"You are sure you can trust me now, Miss Westbrook?"
"I intend to—freely, fully."
"Then begin at the beginning. Tell me about the afternoon of the fourth—at what time you went to the Nettleton Building, and what took place there; just what you saw and heard."
As he spoke, her face clouded.
"Well," was the response, "I—I was—"
But there came an unlooked for interruption. A sudden sound of hurrying footsteps and excited voices, somewhere in the house below, broke upon their hearing, expropriating the attention of both. The girl stood rigid, startled, while the Captain turned hastily toward the door as the clamor resolved itself into a rapid approach to the room in which they were.
Before he could lay his hand upon the knob, a loud rap sounded on the panel, and a shaking voice called aloud Miss Westbrook's name. She paled, and it forced a little cry from her; the door burst open, and a strange group poured in upon them.
First came Lynden clutching a crumpled newspaper, his face bloodless and twitching with intense agitation. He surged forward as though forcing his way through a mass of obstacles; his usually fastidious attire was dishevelled. Close behind him followed McCaleb, much calmer, but plainly showing signs of excitement; and beyond McCaleb stood Mrs. Westbrook, the placidity of her handsome features unruffled, her equanimity not at all disturbed by the tumult.
Before Lynden's unceremonious entrance Joyce recoiled, with an involuntary look of scorn and indignation which engaged Mr. Converse's interest. Lynden hastened directly toward her, without the least notice of any one else. He extended the paper, and, in tones hoarse and tense, cried,
"Joyce! Good God! what does this mean?"