannot."
"Very good. I fancy if a person were on a level with that window when the candle-play is going on, he could see something off there to the west that can't be seen from any other point. We'll have to know what it means, Mac, before the night is many hours older."
As he entered the house Converse was somewhat surprised at being notified by Sam that Mrs. Westbrook would receive him at his convenience, in the morning-room. "The mother instead of the daughter; now, what does that mean?" he observed, mentally. He reflected that, in the whirl of events, he had taken but small account of this lady. What little he knew of her—merely such vague reports as may come to one of any individual's personality—pictured for him a cold, selfish, distant woman, indifferent to most matters that did not affect her directly; and so far there had been no occasion for giving her any unusual attention.
Mrs. Westbrook was a tall, stately woman of a superb figure. Her mere physical appearance, the unconscious ease of her carriage, the uncompromising uplift of her head, were all remarkably impressive; but there was much beyond this. To begin with, she had been wonderfully neglected by Time. One might fancy that the hauteur of this grande dame was as discouraging to the harbinger of immortality as it was chilling to individuals who failed in any of the many qualities necessary to meet her full approval. Like the General, there was a repellent frigidity in her customary glance, and her clear, almost faultless features were marred by the aptness with which they could emphasize scorn or disdain at the expense of an ability to reflect any of the softer feelings. If she had ever possessed any of the illusions common to girlhood, they had been dispelled—forgotten—long, long since: a woman temperamentally beyond the influence of the smaller courtesies and amenities of life, it was quite patent that she could not have lived that life more alone had it been cast in the midst of a desert isle; and it was difficult to imagine her so shaken from her aplomb as McCaleb and Clancy had beheld her the night before. Perhaps Time had indeed passed her by as needing none of his attentions.
Years ago Louise Shepardson had been much sought after by the bachelor gentry of her circle. There existed a strange allurement for the masculine nature in her statuesque beauty, an enticing incentive to kindle it into flame; but the Pygmalion for whom this lovely Galatea might have quickened into life never appeared, and one by one her suitors retired to direct their ardor along paths of less resistance.
The lady was standing facing the door when Sam ushered in Mr. Converse. It was plain from her attitude that she intended to remain standing throughout the coming interview; that she expected her guest to do likewise; and that the interview itself was to be very short. It cannot be said that the Captain's susceptibilities were particularly sensitive; yet he felt the condescension with which Mrs. Westbrook received him, and all at once his scruples for the intrusion vanished. He bowed low.
"Madam," he began, his impassive features as free from any emotion as her own, "I apologize for disturbing you; I have postponed the matter as long as I could; but there are some ques—"
She interrupted him without the slightest consideration, her enunciation deliberate and incisive.
"You will please dispense with any preamble," she said, coldly. "Ask your questions as briefly and concisely as possible."
He did not hurry. It was too patent that, if she did not choose to answer, she would ignore any interrogation he might frame. Abruptly his look became as hard as flint, and all of his moving personality seemed to be concentrated in one steady, piercing glance. But her pale eyes continued to meet the steely gray ones, boldly, and as inscrutable as the granite orbs of a sphinx. Nobody had ever seen behind those eyes.