Bidding a hasty good morning to the elevator girl, Harry Kent, suit-case in hand, entered the cage and was carried up to the fourth floor of the Wilkins Building. Several business acquaintances stopped to chat with him as he walked down the corridor to his office, and it was fully fifteen minutes before he turned the knob of the door bearing the firm name—ROCHESTER AND KENT, ATTORNEYS—on its glass panel. As he stepped inside the anteroom which separated the two offices occupied respectively by him and his senior partner, Philip Rochester, a stranger rose from the clerk's desk.
“Yes, sir?” he asked interrogatively.
Kent eyed him in surprise. “Mr. Rochester here?” he inquired.
“No, sir. It am in charge of the office.”
“You are!” Kent's surprise increased. “I happen to be Mr. Kent, junior partner in this firm.”
“I beg your pardon, sir.” The dapper clerk bowed and hurrying to his desk took up a letter. “Mr. Rochester left this for you, Mr. Kent, before his departure last night.”
“His departure!” Kent deposited his suit-case on one of the chairs and tore open the envelope. The note was a scrawl, which he had some difficulty in deciphering.
“Dear Kent,” it ran. “Am called out of town; will be back Saturday. Saunders gave me some of his cheek this afternoon, so I fired him. I engaged John Sylvester to fill his place, who comes highly recommended. He will report for work to-morrow. Ta-ta—PHIL.”
Kent thrust the note into his pocket and picked up his suit-case.
“Mr. Rochester states that he has engaged you,” he said. “Your references—?”
“Here, sir.” The clerk handed him a folded paper, and Kent ran his eyes down the sheet from the sentence: “To whom it may concern” to the signature, Clark Hildebrand. The statement spoke in high terms of John Sylvester, confidential clerk.
“I can refer you to my other employers, Mr. Kent,” Sylvester volunteered as the young lawyer stood regarding the paper. “If you, desire further information there is Mr. Clymer and—”
“No, Judge Hildebrand's recommendation is sufficient.” And at Kent's smile the clerk's anxious expression vanished. “Did Mr. Rochester give you any outline of the work?”
“Yes, sir; he told me to file the papers in the Hitchcock case, and attend to the morning correspondence.”
“Very good. Has any one called this morning?”
“No, sir. These letters were addressed to you personally, and I have not opened them,” Sylvester handed a neatly arranged package to Kent. “These,” indicating several letters lying open on his desk, “are to the firm.”
“Bring them to me in half an hour,” and Kent walked into his private office, carefully closing the door behind him. Opening his suit-case he took out his brief bag and laid it on the desk in front of him together with the package of letters. Instead of opening the letters immediately, he tilted back in his chair and regarded the opposite wall in deep thought. Philip Rochester could not have selected a worse time to absent himself; three important cases were on the calendar for immediate trial and much depended on the firm's successful handling of them. Kent swore softly under his breath; his last warning to Rochester, that he would dissolve their partnership if the older man continued to neglect his practice, had been given only a month before and upon Kent's return from eight months' service in the Judge Advocate General's Department in France. Apparently his warning had fallen on deaf ears and Rochester was indulging in another periodic spree, for so Kent concluded, recalling the unsteady penmanship of the note handed to him by the new clerk, John Sylvester.
Kent was still frowning at the opposite wall when a faint knock sounded, and at his call Sylvester entered.
“Here are the letters received this morning, sir, and type-written copies of the answers to yesterday's correspondence which Mr. Rochester dictated before leaving,” Sylvester explained as he placed the papers on Kent's desk. “If you will o.k. them, I will mail them at once.”
Kent went through the letters with care, and the new clerk rose in his estimation as he read the excellent dictation of the clearly typed answers.
“These will do admirably,” he announced. “Sit down and I will reply to the other letters.”
At the end of an hour Sylvester closed his stenographic note book and collected the correspondence, by that time scattered over Kent's desk.
“I'll have these notes ready for your signature before lunch,” he said as he picked up a newspaper from the floor where it had tumbled during Kent's search for some particular letter heads. “I brought in the morning paper, sir; thought perhaps you had not seen it.”
“Thanks.” Kent swung his chair nearer the window and opened the newspaper. He had purchased a copy when walking through Union Station on his arrival, but had left it in the cafeteria where he had snatched a cup of coffee and hot rolls before hurrying to his office.
He read a column devoted to international affairs, scanned an account of a senatorial wrangle, and was about to turn to the second page, whistling cheerily, when his attention was arrested by the headings:
BANK CASHIER DIES IN POLICE COURTJAMES TURNBULL, MISTAKEN FOR BURGLAR,SUFFERS FATAL ATTACK OF ANGINA PECTORIS
Kent's whistle stopped abruptly, and clutching the paper in both hands, he devoured the short account printed under the scare heads:
“While masquerading as a burglar on a wager,James Turnbull, cashier of the Metropolis TrustCompany, was arrested by Officer O'Ryan at anearly hour yesterday morning in the residence ofColonel Charles McIntyre.“Officer O'Ryan conducted his prisoner to the8th Precinct Police Station, and later he wasarraigned in the police court. The MissesMcIntyre appeared in person to prefer thecharges against the supposed burglar, who, onbeing sworn, gave the name of John Smith.“Philip Rochester, the well known criminallawyer, was assigned by the court to defend theprisoner. Upon the evidence submitted JudgeMackall held the prisoner for trial by the grandjury.“It was just after the Judge's announcementthat 'John Smith,' then sitting in the prisonerscage, was seized with the attack of angina pectoriswhich ended so fatally a few minutes later.It was not until after he had expired that thoserendering him medical assistance became awarethat he was James Turnbull in disguise.“James Turnbull was a native of Washington,his father, the late Hon Josiah Turnbull ofConnecticut, having made this city his permanenthome in the early '90s. Mr. Turnbull was lookedupon as one of the rising young men in bankingcircles; he was also prominent socially, was amember of the Alibi, Metropolitan, and CountryClubs, and until recently was active in all formsof athletics, when his ill-health precluded activeexercise.“Officer O'Ryan, who was greatly shocked bythe fatal termination to Mr. Turnbull's rashwager, stated to the representatives of the pressthat Mr. Turnbull gave no hint of his identitywhile being interrogated at the 8th PrecinctStation. Friends attribute Mr. Turnbull'sdisinclination to reveal himself to the court, tohis enjoyment of a practical joke, not realizingthat the resultant excitement of the scene wouldreact on his weak heart.“Mr. Turnbull is survived by a great aunt; he hadno nearer relatives living. It is a singularcoincidence that the lawyer appointed by thecourt to defend Turnbull was his intimate friend,Philip Rochester, who made his home with thedeceased.”
Kent read the column over and over, then, letting the paper slip to the floor, sat back in his chair, too dumb-founded for words. Jimmie Turnbull arrested as a burglar in the home of the girl he loved on charges preferred by her, and defended in court by his intimate friend, both of whom were unaware of his identity! Kent rumpled his fair hair until it stood upright. And Jimmie's death had followed almost immediately as the result of over-excitement!
Kent's eyes grew moist; he had been very fond of the eccentric, lovable bank cashier, whose knack of performing many a kindly act, unsolicited, had endeared him to friends and acquaintances alike. Kent had seen much of him after his return from France, for Jimmie's attention to Helen McIntyre had been only second to Kent's devotion to the latter's sister, Barbara. The two men had one bond in common. Colonel McIntyre disliked them and discouraged their calling, to the secret fury of both, but love had found a way—Kent's eyes kindled at the recollection of Barbara's half-shy, wholly tender reception of his ardent pleading.
Turnbull's courtship had met with a set-back where he had least expected it—Philip Rochester had fallen deeply in love with Helen and, encouraged by her father, had pressed his suit with ardor. Frequent quarrels between the two close friends had been the outcome, and Jimmie had confided to Kent, before the latter left on the business trip to Chicago from which he had returned that morning, that the situation had become intolerable and he had notified Rochester that he would no longer share his apartment with him, and to look for other quarters as quickly as possible.
So buried was Kent in his thoughts that he never heard Sylvester's knock, and it was not until the clerk stood at his elbow that he awoke from his absorption.
“A lady to see you, Mr. Kent,” he announced. “Shall I show her in?”
“Certainly—her name?”
“She gave none.” Sylvester paused on his way back to the door. “It is one of the Misses McIntyre.”
“Good Lord!” Kent was on his feet, straightening his tie and brushing his rumpled hair. “Here, wait a minute”—clutching a whisk broom in a frantic endeavor to remove some of the signs of travel which still clung to him. But he had only opportunity for one dab at his left shoulder before Barbara entered the office. All else forgotten, Kent tossed down the whisk broom and the next instant he had clasped her hand in both of his, his eyes telling more eloquently than his stumbling words, his joy at seeing her again.
“This is a business call,” she stated demurely, “on you and Mr. Rochester.” Her lovely eyes held a glint of mischief as she mentioned Kent's partner, then her expression grew serious. “I want legal advice.”
“I am afraid you will have to put up with me,” Kent moved his chair closer to the one she had selected by the desk. “Rochester is out of town.”
“What!” Barbara sat bolt upright. “Where—where's he gone?”
“I don't know”—Kent pulled Rochester's letter out of his pocket and re-read it. “He did not mention where he was going.”
Barbara stared at him; she had paled.
“When did Philip leave?”
“Last night, I presume.” Kent tipped back his chair and pressed a buzzer; a second later Sylvester appeared in the doorway.
“Did Mr. Rochester tell you where he was going?” he asked the clerk.
“No, sir. Mr. Rochester stated that you had his address.
“I?” Kent concealed his growing surprise. “Did he leave any message for me, other than the letter?”
“No, sir.
“At what hour did he leave the office?”
“I can't say, sir; he was still here when I went away at five o'clock. He gave me a key to the office so that I could get in this morning.” Kent remained silent, and he added, “Is that all, sir?”
“Yes, thanks,” and the clerk retired.
As the door closed Barbara turned to Kent. “Have you heard about Jimmie Turnbull?”
Her voice was a bit breathless as she put the question, but Kent, puzzling over his partner's eccentric conduct, hardly noted her agitation.
“Yes. I saw the account just now in the morning paper,” he answered. “A shocking affair. Poor Turnbull! He was a good fellow.”
“He was!” Barbara spoke with unaccustomed vehemence, and looking at her Kent saw that her eyes were filled with tears. Impulsively he threw his arm about her, holding her close.
“My heart's dearest,” he murmured fondly. “If there is anything—anything I can do—”
Barbara straightened up and winked away the tears. “There is,” she said tersely. “Investigate Jimmie's death.”
Kent gazed at her in astonishment. “Please explain,” he suggested. “The morning paper states very plainly that the cause of death was an attack of angina pectoris.”
“Yes, I know, and that is what Philip Rochester contends also.” Barbara paused and glanced about the office; they had the room to themselves. “B-but Helen believes otherwise.”
Kent drew back. “What do you mean, Babs?” he demanded.
“Just that,” Barbara spoke wearily, and Kent, giving her close attention, grew aware of dark shadows under her eyes which told plainly of a sleepless night. “I want to engage you as our counsel to help Helen find out about Jimmie's death.”
“Find out what?” asked Kent, his bewilderment increasing. “Do you mean that Jimmie's death was not the result of a dangerous heart disease, but of foul play?”
Barbara nodded her head vigorously. “Yes.”
Kent sat back in his chair and regarded her in silence for a second. “How could that be, Babs, in an open police court with dozens of spectators all about?” he asked. “The slightest attempt to kill him would have been frustrated by the police officials; remember, a prisoner especially, is hedged in and guarded.”
“Well, he wasn't so very hedged in,” retorted Barbara. “I was there and saw how closely people approached Jimmie.”
“Did you observe any one hand him anything?”
“N-no,” Barbara drawled the word as she strove to visualize the scene in the court room; then catching Kent's look of doubt she added with unmistakable emphasis. “Helen and I do not believe that Jimmie died from natural causes; we think the tragedy should be investigated.” Her soft voice deepened. “I must know the truth, Harry, dear; for I feel that perhaps I am responsible for Jimmie's death.”
“You!” Kent's voice rose in indignant protest. “Absurd!”
“No, it isn't If it had not been for my wager with Jimmie, he never would have entered our house disguised as a burglar.”
“What brought about the wager?”
“Last Sunday Helen was boasting of her two new police dogs which Philip Rochester recently gave her, and said how safe she felt. We've had several burglaries in our neighborhood,” Barbara explained, “and when Jimmie scoffed at the dogs, I bet him that he could not break into the house without the dogs arousing the household. I never once thought about Jimmie's heart trouble,” she confessed, and her lips quivered. “I feel so guilty.”
“You are inconsistent, Babs,” chided Kent gently. “One moment you reproach yourself for being the cause of bringing on Jimmie's heart attack, and the next you declare you believe he died through foul play. You,” looking at her tenderly, while a whimsical smile softened his stern mouth, “don't go so far as to claim you murdered him, do you?”
“Of course I didn't!” Barbara spoke with indignant emphasis, and her fingers snapped in uncontrollable nervousness. “Jimmie was very dear”—she hesitated—“to us. Neither Helen nor I can leave a stone unturned until we know without a shadow of a doubt what killed him.”
“That is easily proven,” declared Kent. “An autopsy—”
“Helen asked the coroner to hold one.”
Kent stared—the twins were certainly in earnest.
“My advice to you is to wait until you hear the result of the post-mortem from Coroner Penfield,” he said gravely. “Until we know definitely what killed Jimmie, speculation is idle.”
Barbara rose at once. “I thought you would be more sympathetic,” she remarked, and her voice was a bit unsteady. “I am sorry to have troubled you.”
In an instant Kent was by her side. “Barbara,” he entreated. “I promise solemnly to aid you in every possible way. My only happiness is in serving you,” his voice was very tender. “I slave here day in and day out that I may sometime be able to make a home for you. Don't leave me in anger.”
“I was not angry, only deeply hurt,” Barbara confessed. “I have so longed to see you. I—I needed you! I—” The rest was lost as she bowed her head against Kent's broad shoulder, and his impassioned whispers of devotion brought solace to her troubled spirit.
“I must go,” declared Barbara ten minutes later. “Father would make a fearful scene if he knew I had been here to see you.” She picked up her hand-bag, preparatory to leaving. “Then I can tell Helen that you will aid us?”
“Yes.” Kent stopped on his way to the door. “I will try and see the coroner this afternoon. In the meantime, Babs, can't you tell me what makes you suspect that Jimmie might have been killed?”
“I have nothing tangible to go on,” she admitted. “Only a woman's instinct—”
Kent did not smile. “Instinct,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Well, does your instinct hazard a guess as to the weapon, the opportunity, and the motive for such a crime? Jimmie Turnbull hadn't an enemy in the world.”
Barbara looked at him oddly. “Suppose you find the answer to those conundrums,” she suggested. “Don't come to the elevator; Margaret Brewster may see you with me, and she would tell father of our meeting.”
“Is Mrs. Brewster still with you?” asked Kent, paying no attention to her protests as he accompanied her down the corridor. “I understood she planned to return to the West last week.”
“She did, but father persuaded her to prolong her visit,” Barbara was guilty of a grimace, then hailing the descending elevator she bolted into it and waved her good-by to Kent as the cage shot downward.
When Kent reentered his office he found Sylvester hanging up the telephone receiver.
“Mr. Clymer has telephoned to ask if you will come to the Metropolis Trust Company at once,” he said, and before Kent could frame a reply he had darted into the coat closet and brought out his hat and cane, and handed them to him.
“Don't wait for me, but go out for your luncheon,” directed Kent, observing the hour. “I have my key and can get in when I return if you should not be here,” and not waiting to hear Sylvester's thanks, he hurried away.
The clock over the bank had just struck noon when Kent reached the fine office building which housed the Metropolis Trust Company, and as he entered the bank, a messenger stopped him.
“Mr. Clymer is waiting for you in his private office, sir,” he said, and led the way past the long rows of mahogany counters and plate glass windows to the back of the bank, finally stopping before a door bearing the name, in modest lettering—BENJAMIN AUGUSTUS CLYMER. The bank president was sensitive on one point; he never permitted initials only to be used before his name. The messenger's deferential knock was answered by a gruff command to enter. Clymer welcomed Kent with an air of relief.
“You know Colonel McIntyre,” he said by way of introduction, and Kent became aware that the tall man lounging with his back to him in one of the leather covered chairs was Barbara's father. Colonel McIntyre returned Kent's bow with a curt nod, and then Clymer pushed forward a chair.
“Sit down, Kent,” he began. “You have already handled several confidential affairs for the bank in a satisfactory manner, and I have sent for you to-day to ask your aid in an urgent matter. Before I go further I must ask you to treat what I am about to say as strictly confidential.”
“Certainly, Mr. Clymer.”
“Good! Then draw up your chair.” Clymer waited until Kent had complied with his request. “You have heard of Jimmie Turnbull's sudden and tragic death?”
“Yes.”
“As you know, he was cashier of this bank.” Clymer spoke with deliberation. “Soon after word reached here of his death, the vice-president and treasurer of the bank had a careful examination made of his books and accounts.” Clymer paused to clear his throat; he was troubled with an irritating cough. “Turnbull's accounts were found in first class order.”
“I am sure they would be, Mr. Clymer,” exclaimed Kent warmly. “Any one who knew Jimmie would never doubt his honesty.”
McIntyre turned in his chair and regarded the speaker with no friendly eye, but aside from that, took no part in the conversation. Clymer did not at once resume speaking.
“To-day,” he commenced finally, “Colonel McIntyre called at the bank and asked the treasurer, Mr. Gilmore, for certain valuable negotiable securities which he left in the bank's care a month ago. Mr. Gilmore told Colonel McIntyre that these securities had been given to Jimmie Turnbull last Saturday on his presentation of a letter from McIntyre requesting that they be turned over to the bank's cashier. McIntyre expressed his surprise and asked to see the letter”—Clymer paused and took a paper from his desk. “Here is the letter.”
Kent took the paper and examined it closely.
“This is perfectly in order,” he said. “A clear statement in Colonel McIntyre's handwriting and on his stationery.”
For the first time Colonel McIntyre addressed him.
“The letter is in order,” he acknowledged, “and written on my stationery, but it was not written by me. The letter is a clever forgery.”
It still lacked twenty minutes of nine o'clock that night when Harry Kent turned into the Saratoga apartment hotel, and not waiting to take one of the elevators, ran up the staircase to the apartment which had been occupied jointly by Jimmie Turnbull and Philip Rochester. Kent had already selected the right key from among those on the bunch he had found in Rochester's desk at the office, and slipping it into the key-hole of the outer door, he turned the lock and walked noiselessly inside the dark apartment.
The soft click of the outer door as it swung to was hardly noticeable, and Kent, pausing only long enough to get his breath from his run up the staircase, stepped into the living room and reached for the electric light switch. Instead of encountering the cold metal of the switch his groping fingers closed over warm flesh.
Startled as he was, Kent retained enough presence of mind to grasp the hand tightly; the next second a man hurled himself upon him and he gave back. Furniture in the path of the struggling men was overturned as they fought in silent desperation. Kent would have given much for light. He strained his eyes to see his adversary, but the pitch darkness concealed all but the vaguest outline. As Kent got his second wind, confidence in his strength returned and he redoubled his efforts; suddenly his hands shifted their grip and he swung his adversary backward, pinning him against the wall.
A faint, sobbing breath escaped the man, and Kent felt the whole figure against which he pressed, quiver and relax; the taut muscles of chest and arms grew slack, collapsed.
Kent stood in wonderment, peering ahead, his hands empty—the man had vanished!
Drawing a long, long breath Kent felt his way back to the electric switch and pressed the button, lighting both the wall brackets and the table lamps. With both hands on his throbbing temples he gazed at the over-turned chairs; they, as well as his aching throat, testified to his encounter having been a reality and not a fantastic dream. His glance traveled this way and that about the room and rested longest on the opposite side of the room where he had pinned the man to the wall. Wall—! Kent leaned against a tall highboy and laughed weakly, immoderately. He had pushed the man straight against the door leading into Rochester's bedroom, and not, as he had supposed, against the solid wall.
The man had been quick-witted enough to grasp the situation; his pretended weakness had caused Kent to relax his hold, a turn of the knob of the door, which swung inward, and he had made his escape into the bedroom, leaving Kent staring into dark, empty space.
Gathering his wits together Kent hurried into the bedroom—it was empty; so also was the bathroom opening from it. From there Kent made the rounds of the apartment, switching on the light until the place was ablaze, but in spite of his minute search of closets and under beds and behind furniture he could find no trace of his late adversary. Kent stopped long enough in the pantry to refresh himself with a glass of water, then he returned to the living room and sat down in an arm chair by the window. He wanted time to think.
How had the man vanished so utterly, leaving no trace behind in the apartment? The window in Rochester's room was locked on the inside; in fact, all the apartment windows were securely fastened, he had found on his tour of inspection; the only one not locked was the oval, swinging window high up in the side wall of the bathroom; only a child could squeeze through it, Kent decided. The window looked into a well formed by the wings of the apartment house, and had a sheer drop of fifty feet to the ground below.
But for his unfortunate luck in backing the man against the bedroom door instead of the wall he would not have escaped, but how had the man realized so instantly that he was against a door in the pitch darkness? It certainly showed familiarity with his surroundings. Kent sat upright as an idea flashed through his brain—was the man Philip Rochester?
Kent scouted the idea but it persisted. Suppose it had been Philip Rochester awakened from a drunken slumber by his entrance in the dark; if so, nothing more likely than that he had mistaken him, Kent, for a burglar and sprung at him. But why had he disappeared without revealing his identity to Kent? Surely the same reason worked both ways—the man who had wrestled with him was as unaware of Kent's identity as Kent was of his—they had fought in the dark and in silence.
Kent laughed aloud. The situation had its amusing side; then, as recollection came of the scene in the bank that morning, his mirth changed to grim seriousness. At his earnest solicitation and backed by Benjamin Clymer's endorsement of his plan, Colonel McIntyre had agreed to give him until Saturday night to locate the missing securities; if he failed, then the colonel proposed placing the affair in the hands of the authorities.
Kent's firm mouth settled into dogged lines at the thought; such a procedure meant besmirching Jimmie Turnbull's name; let the public get the slightest inkling that the bank cashier was suspected of forgery and there would be the devil to pay. Kent was determined to protect the honor of his dead friend, and to aid Helen McIntyre in her investigation of his sudden death.
Jimmie Turnbull had been the soul of honor; that he had ever stooped to forgery was unbelievable. There was some explanation favorable to him—there must be. Kent's clenched fist struck the arm of his, chair a vigorous blow and he leapt to his feet. Wasting no further time on speculation, he commenced a systematic search of the apartment, replacing each chair and table as well as the rugs which had been over-turned in his recent tussle, after which he tried the drawers of Jimmie's desk. They were unlocked. A careful search brought nothing to light but receipted bills, some loose change, old dinner cards, theater programs, tea invitations, and several packages of cigarettes.
Turning from the desk Kent walked over to the table which he knew was Philip Rochester's property; he recalled having once seen Jimmie place some papers there by mistake; having done so once, the mistake might have occurred again. Taking out his partner's bunch of keys, he soon found one that fitted and opened the drawers. He had half completed his task, without finding any clew to the missing securities, when he was interrupted by the sound of the opening of the front door, and had but time to slam the drawers shut and pocket the keys when the night clerk of the hotel stepped inside the apartment and, closely followed by a sandy-haired man, walked into the living room. He halted abruptly at sight of Kent.
“Good evening, Mr. Kent,” he exclaimed, and took in at a glance the orderly arrangement of the room. “Pardon my unceremonious entrance, but I had no idea you were here, sir; we received a telephone message that a burglar had broken in here.”
“You did!” Kent stared at him. Was he right, after all, in his conjecture; had the man been Philip Rochester? It would seem so, for who else, after taking refuge elsewhere, would have telephoned a warning of burglars to the hotel office? “Have you any idea who sent the message, Mr. Stuart?”
“I have not; it was an out-side call—” Stuart turned to his companion. “Sorry I brought you here on an idiotic chase, Mr. Ferguson.”
“That's all right,” responded the detective good naturedly. “Would you like me to look through the apartment just to see if any one really is concealed on the premises, Mr. Kent?” he asked, and added quickly, seeing Kent hesitate, “I am from the central office; Mr. Stuart can vouch for me.”
Kent's hesitation vanished. “I'd be obliged if you would, Ferguson.” As he spoke he led the way to Rochester's bedroom. “Come with us, Stuart,” as the clerk loitered behind.
“Guess not, sir; I'm needed down at the desk, we are short-handed to-night. Let me know how the hunt turns out,” and he stepped into the vestibule. “Good night.”
“Good night,” called Kent, and he accompanied Ferguson as far as the bathroom door, then returned to his inspection of Rochester's table. He had just completed his task when the detective rejoined him.
“No trace of any one,” the latter announced. “Some one put up a joke on Stuart, I imagine. Find what you wished, sir?”
Kent was distinctly annoyed by the question. “Yes,” he replied shortly.
Ferguson ignored his curt tone. “Will you spare me a few minutes of your time, Mr. Kent?” he asked persuasively. “I won't detain you long.”
“Certainly.” Kent moved over to the chair in the window which he had occupied before and pointed to another, equally as comfortable.
“What can I do for you?” he asked as Ferguson dropped back and stretched himself in the soft depths of the big chair.
“Supply some information,” answered the detective promptly. “Just a minute,” as Kent started to interrupt. “You don't recall me, but I met you while working on the Chase case; you handled that trial in great shape,” Ferguson looked admiringly at his companion. “Lots of the praise went to your partner, Mr. Rochester, but I know you did the work. Now, please let me finish,” holding up a protesting hand. “I know you've carried Mr. Rochester in your firm; he's dead wood.” Kent was silent. What the detective said was only too true. Rochester, realizing the talent and industry which characterized his younger partner, had withdrawn more and more from active practice, and had devoted himself to the social life of the National Capital.
“This is rather a long-winded way of reaching my point,” finished the detective. “But, Mr. Kent, I want your assistance in a puzzling case.”
“Go on, I'm listening.” As he spoke, Kent drew out his cigar case and handed it to Ferguson. “The matches are on the smoking stand at your elbow. Now, what is it, Ferguson?”
His companion did not reply at once; instead he puffed at his cigar.
“Did you read in the paper about Mr. Turnbull's death?” he asked when the cigar was drawing to his satisfaction, and as Kent nodded a silent affirmative in answer to his question, he asked another. “Did you know him well?”
“Yes.”
“Did he have an enemy?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Kent was watching the detective narrowly; what was he driving at? “On the contrary Turnbull was extremely popular.”
“With Colonel McIntyre?” Ferguson had hoped to surprise Kent with the question, but his companion's expression did not alter.
“N-no, perhaps he was not over-popular with the colonel,” he admitted slowly. “What prompts the question, Ferguson?”
The detective hitched his chair nearer. “I'm going to lay all my cards on the table,” he announced. “I need advice and you are the man to give it to me. Listen, Mr. Kent, this Jimmie Turnbull masquerades as a burglar night before last at the McIntyre house, is arrested, a charge brought against him for house-breaking by Miss Helen McIntyre, and shortly after he dies—”
“From angina pectoris,” finished Kent, as the detective paused.
“So Mr. Rochester contended,” admitted Ferguson. “We'll let that go for a minute. Now, when Miss McIntyre saw Turnbull's body, she demanded an autopsy. Why?”
“To discover the cause of death,” answered Kent quietly. “That is obvious, Ferguson.”
“Sure. And why did she wish to discover it?” He waited a brief instant, then answered his own question. “Because Miss McIntyre did not agree with Rochester that Turnbull had died from angina pectoris—that is obvious, too. Now, what made her think that?”
“I am sure I don't know”—Kent's air of candor was unmistakable and Ferguson showed his disappointment.
“Hasn't Miss McIntyre been to see you?”
“No,” was Kent's truthful answer; Barbara was the younger twin and her sister was therefore, “Miss McIntyre.”
“You must recollect, Ferguson,” he added, “that had Miss McIntyre called to see me about poor Turnbull, I would not have discussed the interview with any one, under any conditions.”
“Certainly. I am not asking you to break any confidences; in fact,” Ferguson smiled, “I must ask you to consider our conversation confidential. Now, Mr. Kent, does it not strike you as odd that apparently the only man in Washington who really disliked Turnbull was Colonel McIntyre, and it is his daughter who intimates that Turnbull's death was not due to natural causes?”
“Oh, pshaw!” Kent shrugged his shoulders. “You are taking an exaggerated view of the affair. Colonel McIntyre is an honorable upright American, and Turnbull was the same.”
“People speak highly of both men,” acknowledged the detective. “I saw Mr. Clymer, president of Turnbull's bank this afternoon, and he paid a fine tribute to his dead cashier.”
Kent drew an inward sigh of relief. Benjamin Clymer had proved true blue; he had not permitted Colonel McIntyre's desire for immediate publicity and belief in Turnbull's guilt to shake his faith in his friend.
“You see, Ferguson, there is no motive for such a crime as you suggest,” he remarked.
“Oh, for the motive,”—Ferguson rubbed his hands nervously together as he shot a look at his questioner; the latter's clear-cut features and manly bearing inspired confidence. “We know of no motive,” he corrected.
“And we know of no crime having been perpetrated,” rapped out Kent. “Come, man; don't hunt a mare's nest.”
“Ah, but it isn't a mare's nest!” Ferguson remarked dryly.
Kent bent eagerly forward—“You have heard from the coroner—”
“Not yet,” Ferguson jerked forward his chair until his knees touched Kent.
Had either man looked toward the window near which they were sitting, he would have seen a black shadow squatting ape-like on the window ledge. As Kent leaned over to relight his cigar, the face at the window vanished, to cautiously reappear a second later.
“The case piqued my interest,” continued the detective after a pause. “And I made an investigation on my own hook. After the departure of the McIntyre twins and Coroner Penfield, I went back to the court room and poked around the prisoners' cage. There I found this.” He took out of his pocket a small bundle and carefully unwrapped the oil-skin cover.
“A handkerchief?” questioned Kent as the detective did not unfold the white muslin, but held it with care.
“Yes. One of the prisoners in the cage told me Turnbull dropped it as Dr. Stone and the deputy marshal carried him into the ante-room. Smell anything?” holding up the handkerchief.
“Yes.” Kent wrinkled his nose and sniffed several times. “Smells like fruit.”
Ferguson nodded. “Good guess; I noticed the odor and went at once to Dr. McLane. He told me the handkerchief was saturated with amyl nitrite.”
“Amyl nitrite,” repeated Kent reflectively. “It is given for angina pectoris.”
“Yes. Well, in this case it was the remedy and not the disease which killed Turnbull,” announced Ferguson triumphantly.
“Nonsense!” ejaculated Kent. “I happen to know that the capsules contain only three minims—I once heard Turnbull say so.”
“True, but Turnbull got a lethal dose, all right; and he thought he was taking only the regular one. Devilishly ingenious on the part of the criminal, wasn't it?
“Yes. Have you detected the criminal?” Kent put the question with unmoved countenance, but with inward foreboding; the detective's mysterious manner was puzzling.
“Not yet, but I will,” Ferguson hesitated. “The first thing was to establish that a crime had really been committed.”
Kent bent down and sniffed again at the handkerchief to which a faint fruity aroma still clung.
“How did you discover that?” he asked.
“Dr. McLane and I took the handkerchief to a laboratory and the chemist found from the number of particles of capsules in the handkerchief, that at least two capsules—or double the usual dose—had been crushed by Turnbull and the fumes inhaled by him; with fatal results.”
“Hold on,” cautioned Kent. “In the flurry of the moment, Turnbull may have accidentally put two capsules in the handkerchief, meaning only to use one.”
“Mr. Kent,” the detective spoke impressively, “that wasn't Turnbull's handkerchief.”
“Not his own handkerchief!” exclaimed Kent. “Then, are you sure that Turnbull used it?”
“Yes; that fact is established by reputable witnesses; Dr. Stone, Mr. Clymer, and the deputy marshal,” Ferguson spoke with increasing earnestness. “That is a woman's handkerchief—look at it.”
Ferguson laid the little bundle on the broad arm of Kent's chair and with infinite care folded back the edges of the handkerchief, revealing as he did so, the small particles of capsules still clinging to the linen. But Kent hardly observed the capsules, his entire attention being centered on one corner of the handkerchief, which had neatly embroidered on it the letter “B.”