"Three times?"
"Yes—"
But Charlotte's gentle voice interrupted. "Let me explain," said she, directing a glance of sympathy toward her brother; "it will give you an added insight into Joyce's character, which will not injure her in your estimation, I am sure. Dear, brave, impulsive girl! Mr. Converse, can you imagine Joyce going alone at night to Clay's hiding-place, that dismal, forsaken house that was once our home?"
"I can believe anything of her courage, Miss Fairchild."
"Well, she did—so soon as she learned where Clay was and why he was there. I have it from Mobley, Mr. Converse; the transformation which this intelligence worked in her amazed him and Mrs. Westbrook. That night, unknown to any one, she went through the darkness, through those wretched, creepy halls and silent, deserted rooms, to tell Clay—But I shall not relate what she said or what occurred."
Indeed, it was not necessary that she should; a glance at the young man's glowing countenance was sufficient.
Converse laughed knowingly.
"That was on—let me see, what night was it?" he inquired.
"The next night after De San—Thursday night," Charlotte replied.
The Captain nodded appreciatively.