Almost instantly he uttered a satisfied ejaculation. Straight ahead, but seemingly as distant as a star, the darkness was penetrated by a single tiny spark of light. It was so small and feeble that it certainly would have been swallowed up and lost had there been any other intervening illumination; but there it glowed, a single coruscation against the velvet pall of night.
Upon moving slightly to one side, the light at once vanished; but it again appeared when he resumed his former position. A movement to the other side had the same result: evidently, through the trees and buildings of various kinds which stood between the Westbrook house and the source of the mysterious point of light, there was but one straight passage free from obstructions and leading directly to the centre of this window.
He consulted the tablet, and moved his own taper slowly up once and then down again, to the table. Immediately the distant spark appeared to rise an inch or so and settle once more to its former position. Thus was a familiar greeting flashed through the night, and answered: "Hello!" The manipulator of the distant light, of course, had no idea that another than Joyce was engaging his attention by means of this novel wireless telegraphy; and Mr. Converse resolved to try the effect of the most startling announcement he could find—not without a clearly defined purpose.
The code contained nothing that could convey an adequate idea of the close surveillance under which Joyce had been all day, nor of the events of the past twelve hours; it was impossible to say what intelligence she had imparted when McCaleb observed her with the candle earlier in the evening; but after a brief consideration, he selected the announcement:
"All is discovered."
The effect was instantaneous. The little spark waved frantically, and at times so vehement were its movements that it disappeared altogether: it darted about so erratically—stuttered, one might say—that it was impossible to catch an inkling of what it intended to convey; and then it abruptly vanished, not to reappear.
After waiting several minutes, he presently chuckled grimly and muttered: "The old Fairchild homestead! Now, that young man displays a resourcefulness and cleverness that I admire. I'll wager he and I are face to face before morning."
He switched on the lights again, extinguished the candle, and quitted the room.
In the morning-room he was again confronted by the cold light of Mrs. Westbrook's pale eyes. Her expression of indifference had taken on a new meaning for him since he had first come face to face with her there to-night; it hid a history of which the world indubitably would never scan a page. To him it now afforded an illumination into hitherto hidden phases of the dead husband's character rather than an index to her own repressed nature; and his manner toward her remained gently deferential. Joyce still sat with her head pillowed on her mother's shoulder, her appearance betraying complete physical relaxation.
"Now, Mrs. Westbrook," he began, "when to-morrow dawns, matters are going to be in a far different condition than they are just now. In spite of my efforts, the cat seems to be out of the bag; but I believe the worst has happened."