Where, then, had the assassin been?
But Converse, though his mien became a little grimmer, did not pause.
"After you had ascertained that Miss Westbrook was indeed gone, you seated yourself once more at your desk—but not to resume your work. Your mind was engrossed by the recent episode; presently you noted that a very familiar perfume was still conspicuous, as if in passing she had left a pleasant evidence of herself loitering about your desk, and you fell to searching for it. You scattered the papers on your desk; you looked to the floor—all about you—but did not locate the source of that delicate fragrance."
Noting the young man's frank amazement, he chuckled silently.
"No; I was not there," he went on,—"not until later. But I found it. In her agitation, she had dropped her handkerchief into your waste-paper basket."
"And that," gasped Charlotte, "was what directed you to Joyce!"
"Miss Fairchild," said the Captain, soberly, "it was a clue that could not be ignored. You have seen the Countess Zicka in 'Diplomacy.'
"Go on," urged Fairchild, while his sister nodded her comprehension.
"Very well. You remained at your desk ten or fifteen minutes longer, but never got your mind fixed upon your work again. At last you donned your overcoat and hat and passed over to the Doctor's office, with a vague idea of finding an explanation there. As you opened his door, you were still trying to account for Miss Westbrook's transit through Mr. Nettleton's offices, and when your eye fell upon the form of De Sanchez, no idea was at first conveyed to your brain; it was so far beyond anything that you possibly could have imagined. Next instant a concept of what had happened burst upon you; a false one, to be sure, but quite natural under the circumstances. I can see that it was a tremendous shock to you; for the moment you were dumb, paralyzed with terror; then like a flash your faculties were startled into an abnormal activity, and you realized that you had become an important factor in a deed of blood. There sat Doctor Westbrook, and Howe—a stranger to you—in an ominous silence, their own faces reflecting something of the deed's horror; Alberto de Sanchez lay dead at their feet and at yours, and with electric swiftness you reviewed the facts as you knew them,—the ground of contention between the Doctor and the dead man, the still bleeding body, the familiar weapon lying conspicuously on the floor,—all told an awful story. You did not try to reason it out or give a name to what you beheld; you were simply dismayed, overwhelmed by a consciousness that in some way the situation was fraught with the gravest peril for some one very dear to you,—some one whose well-being and happiness were of far more importance than your own,—and you acted upon the blindest of impulses. No one but yourself knew that Miss Joyce had been there; no one would ever ascertain it from you, and you fled madly, with no definite aim but to get away—to hide yourself safe from all pursuit."
Clay sat watching the speaker, rapt by the recital.