CHAPTER XI. HALF A TRUTH

Dancing was being resumed in the dining room as Kent appeared again in the doorway and he made his way as quickly as possible among the couples, going into all the rooms on that floor, but nowhere could he find Detective Ferguson. On emerging from the drawing room, he encountered the steward returning from downstairs.

“Have you seen Mr. Clymer?” he asked hurriedly.

“Yes, Mr. Kent; he just left the club, taking Detective Ferguson with him in his motor. Is there anything I can do?” added the steward observing Kent's agitation.

“No, no, thanks. Say, where is Colonel McIntyre?” Kent gave up further pursuit of the detective, he could find him later at Headquarters. The steward looked among the dancers. “I don't see him,” he said, “But there is Mrs. Brewster dancing in the front room; the Colonel must be somewhere around. If I meet him, Mr. Kent, shall I tell him you are looking for him?”

“I will be greatly obliged if you will do so,” replied Kent, and straightening his tie, he went in quest of the pretty widow. He had found her a merry chatter-box in the past, possibly he could gain valuable information from her. He found Mrs. Brewster just completing her dance with a fine looking Italian officer whose broad breast bore many military decorations.

“Dance the encore with me”—Kent could be very persuasive when he wished, and Mrs. Brewster dimpled with pleasure, but there was a faint indecision in her manner which he was quick to note. What prompted it? He had been on friendly terms with her; in fact, she had openly championed his cause, so Barbara had once told him, when Colonel McIntyre had made caustic remarks about his frequent calls at the McIntyre house.

“Just one turn,” she said, as the foreigner bowed and withdrew. “I am feeling a little weary to-night—the strain of the inquest,” she, added in explanation.

“Perhaps you would rather sit out the dance,” he suggested. “There is an alcove in that window; oh, pshaw!” as a man and a girl took possession of the chairs.

“Never mind, we can roost on the stairs,” Mrs. Brewster preceded him to the staircase leading to the third floor, and sat down, bracing her back very comfortably against the railing, while Kent seated himself at her feet on the lower step. “Extraordinary developments at the inquest this afternoon,” he began, as she volunteered no remark. “To think of Jimmie Turnbull being poisoned!”

“It is unbelievable,” she said, and her vehemence was a surprise to Kent; he knew her as all froth and bubble. What had brought the dark circles under her eyes and the unwonted seriousness in her manner?

“Unbelievable, yes,” he agreed gravely. “But true; the autopsy ended all doubt.”

“You mean it developed doubt,” she corrected, and a sigh accompanied the words. “Have the police any clew to the guilty man?”

“I don't know, I'm sure,” Kent spoke with caution.

“You don't?” Her voice was a little sharp. “Didn't Detective Ferguson give you any news when talking to you on the porch?”

“So you recognized the detective?”

“I? No; I have never seen him before”—she nodded gayly to an acquaintance passing through the hall. “Colonel McIntyre told me his name. It was so odd to meet a man here not in evening clothes that I had to ask who he was.”

“Ferguson came to bring me some papers about a personal matter,” explained Kent. He turned so as to face her. “Did you see a white envelope lying on the table when you walked out on the porch?”

She bowed her head absently, her foot keeping time to the inspiring music played by the orchestra stationed on the stair landing just above where they sat. “You left it lying on the table.”

“Yes, so I did,” replied Kent. “And I believe I was so ungallant as to bolt into the dining room in front of you. Please accept my apologies.” Behind her fan, which she used with languid grace, the widow watched him.

“We all bolted together,” she responded, “and are equally guilty—”

“Of what?” questioned a voice from the background, and looking up Kent saw Colonel McIntyre standing on the step above Mrs. Brewster. The music had ceased and in the lull their conversation had been distinctly audible.

“Guilty of curiosity,” finished the widow.

“Colonel de Geofroy's farewell speech was very amusing, did you not think so?”

“I did not stay to hear it,” Kent confessed. “I had to return to the porch and get my envelope.”

“You were a long time about it,” commented McIntyre, sitting down by Mrs. Brewster and possessing himself of her fan. “I waited to tell you that Helen and Barbara were worn out after the inquest and so stayed at home to-night, but you didn't show up.”

“Neither did the envelope,” retorted Kent, and as his companions looked at him, he added. “It had disappeared off the table.”

“Probably blew away,” suggested McIntyre. “I noticed a strong current of air from the dining room, and two of the windows inclosing the porch were open.

“That's hardly possible,” Kent replied skeptically. “The envelope weighed at least two ounces; it would have taken quite a gale to budge it.”

McIntyre turned red. “Are you insinuating that one of us walked off with your envelope, Kent?” he demanded angrily. Mrs. Brewster stayed him as he was about to rise.

“Did you not say that Detective Ferguson brought you the envelope, Mr. Kent?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then what more likely than that he carried it off again?” She smiled amusedly as Kent's expression altered. “Why not ask the detective?”

Her suggestion held a grain of truth. Suppose Ferguson had not believed his statement that the papers in the envelope were his personal property and had taken the envelope away to examine it at his leisure? The thought brought Kent to his feet.

“Good night, Mrs. Sherlock Holmes,” he said jestingly, “I'll follow your advice”—There was no opportunity to say more, for several men had discovered the widow's perch on the stairs and came to claim their dances. Over their heads McIntyre watched Kent stride downstairs, then stooping over he picked up Mrs. Brewster's fan and sat down to patiently await her return.

Kent's pursuit of the detective took longer than he had anticipated, and it was after midnight before he finally located him at the office of the Chief of Detectives in the District Building. “I've called for the envelope you took from my safe early this evening,” he began without preface, hardly waiting for the latter's surprised greeting.

“Why, Mr. Kent, I left it lying on the porch table at the club,” declared Ferguson. “Didn't you take it?”

“No.” Kent's worried expression returned. “Like a fool I forgot the envelope when that cheering broke out in the dining room and rushed to find out what it was about; when I returned to the porch the envelope was gone.

“Disappeared?” questioned Ferguson in astonishment.

“Disappeared absolutely; I searched the porch thoroughly and couldn't find a trace of it,” Kent explained. “And in spite of McIntyre's contention that it might have blown out of the window, I am certain it did not.”

“The windows were open, and I recollect there was a strong draught,” remarked Ferguson thoughtfully. “But not sufficient to carry away that envelope.”

“Exactly.” Kent stepped closer. “Did you observe which one of our companions stood nearest the porch table?”

Ferguson eyed him curiously. “Say, are you insinuating that one of those people took your envelope?”

“Yes.”

A subdued whistle escaped Ferguson. “What was in that envelope. Mr. Kent,” he demanded, “to make it of any value to that bunch?” and as Kent did not answer immediately, he added, “Are you sure it had nothing to do with Jimmie Turnbull's death and Philip Rochester's disappearance?”

“Quite sure.” Kent's gaze did not waver before his penetrating look. “I have already told you that the envelope contained old love letters, and I very naturally do not wish them to fall into the hands of Colonel McIntyre, the father of the girl I hope to marry.”

Ferguson smiled understandingly. “I see. From what I know of Colonel McIntyre there's a very narrow, nagging spirit concealed under his frank and engaging manner; I wish you joy of your future father-in-law,” and he chuckled.

“Thanks,” dryly. “You haven't answered my question as to who stood nearest the porch table, Ferguson.”

The detective looked thoughtful. “We all stood fairly near; perhaps Mrs. Brewster was a shade the nearest. Mr. Clymer was offering her a chair when that noise came from the dining room. There's one thing I am willing to swear to”—his manner grew more earnest—“that envelope was still lying on the table when I hustled into the dining room.”

“Well, who was the last person to leave the porch?” Kent demanded eagerly.

“I don't know,” was the disappointing answer. “I reached the door at the same moment you did and passed right around the dining room to get a view of what was going on. I thought I would take a squint at the tables and see if there was any wine being used,” he admitted. “But there was nothing doing in that line. Then Mr. Clymer offered to bring me down to Headquarters, and I left the club with him.”

Kent took a turn about the room. “Did Mr. Clymer go to the Cosmos Club?” he asked, pausing by the detective.

“No, I heard him tell his chauffeur to drive to the Saratoga. Want to use the telephone?” observing Kent's glance stray to the instrument.

By way of answer Kent took off the receiver and after giving a number to Central, he recognized Clymer's voice over the telephone.

“That you, Mr. Clymer? Yes, well, this is Kent speaking. Can you tell me who was the last person to leave the porch when Colonel de Geofroy made his farewell speech to-night at the club?”

“I was,” came Clymer's surprised answer. “I waited for McIntyre to pick up Mrs. Brewster's fan.”

“Did he take my letter off the table also?” called Kent.

“Why, no.” Clymer's voice testified to his increased surprise. “Mrs. Brewster dropped her fan right in the doorway just as McIntyre and I approached; we both stooped to get it and, like fools; bumped our heads together in the act. He got the fan, however, and I waited for him to walk into the dining room before following Mrs. Brewster.”

“As you passed the table, Mr. Clymer, did you see my letter lying on the table?” persisted Kent.

“Upon my word I never looked at the table,” Clymer's hearty tone carried conviction. “I walked right along in my hurry to know what the cheering was about. I am sorry, Kent; have you mislaid your letter?”

“Yes,” glumly. “Sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Clymer; good night,” and Clymer's echoing, “Good night” sounded faintly as he hung up the receiver.

“Drew blank,” he announced, turning to Ferguson. “Confound you, Ferguson; you had no right to touch the papers in my safe. If harm comes from it, I'll make you suffer,” and not waiting for the detective's jumbled apologies and explanations, he hurried from the building. But once on the sidewalk he paused for thought. McIntyre must have picked up the white envelope, there was no other feasible explanation of its disappearance. But what had attracted his attention to the envelope—the red seal with the big letter “B” was its only identifying mark. If Helen had only told him the contents of the envelope!

Kent struck his clenched fist in his left hand in wrath; something must be done, he could not stand there all night. Although it was through no fault of his own that he had lost the envelope entrusted to his care, he was still responsible to Helen for its disappearance. She must be told that it was gone, however unpleasant the task.

Kent walked hastily along Pennsylvania Avenue until he came to a drug store still open, and entered the telephone booth. He had recollected that the twins had a branch telephone in their sitting room; he would have to chance their being awake at that hour.

Barbara McIntyre turned on her pillow and rubbed her sleepy eyes; surely she had been mistaken in thinking she heard the telephone bell ringing. Even as she lay striving to listen, she dozed off again, to be rudely awakened by Helen's voice at her ear.

“Babs!” came the agitated whisper. “The envelope's gone.”

“Gone!” Barbara swung out of bed.

“Gone where?”

“Father has it.”

Downstairs in the library Mrs. Brewster paused on her entrance by the side of a piece of carved Venetian furniture and laying her coronation scarf on it, she examined a white envelope—the red seal was intact.

At the sound of approaching footsteps she raised a trap door in the piece of furniture and only her keen ears caught the faint thud of the envelope as it dropped inside, then with a happy, tender smile she turned to meet Colonel McIntyre.

Colonel McIntyre tramped the deserted dining room in exasperation. Nine o'clock and the twins had not come to breakfast, nor was there any evidence that Mrs. Brewster intended taking that meal downstairs.

“Will you wait any longer, sir?” inquired Grimes, who hovered solicitously in the background. “I'm afraid, sir, your eggs will be over-done.”

“Bring them along,” directed McIntyre, and flung himself into his chair at the foot of the table. He had been seated but a few minutes when Barbara appeared and dutifully presented her cheek to be kissed, then she tripped lightly to Helen's place opposite her father, and pressed the electric bell for Grimes.

“Coffee, please,” she said as that worthy appeared, and busied herself in arranging the cups and saucers. “Helen is taking her breakfast upstairs,” she explained to her father.

“How about Mrs. Brewster?”

“Still asleep.” Barbara poured out her father's coffee with careful attention to detail. “I peeked into her room a moment ago and she looked so 'comfy' I hadn't the heart to awaken her. You must have been very late at the club last night.”

“We got home a little after one o'clock.”

McIntyre helped himself to poached eggs and bacon. “What did you do last night?”

“Went to bed early,” answered Barbara with brevity. “Helen wasn't feeling well.”

McIntyre's handsome face showed concern as he glanced across the table. “Have you sent for Dr. Stone?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Helen—I—we”—Barbara stumbled in her speech. “We have taken an aversion to Dr. Stone.”

McIntyre set down his coffee cup with unwonted force, thereby spilling some of its contents.

“What!” he exclaimed in complete astonishment, and regarded her fixedly for a moment. His tolerant manner, which he frequently assumed toward Barbara, grew stern. “Dr. Stone is my personal friend, as well as our family physician—”

“And a cousin of Margaret Brewster,” put in Barbara mildly.

“Well, what of it?” trenchantly, aware that he had colored at mention of the widow's name. “Nothing,” Barbara's eyes opened innocently. “I only recalled the fact of his relationship as you enumerated his virtues.”

Colonel McIntyre transferred his regard from her to the butler. “You need not wait, Grimes.” He remained silent until the servant was safely in the pantry, and then addressed his daughter. “None of your tricks, Barbara,” he cautioned. “If Helen is ill enough to require medical attention, Dr. Stone is to be sent for, regardless of your sudden dislike to him, for which, by the way, you have given no cause.”

“Haven't I?” Barbara folded her napkin with neat exactness. “It's—it's intangible.”

“Pooh!” McIntyre gave a short laugh, as he pushed back his chair. “I'm going to see Helen. And Barbara,” stopping on his way to the door, “don't be a fool.”

Barbara rubbed the tiny mole under the lobe of her ear, a trick she had when absent-minded or in deep thought. “Helen,” she announced, unaware that she spoke loud, “shall have a physician, but it won't be—why, Grimes,” awakening to the servant's noiseless return. “You can take the breakfast dishes. Did Miss Helen eat anything?”

“Not very much, miss.” Grimes shook a troubled head. “But she done better than at dinner last night, so she's picking up, and don't you be worried over her,” with emphasis, as he sidled nearer. “Tell me, miss, is the colonel courtin' Mrs. Brewster?”

“Ask him,” she suggested and smiled at the consternation which spread over the butler's face.

“Me, miss!” he exclaimed in horror. “It would be as much as my place is worth; the colonel's that quick-tempered. Why, miss, just because I tidied up his desk and put his papers to rights he flew into a terrible passion.”

“When was that?”

“Early this morning, miss; and he so upset Thomas, miss, that he gave notice.”

“Oh, that's too bad.” Barbara liked the second man. “Perhaps father will reconsider and persuade him to stay.”

The butler looked unconvinced. “It was about the police dogs,” he confided to her. “Thomas told him that Miss Helen wanted them brought back, and the colonel swore at him—'twas more than Thomas could stand and he ups and goes.” Barbara halted half way to the door. “Did Thomas get the dogs?”

“You wait and see, miss.” Grimes was guilty of a most undignified wink. “Thomas ain't forgiven himself for not being here Monday night, miss; though it wouldn't a done him any good; he wouldn't a heard Mr. Turnbull climbing in or his arrest, away upstairs in the servants' quarters.”

“Grimes,” Barbara retracted her footsteps and placed her lips very close to the old servant's ear.

“When I came in on Tuesday morning I found the door to the attic stairway standing partly open...

“Did you now, miss?” The two regarded each other warily. “And what hour may that have been?”

The butler cocked his ear for her answer—he was sometimes a little hard of hearing; but he waited in vain, Barbara had disappeared inside the library.

Colonel McIntyre had not gone at once to see his daughter Helen, as Barbara had supposed from his remark, instead he went down the staircase and into the reception room on the ground floor. It was generally used as a smoking room and lounge, but when entertaining was done, cloaks and wraps were left there. McIntyre looked over the prettily upholstered furniture, then strolled to the window and carefully inspected the lock; it appeared in perfect order as he tested it. Pushing the catch back as far as it would go, he raised the window—the sash moved upward without a sound, and he leaned out and looked up and down the path which ran the depth of the house to the kitchen door and servants' entrance. There was an iron gate separating the path from the sidewalk, always kept locked at night, and McIntyre had thought that sufficient protection and had not put an iron grille in the window.

McIntyre closed and locked the window, then pulling out the gilt chair which stood in front of the desk, he sat down, selected some monogrammed paper and penned a few lines in his characteristic though legible writing. Picking up some red sealing wax, he lighted the small candle in its brass holder which matched the rest of the desk ornaments, but before heating the wax he looked for his signet ring, and frowned when he recalled leaving it on his dresser. He hesitated a moment, then catching sight of a silver seal lying at the back of the desk he picked it up and moistened the initial. A few minutes later he blew out the candle, returned the wax and seal to a pigeon hole, and carefully placed the envelope with its well stamped letter “B” in his coat pocket, and tramped upstairs.

Helen heard his heavy tread coming down the hall toward her room, and scrambled back to bed. She had but time to arrange her dressing sacque when her father walked in.

“Good morning, my dear,” he said and, stooping over, kissed her. As he straightened up, the side of his single-breasted coat turned back and exposed to Helen's bright eyes the end of a white envelope. “Barbara told me you are not well,” he wheeled forward a chair and sat down by the bed. “Hadn't I better send for Dr. Stone?”

“Oh, no,” her reply, though somewhat faint, was emphatic, and he frowned.

“Why not?” aggressively. “I trust you do not share Barbara's suddenly developed prejudice against the good doctor.”

“I do not require a physician,” she said evasively. “I am well.”

McIntyre regarded her vexedly. He could not decide whether her flushed cheeks were from fever or the result of exertion or excitement. Excitement over what? He looked about the room; it reflected the taste of its dainty owner in its furnishings, but nowhere did he find an answer to his unspoken question, until his eye lighted on a box of rouge under the electric lamp on her bed stand.

“Don't use that,” he said, touching the box. “You know I detest make-up.”

“Oh, that!” She turned to see what he was talking about. “That rouge belongs to Margaret Brewster.”

McIntyre promptly changed the conversation. “Have you had your breakfast?” he asked.

“Yes; Grimes took the tray down some time ago.” Helen watched her father fidget with his watch fob for several minutes, then asked with characteristic directness. “What do you wish?”

“To see that you have proper medical attention if you are ill,” he returned promptly. “How would a week or ten days at Atlantic City suit you and Barbara?”

“Not at all.” Helen sat up from her reclining position on the pillows. “You forget, father, that we have a house-guest; Margaret Brewster is not leaving until May.”

“I had not forgotten,” curtly. “I propose that she go with us.”

A faint “Oh!” escaped Helen, otherwise she made no comment, and McIntyre, after contemplating her for a minute, looked away.

“Either go to Atlantic City with us, Helen, or resume your normal, everyday life,” he said shortly. “I am tired of heroics; Jimmie Turnbull was hardly the man to inspire them.”

“Stop!” Helen's voice rang out imperiously. “I will not permit one word said in disparagement of Jimmie, least of all from you, father. Wait,” as he attempted to speak. “I do not know what traits of character I may have inherited from you, but I have all mother's loyalty, and—that loyalty belongs to Jimmie.”

McIntyre's eyes shifted under her gaze.

“I regret very much this obsession,” he said rising. “I will not attempt to reason with you again, Helen, but”—he made no effort to lower his voice, “the world—our world will soon know what manner of man James Turnbull was, of that I am determined.”

“And I”—Helen faced her father proudly—“I will leave no stone unturned to defend his memory.”

Her father wheeled about. “In doing so, see that you do not compromise yourself,” he remarked coldly, and before the infuriated girl could answer, he slammed the door shut and stalked downstairs.

Some half hour later he opened the door of Rochester and Kent's law office and would have walked unceremoniously into Kent's private office had not John Sylvester stepped forward from behind his desk in the corner.

“Good morning, Colonel,” he said civilly. “Mr. Kent is not here. Do you wish to leave any message?”

“Oh, good morning, Sylvester,” McIntyre's manner was brusque. “When do you expect Mr. Kent?”

“In about twenty minutes, Colonel.” Sylvester glanced at the wall clock. “Won't you sit down?”

McIntyre took the chair and planted it by the window. Never a very patient man, he waited for Kent with increasing irritation, and at the end of half an hour his temper was uppermost. “Give me something to write with,” he demanded of Sylvester. Accepting the clerk's fountain pen without thanks, he walked over to the center table and, drawing out his leather wallet, took from it a visiting card and, stooping over, wrote:

You have but thirty-six hours remaining.McIntyre.

“See that Mr. Kent gets this card,” he directed. “No, don't put it there,” irascibly, as the clerk laid the card on top of a pile of letters. “Take it into Mr. Kent's office and put it on his desk.”

There was that about Colonel McIntyre which inspired complete obedience to his wishes, and Sylvester followed his directions without further question.

As the clerk stepped into Kent's office McIntyre saw a woman sitting by the empty desk. She turned her head on hearing footsteps and their glances met. A faint exclamation broke from her.

“Margaret!” McIntyre strode past Sylvester. “What are you doing here?”

Mrs. Brewster's ready laugh hid all sign of embarrassment. “Must you know?” she asked archly. “That is hardly fair to Barbara.”

“So Barbara sent you here with a message!” Mrs. Brewster treated his remark as a statement and not a question, and briskly changed the subject.

“I can't wait any longer,” she pouted. “Please tell Mr. Kent that I am sorry not to have seen him.”

“I will, madam.” Sylvester placed McIntyre's card in the center of Kent's desk and flew to open the door for Mrs. Brewster.

As the widow stepped into the corridor she brushed by an over-dressed woman, whose cheap finery gave clear indication of her tastes. Hardly noticing another's presence she turned and took McIntyre's arm and they strolled off together, her soft laugh floating back to where Mrs. Sylvester stood talking to her husband.

Harry Kent rang the doorbell at the McIntyre residence for the fifth time, and wondered what had become of the faithful Grimes; the butler was usually the soul of promptness, and to keep a caller waiting on the doorstep would, in his category, rank as the height of impropriety. As Kent again raised his hand toward the bell, the door swung open suddenly and Barbara beckoned to him to come inside.

“The bell is out of order,” she explained. “I saw you from the window. Hurry, and Grimes won't know that you are here,” and she darted ahead of him into the reception room. Kent followed more slowly; he was hurt that she had had no other greeting for him.

“Babs, aren't you glad to see me?” he asked wistfully.

For an instant her eyes were lighted by her old sunny smile.

“You know I am,” she whispered softly. As his arms closed around her and their lips met in a tender kiss she added fervently, “Oh, Harry, why didn't you make me marry you in the happy bygone days?”

“I asked you often enough,” he declared.

“Will you go with me to Rockville at once?” Her face changed and she drew back from him. “No,” she said. “It is selfish of me to think of my own happiness now.”

“How about mine?” demanded Kent with warmth. “If you won't consider yourself, consider me.”

“I do.” She looked out of the window to conceal sudden blinding tears. There was a hint of hidden tragedy in her lovely face which went to Kent's heart.

“Sweetheart,” his voice was very tender, “is there nothing I can do for you?”

“Nothing,” she shook her head drearily. “This family must 'dree its weir.'”

Kent studied her in silence; that she was in deadly earnest he recognized, she was no hysterical fool or given to sentimental twaddle.

“You came to me on Wednesday to ask my aid in solving Jimmie Turnbull's death,” he said. “I have learned certain facts—”

Barbara sprang to her feet. “Wait,” she cautioned. “Let me close the door. Now, go on—” with her customary impetuosity she reseated herself.

“Before I do so, I must tell you, Babs, that I recognized the fraud you and Helen perpetrated at the coroner's inquest yesterday afternoon.”

“Fraud?”

“Yes,” quietly. “I am aware that you impersonated Helen on the witness stand and vice versa. You took a frightful risk.”

“I don't see why,” she protested. “In my testimony I told nothing but the truth.”

“I never doubted you told the truth regarding the events of Monday night as you saw them, but the coroner's questions were put to you under the impression that you were Helen.” Kent scrutinized her keenly. “Would Helen have been able to give the same answers that you did without perjuring herself?”

Barbara started and her face paled. “Are you insinuating that Helen killed Jimmie?” she cried.

“No,” his emphatic denial was prompt. “But I do believe that she knows more of what transpired Monday night than she is willing to admit. Is that not so, Barbara?”

“Yes,” she acknowledged reluctantly.

“Does she know who poisoned Jimmie?”

“No—no!” Barbara rested a firm hand on his shoulder. “I swear Helen does not know. You must believe me, Harry.”

“She may not know,” Kent spoke slowly. “But are you sure she does not suspect some one?”

“Well, what if I do?” asked Helen quietly, and Kent, looking around, found her standing just inside the door. Her entrance had been noiseless.

“You should tell the authorities, Helen.” Kent rose as she passed him and selected a seat which brought her face somewhat in shadow. “If you do not you may retard justice.”

“But if I speak I may involve the innocent,” she retorted. “I—” her eyes shifted from him to Barbara and back again. “I cannot undertake that responsibility.”

“Better that than let the guilty escape through your silence,” protested Kent. “Possibly the theories of the police may coincide with yours.

“What are they?” asked Barbara impetuously.

Kent considered before replying. If Detective Ferguson had gone so far as to secure a search warrant to go through Rochester's apartment and office it would not be long before the fact of his being a “suspect” would be common property; there could, therefore, be no harm in his repeating Ferguson's conversation to the twins. In fact, as their legal representative, they were entitled to know the latest developments from him.

“Detective Ferguson believes that the poison was administered by Philip Rochester,” he said finally, and watched to see how the announcement would affect them. Barbara's eyes opened to their widest extent, and back in her corner, into which she had gradually edged her chair, Helen emitted a long, long breath as her taut muscles relaxed.

“What makes Ferguson think Philip guilty?” demanded Barbara.

“It is known that he and Jimmie were not on good terms,” replied Kent. “Then Rochester's disappearance after Jimmie's death lends color to the theory.”

“Has Philip really disappeared?” asked Helen. “You showed me a telegram—”

“Apparently the telegram was a fake,” admitted Kent. “The Cleveland police report that he is not at the address given in the telegram.”

“But who could have an object in sending such a telegram?” asked Barbara slowly.

“Rochester, in the hope of throwing the police off his track, if he really killed Jimmie.” Kent looked straight at Helen. “It was while searching our office safe for trace of Rochester's present address that Ferguson obtained possession of your sealed envelope.”

Helen plucked nervously at the ribbon on her gown. “Did the detective open the envelope” she asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive; the red seal was unbroken.”

“Tell us how the envelope came to be stolen from you,” coaxed Barbara.

“We were in the little smoking porch off the dining room at the Club de Vingt.” Barbara smiled her remembrance of it, and motioned Kent to continue. “Ferguson had just put down the envelope on the table and I started to pick it up when cheering in the dining room distracted my attention and I, with the others, went to see what it was about. When I returned to the porch the envelope was no longer on the table.”

“Who were with you?” questioned Helen.

“Your father, Mrs. Brewster—”

“Of course,” murmured Barbara. “Go on, Harry.”

“Detective Ferguson and Ben Clymer,” Barbara made a wry face, “and”—went on Kent, not heeding her, “each of these persons deny any further knowledge of the envelope, except they declare it was lying on the table when we all made a dash for the dining room.

“Who was the last to leave the porch?” asked Helen.

“Ben Clymer.”

“And he saw no one take the envelope?”

“He declares that he had his back to the table, part of the time, but to the best of his knowledge no one took the envelope.”

“One of them must have,” insisted Barbara.

“The envelope hadn't legs or wings.”

“One of them did take it,” agreed Kent.

“But which one is the question. Frankly, to find the answer, I must know the contents of the envelope, Helen.”

“Why?”

“Because then I will have some idea who would be enough interested in the envelope to steal it.”

Helen considered him long and thoughtfully. “I cannot answer your question,” she announced finally. She saw his face harden, and hastened to explain. “Not through any lack of confidence in you, Harry, b-b-but,” she stumbled in her speech. “I—I do not know what the envelope contains.”

Kent stared at her open-mouthed. “Then who requested you to lock the envelope in Rochester's safe?” he demanded, and receiving no reply, asked suddenly: “Was it Rochester?”

“I am not at liberty to tell you,” she responded; her mouth set in obstinate lines and before he could press his request a second time, she asked: “Philip Rochester defended Jimmie in court when every one thought him a burglar; why then, should Philip have picked him out to attack—he is not a homicidal maniac?”

“No, but the police contend that Rochester recognized Jimmie in his make-up and decided to kill him; hoping his death would be attributed to angina pectoris, and no post-mortem held,” wound up Kent.

“I don’t quite understand”—Helen raised her handkerchief to her forehead and removed a drop of moisture. “How did Philip kill Jimmie there in court before us all?”

“Ferguson believes that he put the dose of aconitine in the glass of water which Jimmie asked for,” explained Kent, and would have continued his remarks, but a scream from Barbara startled him.

“There, look at the window,” she cried. “I saw a face peering in. Look quick, Harry, look!”

Kent needed no second bidding, but although he craned his head far outside the open window and gazed both up and down the street and along the path to the kitchen door, he failed to see any one. “Was it a man or woman?” he asked, turning back to the room.

“I—I couldn't tell; it was just a glimpse.” Barbara stood resting one hand on the table, her weight leaning upon it. Not for words would she have had Kent know that her knees were shaking under her.

“Did you see the face, Helen?” As he put the question Kent looked around at the silent girl in the corner; she had slipped back in her chair and, with closed eyes, lay white-lipped and limp. With a leap Kent gained her side and his hand sought her pulse.

“Ring for brandy and water,” he directed as Barbara came to his aid. “Helen has fainted.”

Twenty minutes later Kent hastened out of the McIntyre house and, turning into Connecticut Avenue, boarded a street car headed south. After carrying Helen to the twins' sitting room he had assisted Barbara in reviving her. He had wondered at the time why Barbara had not summoned the servants, then concluded that neither sister wished a scene. That Helen was worse than she would admit he appreciated, and advised Barbara to send for Dr. Stone. The well-meant suggestion had apparently fallen on deaf ears, for no physician had appeared during the time he was in the house, nor had Barbara used the telephone, almost at her elbow as she sat by her sister's couch, to summon Dr. Stone. Kent had only waited long enough to convince himself that Helen was out of danger, and then had departed.

It was nearly one o'clock when he finally stepped inside his office, and he found his clerk and a dressy female bending eagerly over a newspaper. They looked up at his approach and Sylvester came forward.

“This is my wife, sir,” he explained, and Kent bowed courteously to Mrs. Sylvester. “We were just reading this account of Mr. Rochester's disappearance; it's dreadful, sir, to think that the police believe him guilty of Mr. Turnbull's murder.”

“Dreadful, indeed,” agreed Kent; the news had been published even sooner than he had imagined. “What paper is that?”

“The noon edition of the Times.” Sylvester handed it to him.

“Thanks,” Kent flung down his hat and spread open the paper. “Who have been here to-day?”

“Colonel McIntyre, sir; he left a card for you.” Sylvester hurried into Kent's office, to return a moment later with a visiting card. “He left this, sir, for you with most particular directions that it be handed to you at once on your arrival.”

Kent read the curt message on the card without comment and tore the paste-board into tiny bits.

“Any one else been in this morning?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” Sylvester consulted a written memorandum. “Mr. Black called, also Colonel Thorne, Senator Harris, and Mrs. Brewster.”

“Mrs. Brewster!” The newspaper slipped from Kent's fingers in his astonishment. “What did she want here?”

“To see you, sir, so she said, but she first asked for Mr. Rochester,” explained Sylvester, stooping over to pick up the inside sheet of the Times which had separated from the others. “I told her that Mr. Rochester was unavoidably detained in Cleveland; then she said she would consult you and I let her wait in your office for the good part of an hour.”

Kent thought a moment then walked toward his door; on its threshold he paused, struck by a sudden idea.

“Did Colonel McIntyre come with Mrs. Brewster?” he asked.

“No, Mr. Kent; he came in while she was here.”

“And they went off together,” volunteered Mrs. Sylvester, who had been a silent listener to their conversation. Kent started; he had forgotten the woman. “Excuse me, Mr. Kent,” she continued, and stepped toward him. “I presume, likely, that you are very interested in this charge of murder against your partner, Mr. Rochester.”

“I am,” affirmed Kent, as Mrs. Sylvester paused.

“I am too, sir,” she confided to him. “Cause you see I was in the court room when Mr. Turnbull died and I'm naturally interested.”

“Naturally,” agreed Kent with a commiserating glance at his clerk; the latter's wife threatened to be loquacious, and he judged from her looks that it was a habit which had grown with the years. As a general rule he abhorred talkative women, but—“And what took you to the police court on Tuesday morning?”

“Why, me and Mr. Sylvester have our little differences like other married couples,” she explained. “And sometimes we ask the Court to settle them.” She caught Kent's look of impatience and hurried her speech. “The burglar case came on just after ours was remanded, and seeing the McIntyre twins, whom I've often read about, I just thought I'd stay. Let me have that paper a minute.”

“Certainly,” Kent gave her the newspaper and she ran her finger down the columns devoted to the Turnbull case with a slowness that set his already excited nerves on edge.

“Here's what I'm looking for,” she exclaimed triumphantly, a minute later, and pointed to the paragraph:

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