"I swear," she whispered, and left him immediately.
The dying man knew that the girl's future was assured.
"I have nearly finished," he said at length. "What else?"
"What became of that document?" from Converse.
"Ah, yes. When I beheld that the Señor Westbrook was a dead man, I hurried to his desk and gathered the loose sheets from under the overturned telephone. One, the last, had not been detached from the pad. It bore his signature—the name of the Señor Peyton Westbrook—and I tore it loose and thrust it into my pocket along with the rest. Here was a confession of that gallant señor's infamy over his own signature; and what did I with it? You will believe, señores—señorita"—for the first time he recognized Charlotte's presence as an auditor—"that I meant to take pity upon his daughter, when I tell you that I destroyed it. But it was so.
"Next I turned off the light, so that my departure might not be witnessed. And I was none too soon, señores; there were a man and a woman in the driveway, striving to locate the shots; so I dodged into the shrubbery, and made my way from the grounds as noiselessly as I had entered, screened by the black shade of the trees."
* * * * * * *
(LETTER FROM MRS. MOBLEY WESTBROOK TO JOHN
CONVERSE, FORMERLY CAPTAIN OF DETECTIVES.)
Dear Mr. Converse:
Among all the honors being showered upon you, signalizing your retirement from the Police Department, I feel that Mobley and I should have some recognition. I remember how you loved my flowers; I remember your oft-repeated determination some time to retire with your friend Mr. Follett and Joe to a cottage like the dear little cottage which was so long a home to mamma, Clay, and myself; and above all things, I remember that to-day we owe our happiness to you. Somehow it seems that you have gone out of our lives, and I don't like it to be that way. Clay and Joyce are happy in the old homestead (your fault again, sir!), and only you—poor man!—now that Headquarters shall know you no more, are homeless.