Colonel McIntyre, with an angry gesture, threw down the newspaper he had been reading.
“Do you mean to say, Helen, that you decline to go to the supper to-night on account of the death of Jimmie 'Turnbull?” he asked.
“Yes, father.”
McIntyre flushed a dark red; he was not accustomed to scenes with either of his daughters, and here was Helen flouting his authority and Barbara backing her up.
“It is quite time this pretense is dropped,” he remarked stiffly. “You were not engaged to Jimmie—wait,” as she attempted to interrupt him. “You told me the night of the burglary that he was nothing to you.'”
“I was mistaken,” Helen's voice shook, she was very near to tears. “When I saw Jimmie lying there, dead”—she faltered, and her shoulders drooped forlornly—“the world stopped for me.”
“Hysterical nonsense!” McIntyre was careful to avoid Barbara's eyes; her indignant snort had been indicative of her feelings. “Keep to your room, Helen, until you regain some common sense. It is as well our friends should not see you in your present frame of mind.”
Helen regarded her father under lowered lids. “Very well,” she said submissively and walked toward the door; on reaching it she paused, and spoke over her shoulder. “Don't try me too far, father.”
McIntyre stared for a full minute at the doorway through which Helen took her departure.
“Well, what the—” He pulled himself up short in the middle of the ejaculation and turned to Barbara. “Go and get dressed,” he directed. “We must leave here in twenty minutes.”
“I am not going,” she announced.
“Not going!” McIntyre frowned, then laughed abruptly. “Now, don't tell me you were engaged to Jimmie Turnbull, also.”
“I think you are horrid!” Barbara's small foot came down with a vigorous stamp.
“Well, perhaps I am,” her father admitted rather wearily. “Don't keep us waiting, Babs; the car will be here in less than twenty minutes.”
“But, father, I prefer to stay at home.”
“And I prefer to have you accompany us,” retorted McIntyre. “Come, Barbara, we cannot be discourteous to Mrs. Brewster; she is our guest, and this supper is for her entertainment.”
“Well, take her.” Barbara was openly rebellious.
“Barbara!” His tone caused her to look at him in wonder; instead of the stern rebuke she expected, his voice was almost wheedling. “I cannot very well take Mrs. Brewster to a cafe at this hour without causing gossip.”
“Oh, fiddle-sticks!” exclaimed Barbara. “I don't have to play chaperon for you two. Every one knows she is visiting us; what's there improper in your taking her out to supper? Why”—regarding him critically—“she's young enough to be your daughter!”
“Go to your room!” There was nothing wheedling about McIntyre at that instant; he was thoroughly incensed.
As Barbara sped out happy in having gained her way, she announced, as a parting shot, “If you can be nasty to Helen, father, I can be nasty, too.”
Colonel McIntyre brought his fist down on a smoking table with such force that he scattered its contents over the floor. When he rose from picking up the debris, he found Mrs. Brewster at his elbow.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“No, thanks, everything is back in place.” He pulled forward a chair for her. “If agreeable to you I will telephone Ben Clymer that we will stop for him and take him with us to the Cafe St. Marks; or would you prefer some other man?”
“Oh, no.” She threw her evening wrap across the sofa and sat down. “Are the girls ready?”
“They—they are indisposed, and won't be able to go to-night.”
“What! Both girls?”
“Yes, both”—firmly, not, however, meeting her eyes.
“Hadn't I better stay with them?” she asked. “Have you telephoned for Dr. Stone?”
“There is no necessity for giving up our little spree,” he declared cheerily. “The girls don't need a physician. They”—with meaning, “need a mother's care.” He picked up her coronation scarf from the floor where it had slipped and laid it across her bare shoulders; the action was almost a caress. She made a lovely picture as she sat in the high-backed carved chair in her chic evening gown, and as her soft dark eyes met his ardent look, McIntyre felt the hot blood surge to his temples, and with quickened pulse he went to the telephone stand and gave Central a number.
Back in her chair Mrs. Brewster sat thoughtfully watching him. She had been an unobserved witness of the scene with Barbara, having entered the library in time to hear the girl's last remarks. It was not the first inkling that she had had of their disapproval of Colonel McIntyre's attentions to her, but it had hurt.
The widow had become acquainted with the twins when, traveling in Europe just before the outbreak of the World War, and had made the hasty trip back to this country in their company. Colonel McIntyre had planned to bring the twins, then at school in Paris, home himself, but business had kept him in the West and he had cabled to a spinster cousin to chaperon them on the trip across the Atlantic Ocean. Nor had he reached New York in time to see them disembark, and thus had missed meeting Mrs. Brewster, then in her first year of widowhood.
The friendship between the twins and Mrs. Brewster had been kept up through much correspondence, and the widow had finally promised to come to Washington for their debut, visiting her cousins, Dr. and Mrs. Stone. The meeting had but cemented the friendship between them, and at the twins' urgent request, seconded with warmth by Colonel McIntyre, she had promised to spend the month of April at the McIntyre home.
The visit was nearly over. Mrs. Brewster sighed faintly. There were two courses open to her, immediate departure, or to continue to ignore the twins' strangely antagonistic behavior—the first course did not suit Mrs. Brewster's plans.
Barbara, who had left the library through one of its seven doors, had failed to see Mrs. Brewster by the slightest margin; she was intent only on being with Helen. The affection between the twins was very close; but while their facial resemblance was remarkable, their natures were totally dissimilar. Helen, the elder by twenty minutes, was studious, shy, and too much given to introspection; Barbara, on the contrary, was whimsical and practical by turns, with a great capacity for enjoyment. The twins had made their debut jointly on their eighteenth birthday, and while both were popular, Barbara had received the greater amount of attention.
Barbara tip-toed into the suite of rooms which the girls occupied over the library, expecting to find Helen lying on the lounge; instead, she found her writing busily at her desk. She tossed down her pen as her sister entered, and, taking up a blotter, carefully laid it across the page she had been writing.
“Thank heaven, I don't have to go to that supper party,” Barbara announced, throwing herself full length on the lounge.
“So father gave it up,” commented Helen. “I am glad.”
“Gave up nothing,” retorted her sister. “He and Margaret Brewster are going.”
“What!” Helen was on her feet. “You let them go out alone together?”
“They can't be alone if they are together,” answered Barbara practically. “Don't be silly, Helen.”
Helen did not answer at once; she had grown singularly pale. Walking over to the window she glanced into the street. “The car hasn't come,” she exclaimed, and consulted her wrist watch. “Hurry, Babs, you have just, time to dress and go with them.”
“B-b-but I said I wouldn't go,” stuttered Barbara, completely taken by surprise.
“No matter; tell father you have changed your mind.” Helen held out her hand. “Come, to please me,” and there was a world of wistful appeal in her hazel eyes which Barbara was unable to resist.
It was not until Barbara had completed her hasty toilet and a frantic dash downstairs in time to spring into the waiting limousine after Margaret Brewster, that she realized she had put on one of Helen's evening gowns and not her own.
Benjamin Clymer was standing in the vestibule of the Saratoga, where he made his home, when the McIntyre limousine drew up, and he did not keep them waiting, as Colonel McIntyre had predicted he would on the drive to Clymer's apartment house.
“The clerk gave me your message when I came in, McIntyre,” he explained as the car drove off. “I called up your residence and Grimes said you were on the way here.”
Barbara, tucked away in her corner of the limousine, listened to Mrs. Brewster's animated chatter with utter lack of interest; she wished most heartily that she had not been over-persuaded by her sister, and had remained at home. That her father had accepted her lame explanation and her presence in the party with unaffected pleasure had been plain. Mrs. Brewster, after a quiet inquiry regarding her health, had been less enthusiastic in her welcome. Barbara was just stifling a yawn when the limousine stopped at the entrance to the Cafe St. Marks.
Inside the cafe all was light and gaiety, and Barbara brightened perceptibly as the attentive head waiter ushered them to the table Colonel McIntyre had reserved earlier in the evening.
“It's a novel idea turning the old church into a cafe,” Barbara remarked to Benjamin Clymer. “A sort of casting bread upon the waters of famished Washington. I wonder if they ever turn water into wine?”
“No such luck,” groaned Clymer dismally, looking with distaste at the sparkling grape juice being poured into the erstwhile champagne goblet by his plate. “The cafe is crowded to-night,” and he gazed with interest about the room. Colonel McIntyre, who had loitered behind to speak to several friends at an adjacent table, took the unoccupied seat by Mrs. Brewster and was soon in animated conversation with the widow and Clymer; Barbara, her healthy appetite asserting itself, devoted her entire attention to the delicious delicacies placed before her. The arrival of the after-the-theater crowd awoke her from her abstraction, and she accepted Clymer's invitation to dance with alacrity. When they returned to the table she discovered that Margaret Brewster and her father had also joined the dancers.
Barbara watched them while keeping up a disjointed conversation with Clymer, whose absentminded remarks finally drew Barbara's attention, and she wondered what had come over the generally entertaining banker. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him the reason for his distrait manner when her thoughts were diverted by his next remark.
“Your father and Mrs. Brewster make a fine couple,” he said. “Colonel McIntyre is the most distinguished looking man in the cafe and Mrs. Brewster is a regular beauty.”
Instead of replying Barbara turned in her seat and scanned her father as he and Mrs. Brewster passed them in the dance. Colonel McIntyre did not look his age of forty-seven years. His hair, prematurely gray, had a most attractive wave to it, and his erect and finely proportioned figure showed to advantage in his well-cut dress suit. Barbara's heart swelled with pride—her dear and handsome father! Then she transferred her regard to Margaret Brewster; she had been such a satisfactory friend—why oh, why did she wish to become her step-mother? The twins, with the unerring instinct of womanhood, had decided ten days before that Weller's warning to his son was timely—Mrs. Brewster was a most dangerous widow.
“How is your sister?” inquired Clymer, breaking the silence which had lasted nearly five minutes. He was never quite certain which twin he was talking to, and generally solved the problem by familiarizing himself with their mode of dress. The plan had not always worked as the twins had a bewildering habit of exchanging clothes, to the enjoyment of Barbara's mischief loving soul, and the mystification of their numerous admirers.
“She is rather blue and depressed,” answered Barbara. “We are both feeling the reaction from the shock of Jimmie Turnbull's tragic death. You must forgive me if I am a bore; I am not good company to-night.”
The arrival of the head waiter at their table interrupted Clymer's reply.
“This gentleman desires to speak to you a moment, Miss McIntyre,” he said, and indicated a young man in a sack suit standing just back of him.
“I'm Parker of the Post,” the reporter introduced himself with a bow which included Clymer. “May I sit down?” laying his hand on the back of Mrs. Brewster's vacant chair.
“Surely; and won't you have an ice?” Barbara's hospitable instincts were aroused. “Here, waiter—”
“No, thanks; I haven't time,” protested Parker, slipping into the chair. “I just came from your house, Miss McIntyre; the butler said I might find you here, and as it was rather important, I took the liberty of introducing myself. We plan to run a story, featuring the dangers of masquerading in society, and of course it hinges on the death of Mr. Turnbull. I'm sorry”—he apologized as he saw Barbara wince. “I realize the topic is one to make you feel badly; but I promise to ask only few questions.” His smile was very engaging and Barbara's resentment receded somewhat.
“What are they?” she asked.
“Did you recognize Mr. Turnbull in his burglar's make-up when you confronted him in the police court?” Parker drew out copy paper and a pencil, and waited for her reply. There was a pause.
“I did not recognize Mr. Turnbull in court,” she stated finally. “His death was a frightful shock.”
“Sure. It was to everybody,” agreed Parker. “How about your sister, Miss Barbara; did she recognize him?”
“No.” faintly.
Parker showed his disappointment; he was not eliciting much information. Abruptly he turned to Clymer, whose prominent position in the financial world made him a familiar figure to all Washingtonians.
“Weren't you present in the police court on Tuesday morning also?” Parker asked.
“Yes,” Clymer modified the curt monosyllable by adding, “I helped Dr. Stone carry Turnbull out of the prisoners' cage and into the anteroom.”
“And did you recognize your cashier?” demanded Parker. At the question Barbara set down her goblet of water without care for its perishable quality and looked with quick intentness at the banker.
“I recognized Mr. Turnbull when his wig was removed,” answered Clymer, raising his head in time to catch Barbara's eyes gazing steadfastly at him. With a faint flush she turned her attention to the reporter.
“Mr. Turnbull's make-up must have been superfine,” Parker remarked. “Just one more question. Can you tell me if Mr. Philip Rochester recognized his room-mate when he was defending him in court?”
“No, I cannot,” and observing Parker's blank expression, she added, “why don't you ask Mr. Rochester?”
“Because I can't locate him; he seems to have vanished off the face of the globe.” The reporter rose. “You can't tell me where's he's gone, I suppose?”
“I haven't the faintest idea,” answered Barbara truthfully. “I was at his office this—” she stopped abruptly on finding that Mrs. Brewster was standing just behind her. Had the widow by chance overheard her remark? If so, her father would probably learn of her visit to the office of Rochester and Kent that morning.
“Do I understand that Philip Rochester is out of town?” inquired Mrs. Brewster. “Why, I had an appointment with him to-morrow.”
“He's gone and left no address that I can find,” explained Parker. “Thank you, Miss McIntyre; good evening,” and the busy reporter hurried away.
There was a curious expression in Mrs. Brewster's eyes, but she dropped her gaze on her finger bowl too quickly for Clymer to analyze its meaning.
“What can have taken Mr. Rochester out of town?” she asked. The question was not addressed to any one in particular, but Colonel McIntyre answered it, as he did most of the widow's remarks.
“Dry Washington,” he explained. “It isn't the first trip Philip has made to Baltimore since the 'dry' law has been in force, eh, Clymer?”
“No, and it won't be his last,” was the banker's response. “What's the matter, Miss McIntyre?” as Barbara pushed back her chair.
“I feel a little faint,” she stammered. “The air here is—is stifling. If you don't mind, father, I'll take the car and drive home.”
“I'll come with you,” announced Mrs. Brewster, rising hurriedly; and as she turned solicitously to aid Barbara she caught Colonel McIntyre's admiring glance and his whispered thanks.
Outside the cafe Clymer discovered that the McIntyre limousine was not to be found, and, cautioning Barbara and the widow to remain where they were, he went back into the cafe in search of Colonel McIntyre, who had stayed behind to pay his bill.
A sudden exodus from the cafe as other diners came out to get their cars, separated Barbara from Mrs. Brewster just as the former caught sight of her father's limousine coming around McPherson Square. Not waiting to see what had become of her companion, Barbara started up the sidewalk intent on catching their chauffeur's attention. As she stood by the curb, a figure brushed by her and a paper was deftly slipped inside her hand.
Barbara wheeled about abruptly. She stood alone, except for several elaborately dressed women and their companions some yards away who were indulging in noisy talk as they hurried along. At that moment the McIntyre limousine stopped at the curb and the chauffeur opened the door.
“Take me home, Harris,” she ordered. “And then come back for Mrs. Brewster and father. I don't feel well—hurry.”
“Very good, miss,” and touching his cap the chauffeur swung his car up Fifteenth Street.
The limousine had turned into Massachusetts Avenue before Barbara switched on the electric lamp in the car and opened the note so mysteriously given to her. She read feverishly the few lines it contained,
Dear Helen:The coroner will call an inquest. Secrete letter “B.”
The note was unsigned but it was in the handwriting of Philip Rochester.
The gloomy morning, with leaden skies and intermittent rain, reflected Harry Kent's state of mind. He could not fix his attention on the business letters which Sylvester placed before him; instead, his thoughts reverted to the scene in Rochester's and Turnbull's apartment the night before, the elusive visitor he had found there on his arrival, his interview with Detective Ferguson, and above all the handkerchief, saturated with amyl nitrite, and bearing the small embroidered letter “B”—the initial, insignificant in size, but fraught with dire possibilities if, as Ferguson hinted, Turnbull had been put to death by an over-dose of the drug. “B “—Barbara; Barbara—“B”—his mind rang the changes; pshaw! other names than Barbara began with “B.”
“Shall I transcribe your notes, Mr. Kent?” asked Sylvester, and Kent awakened from his reverie, discovered that he had scrawled the name Barbara and capital “Bs” on the writing pad. He tore off the sheet and crumpled it into a small ball. “No, my notes are unimportant.” Kent unlocked his desk and took some manuscript from one of the drawers. “Make four copies of this brief, then call up the printer and ask how soon he will complete the work on hand. Has Mr. Clymer telephoned?”
“Not this morning.” Sylvester rose, papers in hand. “There has been a Mr. Parker of the Post who telephones regularly once an hour to ask for Mr. Rochester's address and when he is expected at the office.” He paused and looked inquiringly at Kent. “What shall I say the next time he calls?”
“Switch him on my phone,” briefly. “That is all now, Sylvester. I must be in court by noon, so have the brief copied by eleven.”
“Yes, sir,” and Sylvester departed, only to return a second later. “Miss McIntyre to see you,” he announced, and stood aside to allow the girl to enter.
It was the first time Kent had seen Helen since the tragedy of Tuesday, and as he advanced to greet her he noted with concern her air of distress and the troubled look in her eyes. Her composed manner was obviously only maintained by the exertion of self-control, for the hand she offered him was unsteady.
“You are so kind,” she murmured as he placed a chair for her. “Babs told me you have promised your aid, and so I have come—” she pressed one hand to her side as if she found breathing difficult and Kent, reaching for his pitcher of ice water which stood near at hand, filled a tumbler and gave it to her.
“Take a little,” he coaxed as she moved as if to refuse the glass. “Why didn't you telephone and I would have called on you; in fact, I planned to run in and see you this afternoon.
“It is wiser to have our talk here,” she replied. Setting down the empty glass she gazed about the office and her face brightened at sight of a safe standing in one corner. “Is that yours or Philip's?” she asked, pointing to it.
“The safe? Oh, it's for our joint use, owned by the firm, you know,” explained Kent, somewhat puzzled by her eagerness.
“Do you keep your private papers there, as well as the firm's?”
“Oh, yes; Philip has retained one section and I the other.” Kent walked over and threw open the massive door which he had unlocked on entering the office and left ajar. “Would you like to see the arrangements of the compartments?”
Without answering Helen crossed the room and stood by his side.
“Which is Philip's section?” she asked.
“This,” and Kent touched the side of the safe.
Helen turned around and inspected the office; the outer door through which she had entered was closed, as were also the private door leading directly into the outside corridor, and the one opening into the closet. Convinced that they were really alone, she took from her leather hand-bag a white envelope and handed it to Kent.
“Please put this in Philip's compartment,” she said, and as he hesitated, she added pleadingly, “Please do it, Harry, and ask no questions.”
Kent looked at her wonderingly; the girl was obviously laboring under intense excitement of some sort, which might at any moment break into hysteria. Bottling up his curiosity, he stooped down in front of the safe.
“Certainly I will put the envelope away for you,” he agreed cheerily. “Wait, though, I must find if Philip left the key of the compartment on his bunch.” He took from his pocket the keys he had found so useful the night before, and selected one that resembled the key to his own compartment, and inserted it in the lock. To his surprise he discovered the compartment was already unlocked. Without comment he pulled open the inside drawer and started to lay the white envelope on top of the papers already there, when he hesitated.
“The envelope is unaddressed, Helen,” he remarked, extending it toward her. She waved it back.
“It is sealed with red wax,” she stated. “That is all that is necessary for identification.”
Kent turned over the envelope—the flap was held down securely with a large red seal which bore the one letter “B.” He dropped the envelope inside the drawer, locked the compartment, and closed the door of the safe.
“Let us talk,” he suggested and led the way back to their chairs. “Helen,” he began, after she was seated. “There is nothing I will not do for your sister Barbara,” his manner grew earnest. “I—” he flushed; baring his feelings to another, no matter how sympathetic that other was, was foreign to his reserved nature. “I love her beyond words to express. I tell you this to—to—gain your trust.”
“You already have it, Harry!” Impulsively Helen extended her hand, and he held it in a firm clasp for a second. “Babs and I have come at once to you in our trouble.”
“Yes, but you have only hinted what that trouble was,” he reminded her gently. “I cannot really aid you until you give me your full confidence.”
Helen looked away from him and out of the window. The relief, which had lighted her face a moment before, had vanished. It was some minutes before she answered.
“Babs told you that I suspected Jimmie did not die from angina pectoris—” She spoke with an effort.
“Yes.”
She waited a second before continuing her remarks. “I have asked the coroner to make an investigation.” She paused again, then added with more animation, “He is the one to tell us if a crime has been committed.”
“He can tell if death has been accelerated by a weapon, or a drug,” responded Kent; he was weighing his words carefully so that she might understand him fully. “But to constitute a crime, it has to be proved first, that the act has been committed, and second, that a guilty mind or malice prompted it. Can you furnish a clew to establish either of the last mentioned facts in connection with Jimmie's death?”
Kent wondered if she had heard him, she was so long in replying, and he was about to repeat his question when she addressed him.
“Have you heard from Coroner Penfield?”
“No. I tried several times to get him on the telephone, but without success,” replied Kent; his disappointment at not receiving an answer to his question showed in his manner. “I went to Penfield's house last night, but he had been called away on a case and, although I waited until nearly ten o'clock, he had not returned when I left. Have you had word from him?”
“Not—not directly.” She had been nervously twisting her handkerchief about in her fingers; suddenly she turned and looked full at Kent, her eyes burning feverishly. “I would give all I possess, my hope of future happiness even, if I could prove that Jimmie died from angina pectoris.”
Kent looked at her in mingled sympathy and doubt.—What did her words imply—further tragedy?
“Jimmie might not have died from angina pectoris,” he said, “and still not have been poisoned—”
“You mean—”
“Suicide.”
Slowly Helen took in his meaning, but she volunteered no remark, and Kent after a pause, added, “While I have not seen Coroner Penfield I did hear last night what killed Jimmie.” Helen straightened up, one hand pressed to her heart. “It was a lethal dose of amyl nitrite.”
“Amyl nitrite,” she repeated. “Yes, I have heard that it is given for heart trouble. How”—she looked at him queerly. “How is it administered?”
“By crushing a capsule in a handkerchief and inhaling its fumes”—he was watching her closely. “The handkerchief Jimmie was seen to use just before he died was found to contain two or more broken capsules.”
Helen sat immovable for over a minute, then she bowed her head and burst into dry tearless sobs which wracked her body. Kent laid a tender hand on her shoulder, then concluding it was better for her to have her cry out, he wandered aimlessly about the office waiting for her to regain her composure.
He stopped before one of the windows facing south and stared moodily at the Belasco Theater. That playhouse had surely never staged a more complicated mystery than the one he had set himself to unravel. What consolation could he offer Helen? If he encouraged her belief in his theory that Jimmie committed suicide he would have to establish a motive for suicide, and that motive might prove to be the theft of Colonel McIntyre's valuable securities. Threatened with exposure as a thief and forger, Jimmie had committed suicide, so would run the verdict; the fact of his suicide was proof of his guilt of the crime Colonel McIntyre virtually charged him with, and vice versa.
What had been discovered to point to murder? The finding of a handkerchief, saturated with amyl nitrite, which had not belonged to the dead man. Proof—bah! it was ridiculous! What more likely than that Jimmie, while in the McIntyre house before his arrest as a burglar, had picked up one of Barbara's handkerchiefs, stuffed it inside his pocket, and when threatened with exposure on being held for the grand jury, had, in desperation, crushed the amyl nitrite capsules in Barbara's handkerchief and killed himself.
Kent drew a long, long sigh. His faith in Jimmie's honesty was shaken at last by the accumulative evidence, and he was convinced that he had found the solution to the problem, but how impart it to the weeping girl? To prove her lover a thief, forger, and suicide was indeed a task he shrank from.
A ring at the telephone caused Kent to move hastily to the instrument; when he hung up the receiver Helen was adjusting her veil before a mirror over the mantel.
“Colonel McIntyre is in the next room,” he said, keeping his voice lowered.
“My father!” Helen's eyes were hard and dry. “Does he know that I am here?”
“I don't know; Sylvester simply said he had called to see me and is waiting in the outer office.” Observing her indecision, Kent opened the door leading directly into the corridor. “You can leave this way without encountering Colonel McIntyre.”
Helen hurried through the door and paused in the corridor to whisper feverishly in Kent's ear, “Promise me you will remain faithful to Barbara whatever develops.”
“I will!” Kent's pledge rang out clearly, and Helen with a lighter heart turned to walk away when a telegraph boy appeared around the corner of the corridor and thrust a yellow envelope at Kent, who stood half inside his office watching Helen.
“Sign here,” the boy said, indicating the line on the receipt slip, and getting it back, departed.
Motioning to Helen to wait, Kent tore open the telegram. It was from Cleveland and dated the night before. The message ran: Called to Cleveland. Address City Club. Rochester.
Without comment Kent held out the telegram so that Helen could read it.
“What!” she exclaimed. “Philip in Cleveland last night. I—I—don't understand.” And looking at her Kent was astounded at the flash of terror which shone for an instant in her eyes. Before he had time to question her she bolted around the corridor.
Kent remained staring ahead for an instant then returned thoughtfully to his office, and within a second Sylvester received a telephone message to show Colonel McIntyre into Kent's office. Not only Colonel McIntyre followed the clerk into the room but Benjamin Clymer. “Any further developments, Kent?” inquired the banker. “No, we can't sit down; just dropped in to see you a minute.”
“There is nothing new,” Kent had made instant decision; such information regarding the death of Turnbull as he had gleaned from Ferguson, and the events of the night before should be confided to Clymer alone, and not in the presence of Colonel McIntyre.
“Did you search Turnbull's apartment last night as you spoke of doing?” asked McIntyre.
“I did, and found no trace of your securities, Colonel.”
McIntyre lifted his eyebrows as he smiled sarcastically. “Can I see Rochester?” he asked.
“He is in Cleveland; I don't know just when he will be back.”
“Indeed? Too bad you haven't the benefit of his advice,” remarked McIntyre insolently. “At Clymer's request, Kent, I have allowed you until Saturday night to find the securities and either clear Turnbull's name or admit his guilt; there remain two days and a half before I take the affair in my own hands and make it public.”
“I hope to establish Turnbull's innocence before that time,” retorted Kent coolly.
Inwardly his spirits sank; had not every effort on his part brought but further proof of Jimmie's guilt? That McIntyre would make no attempt to hush up the scandal was obvious.
“Keep me informed of your progress,” McIntyre's manner was domineering and Kent felt the blood mount to his temples, but he was determined not to lose his temper whatever the provocation; McIntyre was Barbara's father.
Clymer, aware that the atmosphere was getting strained, diplomatically intervened.
“Dine with me to-night, Kent,” he said. “Perhaps you will then have some news that will throw light on the present whereabouts of the securities. I found, on making inquiries, that they have not been offered for sale in the usual channels. Come, McIntyre, I have a directors' meeting in twenty minutes.”
McIntyre, who had been swinging his walking stick from one hand to the other in marked impatience, turned to Kent, his manner more conciliatory.
“Pleasant quarters you have,” he remarked. “Does Rochester share his room with you?”
“No, Colonel, his is across the ante-room where you waited a few minutes ago,” explained Kent as he accompanied his visitors to the door. “This is my office.”
“Ah, yes, I thought as much on seeing only one desk,” McIntyre's manner grew more cordial. “Does Rochester's furniture duplicate yours, safe and all?”
“Safe—no, he has none; that is the firm's safe.” Kent was becoming restless under so many personal questions. “Good-by, Mr. Clymer.”
“Don't forget to-night at eight,” the banker reminded him before stepping into the corridor. “We'll dine at the Club de Vingt. Come along, McIntyre.”
Sylvester stopped Kent on his way back to his office and handed him the neatly typewritten copies of his brief, and with a word of thanks the lawyer went over to his desk and, gathering such papers as he required at the court house, he thrust them and the brief into his leather bag, but instead of hurrying on his way, he stood still to consider the events of the morning.
Helen McIntyre, during their interview, had not responded to his appeal for her confidence, nor vouchsafed any reason for her belief that Jimmie Turnbull had been the victim of foul play. And Colonel McIntyre had given him only until Saturday night to solve the problem! Kent's overwrought feelings found vent in an emphatic oath.
“Excuse me,” exclaimed Sylvester mildly from the doorway. “I knocked and understood you to say come in.
“Well, what is it?” Kent's nerves were getting a bit raw; a glance at his watch showed him he had a slender margin only in which to reach the court house in time for his appointment. Not even waiting for the clerk's reply he snatched up his brief case and made for the private door leading into the corridor. But he was destined not to get away without another interruption.
As Sylvester was hastily explaining, “Two gentlemen to see you, Mr. Kent,” the clerk was thrust aside and Detective Ferguson entered, accompanied by a deputy marshal.
“Sorry to detain you, Mr. Kent,” exclaimed the detective. “I came to tell you that Coroner Penfield has just called an inquest for this afternoon to inquire into Jimmie Turnbull's death. Where's your partner, Mr. Rochester?” looking around inquiringly.
“In Cleveland. Won't I do?” replied Kent, his appointment forgotten in the news that Ferguson had just given him.
“No, we didn't come for legal advice,” Ferguson smiled; then grew serious. “What's Mr. Rochester's address?”
Kent walked over to his desk and picked up the telegram. “The City Club, Cleveland,” he stated.
“Thanks,” Ferguson jotted down the address in his note-book. “Jones, here,” placing his hand on his companion, “came to serve Mr. Rochester with a subpoena; he's wanted at the Turnbull inquest as a material witness.”
Coroner Penfield adjusted his eyeglasses and scanned the spectators gathered for the Turnbull inquest. The room was crowded with both men and women, the latter predominating, and the coroner decided that, while some had come from a personal interest in the dead man, the majority had been attracted by morbid curiosity. There was a stir among the spectators as an inner door opened and the jury, led by the morgue master filed into the room and took their places. Coroner Penfield rose and addressed the foreman.
“Have you viewed the body?” he inquired.
“Yes, doctor,” and the man sat down.
Coroner Penfield then concisely stated the reason for the inquest and summoned Officer O'Ryan to the witness stand. The policeman stood, cap in hand, while being sworn by the morgue master, and then took his place on the platform in the chair reserved for the witnesses.
His answer to Coroner Penfield's questions relative to his name, residence in Washington, and length of service in the city Police Force were given with brevity and a rich Irish brogue.
“Where were you on Tuesday morning at about five o'clock?” asked Penfield, first consulting some memoranda on his desk.
“On my way home,” explained O'Ryan. “My relief had just come.”
“Does your beat take in the McIntyre residence?”
“It does, sir.”
“Did you observe any one loitering in the vicinity of the residence prior to five o'clock, Tuesday morning?”
“No, sir. It was only when the lady called to me that I was attracted to the house.”
“Did she state what was the matter?”
“Yes, sir. She said that she had locked a burglar in a closet, and to come and get him, and I did so,” and O'Ryan expanded his chest with an air of satisfaction as be glanced about the morgue.
“Did the burglar resist arrest?”
“No, sir; he came very peaceably and not a word out of him.”
“Had you any idea that the burglar was not what he seemed?”
“Devil an idea, begging your pardon”—O'Ryan remembered hastily where he was. “The burglar looked the part he was masquerading, and his make-up was perfect,” ended O'Ryan with relish. “Never gave me a hint he was a gentleman and a bank cashier in disguise.”
Kent, who had arrived at the morgue a few minutes before the policeman commenced his testimony, smiled in spite of himself. He was feeling exceedingly low spirited, and had come to the inquest with inward foreboding as to its result. On what developed there, he was convinced, hung Jimmie Turnbull's good name. After his interview with Detective Ferguson that morning, he had wired Philip Rochester to return to Washington at once. He had requested an immediate reply, and had fully expected to find a telegram at his office when he stopped there on his way to the morgue, but none had come.
“Whom did you see in the McIntyre house?” the coroner asked O'Ryan.
“No one sir, except the burglar and Miss McIntyre.”
“Did you find any doors or windows unlocked?”
“No, sir; I never looked to see.”
“Why not?”
“Because the young lady said that she had been over the house and everything was then fastened.” O'Ryan looked anxiously at the coroner. Would he make him out derelict in his duty? It would seriously affect his standing on the Force. “I took Miss McIntyre's word for the house, for I had the burglar safe under arrest.”
“How did Miss McIntyre appear?”
“Appear? Sure, she looked very sweet in her blue wrapper and her hair down her back,” answered O'Ryan with emphasis.
“She was not fully dressed then?”
“No, sir.”
“Was Miss McIntyre composed in manner or did she appear frightened?” asked Penfield. It was one of the questions which Kent had expected, and he waited with intense interest for the policeman's reply.
“She was very pale and—and breathless like.” O'Ryan flapped his arms about vaguely in his endeavor to demonstrate his meaning. “She kept begging me to hurry and get the burglar out of the house, and after telling her that she would have to appear in the Police Court first thing that morning, I went off with the prisoner.”
“Were there lights in the house?” questioned Penfield.
“Only dim ones in the halls and two bulbs turned on in the library; it's a big room though, and they hardly made any light at all,” explained O'Ryan; he was particular as to details. “I used handcuffs on the prisoner, thinking maybe he'd give me the slip in the dim light, but there was no fight or flight in him.”
“Did he talk to you on the way to the station house?”
“No, sir; and at the station he was just as quiet, only answered the questions the desk sergeant put to him, and that was all,” stated 0' Ryan.
Penfield laid down his memorandum pad. “All right, O'Ryan; you may retire,” and at the words the policeman left the platform and the room. He was followed by the police sergeant who had been on desk duty at the Eighth Precinct on Tuesday morning. His testimony simply corroborated O'Ryan's statement that the prisoner had done and said nothing which would indicate that he was other than he seemed—a housebreaker.
Coroner Penfield paused before calling the next witness and drank a glass of ice water; the weather had turned unseasonably hot, and the room in which inquests were held, was stifling, in spite of the long opened windows at either end.
“Call Miss Helen McIntyre,” Penfield said to the morgue master, and the latter crossed to the door leading to the room where sat the witnesses. There was instant craning of necks to catch a glimpse of the society girl about whom, with her twin sister, so much interest centered.
Helen was extremely pale as she advanced up the room, but Kent, watching her closely, was relieved to see none of the nervousness which had been so marked at their interview that morning. She was dressed with fastidious taste, and as she mounted the platform after the morgue master had administered the oath, Coroner Penfield rose and, with a polite gesture, indicated the chair she was to occupy.
“I am Helen McIntyre,” she announced clearly. “Daughter of Colonel Charles McIntyre.”
“Tell us the circumstances attending the arrest of James Turnbull, alias John Smith, in your house on Tuesday morning, Miss McIntyre,” directed the coroner, seating himself at his table, on which were writing materials.
“I was sitting up to let in my sister, who had gone to a dance,” she began, “and fearing I would fall asleep I went down into the library, intending to sit in one of the window recesses and watch for her arrival. As I entered the library I saw a figure steal across the room and disappear inside a closet. I was very frightened, but had sense enough left to cross softly to the closet and lock the door.” She paused in her rapid recital and drew a long breath, then continued more slowly:
“I hurried to the window and across the street I saw a policeman standing under a lamp-post. It took but a minute to call him. The policeman opened the closet door, put handcuffs on Mr. Turnbull and took him away.”
Coroner Penfield, as well as the jurors, followed her statement with absorbed attention. At its end he threw down his pencil and spoke briefly to the deputy coroner, who had been busily engaged in taking notes of the inquest, and then he turned to Helen.
“You heard no sound before entering the library?”
“No one walking about the house?” he persisted.
“No.” She followed the negative with a short explanation. “I lay down on my bed soon after dinner, not feeling very well, and slept through the early hours of the night.”
“At what hour did you wake up?”
“About four o'clock, or a little after.”
“Then you were awake an hour before you discovered the supposed burglar in your library?”
“Y-yes,” Helen's hesitation was faint. “About that length of time.”
“And you heard no unusual sounds in that hour's interval?”
“I heard nothing”—her manner was slightly defiant and Kent's heart sank; if he had only thought to warn her not to antagonize the coroner.
“Where were you during that hour?”
“Lying down,” promptly. “Then, afraid I would drop off to sleep again, I went downstairs.”
Coroner Penfield consulted his notes before asking another question.
“Who lives in your house beside you and your twin sister?” he asked.
“My father, Colonel McIntyre; our house guest, Mrs. Louis C. Brewster, and five servants,” she replied. “Grimes, the butler; Martha, our maid; Jane, the chambermaid; Hope, our cook; and Thomas, our second man; the chauffeur, Harris, the scullery maid, and the laundress do not stay at night.”
“Who were at home beside yourself on Monday night and early Tuesday morning?”
“My father and Mrs. Brewster; I believe the servants were in also, except Thomas, who had asked permission to spend the night in Baltimore.”
“Miss McIntyre?” Coroner Penfield put the next question in an impressive manner. “On discovering the burglar why did you not call your father?”
“My first impulse was to do so,” she answered promptly. “But on leaving the library I passed the window, saw the policeman, and called him in.” She shot a keen look at the coroner, and added softly, “The policeman was qualified to make an arrest; my father would have had to summon one had he been there.”
“Quite true,” acknowledged Penfield courteously. “Now, Miss McIntyre, why did the prisoner so obligingly walk straight into a closet on your arrival in the library?”
“I presume he was looking for a way out of the room and blundered into it,” she explained. “There are seven doors opening from our library; the prisoner may have heard me approaching, become confused, and walked through the wrong door.”
“That is quite plausible—with an ordinary bona-fide burglar,” agreed Penfield. “But was not Mr. Turnbull acquainted with the architectural arrangements of your house?”
“He was a frequent caller and an intimate friend,” she said, with dignity. “As to his power of observation and his bump of locality I cannot say. The library was but dimly lighted.”
“Miss McIntyre,” Penfield spoke slowly. “Were you aware of the real identity of the burglar?”
“I had no suspicion that he was not what he appeared,” she responded. “He said or did nothing after his arrest to give me the slightest inkling of his identity.”
Penfield raised his eyebrows and shot a look at the deputy coroner before going on with his examination.
“You knew Mr. Turnbull intimately, and yet you did not recognize him?” he asked.
“He wore an admirable disguise.” Helen touched her lips with the tip of her tongue; inwardly she longed for the glass of ice water which she saw standing on the reporters' table. “Mr. Turnbull's associates will tell you that he excelled in amateur theatricals.”
Penfield looked at her critically for a moment before continuing his questions. She bore his scrutiny with composure.
“Officer O'Ryan has testified that you informed him you examined the windows of your house,” he said, after a brief wait. “Did you find any unlocked?”
“Yes; one was open in the little reception room off the front door.”
“What floor is the room on?”
“The ground floor.”
“Would it have been easy for any one to gain admittance through the window without attracting attention in the street?” was Penfield's next question.
“Yes.”
“Miss McIntyre,” Penfield rose, “I have only a few more questions to put to you. Why did Mr. Turnbull come to your house—a house where he was a welcome visitor—in the middle of the night disguised as a burglar?”
The reporters as well as the spectators bent forward to catch her reply.
“Mr. Turnbull had a wager with my sister, Barbara,” she explained. “She bet him that he could not break into the house without being discovered.”
Penfield considered her answer before addressing her again.
“Why didn't Mr. Turnbull tell you who he was when you had him arrested?” he asked.
Helen shrugged her shoulders. “I cannot answer that question, for I do not know his reason. If he had only confided in me”—her voice shook—“he might have been alive to-day.”
“How so?” Penfield shot the question at her.
“Because then he would have been spared the additional excitement of his trip to the police station and the scene in court, which brought on his attack of angina pectoris.”
Penfield regarded her for a moment in silence.
“I have no further questions, Miss McIntyre,” he said, and turned to the morgue master. “Ask Miss Barbara McIntyre to come to the platform.” Turning back to his table and the papers thereon he failed to see the twins pass each other in the aisle. They were identically attired and when Coroner Penfield looked again at the witness chair, he stared in surprise at its occupant.
“I beg pardon, Miss McIntyre, I desire your sister to testify,” he remarked.
“I am Barbara McIntyre.” A haunting quality in her voice caught Kent's attention, and he leaned eagerly forward, his eyes following each movement of her nervous fingers, busily twisting her gloves inside and out.
“I beg your pardon,” exclaimed the coroner, recovering from his surprise. He had seen the twins at the police court on Tuesday morning for a second only, and then his attention had been entirely centered on Helen. He had heard, but had not realized until that moment, how striking was the resemblance between the sisters.
“Miss McIntyre,” the coroner cleared his throat and commenced his examination. “Where were you on Monday night?”
“At a dance given by Mr. and Mrs. Charles Grosvenor.”
“At what hour did you return?”
“I think it was half past five or a few minutes earlier.”
“Who let you in?”
“My sister.”
“Did you see the burglar?”
“He had left,” she answered. “My sister told me of her adventure as we went upstairs to our rooms.”
“Miss McIntyre,” Penfield picked up a page of the deputy coroner's closely written notes, and ran his eyes down it. “Your sister has testified that James Turnbull went to your house disguised as a burglar on a wager with you. What were the terms of that wager?”
“I bet him that he could not enter the house after midnight without his presence being detected by our new police dogs,” exclaimed Barbara slowly. She had stopped twirling her gloves about, and one hand was firmly clenched over the arm of her chair.
“Did the dogs discover his presence in the house?”
“Apparently not, or they would have aroused the household,” she said. “I cannot answer that question, though, because I was not at home.”
“Where are the dogs kept?”
“In the garage in the daytime.”
“And at night?” he persisted.
“They roam about our house,” she admitted, “or sleep in the boudoir, which is between my sister's bedroom and mine.
“Were the dogs in the house on Monday night?”
“I did not see them on my return from the dance.”
“That is not an answer to my question, Miss McIntyre,” the coroner pointed out. “Were the dogs in the house?”
There was a distinct pause before she spoke. “I recall hearing our butler, Grimes, say that he found the dogs in the cellar. Mr. Turnbull's shocking death put all else out of my mind; I never once thought of the dogs.”
“In spite of the fact that it was a wager over the dogs which brought about the whole situation?” remarked the coroner dryly.
Barbara flushed at his tone, then grew pale.
“I honestly forgot about the dogs,” she repeated. “Father sent them out to our country place Tuesday afternoon; they annoyed our—our guest, Mrs. Brewster.”
“In what way?”
“By barking—they are noisy dogs.”
“And yet they did not arouse the household when Mr. Turnbull broke into the house”—Coroner Penfield regarded her sternly. “How do you account for that?”
Barbara's right hand stole to the arm of her chair and clasped it with the same convulsive strength that she clung to the other chair arm. When she spoke her voice was barely audible.
“I can account for it in two ways,” she began. “If the dogs were accidentally locked in the cellar they could not possibly hear Mr. Turnbull moving about the house; if they were roaming about and scented him, they might not have barked because they would recognize him as a friend.”
“Were the dogs familiar with his step and voice?”
“Yes. Only last Sunday he played with them for an hour, and later in the afternoon took them for a walk in the country.”
“I see.” Penfield stroked his chin reflectively. “When your sister told you of finding the burglar and his arrest, did you not, in the light of your wager, suspect that he might be Mr. Turnbull?”
“No.” Barbara's eyes did not falter before his direct gaze. “I supposed that Mr. Turnbull meant to try and enter the house in his own proper person; it never dawned on me that he would resort to disguise. Besides,” as the coroner started to make a remark, “we have had numerous robberies in our neighborhood, and the apartment house two blocks from us has had a regular epidemic of sneak thieves.”
The coroner waited until Dr. Mayo, who had been writing with feverish haste, had picked up a fresh sheet of paper before resuming his examination.
“You accompanied your sister to the police court,” he said. “Did you see the burglar there?”
“Yes.”
“Did you realize his identity in the court room?”
“No. I only awoke to—to the situation when I saw him lying dead with his wig removed. The shock was frightful”—she closed her eyes for a second, for the room and the rows of faces confronting her were mixed in a maddening maze and she raised her hand to her swimming head. When she looked up she found Coroner Penfield by her side.
“That is all,” he said kindly. “Please remain in the witness room, I may call you again,” and he helped her down the step with careful attention.
Back in his corner Kent watched her departure. He was white to the lips.
“Heat too much for you?” asked a kindly-faced stranger, and Kent gave a mumbled “No,” as he strove to pull himself together.
What deviltry was afoot? How dared the twins take such risks—to bear false witness was a grave criminal offense. He, alone, among all the spectators, had realized that in testifying before the inquest, the twins had swapped identities.