Meanwhile the Captain was moving from one to another of the group, his whisper barely audible, but persistent and pervading the entire room. Occasionally he made a brief memorandum upon an envelope,—cabalistic marks which no one but himself could have deciphered. Then the whisper again for a moment, followed by a deferential lowering of his gray head as he hearkened to the reply. Had one been observing him closely he would have noticed that the circle of inquiry gradually narrowed. The policeman he paid no attention to at all; he was soon through with Señor Vargas; but from Lynden he passed to Howe; next to Doctor Westbrook; and from one to another of the last three, as a word from one suggested a new inquiry to be asked of another. His movements were silent, his manner unobtrusive, distracting no attention from Mr. Merkel and his investigation. Now and then he paused and stared contemplatively into vacancy for a moment, with the odd lifting of his right eyebrow, and with his mouth thoughtfully pursed; but the mask of his countenance told nothing, and only once did he include the whole group with a question. It was after he had been whispering quietly for some minutes with Howe.
"Who can give me young Mr. Fairchild's address? You, Doctor?" he asked.
"Clay?" Dr. Westbrook returned. "Yes. It is close to the terminus of the Washington Heights car line. The conductor can direct you to it; the houses are not numbered out there."
Converse nodded, and chose a slip of paper from the table. After looking at it, first on one side and then on the other, it apparently did not suit his purpose; for he subjected another bit of paper to a similar scrutiny before pencilling a hurried line thereon, although he did not replace the first slip. The note he handed to the policeman with a whispered word, and the policeman instantly quitted the room. Had one still been observing Mr. Converse he would have seen him abstractedly place the first bit of paper in his waistcoat pocket.
Well, it seemed that no one present could throw additional light upon the manner of Señor de Sanchez's death. Mr. Merkel arose from his chair at the Doctor's table, and looked a pointed inquiry at the Captain, who responded by a short negative shake of his head. As if relieved of a distasteful responsibility, the Coroner said:
"Such of you as desire to go may do so. Captain Converse and I will have to look about a bit. He must have an opportunity to apply his wonderful skill, gentlemen; and you will all be notified of the inquest; you will be duly notified..... Doctor Westbrook, I will send a wagon for the body," he concluded. "Good-night, gentlemen." He turned to the table again, and to a contemplation of the dead man's personal effects, as though picking out an answer to this latest riddle propounded by death.
Whatever of restraint had been upon the group, it was released by the Coroner's words, and each member showed it in his own way. Ferdinand Howe instantly advanced to Doctor Westbrook, and, smiling, held out his hand.
"Well, Mobley," said he, as they grasped hands, "this is a regrettable affair. It has been a shocking interruption to my visit; a visit which I now suppose will be indefinitely extended. If I can be of service, don't hesitate to call upon me. I shall be at the hotel any time I am wanted. Good-night." And he quitted the room.
Next, Señor Vargas bowed before the Doctor, saying in a low, conventional tone:
"My sympathies, Señor Doctor, that anything so deplorable should have occurred in your apartments." He turned to the Coroner: