"Exactly. And they are banded together to shield her name. We failed to hit upon the right question, or to put it in the proper way, so leaving them an opportunity for evasion without downright falsehood.
"Again, Abram, would these complications involve the woman or some one else? Are they shielding her for her sake or their own? If you could answer me those questions, Abram, I could tell you the rest. Where is the Mexican woman now, who smokes a cigarette while she waits for her victim? That's Merkel's idea. Poppycock! There's no Mexican woman on the face of the earth that all of those men would be so anxious to shield."
"John, there's one thing about this here female that you haven't considered yet," began Abram Follett. "She may know nothin' about the murder; she may only have showed a common weakness o' the sex by bein' where she had no business; she may be in the same boat with those three men, an' they are simply a-tryin' to save her from fallin' overboard, thinkin' she couldn't throw any light on how Mr. de Sanchez came to be a dead man all of a sudden, but could get herself in a pretty bad fix. They are not the best judges, o' course; but if there's anything in that 'nonymous letter you got about her, why, there's somebody else knows who she is, an' it's some one who could be made to tell.
"Now then, John, listen to me a bit: there's only one other person we know o' havin' been on that floor at the time o' the killin'—Bill Slade; an' I know two or three things about him—though I've never sot eyes on the man that I know of—that might interest you. First, his father, before the war, was the Fairchild overseer; secondly, Bill Slade himself is to-day the owner o' the old Fairchild homestead. What we don't know that might show how they're all tangled up together—if they really are—might be a hull lot.... Truth can't be downed, John, but it sometimes has a mighty hard time a-gettin' up to where it can be seen an' recognized. Oftener than not we don't want to recognize it; we just hand it a rap over the head by way o' conveyin' the information that it mustn't get too conspicuous."
"There's a good deal about Slade that is hard to understand; I'll think it over." The Captain was still looking hard at Mr. Follett.
"Another thing, John: that letter gives me the idea everything ain't a-goin' smooth with them people; there's a conflictin' interest somewhere, you mark my words. They ain't just plain common folks, either, that we have to do with; not the kind that goes about their business peacefully an' ca'mly, day after day, under the heft of a secret o' this kind; especially when so many shares it."
"Speaking of Slade," said Mr. Converse, abruptly breaking the current of the conversation, "reminds me of something odd. I don't know that you have ever heard of it, but there is a peculiarity about Slade and General Westbrook that is the foundation of a joke of long standing at the General's expense, although they are few enough who would have the hardihood to take that liberty with him to his face.
"It seems that always when Slade and the General meet, wherever it may be—on the street, at the bank, in offices or business houses,—the former is possessed of some powerful emotion. He steps to one side, oblivious of everything besides General Westbrook, at whom he stares as though he were quite overcome by his greatness. At the same time Slade is continually mumbling unintelligibly to himself. After a bit he seems to realize his queer actions, and recovers himself all at once with a sheepish look around, as if to see whether anybody has been observing him; and if General Westbrook has not already departed, Slade blurts out a confused apology and hurries away. It's queer enough in that dried-up little man; for he bears the reputation of a miser, is as sour as vinegar, lives to himself in a little cubbyhole of a room, and hasn't, I suppose, one intimate friend in the world. People will say, 'Slade? Why, yes, I know old Slade. Who don't?' Yet the truth is that nobody really does know him. He's simply a machine, and as long as he works smoothly and in good order he's taken for granted, like the Lee monument or the changes of the moon.
"Anyhow, the General accepts it all seriously, as a tribute from an inferior to his own high mightiness, and he unbends to the old codger quite graciously—for him. Whatever it is Slade has in mind, or what he mutters to himself, no one seems to know; but 'Slade's Blessing' has come to be a by-word in the city.
"Now then, on the night of the eleventh—last Wednesday night—the headquarters man, Adams, who is watching Vargas, made a report in which 'Slade's Blessing' figures in rather a curious and incomprehensible manner. It appears that Slade went to the La Salle House, apparently looking for some one; Vargas was sitting in the rotunda, smoking, when all at once who should come in but General Westbrook. Slade was then standing right by Vargas's chair, when he caught sight of the General, and the old scene began. Westbrook came directly up to Vargas and spoke in an absent-minded way to Slade, who made his usual embarrassed exit. Now, Vargas did not show that he had noticed this incident—which should have been strange and novel to him—and there may not be any connection between it and what followed, but the next morning Vargas called on Slade at the Guaranty Trust Company's offices. He remained only a few minutes; but he called again shortly before five o'clock the same evening, and accompanied Slade to the latter's room, where he remained with the abstracter until nearly seven o'clock."