Introduction to Java Programming

Comprehensive Version 10th Edition

Liang Solutions Manual
Full download at link:

Solution Manual: https://testbankpack.com/p/solution-manual-

for-introduction-to-java-programming-comprehensive-
version-10th-edition-liang-0133761312-9780133761313/

Test Bank: https://testbankpack.com/p/test-bank-for-

introduction-to-java-programming-comprehensive-version-
10th-edition-liang-0133761312-9780133761313/

Student Name: __________________

Class and Section __________________
Total Points (20 pts) __________________
Due: September 20, Monday, 2012 before the class

Project: Proper Fractions, Improper Fractions, and

Mixed Fractions
CSCI 1301 Introduction to Programming Principles
Armstrong Atlantic State University

Problem Description:

Proper fractions, improper fractions, and mixed

fractions are defined at
http://www.ltcconline.net/greenl/courses/187/b/impro
permixed.htm. Write a program that prompts the user
to enter the numerator and denominator of a fraction
number and determines whether it is a proper
fraction and improper fraction. For an improper
fraction number, display its mixed fraction in the
form of a + b / c if b % c is not zero; otherwise,
display only the integer.

1
Here are sample runs of the program:

Sample 1:
Enter a numerator: 16
Enter a denominator: 3
16 / 3 is an improper fraction and its mixed fraction is 5
+ 1 / 3.

Sample 2:
Enter a numerator: 6
Enter a denominator: 7
6 / 7 is a proper fraction

Sample 3:
Enter a numerator: 6
Enter a denominator: 2
6 / 2 is an improper fraction and it can be reduced to 3

Analysis:
(Describe the problem including input and output in your own words.)

Design:
(Describe the major steps for solving the problem.)

Coding: (Copy and Paste Source Code here. Format your code using Courier 10pts)
Name the program Exercise03_01Extra

2
Testing: (Describe how you test this program)

Submit the following items:

1. Print this Word file and Submit to me before the class on the due day

2. Compile, Run, and Submit to LiveLab (you must submit the program regardless
whether it complete or incomplete, correct or incorrect)

3
Code Solution:

import java.util.Scanner;

public class Exercise03_01Extra {

public static void main(String args[]) {
Scanner input = new Scanner(System.in);

System.out.print("Enter a numerator: ");

int numerator = input.nextInt();
System.out.print("Enter a denominator: ");
int denominator = input.nextInt();

if (numerator < denominator) {

System.out.println(numerator + " / " + denominator + " is a proper
fraction");
}
else if (numerator % denominator == 0) {
System.out.print(numerator + " / " + denominator + " is an improper
fraction ");
System.out.println("and it can be reduced to " + numerator /
denominator);
}
else {
System.out.print(numerator + " / " + denominator + " is an improper
fraction ");
System.out.println("and its mixed fraction is " + numerator /
denominator + " + " +
numerator % denominator + " / " + denominator);
}
}
}

4
Another document from Scribd.com that is
random and unrelated content:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The silver blade: The true
chronicle of a double mystery
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will
have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using
this eBook.

Title: The silver blade: The true chronicle of a double mystery

Author: Charles Edmonds Walk

Illustrator: A. B. Wenzell

Release date: October 7, 2022 [eBook #69106]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: A. L. Burt Company, 1908

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SILVER

BLADE: THE TRUE CHRONICLE OF A DOUBLE MYSTERY ***
"Good God, Morbley! Did You Do This?" Page 92
THE SILVER BLADE
THE TRUE CHRONICLE OF A
DOUBLE MYSTERY

BY

CHARLES EDMONDS WALK

WITH FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR

BY A. B. WENZELL

CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1908

COPYRIGHT
A. C. McCLURG & Co.
1906

Published March 18, 1908

Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, Eng.
All Rights Reserved.
 The Lakeside Press
R. R. DONNELLY & SONS COMPANY
CHICAGO

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BROTHER

GEORGE EDWARD WALK

WHOSE INTEREST IN THE GROWTH OF THIS STORY

WAS NOT THE LEAST INCENTIVE
TO ITS COMPLETION

CONTENTS

BOOK I. A DUPLEX PROBLEM

CHAPTER

I. Exit Señor de Sanchez

II. The First Problem Develops
III. A Search for Clues
IV. Mr. Converse Appears as Chorus
V. A Telegram from Mexico
VI. The Inquest
VII. The Verdict
VIII. Cherchez la Femme
IX. The Second Problem
X. Footprints
XI. A Burnt Fragment
XII. A Door is Opened

BOOK II. CHARLOTTE FAIRCHILD

I. Miss Charlotte Waits in the Hall

II. Miss Charlotte Entertains a Caller
III. "Paquita—What Do You Spell?"
IV. Miss Charlotte Becomes a Factor
V. A Decision and a Letter
VI. Faint Rays from Strange Sources
VII. A Voice in the Night
VIII. The Coroner's Coup
IX. The Light Brightens—and Dims

BOOK III. SLADE'S BLESSING

I. Opening Ways
II. Fairchild Redivivus
III. "The Thunderbolt Has Fallen"
IV. Some Loose Ends
V. Mr. Slade Resigns
VI. An Arrest
VII. "Slade's Blessing"

BOOK IV. THE DANCER AND THE MOUNTEBANK

I. "That Is Paquita"
II. The Serpent Strikes
III. Which Is the Last
 ILLUSTRATIONS

"Good God, Mobley! Did you do this?" ... Frontispiece

Captain Converse was endowed with the impassiveness of an Indian, nor

could one imagine him agitated in any circumstances

Joyce was herself a mystery, an enigma, as inscrutable as "Paquita"

Mr. Mountjoy's thin, handsome features were saved from asceticism only
by the lines of humor about his eyes

At times Charlotte became beautiful; a warm tide of color mounted to

her cheeks; her head became regally erect

LIST OF CHARACTERS

GEN. PEYTON WESTBROOK, a gentleman of the Old South.

MRS. WESTBROOK, his wife.
DR. MOBLEY WESTBROOK, their son.
JOYCE, Mobley's sister.
MRS. ELINOR FAIRCHILD, a widow of fallen fortunes.
CLAY, her son.
"MISS CHARLOTTE," Clay's sister.
JOHN CONVERSE, Captain of Detectives.
MR. MOUNTJOY, the District Attorney.
MR. MERKEL, the Coroner.
J. HOWARD LYNDEN, a cotton-broker.
SENOR JUAN DE VARGAS Y ESCOLADO, otherwise known
as Señor Vargas, a Mexican capitalist.
WILLIAM SLADE, an abstracter of titles.
ABRAM FOLLETT, a dealer in worn-out utilities.
ROBERT NETTLETON, a lawyer.
FERDINAND HOWE, a banker.
HARRY MCCALEB }
SEPTIMUS ADAMS } serving under Capt. Converse.
SAM }
JOE } faithful servants.
MELISSA }
POLLY ANN }

THE PLACE: A City in the South.

TIME: The Present.
 BOOK I.

A DUPLEX PROBLEM

Is this a dagger which I see before me,

The handle toward my hand?
—MACBETH.

THE SILVER BLADE

BOOK I—A DUPLEX PROBLEM

CHAPTER I

EXIT SEÑOR DE SANCHEZ

About six o'clock on an evening in the early part of a recent

November, the drowsy quiet sometimes pervading police headquarters
was rudely broken by the precipitate entrance of a young man, who made
his way hurriedly to the door marked, in neat gilt letters, "CHIEF OF
POLICE."

In addition to the reserve squad, whose vigil never ends, many other
officers were present in the lazy transition stage between going on and
going off duty. The attention of them all was immediately attracted to the
stranger, and held by his extraordinary manner, from the instant he
became visible in the flickering gas-lights until he finally disappeared.

In the first place, he was not such a one as usually comes to the city-
hall basement, either voluntarily or when haled hither by one of the law's
myrmidons; for he was fashionably, even fastidiously, attired, with a
marked preciosity of manner which would have been even more
noticeable under ordinary conditions.

But it was not over any idiosyncrasy of apparel or customary detail of

personality that the aroused curiosity of the officers lingered. Inured as
they were to uncommon and surprising events, they were nevertheless
startled by this young man's advent, and greatly interested in his extreme
discomposure. It was obvious to the most casual glance that he was the
victim of a fright so potent that it possessed him to the complete
exclusion of every other feeling, made him oblivious of the scrutiny to
which he was subjected, and drove him blindly to the commission of
some idea fixed by the terror which mastered him. And there was one
other still more powerful emotion depicted in his pallid, twitching
countenance: a horror unspeakable.

Looking neither to the right nor the left, the stranger walked directly
to the Chief of Police just as that official was in the act of closing and
locking his office door for the night. The latter looked up inquiringly,
and, struck at once by the young man's appearance, asked with sudden
sharpness:

"What's the matter? What has happened?"

The young man, his wild regard fastened on the Chief, tried to
answer; but he was incapable of speech, and the effort resulted only in a
queer, gasping sound.

With the directness of a man accustomed to prompt action, the Chief

of Police opened his door once more, and guided the young man into the
smaller room beyond. The visitor, dazed by his emotions and unable to
respond to any suggestion less forceful than the actual pressure of the
persuasive hand on his arm, probably would have remained indefinitely
motionless on the threshold before any customary invitation to enter.
 The Chief struck a match and ignited a gas-jet above a big roll-top
desk. The action, simple in itself, seemed to loose the young man's
faculty of speech; just as the official turned, he darted suddenly forward,
grasped the other's arm, and began incontinently:

"Murder! Murder has been done!" The words had the effect of a cry,
although uttered in a hoarse whisper.

"Murder, I tell you. Come with me at once; don't delay." He shook the
Chief's arm excitedly, and strove to draw him toward the door.

"Hurry! Hurry! For God's sake, hurry!"

The Chief of Police easily disengaged his imprisoned arm.

"There, there .... sit down there," said he, in a tone he might have used
to calm a terrified child. "You are upset. Sit there awhile and try to
collect yourself. Come; make an effort. Pull yourself together and tell me
about it."

"But the murderer!" the young man went on, still with high
excitement, but unconsciously sinking back into the chair under the
gentle pressure of the Chief's hand. "The murderer will escape! Great
Heavens, man! even now he may be assaulting the doctor—Mobley—do
you hear me?—he may have killed him! Send officers—go yourself—
anything but to sit here idle. Come!" He made as if to rise again; but the
other pressed him back.

"Steady," said the Chief quietly. "Mobley? Do you mean Doctor

Mobley Westbrook? Has he been murdered?"

"No-no-no," in a burst of exasperation. "It was—it was—I mean—

good God, what do I mean? It—it happened in his office."

The Chief regarded him for a moment with eyes that were mere pin-
points of light.

"You are Mr. J. Howard Lynden, are you not?" he presently asked.
The other nodded a quick affirmative. "I thought so," he continued.
"Who is the murderer? Who has been murdered?—or has any murder
been done? You don't make yourself clear."
 Lynden twisted nervously upon his chair. "Heavens! you do not doubt
me?" he cried. "Why, Mobley's office is like a shambles. It's horrible!—
horrible! Mobley—Doctor Westbrook, that is—was standing right over
the dying man with—with—" He checked himself abruptly, as an
expression of horror deepened in his pale countenance.

Since the introduction of Doctor Mobley Westbrook's name, the Chief

of Police was paying closer attention to the incoherent recital; he
regarded the young man gravely, and evidently concluded that the
situation was serious enough to warrant some initiative on his own part.
He was accustomed to panic-stricken people who intruded thus
unceremoniously upon him, and experience had taught him that, oftener
than not, the circumstances were far from warranting the excitement.

Concerning his present visitor, he was aware, in a general way, that

the young man was well known about town, the inheritor of a
considerable fortune from his father, and that his name figured
prominently as a leader of cotillons, on the links of the Country Club,
and among the names of the many others who formed the society set of
the city.

But all these qualifications did not supply the force so conspicuously
absent from Mr. Lynden's personality, lacking which his perturbation was
not very impressive. He was not at all bad looking: he was even
handsome in a way; but the Chief of Police, as he looked, could not help
remarking that a more resolute man would have been less the slave of his
emotions in a situation like the present. While the young man sat
drumming with nervous fingers on the arms of his chair, the Chief
pressed a button beneath his desk, whereupon the door was almost
immediately opened by an officer, who, without entering, respectfully
awaited his superior's commands.

To him the Chief said, "If Converse is in, tell him to come to my
office;" and as the door closed, "I want Captain Converse to hear this,"
he explained to Lynden; "it seems to be a matter for his department."

The two had not long to wait. A man entered, cast a piercing glance at
the visitor, and took his stand at a corner of the roll-top desk, waiting
with an air of deferential attention. He was a man of physique so
immense—with such a breadth of shoulders and absence of neck—that
his more than average height was much disguised. Above all, he was one
whose appearance must attract attention in any gathering of his kind; for
even as Lynden seemed to lack those desirable traits, so force and
resolution flowed from this man's rugged personality, making their
influence felt subtly and insistently. His air of quiet composure was
evocative of confidence. Endowed with the impassiveness of an Indian,
one could hardly imagine him excited or agitated in any circumstances.

The Chief recognized his presence with a brief nod, and at once
addressed Lynden:

"Repeat what you have told me; see if you can't make it plainer."

The visitor recounted the bare facts in a more connected manner. "But
I was so shocked," he supplemented, "that I am afraid I can't make
myself intelligible. The facts explain nothing to my mind further than
that an atrocious murder has been committed, that the victim is still lying
in Doctor Westbrook's office, and that no one seems to know who is
responsible for the deed."

"You say the man was stabbed?" queried the Chief.

"Yes," was the reply; "stabbed in the throat."

"But I fail to understand," the Chief frowned. "Do you mean to say
that a man was stabbed in the presence of Doctor Westbrook, and that he
knows nothing about it?"

"No—no. It seems to have occurred in the hall just outside Mobley's

door; the man fell through the door into the office, Mobley said. I don't
know—I am so confused." Which last statement he confirmed by at once
becoming involved in a wild incoherency of utterance.

After he had quieted somewhat, he sat trembling for a moment,

suddenly bursting forth again:

"Wait!" he cried, his face lighting. "I forgot to say there was another
man present in Doctor Westbrook's office—a stranger to me. I never saw
him before."

"And he?"
 "Just like Mobley and myself, he appeared to be overcome by the
shocking occurrence."

The Chief of Police plainly showed his perplexity. "According to your

statement—the man who was killed—will you repeat his name?"

"De Sanchez. General Westbrook's friend, Alberto de Sanchez."

"According to your statement he was bleeding profusely. Had the

weapon been withdrawn from the wound?"

The young man evinced unaccountable hesitancy. He moved uneasily,

and glanced from his questioner to the impassive figure standing at a
corner of the desk. This man, called Converse, had taken no part in the
talk; he stood silent and motionless, seemingly paying no heed to what
was going forward; but now he shot a swift glance at Lynden, whose
nervousness measurably increased. That look was remarkable in a way:
the eyes, steely gray, were in themselves without expression; they failed,
however, to veil an intentness and concentration of mind which disclosed
beyond a doubt that their owner was abnormally alive to every detail of
speech and manner; they could not hide a power of will lying behind
their quick regard, which mocked deception, and Mr. Lynden shuddered.
Instantly the brief glance was withdrawn; but the young man, if such had
been his intention, attempted no liberties with the truth. The confusion
with which he now spoke, however, suggested strongly that the thought
had entered his mind, although he may not have entertained it there.

"I—I—I would rather that you, or some officer, accompany me to

Mobley's office," he faltered. "I consider it rather unfair, in my condition,
to press me further. I wouldn't for the world present anything in a false
light. I feel that the situation is not only serious, but extremely delicate."

"It is that," the Chief agreed, emphatically. "For that very reason you
must tell all you know. Now, why should you hesitate in regard to the
weapon? Come now, what about it?"

"Well, sir, I answer you under protest; remember, I did not see the
blow struck."

"Sure?"
 The young man nearly sprang from his chair. The interruption, a
penetrating, sibilant bullet of speech, came from the massive figure of
Mr. Converse; again that shrewd regard was fastened on him, and the
sweat started from his brow.

"No!" he cried, explosively; "I did not. By George, how nervous I am!
—but I think half-truths should not be told. No one is less capable of
perpetrating such a deed than Mobley Westbrook. Why, you know the
man!" He appealed with feverish eagerness to the two figures now
sternly confronting him. "Every one knows Mobley Westbrook's
character; would he do such a thing?"

"But come to the point—come to the point, man!" the Chief

demanded, rapping sharply upon the desk with his knuckles. "What of
the weapon—was it a knife—sword—axe—hatchet? Where was it?"

"Well, Mobley had some kind of a—blade, a—dagger in his hand; but
—"

"Ah! And standing over a man whose very life-blood is ebbing away
beneath his eyes!" The Chief's manner was politely ironical, and struck
the young man cold. "You must admit that you portray an astonishing set
of circumstances to surround a man not only innocent but ignorant of an
offence," concluded the official, pointedly.

Lynden indeed started from his chair. "I knew it! I knew it!" cried he,
wildly. "I knew you would put such a construction upon my words; now,
damn it! I'll not say another word. Go—go! Go and see for yourselves
how wrong you are!"

The Chief of Police ignored this vehement advice. Instead, he curtly

admonished Lynden to remain a few moments where he was; and leaving
the wretched news-bearer alone with his own reflections, he and
Converse withdrew from the room.

After a minute or two the Chief returned. "I have sent for a carriage,"
said he. "As soon as it arrives I must request you to accompany Captain
Converse to Doctor Westbrook's offices; are you willing to do that?" He
awaited the reply with an interest mingled with doubt of what its
probable tenor might be; when the young man acquiesced with an
alacrity and relief obviously sincere, his doubt merely grew. He
contemplated Lynden an instant longer, and with a curt nod, seated
himself at his desk again.

Almost at once, however, the large figure of the Captain—or plain

Mr. Converse, as he much preferred to be known—appeared in the
doorway.

"Come!" he whispered; and the whisper rasped upon Lynden's nerves.

Confound the man! was he afraid he would betray some momentous
secret, so that he did not talk like other people? Nevertheless, he arose
and followed him,—under the heavy stone arches, shrouded with gloom
in the flickering gas-light, out into the cool night air and into a waiting
hack. Two other men followed close behind, and entered a second hack;
immediately the two vehicles, one behind the other, were going at full
speed in the direction of Doctor Westbrook's offices.

Under the soothing influence of rubber tires spinning easily over the
smooth asphalt, the young man was fast regaining his lost composure.
He was so rapt in his own thoughts that for a time he quite forgot his still
companion, and presently he laughed—mirthlessly, but a laugh
signifying sudden relief. Quite as suddenly it was checked, as he met the
inquiring, probing glance of his vis-à-vis.

"It is astonishing that I never thought of it before," he explained, in an

embarrassed way. "That other man—the stranger—can set Mobley right
in an instant. Do you think Doctor Westbrook could have done it?"

Immediately he regretted the question, for it entailed hearkening to

that uncomfortable hissing voice. It was Mr. Converse's misfortune that,
properly speaking, he had no voice at all. His entire speech was a series
of sibilant utterances, wonderfully distinct and possessed of remarkable
carrying power when one considered their quality. It is likely that he was
sensitive about his vocal defect, since he was known as a silent, taciturn
man among his confrères. On certain rare occasions, however,—under,
for example, the spur of an inflexible purpose or the influence of a
sympathetic nature,—it was also known that he could wax eloquent; his
forceful individuality supplied, in a large measure, the place of a normal,
flexible voice.

The head of the detective department might have been anywhere

between forty and sixty years of age, so far as one could gather from his
huge frame and stolid countenance. His hair was gray, and thinning
slightly at the temples; but behind his illegible exterior there reposed a
vigor and a reserve of power—revealed now and then, as in the
lightning-like glance cast at Lynden in the Chief's office—which could
not be reconciled with age. He was, in fact, fifty-two.

His face was full and round, smooth-shaven, expressionless—such a

visage as one associates with some old sea-dog; a countenance that has
long been subjected to the hardening processes of wind and weather. As
the young man waited for a reply, the immovable features underwent a
curious change; the mouth gradually assumed a pucker, as though the
facial muscles were inelastic and unused to such exercise; his right
eyebrow lifted, which, as the other remained motionless, was made all
the more noticeable,—the effect being an expression of inquiry and
speculation that seemed ludicrously out of place. Lynden became
familiar with this queer transformation later on; he learned to associate it
with the futility of seeking to penetrate the wall of reserve which ever
surrounded this unusual man, and perceived that it came and went as a
sort of involuntary warning to place least trust in his frankest
confidences. Now it introduced the response to his question, "Do you
think Doctor Westbrook could have done it?"

"The Doctor is a strong, vigorous man, isn't he? I don't see why he
couldn't."

"My dear sir," Lynden anxiously expostulated, "you don't know

Mobley Westbrook, or you never could entertain such a thought."

"Pardon me," said Mr. Converse, carelessly, "the thought seems to be

your own; I was simply giving you the first fact that occurred to me, to
justify your opinion. I have formed none myself."

"You interpret my words strangely."

"No; your silence."

The young man, with another shudder, drew back to the corner of the
vehicle farthest from his companion.

The receding lights outside followed the carriage in squares of

diminishing illumination, which, shining through the window, made
strange play of light and shadow over that inscrutable visage. All at once
it became deeply portentous to Lynden; as if by sudden divination he
became possessed of a conviction that it was destined to take a high
place in his affairs,—signifying, perhaps, the controlling influence in a
strange drama, the first scene of which was now upon the boards.

"It is very remarkable," the Captain mused, presently, as if the episode

were too much for him.

Lynden started from his reverie.

"Yes," he murmured, not meeting the other's eye. "Yes; it is very

remarkable." Both lapsed into a silence that continued until the end of
the ride.

As the vehicle proceeds, a few words about those whose names have
been mentioned, together with some others who will figure in this
narrative, will give a better idea of the importance of the tragedy, the ill
tidings of which Lynden had been the bearer.

Both by reason of recognized ability in his profession and of his high

family connections, Doctor Mobley Westbrook was leader of the medical
fraternity in the city of his birth and residence. He was still youthful in
spite of his thirty-five years; democratic in his tastes, immensely popular
in every class of society, and for these reasons considerably at odds with
his father.

Notwithstanding his popularity, his single excursion into politics had

only shown his unfitness for the national game; a circumstance
mentioned here because later on he is to have it brought back to him in a
manner both forcible and disagreeable.

Singularly enough,—for from another and altogether different

sentiment the General himself was popular,—General Westbrook was
known to hold his son in some disfavor because he was so well and
universally esteemed. His exclusive nature could not brook the
physician's democratic inclinations; it made the latter an alien. The
General did not understand it, and what he could not understand he
disliked.
 The two personalities were remarkably divergent in every way.
General Peyton Westbrook was an exaggerated type of the old-school
Southern gentleman. Strikingly handsome, elegant in appearance, his
erect and rigid bearing, together with a falcon-like glance suggested a
stature which one in describing would be likely to pronounce tall when
in reality it was not much over five feet. His graceful slenderness added
considerably to the illusion. His hair was white, his features cameo-like
—aristocratic, and stamped with the overweening family pride, to which,
with him, every other human emotion was subservient.

It is probable that his presence and name were better known in every
part of the State than those of any other living man. For the class which
he represented was that noble body of patricians—handsome and
recklessly brave men, and beautiful, high-minded women—who have
given the world criterions by which human excellence and human
weakness alike may be measured; and his position was a personal hobby,
persistently and consistently ridden.

Of his standing he was perhaps pardonably proud. Besides his social

position and that of his wife, who had been a Shepardson, and of his
lovely daughter, Joyce, he had fought gallantly, if not brilliantly, through
the war between the States; but he was just narrow-minded enough to
allow his pride and egoism to exclude the rest of humanity.

There was but one uniting link between Mobley and his father and
mother—the latter even more distant and unapproachable than her
spouse—and that was the daughter and sister, Joyce. Whatever their
differences, the family was held together by affection for this beautiful
girl.

The love that bound Joyce and Mobley was deep and abiding. It is not
surprising, then, when the question of his sister's marriage became
gossip, that Mobley should have taken a stand on the subject which
brought about a final and complete rupture from his father and mother.
The name with which his sister's had been linked was no other than that
of this same Alberto de Sanchez, who now lay dead, with a ghastly
knife-wound in his throat, in the Doctor's own office.

James Howard Lynden—or "Jim," as Doctor Westbrook called him—

had long been on intimate terms with the Westbrook family. And it was
he who now accompanied the silent Mr. Converse through a small but
curious group gathered about the entrance leading to the Doctor's office;
the first stage of an intermingling of interests widely diverse; the
bringing together of lives as far asunder as the stars.

CHAPTER II

THE FIRST PROBLEM DEVELOPS

Doctor Westbrook's offices were in the Nettleton Building in Court

Street. It and its neighbor on the east, the Field Building, were of that
solid old style of structure devoted to business, which knew not the
elevator nor steam heat, nor any of the many devices that enter into the
complexities, and often questionable conveniences, of the modern office
edifice. They were not, and never had been, of an imposing appearance,
boasting as they did only three stories; but they were nevertheless the
blue-bloods among the city's commercial houses, preserving their
exclusive position amidst the newer generation of garish sky-scrapers
which rudely intercepted the vision on every hand.

The occupants of these monuments of the old regime were in full

accord with their habitations,—solid, conservative, and even aristocratic.
As often as not a modest sign—if it could be deciphered at all—notified
the visitor that behind certain doors could be found "Harvey Nettleton,
Estate of," or, "Richard Fairchild, Estate of," or some name equally well
known, and associated with a glory that had departed. In most instances,
well might the present owners of those family names cry "Ichabod!" for
they had long since ceased to have any interest in the estates other than
the shadowy interests which lie in memories and vain regrets.

As Mr. Lynden and his taciturn companion passed through the

Nettleton Building entrance, where the curious little throng was
restrained by the presence of a couple of mute policemen, the Captain's
entire manner underwent a complete and sudden transformation; his
expressionless countenance remained wooden, but into his eyes there
arrived an intentness and brightness entirely absent from them before; his
rather lethargic and apparently purposeless movements giving way to a
brisk mode of proceeding which one would hardly have expected from
his cumbrous frame. His demeanor was become at once alert and wary,
and he had little to say to Lynden.

It was now night outside, and the stairs were faintly illuminated by the
single incandescent lamp which hung at their head in the hall of the
second story. The sole indication that Mr. Converse was striving to allow
nothing to escape his observation was the quickness with which he
stooped, when near the top, and picked something from the stairs—
something too small for Lynden to catch even a glimpse of—which,
whatever it was, the Captain scrutinized intently a moment, and, without
comment, dropped into the large pocket-book he brought forth from an
inside pocket. The two continued on their way until they reached Doctor
Westbrook's office.

Everything was as Lynden had left it, save for the fact that Doctor
Westbrook, and the stranger mentioned by the young man, had been
joined by several other persons.

One was a swarthy, lean man, whose face was pitted by small-pox,
and whose rather dull eyes remained expressionless behind a pair of
gold-rimmed pince-nez. He was standing aloof from the others, and
seemed to be taking only languid interest in what was going forward.
Occasionally he coughed in a manner that told much to the physician's
trained ear; save for this, he remained silent. Mr. Merkel, the coroner,
and a uniformed policeman were also present.

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Merkel to Converse as he and his companion

appeared. "So they have sent you, have they? How fortunate! how
exceedingly fortunate! This, gentlemen," he continued, addressing the
other occupants of the room, "is Captain Converse. He will pardon me, I
know, if I add—the great detective. Nothing has been disturbed, Captain,
nothing has been disturbed. You will find everything just as I did. It is a
bad business, a bad business."

Mr. Merkel was fussy, important, and wholly incompetent; and the
Captain was so accustomed to his repetitions of phrases that were not, to
say the least, pregnant with meaning, that he ignored them and turned to
an inspection of the dead man.
 The body lay just as it had fallen. Somebody had placed a
handkerchief over the face, a covering that also hid an ugly wound in the
throat. Mr. Converse stooped and removed this, and began a minute but
rapid examination of the still form. It reposed in the Doctor's reception-
room, close to the wall, partially on its back and partially on its right
side. The right arm was extended, the fingers of that hand still in a
position as though upon the point of grasping something. Curved
naturally across the breast, the left arm suggested restful slumber rather
than death by violence; but whatever the eyes had last looked upon,
before the film dimmed their lustre, it had stamped upon the handsome
features an indelible expression of mingled terror and horror, which one
could scarcely regard without an inward tremor of something very like
fear. It was an expression likely to remain disagreeably in the memory
for a long time.

A search of the dead man's pockets revealed nothing unusual, except

that, in a petty way, he had been a violator of the law; for the first thing
Mr. Converse drew forth was a nickel-plated, pearl-handled revolver of
32-caliber. The remainder consisted of a number of letters, all relating to
business matters; two long envelopes, evidently but recently sealed, and
addressed simply, "El Señor Juan de Vargas"; a purse containing money;
a gold watch; a fountain pen, and pencil; two memorandum books; a
silver match-box; a pouch of dark tobacco, and brown cigarette papers; a
handkerchief; a penknife; a bunch of keys,—these were all.

When these effects were inventoried, while Mr. Merkel was assorting
them at Doctor Westbrook's writing-table, the dark man with the pince-
nez stepped forward. All eyes were turned toward him, excepting,
apparently, those of Converse, which continued to give the body and the
reception-room floor their attention.

"Pardon, señores," said the dark man, bestowing a bow upon the
entire group, and ending it at the Coroner; "is there anything addressed to
Juan Vargas, or Juan de Vargas? I am he."

Mr. Merkel looked at him sternly, and held up the two long envelopes.

"I see the name of Vargas—er—ah—inscribed on these. Are you Mr.

Vargas?"

The other remained unmoved, replying simply, "I am Juan de Vargas."

 "What connection have you with the deceased gentleman?" continued
the Coroner, without relaxing in the least the sternness of his look. "Can
you tell us anything of this affair?"

Señor de Vargas shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing, señores; I lament

that I cannot. The contents of the envelopes should tell you about the
extent of our connection; they contain but a deed, some shares of stock,
no more. Señor de Sanchez would have delivered them to me to-night.
Open them by all means."

The man's eyes, dull and unmoving, continued to regard Mr. Merkel.
Had he been discussing the weather his tones could have been no more
dispassionate.

The Coroner tore open the envelopes, and, as the man had said, one
contained a deed, conveying certain land to Juan Sebastian de Vargas y
Escolado, the notary's certificate showing it had been signed and
acknowledged that very day before Clay Fairchild. Alberto de Sanchez
had made the transfer. The other envelope disclosed a certificate for one
thousand shares of stock in the Paquita Gold Mining and Milling
Company, also made over to Señor Vargas in due form. The papers told
no more.

"Good!" exclaimed Señor de Vargas. "We agreed yesterday, and I

have made the first payment of ten thousand dollars for myself and
associates. I was but awaiting the deed and the stock."

At this juncture Doctor Westbrook interposed:

"I happen to know that this gentleman is Señor de Vargas," said he.
"He called here with—with Señor de Sanchez last evening. I have heard
something of this deal between the two, and I believe it represents the
occasion of this gentleman's presence in the city at this time."

Señor de Vargas acknowledged this speech with a grave "Gracias,

señor." Turning to Mr. Merkel again, "I hope there will not be much
delay?" he queried, mildly, with a certain precision of enunciation that
alone marked him of an un-English-speaking race.

Since he had comprehended the magnitude of the transaction as

disclosed by the deed and certificates, and after Doctor Westbrook's
interposition, the Coroner's manner toward the Mexican had noticeably
altered.

"No more than necessary," he replied deferentially; "no more than

necessary, sir. I am sorry, but these papers will have to remain among the
deceased's other effects until after the inquest, anyhow. Mr. Mountjoy,
our district attorney, is the proper authority for you to see."

"Good!" returned the Mexican. "I desire not for my humble affairs to
stand in the path of justice." Bowing once more, he returned to his
former position away from the others.

Converse suddenly passed over to the Coroner, and laid a bloody

dagger upon the table. Its silver blade, crimsoned in part, was grewsome
and startling beneath the bright glare of the shaded incandescent lamp.
Mr. Merkel involuntarily drew back his hands, the strange gentleman
who had been with the Doctor since the tragedy visibly shuddered, and
for an instant—the smallest portion of a second—the dull eyes of Señor
Vargas took on a strange light, as though the pupils had all at once
distended, allowing a glimpse to the uttermost depths, then became dull
again. It was like the abrupt opening and closing of a shutter. Otherwise
his features did not change, nor did he move. The more phlegmatic
policeman looked upon the little weapon without apparent emotion; the
Doctor and Howard Lynden with none at all.

However, as the Captain placed it upon the table his eyes took in
every occupant of the room in one rapid sweeping glance, only to drop as
he stooped and whispered to the Coroner, who there upon nodded and
turned to the waiting group.

"Now, gentlemen," said he, "this is not the inquest, of course; but let
us hear what you have to say about this. You first, Doctor Westbrook;
you first."

"What I can tell you will seem much less than it should," the Doctor
returned. "It was about five o'clock, and I was sitting at my table—there,
where you are now. I had just finished a letter to no other than Señor de
Sanchez himself."

"Is this it?" the Coroner interrupted, extending a letter to the speaker.
Doctor Westbrook replied affirmatively, and proceeded with his recital.
 "I had just completed and blotted it, and was preparing to address the
envelope, when I heard footsteps in the hall. I paused, with the pen in my
hand, and listened, for I was expecting Señor de Sanchez to call at my
office this evening, though not so early, and I imagined the footsteps
might be his. As I listened, I noted that my door was not quite shut, and
the footfalls advanced steadily down the hall, approaching my office.
When immediately outside the door, and while I was looking up
expectant of the caller's entrance, they ceased abruptly. There was a
slight sound of scraping on the floor of the hall, as though the man—
whom I could not then see—were endeavoring to rub something from his
shoe-sole on the boards, or had slipped slightly; without the slightest
warning, his whole weight plunged against the door. It was thrown
violently open by the impact, and I was horrified to behold Señor de
Sanchez stagger through, his right hand extended in front of him, as if
groping for support. As he crossed the threshold he lurched to his right
and struck the wall, along which he slid to the floor, just as you now see
him."

During his relation of these particulars, the Doctor's manner was

perfectly cool and collected. The next incident fairly electrified his intent
listeners.

"As he was falling," he continued, "I noticed the dagger handle

protruding from the left side of his throat."

"Is this the one?"

It was Converse's sibilant whisper which now rudely broke into the
recital. At the same time he thrust the silver blade close to the other's
face.

Doctor Westbrook at first merely glanced at the weapon; but

something about it evidently caught and held his attention, and an
emotion vastly different from mere recognition overspread his
countenance; it was astonishment, pure and simple.

"God bless my soul!" he gasped, in extreme amazement; "that is mine

—my paper-knife—and I did not recognize it! What does this mean?" He
sat with his eyes glued upon it, the centre of a dumfounded group. The
Captain continued a moment to hold it forward, his gaze fixed
inscrutably upon the physician's puzzled and bewildered countenance.
 Presently Converse drew the weapon slowly back again, and replaced
it upon the table.

"So that is yours?" the Coroner soberly asked.

"It is," replied the Doctor; "and I did not recognize it until this minute.
How did it—why—" he began vaguely; but Merkel interrupted.

"Well," said he, with a wave of the hand that seemed to dispose of all
complications, "it will be time enough for questions when you have
finished."

"De Sanchez was falling," resumed the Doctor after a moment's

reflection, "when I noticed the dagger handle. The body had scarcely
touched the floor before I had stooped and wrenched the blade from the
wound. It did not come easily; it required a severe tug to loosen it, and
the withdrawal of the blade was followed by such a gush of blood that I
knew some important artery must be severed. The man's death was
practically instantaneous. After I had extracted the blade I had no time to
render him any further service; I simply stood dumfounded until Jim—
Mr. Lynden—grasped my arm and shook me."

"But, Doctor Westbrook," insisted Mr. Merkel, "was there no one else
in the hall? Did you hear no other footsteps? Didn't you see or hear some
one else when the door was thrust wide open? Surely the murderer
couldn't have left so quickly without attracting the attention of some one
of you. It is simply incredible." He grasped the arms of his chair, leaning
forward in his eagerness, his heavy countenance overshadowed with
perplexity.

As the Doctor started to reply, Converse glanced sharply toward him;

when Lynden's name was presently mentioned, shifting his scrutiny to
that gentleman.

"I must say no to all those questions," was the Doctor's reply. "I saw
nobody but De Sanchez. I heard nothing but his footsteps, and the noise
he made in collapsing through this door. Ask Jim Lynden, there; he was
in the hall at the time; he followed so closely behind De Sanchez that he
arrived here before the man died."
 Lynden merely shook his head, hopelessly, as if he had no vocabulary
to express himself. The Coroner was impressed by the young man's
mien, and after regarding him a moment with a scowl, turned again to
Doctor Westbrook.

"Was any one else present, Doctor?" he asked.

The physician's face was suddenly illumined.

"Yes; why, certainly. Howe!" he exclaimed. "Howe, where were you?"

The man, who apparently had been a stranger to everybody in the

room, now advanced.

"I was in there—your laboratory—looking into the light-well."

Converse noiselessly disappeared into the room indicated, returning in

a few seconds to eye the stranger with increased interest.

"And who are you, if I may ask?" bluntly demanded the Coroner.

"My name is Ferdinand Howe, sir," the stranger replied, with dignity.
"My home is in Bruceville, Georgia, and I am in your city on business
for the bank of which I happen to be the cashier. Doctor Westbrook and I
are old college-mates, and I know about as much of this affair as he has
told you; that is to say, I was there—the other side of that partition in the
laboratory—when the murdered man fell where you now see him. The
first intimation I had that anything was amiss was when the outside door
crashed open and the body fell to the floor. I ran into this room, saw the
man gasp twice, and then lie motionless. I never saw him, and never
heard of him, before this night. That is all."

Mr. Howe appeared to be about the Doctor's age, and was a fair type
of the American man of business. He was well groomed, clean, and
possessed of a clear, steady eye.

"And you saw and heard no one else?" Mr. Merkel persisted.

Howe shook his head. "No, sir; no one. There was not the slightest
thing to indicate—"
 He stopped. He shot a swift, startled glance at Doctor Westbrook; but
the Doctor remained unconscious of it, evidently absorbed in his own
cogitations. Mr. Converse's eyes watched the speaker through mere slits,
so nearly closed were they; but a gleam came from between the
contracted lids that might have betrayed a quickened interest somewhere
in the depths of his big frame.

"No," concluded Howe presently, in tones measurably subdued; "I

neither saw nor heard anybody else, but—" With compressed lips he
indicated by a nod the form on the floor. "You must remember," he
concluded, "I was in the next room, looking out the window into the
light-well."

Converse looked quickly from the speaker to Lynden. That young

man was staring strangely at Howe, evidently impressed by something
unusual in his concluding words.

Suddenly the young man caught Converse's intent look, and his own
eyes lowered. Next they shifted to Doctor Westbrook, at whom he
continued to look in a moody silence.

The Coroner, apparently more and more at sea, stared first at one and
then another of the room's occupants, at the partition which separated the
reception-room from the laboratory, and lastly through the open doorway
into the hall. The most extreme of the different points were not over six
feet apart; and for three men—wide awake and in full possession of their
faculties—to be so close to such a crime and know nothing of it until it
was all over! How could human ingenuity supply an explanation for so
incongruous a circumstance? Had the man committed suicide? The most
cursory examination of the wound demonstrated beyond doubt that,
however else it might have been inflicted, Alberto de Sanchez was
incapable of having administered it himself.

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