“Mrs. Margaret Perry Brewster, the fascinating widow, addednothing material to the case in her testimony, and she wasquickly excused, after stating that she was told about thetragedy by the McIntyre twins upon their return from thePolice Court.”
“Well what of it?” asked Kent.
“Only this, Mr. Kent;” Mrs. Sylvester enjoyed nothing so much as talking to a good looking man, especially in the presence of her husband, and she could not refrain from a triumphant look at him as she went on with her remarks. “There was a female sitting on the bench next to me in Court; in fact, she and I were the only women on that side, and I kinder noticed her on that account, and then I saw she was all done up in veils—I couldn't see her face.
“I caught her peering this way and that during the burglar's hearing; I don't reckon she could see well through all the veils. Now, don't get impatient, Mr. Kent; I'm getting to my point—that woman sitting next to me in the police court was the widow Brewster.”
“What!” Kent laughed unbelievingly. “Oh, come, you are mistaken.”
“I am not, sir.” Mrs. Sylvester spoke with conviction. “Now, why does Mrs. Brewster declare at the coroner's inquest that she only heard of the Turnbull tragedy from the McIntyre twins on their return home?”
“You must be mistaken,” argued Kent. “Why, you admit yourself that the woman was so swathed in veils that you could not see her face.”
“No, but I heard her laugh in court,” Mrs. Sylvester spoke in deep earnestness and Kent placed faith in her statement in spite of his outward skepticism. “And I heard her laugh in this corridor this morning and I placed her as the same woman. I asked Mr. Sylvester who she was, and he told me. I'd been reading this account of the Turnbull inquest, and I recollected seeing Mrs. Brewster's name, and my husband and I were just reading the account over when you came in.”
Kent gazed in perplexity at Mrs. Sylvester. “Why did Mrs. Brewster laugh in the police court?” he asked.
“When Dr. Stone exclaimed to the deputy marshal—'Your prisoner appears ill!'” declared Mrs. Sylvester; she enjoyed the dramatic, and that Kent was hanging on her words she was fully aware, in spite of his expressionless face. “Dr. Stone lifted the burglar in his arms and then Mrs. Brewster laughed as she laughed in the corridor to-day—a soft gurgling laugh.”
It was the rush hour at the Metropolis Trust Company and the busy paying teller counted out silver and gold and treasury notes of varying denominations with the mechanical precision and exactness which experience gives. Suddenly his hand stopped midway toward the money drawer, his attention arrested by the signature on a check. A swift glance upward showed him a girl's face at the grille of the window. There was an instant's pause, then she addressed him.
“Do hurry, Mr. McDonald; father is waiting for me.”
“Pardon me, Miss McIntyre.” He stamped the check and laid it to one side, “how do you want the money?”
“Oh, I forgot.” She glanced at a memorandum on the back of an envelope. “Mrs. Brewster wishes ten tens, five twenties, and ten ones. Thank you, good afternoon,” and counting over the money she thrust it inside her bag and hurried away.
She had been gone a bare five minutes when Kent reached the window and pushed several checks toward the teller.
“Is Mr. Clymer in his office, McDonald?” he asked, placing the bank notes given him in his wallet.
“I'm not sure.” The teller glanced around at the clock; the hands stood at ten minutes of three. “It's pretty near closing time, Kent; still, he may be there.”
“I'll go and see,” and with a nod of farewell Kent turned on his heel and walked off in the direction of the office of the bank president. On reaching there he saw, through the glass partition of the door, Clymer seated in earnest conclave with two men.
Happening to glance up Clymer recognized Kent and beckoned to him to come inside. “You know Taylor,” he said by way of introduction. “And this is Mr. Harding of New York—Mr. Kent,” he turned around in his swivel chair to face the three men. “Draw up a chair, Kent; we were just going over to see you.
“Yes?” Kent looked inquiringly at the bank president, the gravity of his manner betokened serious tidings. “What is it, Mr. Clymer?”
Clymer did not reply at once. “It's this,” he said finally, with blunt directness. “Your partner, Philip Rochester, appears to be a bankrupt. Harding and Taylor came in here to attach his private bank account to cover indebtedness to their business firms.”
An exclamation broke from Kent. “Impossible!” he gasped.
“I would have said the same this morning,” declared Clymer. “But on investigation I find that Rochester has over-drawn his account here for a large amount and borrowed heavily. The further I look into his financial affairs the more involved I find them.”
“But”—Kent was white-lipped. “I know for an absolute fact that Rochester was paid some exceedingly large fees last week, totaling over fifty thousand dollars.”
“He has never deposited such a sum, or anywhere like that amount in this bank either last week or this,” stated Clymer, running his eyes down a bank statement which, with several pass books, lay on his desk.
“Does he carry accounts at other banks?” inquired Harding.
“Not that I can discover,” responded Taylor. “I have been to every national and private banking house in Washington, but all deny having him as a depositor. Did Rochester ever bank out of town, Kent?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Kent drew out a bank book. “Here is the firm's balance, Mr. Clymer; we bank here, you know.”
“Yes.” Clymer's look of anxiety deepened.
“Did you see McDonald as you came in?”
“Yes, he cashed some checks for me.”
“Your personal checks?”
“Yes.” Kent looked questioningly at Clymer. “What do you mean?”
“Only this; that all moneys deposited here in the firm name of Rochester and Kent have been drawn out.”
“That's not possible!” Kent started up.
“Checks on that account must bear both Rochester's signature and mine.” “Checks bearing both signatures have been presented for the total sum deposited to your credit,” stated Clymer and he picked up four canceled checks. “See for yourself.”
Kent stared at the checks in dumbfounded silence; then carrying them to the light he examined them with minute care before bringing them back to the bank president.
“This is the first I have heard of these transactions,” he said.
“You mean—”
“That the signatures are clever forgeries.” His statement was heard with gravity. Taylor exchanged a meaning look with the New Yorker.
“You mean your signature is a forgery,” he suggested. “Rochester had a peculiar gift of penmanship.”
Kent sprang up. “Do you accuse Philip Rochester of signing these checks and inserting my name to them?”
“I do,” calmly. “I am not familiar with your signature, Kent, but that Rochester wrote the body of those four checks and put his own signature at the bottom I will swear to in any court of law. To make them valid he had to add your name.”
“But, d—mn it, man!” Kent stared in bewilderment at his three companions. “Rochester was honorable and straight-forward—”
“And addicted to drink,” put in Harding.
“But not a forger,” retorted Kent firmly. Harding's only rejoinder was a skeptical smile as he turned to address Clymer.
“So Rochester not only has taken his own money, but withdrawn that belonging to the firm of Rochester and Kent without the knowledge of his junior partner; it looks black, Mr. Clymer,” he remarked. “Especially when taken in consideration with his other involved financial transactions.”
“Where will we find Rochester, Kent?” asked Taylor, before the bank president could answer the New Yorker.
Kent paused in indecision. What reply could he make without further involving Rochester in trouble? He had not the faintest idea where Rochester was, but to state that he was missing could not but add to the belief that he had made away with all the money he could lay his hands on. The noon edition of the Times had hinted at Rochester's disappearance but had stated they could not get the statement confirmed from Police Headquarters; obviously Harding and Taylor had not seen the newspaper.
Was it just to the men before him to keep them in the dark? If their claims were true, and Kent never doubted that they were, they had already lost money through Rochester's extraordinary behavior. Kent turned sick at the thought of his own loss—his savings swept away. Would Barbara wait for him—was it fair to ask her?
Taylor broke the prolonged silence.
“I met Detective Ferguson on my way here,” he stated. “He told me that the police were looking for Rochester.”
“What?” Harding looked up, startled. “Why didn't you inform me of that?”
“Well, I thought we'd better hear from Mr. Clymer the true state of Rochester's finances,” responded Taylor. “I never anticipated such facts as he has given us.”
“But if you knew the police were after Rochester—” objected Harding.
Clymer broke into the conversation; there was a heavy frown on his usually placid countenance. “I judged from Detective Ferguson's confidences to us, Kent, at the Club de Vingt that he was wanted by the police in connection with the Turnbull tragedy, but the facts brought out through Harding's action to attach Rochester's bank account, puts a different construction on Rochester's disappearance.”
“What had Rochester to do with Jimmie Turnbull?” questioned Harding, before Kent could answer Clymer.
“They lived together,” he replied shortly.
“And one dies and the other disappears,” Harding whistled dolefully. “Wasn't Mr. Turnbull an official of this bank, Mr. Clymer?”
“Yes, our cashier.”
“Were his affairs involved?”
“Not in the least,” Clymer spoke with emphasis. “A most honorable fellow, Jimmie Turnbull; his murder was a shocking affair.”
“Have the police found any motive for the crime, Kent?” asked Taylor.
“I believe not.”
Harding, who had been ruminating in silence, leaned forward, his expression alight with a sudden idea.
“Could it be that Turnbull found out that Rochester was passing forged checks, and Rochester insured his silence by poisoning him?” he asked.
Clymer and Kent exchanged glances, as Kent's thoughts reverted to the forged letter presented by Turnbull to the bank's treasurer, whereby he had been given McIntyre's valuable negotiable securities. Could it be that Rochester had written the letter, given it to his room-mate, Turnbull, and the latter, thinking it genuine, had secured the McIntyre securities and handed them over to Rochester? The idea took Kent's breath away; and yet, the more he contemplated it, the more feasible it appeared.
“What's the date on those checks?” demanded Kent.
“Tuesday of this week—the day Jimmie Turnbull died.” Clymer turned them over. “They are drawn payable to cash, and bear no endorsement, which shows Rochester must have presented them himself.”
Harding and Taylor glanced significantly at each other, but neither spoke. Suddenly Kent pushed back his chair and rose without ceremony.
“Don't go, Kent.” Clymer took up some papers. “There's a matter—”
“It will keep.” Kent's mouth was set and determined. “I give you my word of honor that all Rochester's honest debts will be paid by the firm if necessary; I will obligate myself to that extent,” he paused. “As for you fellows,” turning to Harding and Taylor who had also risen. “Give me twenty-four hours—”
“What for?” they chorused.
“To locate Philip Rochester,” and waiting for no answer Kent bolted out of the office.
The city lights were springing up block after block along Pennsylvania Avenue as Detective Ferguson left that busy thoroughfare and hurried to the Saratoga. He stepped inside the lobby of the apartment house a full minute before his appointment with its manager, and went at once to look him up. Before he could carry out his purpose he was joined by Harry Kent.
“Finley had to go out,” the latter explained. “I told him I would go up to Rochester's apartment with you.”
Ferguson thoughtfully caressed his clean-shaven jaw for a second, then came to a rapid decision.
“Lead the way, sir,” he said. “I'll follow.” Kent found him a silent companion while in the elevator and when walking down the corridor to Rochester's apartment, but once inside the living room, with the outer door tightly closed, Ferguson tossed down his hat and his whole demeanor changed.
“Sit down, Mr. Kent.” He selected a chair near Rochester's desk for himself, as Kent found another. “Let's thrash this thing out; are you working with me or against me?”
“Why do you ask?” Kent's surprise at the question was evident.
“Because every time I arrange to examine this apartment or inquire into Rochester's whereabouts you show up.” Ferguson's small eyes were trying to out-stare Kent, but the latter's clear gaze did not drop before his. “Are you aiding Philip Rochester in his efforts to elude arrest?”
“I am not,” declared Kent emphatically. “What prompts the question?”
“The fact that you are Rochester's partner,” Ferguson pointed out; his manner was still stiff. “It would be only natural for you to help him disappear out of friendship, or”—with a sidelong glance—“from a desire to hush up a scandal.”
“On the contrary I want Rochester found and every bit of evidence against him sifted out and aired,” retorted Kent. “Two heads are better than one, Ferguson; let us work together. Rochester must be located within the next twenty-four hours.”
Ferguson debated a moment, but Kent's speech as well as his manner indicated his sincerity, and the detective shook off his suspicions. “Have you had any further news of your partner?” he asked.
“No; that is”—recalling the scene in the bank early that afternoon—“nothing that relates to Rochester's present whereabouts. Now, Ferguson, to put your charges against Rochester in concrete form, you believe that he was insanely jealous of Jimmie Turnbull, that he recognized him in the Police Court in his burglar disguise, slipped a dose of aconitine in a glass of water which Turnbull drank, and after declaring that his friend had died from angina pectoris, disappeared. Is that all the case you have against him?”
“At present, yes,” admitted the detective cautiously.
“All circumstantial evidence—”
“But it will hold in court—”
“Ah, will it?” questioned Kent. “There's one big flaw in your case, Ferguson; the poison used to kill Turnbull.”
“Aconitine?”
“Exactly. Your theory is that Rochester slipped the poison in the glass of water on recognizing Turnbull in the police court; now, it is stretching probability to suppose that Rochester, a strong healthy man, was carrying that drug around in his vest pocket.”
Ferguson sat forward in his chair, his eyes glittering. “Do you mean to say that you think the murder of Turnbull was premeditated and not committed on the spur of the moment?” he asked.
“The fact that aconitine was used convinces me of that,” answered Kent.
Ferguson thought a moment. “If that is the case,” he said, grudgingly, “it sort of squashes the charge against Philip Rochester.”
“It would seem to,” agreed Kent. “But every shred of evidence I find points to Rochester as the guilty man.”
Ferguson edged his chair forward. “What have you discovered?” he demanded eagerly.
“This,” Kent spoke with increased earnestness. “That Philip Rochester is apparently a bankrupt, that he has over-drawn his private account at the Metropolis Trust Company, and withdrawn our partnership funds from the same bank.”
“Your partnership funds!” echoed the detective, eyeing Kent sharply. “How did you come to let him do that?”
“I was not aware that he had done so until Mr. Clymer told me of the transaction this afternoon,” answered Kent.
“You did not know”—Ferguson looked at him in dawning comprehension. “You mean Rochester absconded with the funds?”
“Some one forged my name to checks drawn on the firm's account,” Kent continued. “I understood they were made payable to cash and presented by Rochester on the day of Turnbull's death.”
Ferguson whistled as a slight vent to his feelings. “So you suspect Rochester of being a forger?” Kent made no reply, and he added; after a moment's deliberation, “What bearing has this discovery on Turnbull's death, aside from Rochester's need of funds to make a clean disappearance?”
“If it is true that Rochester was financially embarrassed and forged checks on the Metropolis Trust Company, it establishes another motive for the killing of Turnbull,” argued Kent. “Turnbull was cashier of that bank.”
“I see; he may have discovered the forgeries—but hold on.” Ferguson checked his rapid speech. “When were these forged checks presented at the bank?”
“Tuesday afternoon.”
Ferguson's face fell. “Pshaw! man; that was after Turnbull's death—how could he detect the forgeries?”
Kent did not reply at once; instead, he glanced keenly about the living room. The detective had only switched on one of the reading lamps and the greater part was in shadow. It was a pleasant and home-like room, and Kent was conscious of a keener pang for the loss of Jimmie Turnbull and the disappearance of Philip Rochester, as he gazed around. The lawyer and the bank cashier had been, until that winter, congenial comrades, sharing their business success and their apartment in complete accord; and now a shadow as black as that enveloping the unlighted apartment hung over their good names, threatening one or the other with the charge of forgery and of murder. Kent sighed and turned back to the silent detective.
“I can best answer your question by telling you that the day after Jimmie Turnbull died Mr. Clymer sent for me,” he began. “I found Colonel McIntyre with him and was told that the Colonel had lost valuable securities left at the bank. These securities had been given by the treasurer of the bank to Jimmie Turnbull when he presented a letter from Colonel McIntyre instructing the bank to surrender the securities to Jimmie.”
“Well?” questioned Ferguson. “Go on, sir.”
“That letter was a forgery.” Kent sat back and watched the detective's rapidly changing expression. “And no trace has been found of the Colonel's securities, last known to be in the possession of Turnbull.”
“Great heavens!” ejaculated Ferguson. “Which was the forger—Turnbull or Rochester?”
Kent shook a puzzled head. “That is for us to discover,” he said soberly. “Colonel McIntyre contends that Turnbull forged the letter and stole the securities, then fearing his guilt would become known, committed still another crime—that of suicide, he could have swallowed a dose of aconitine while at the police court.”
“Well, I'll be—blessed!” ejaculated Ferguson. “But if he was the forger how does that square with Rochester's peculiar behavior? The checks bearing your forged signatures were presented, mind you, by Rochester after Turnbull's death?”
“It doesn't square,” acknowledged Kent frankly. “There is this to be said for Turnbull: he was the soul of honor, his affairs were found to be in excellent condition, he was drawing a good salary, his investments paying well—he did not need to acquire securities or money by resorting to forgery.”
“Whereas Philip Rochester was on the point of bankruptcy,” remarked Ferguson. “Do you suppose he forged Colonel McIntyre's letter and gave it to Turnbull, and the latter got the securities from the bank treasurer and handed them over to Rochester in good faith, supposing his room-mate would give the papers to Colonel McIntyre?”
Kent nodded in agreement. “It looks that way to me,” he said gloomily. “Philip Rochester stood well in the community, his law practice is large and lucrative, and if it had not been for his periods of idleness and—and”—hesitating—“passion for good living, he would never have run into debt.”
“But he got there.” Ferguson's laugh was contemptuous. “A desperate man will do anything, Mr. Kent.”
“I know,” Kent looked dubious. “I would believe him guilty if it were not for the use of aconitine—that shows premeditation on the part of the murderer.”
“And why shouldn't Rochester plan Turnbull's murder ahead of the scene in the police court?” argued Ferguson. “Wasn't he living in deadly fear of exposure? If he did not commit the murder, why did he run away? And if he is innocent, why doesn't he come forward and prove it?”
“He may not know that he is suspected of the crime,” retorted Kent, rising. “It is for us to find Rochester, and I suggest that we search this apartment thoroughly.”
“I have already done so,” objected Ferguson. “And there wasn't the faintest clew to his hiding place.”
“For all that I am not satisfied.” Kent walked over and switched on another light. “When I came here on Wednesday night I had a tussle with some man, but he escaped in the dark without my seeing him. I believe he was Rochester.”
“You are probably right.” Ferguson crossed the room. “And if he came back once, he may return again. Come ahead,” and he plunged into the first bedroom. The two men subjected each room to an exhaustive search, but their labors were their only reward; except for an accumulation of dust, the apartment was undisturbed. They had reached the kitchenette-pantry when the gong over their heads sounded loudly, and Kent, with a muttered exclamation hastened toward the front door of the apartment. Ferguson, intent on studying the “L” of the building as seen from the window, was hardly conscious of his departure, and some seconds elapsed before he turned toward the door. As he gained it, he saw a dark shape dart down the hall. With a bound Ferguson started in pursuit, and the next second grappled with the flying man just as the electric lights went out and they were plunged in darkness.
Suddenly Kent's voice echoed down the hall. “Come here quick, Ferguson!”
There was a note of urgency about his appeal, and Ferguson straining his muscles until the blood pounded in his temples, threw the struggling man into a tufted arm-chair which stood by the entrance to the small dining room, and drawing out his handcuffs, slipped them on securely. “Stay there,” Ferguson admonished his prisoner. “Or there will be worse coming to you,” and he thrust the muzzle of his revolver against the man's heaving chest to illustrate his meaning; then as Kent called again, he sped down the hall and brought up breathless at the front door. The light was still burning in the corridor, though not very brightly, and he saw Kent hand the grinning messenger boy a shiny quarter. Touching his battered cap the boy went whistling away. “Tell the elevator boy to report that a fuse has burned out in Mr. Rochester's apartment,” Ferguson called after him, and the lad waved his hand as he dashed into the elevator.
Paying no attention to the detective's call, Kent showed him a white envelope which bore the simple address:
PHILIP ROCHESTER, ESQ.THE SARATOGA
“It's the identical envelope I found in your safe,” declared Ferguson.
“And which disappeared last night at the Club de Vingt.” Kent turned over the envelope. “See, the red seal.”
For a minute the men contemplated the seal with the large distinctive letter “B” in the center.
“Open the letter, sir,” Ferguson urged and Kent, his fingers fairly trembling, jerked and tore at the linen incased envelope; the flap ripped away and he opened the envelope—it was empty.
Instinctively the two men glanced down at the parquetry flooring; nothing but a thin coating of dust lay there, and Kent looked up and down the corridor; it was deserted.
“Do you recognize the handwriting?” asked Ferguson.
“No.” Kent regarded the envelope in bewilderment. “What shall we do?”
“Do? Call up the Dime Messenger Service and see where the envelope came from; but first come and see my prisoner.
“Your prisoner?” in profound astonishment.
“Yes. I caught him chasing up the hall after you,” explained Ferguson as they hurriedly retraced their steps. “I put handcuffs on him and then went to you. Ah, here's the light!”
“The light, yes; but where's your prisoner?” and Kent, who was a trifle in advance of his companion in reaching the dining room, stood aside to let Ferguson pass him.
The detective halted abruptly. The chair into which he had thrust his prisoner was vacant. The man had disappeared.
With one accord Ferguson and Kent advanced close to the chair, and an oath broke from the detective. On the cushion of the chair, still bearing the impress of a human body, lay a pair of shining new handcuffs.
Dazedly Ferguson stooped over and examined them. They were still securely locked. Wheeling around Kent dashed through the door to his right and Ferguson, collecting his wits, searched the rest of the apartment with minute care. Five minutes later he came face to face with Kent in the living room. “Not a trace of any kind,” declared Kent. “It's the same as the other night; the man's gone. It's—it's positively uncanny.”
Ferguson's face was red from mortification and his exertions combined.
“The fellow must have slipped from the room by that other door and out through the living room as we came down the hall,” he said. “Did you shut the door of the apartment, Mr. Kent, before coming down here to look at the prisoner?”
“Yes.” Kent led the way back to the dining room. “Did you recognize the man, Ferguson?”
“No.” The detective swore softly as he stared about the room. “The lights went out just as I tackled him.”
“It was beastly luck that the fuse burned out at that second,” groaned Kent. “Fortune was with him in that; but how did the man get free of the handcuffs?” pointing to them still lying in the chair. “We can't attribute that to luck, unless”—staring keenly at Ferguson—“unless you did not snap them on the man's wrists, after all.”
“I did; I swear it,” declared Ferguson. “I'm no novice at that business. Here, don't touch them, Mr. Kent,” as his companion bent toward the chair. “There may be finger marks on the steel; if so”—he drew out his handkerchief, and taking care not to handle the burnished metal, he folded the handcuffs carefully in it and put them in his coat pocket. “There's no use lingering here, Mr. Kent; this apartment is vacant now except for us. I must get to Headquarters.”
“Hadn't you better telephone for an operative and station him here?” suggested Kent.
“I did so while you were searching the back rooms,” replied Ferguson. “There,” as the gong sounded. “That's Nelson, now.”
But the person who stood in the outer corridor when they opened the front door was not Nelson, the operative, but Dr. Stone.
“Can I see Mr. Rochester?” he asked, then catching sight of Kent standing just back of the detective, he added, “Hello, Kent; I thought I heard some one walking about in here from my apartment next door, and concluded Rochester had returned. Can I see him?”
“N-no,” Kent spoke slowly, with a side-glance at the silent detective. “Rochester has been here—and left.”
Barbara McIntyre made the round of the library for the fifth time, testing each of the seven doors opening into it to see that they were closed behind their portieres, then she turned back to her sister, who sat cross-logged before a small safe.
“Any luck?” she asked
Instead of replying Helen removed the key from the lock of the steel door and regarded it attentively. The safe was of an obsolete pattern and in place of the customary combination lock, was opened by means of a key, unique in appearance.
“It is certainly the key which father mislaid six months ago,” she declared. “Grimes found it just after father had a new key made and gave it to me. And yet I can't get the door open.”
“Let me try.” Barbara crouched down by her sister and inserted the key again in the lock, but her efforts met with no results, and after five minutes' steady manipulation she gave up the attempt. “I am afraid it is impossible,” she admitted. “Seems to me I have heard that the lost key will not open a safe after a new key has been supplied.”
Helen rose slowly to her feet, stretching her cramped limbs carefully as she did so, and sank down in the nearest chair. Her attitude indicated dejection.
“Then we can't find the envelope,” she muttered. “Hurry, Babs, and close the outer door; father may return at any moment.”
Barbara obeyed the injunction with such alacrity that the door, concealing the space in the wall where stood the safe, flew to with a bang and the twins jumped nervously.
“Take care!” exclaimed Helen sharply. “Do you wish to arouse the household?”
“No danger of that.” But Barbara glanced apprehensively about the library in spite of her reassuring statement. “The servants are either out or upstairs, and Margaret Brewster is writing letters in our sitting room.”
“Hadn't you better go upstairs and join her?” Helen suggested. “Do, Babs,” as her sister hesitated. “I cannot feel sure that she will not interrupt us.”
“But my joining her won't keep Margaret upstairs,” objected Barbara.
“No, but you can call and warn me if she is on her way down, and that will give me time to—to straighten father's papers,” going over to a large carved table littered with magazines, letters, and silver ornaments. Her sister did not move, and she glanced at her with an irritated air, very foreign to her customary manner. “Go, Barbara.”
The curt command brought a stare from Barbara, but it did not accelerate her halting footsteps; instead she moved with even greater slowness toward the hall door; her active brain tormented with an unspoken and unanswered question. Why was Helen so anxious for her departure? She had accepted her offer of assistance in her search of the library with such marked reluctance that Barbara had marveled at the time, and now...
“Are you quite sure, Helen, that father had the envelope in his pocket this morning?” she asked for the third time since the search began.
“He had an envelope—I caught a glimpse of the red seal,” answered Helen. “Then, just before dinner he was putting some papers in the safe. Oh, if Grimes had only come in a moment sooner to announce dinner, I might have had a chance to look in the safe before father closed the door.”
Whatever reply Barbara intended making was checked by the rattling of the knob of the hall door; it turned slowly, the door opened and, pushing aside the portieres drawn across the entrance, Margaret Brewster glided in. “So glad to find you,” she cooed. “But why have you closed up the room and turned on all the lights?”
“To see better,” retorted Barbara promptly as the widow's eyes roved around the large room, taking silent note of the drawn curtains and portieres, and the somewhat disarranged furniture. “Come inside, Margaret, and help us in our search.”
“For what?” The widow tried to keep her tone natural, but a certain shrill alertness crept into it and Barbara, who was watching her closely, was quick to detect the change. Helen's color altered at the question, and she observed the widow's entrance with veiled hostility.
“For my seal,” Barbara answered. “The one with the big letter 'B.' Have you seen it?”
“I?—No.” The widow took a chair uninvited near Helen. “You look tired, Helen dear; why don't you go to bed?”
“I could not sleep if I did.” Helen passed a nervous finger across her eyes. “But don't let me keep you and Babs up; it won't take me long to arrange to-morrow's market order for Grimes.”
Under pretense of searching for pencil and paper Helen contrived to see the address of every letter lying on the table, but the envelope she sought, with its red seal, was not among them. When she looked up again, pencil and paper in hand, she found Mrs. Brewster leaning lazily back and regarding her from under half-closed lids. “You are very like your father, Helen,” she commented softly.
The girl stiffened. “Am I? Babs and I are generally thought to resemble our mother.”
“In appearance, yes; but I mean mannerisms—for instance, the way of holding your pencil, your handwriting, even, closely resembles your father's.” Mrs. Brewster pointed to the notes Helen was scribbling on the paper and to an open letter bearing Colonel McIntyre's signature at the bottom of the sheet lying beside the pad to illustrate her meaning. “These are almost identical.”
“You are a close observer.” Helen completed her memorandum and laid it aside. “What became of father?”
“He went to a stag supper at the Willard,” chimed in Barbara, stopping her aimless walk about the library. “He said we were not to wait up for him.”
Helen pushed back her chair and rose with some abruptness.
“I am more tired than I realized,” she remarked and involuntarily stretched her weary muscles. “Come, Margaret,” laying a persuasive hand on the widow's shoulder. “Be a trump and rub my forehead with cologne as you used to do abroad when I had a headache. It always put me to sleep then; and, oh, how I long for sleep now!”
There was infinite pathos in her voice and Mrs. Brewster sprang up and threw her arm about her in ready sympathy.
“You poor darling!” she exclaimed. “Let me put you to bed; Mammy taught me the art of soothing frayed nerves. Come with us, Babs,” holding out her left hand to Barbara. But the latter, with a dexterous twist, slipped away from her touch.
“I must stay and straighten the library,” she announced.
Mrs. Brewster's delicate color had deepened. “It would be as well to open some of the doors,” she agreed coldly. “The library looks odd, not to say funereal,” she glanced down the spacious room and shivered ever so slightly. “Do, Babs, put out some of the lights; they are blinding.”
“Oh, I'll turn them all out”—Barbara sought the electric switch.
“But your father—”
“No need to worry about father; he can find his way about in the dark like a cat,” responded Barbara with unabated cheerfulness. “Seems to me, Margaret, you and father are getting mighty chummy these days.”
The sudden darkness into which Barbara's impatient fingers, pressing against the electric light buttons, plunged the library and its occupants, prevented her seeing the curious glance which Mrs. Brewster shot at her. Helen, who had listened to their chatter with growing impatience, looked back over her shoulder.
“Hurry, Barbara, and come upstairs. Now, Margaret,” and she piloted the widow along the hall toward the staircase without giving her an opportunity to answer Barbara's last remark. Barbara, pausing only long enough to pull back the portieres of the hall door and arrange them as they hung customarily, turned to go upstairs just as Grimes came down the hall from the dining room carrying a large tray with pitchers of ice water and glasses.
“I thought you had gone to your room, Grimes,” she remarked, as the butler waited respectfully for her to pass him.
“I've just come in, miss, and found Murray had left the tray in the dining room,” explained Grimes hurriedly. “I hope, miss, I'll not disturb the ladies by knocking at their doors now with this ice water.”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Brewster and Miss Helen have only just gone upstairs.” Barbara paused in front of the butler and poured out a glass of water. “I can't wait, Grimes, I am too thirsty.”
“Certainly, miss, that's all right.” Grimes craned his head around and looked up and down the hall, then leaning over he placed the tray on a convenient table and stepped close to Barbara.
“I've been reading the newspapers very carefully, miss,” he began, taking care to keep his voice lowered. “Especially that part of Mr. Turnbull's inquest which tells about the post-mortem.”
“Well, what then?” asked Barbara quickly as the butler paused and again glanced up and down the hall.
“Just this, miss,” he spoke almost in a whisper. “The doctors do say poor Mr. Turnbull was poisoned by acca—aconitine,” stumbling over the word. “It's a curious thing, miss, that I brought some of that very drug into this house last Sunday.”
“You did!” Barbara's fresh young voice rose in astonishment.
“Hush, miss!” The butler raised both hands. “Hush!” He glanced cautiously around, then continued. “Colonel McIntyre sent me to the druggist with a prescription from Dr. Stone for Mrs. Brewster when she had romantic neuralgia.”
“Had what?” Barbara looked puzzled, then giggled, but her mirth quickly altered to seriousness at sight of the butler's expression. “Mrs. Brewster had a touch of rheumatic neuralgia the first of the month; do you refer to that?”
“Yes, miss.” Grimes spoke more rapidly, but kept his voice lowered. “The druggist told me what the pills were when I exclaimed at their size—regular little pellets, no bigger than that,” he demonstrated the size with the tip of his little finger, and would have added more but the gong over the front door rang out with such suddenness that both he and Barbara started violently.
“Just a moment, miss,” and he hurried to the front bell, to return after a brief colloquy with a messenger boy, bearing a letter. “It's for Mrs. Brewster, miss,” he explained, as Barbara held out her hand.
“I'll give it to her and this also,” Barbara took the envelope and a small ice pitcher and glass. “Good night, Grimes. Oh,” she stopped midway up the staircase and waited for the butler to overtake her, “Grimes, to whom did you give the aconitine on Sunday?”
“I didn't give it to nobody, miss.” The butler was a trifle short of breath; his years did not permit him to keep pace with the twins. “I was in a great hurry as the druggist kept me waiting, and I had to serve tea at once.”
“But what did you do with the aconitine pills?” demanded Barbara.
“I left the box on the hall table, miss—”
“Great heavens!” Barbara stared at the butler, then without a word she raced up the staircase and disappeared through the open door of Mrs. Brewster's bedroom.
The light from the hall shone through the transom and doorway in sufficient volume to clearly indicate the different pieces of furniture, and Barbara put the pitcher and glass on the bed stand and laid the letter which Grimes had given her on the dressing table, then went slowly into her own bedroom. She could hear voices, which she recognized as those of her sister and Mrs. Brewster, coming from Helen's bedroom, but absorbed in her own thoughts she undressed in the dark and crept into bed just as Mrs. Brewster passed down the hallway and entered her own room. The widow had taken off her evening gown and slippers and donned a becoming wrapper before she discovered the letter lying on the dresser. Drawing up a chair she dropped into it, let down her long dark hair, and settled back in luxuriant comfort against the tufted upholstery before she ran her well-manicured finger under the flap of the envelope. A slip of paper fell into her lap as she took out the contents of the envelope and she let it rest there while scanning the closely typewritten lines on the Metropolis Trust Company stationery.
Dear Mrs. Brewster, she read. Our bank teller, Mr. McDonald, has questioned the genuineness of the signature on the inclosed check. An important business engagement prevents my calling to-night, but please stop at the bank early to-morrow morning.
I feel that you would prefer to have a personal investigation made rather than have us place the matter in the hands of the police.
Yours faithfully,
BENJAMIN A. CLYMER.
The widow read the note a number of times, then bethinking herself, she picked up the canceled check still lying in her lap, and turned it over. Long and intently she studied the signature—the peculiarly characteristic formation of the letter “B” caught and held her attention. As the seconds ticked themselves into minutes she sat immovable, her face as white as the hand on which she had bowed her head.
Across the hall Helen McIntyre tossed from one side to the other in her soft bed; her restless longing to get up was growing stronger and stronger. While Mrs. Brewster's deft fingers and the cooling cologne had stopped the throbbing in her temples, they had brought only temporary relief in their train and not the sleep which Helen craved. She strained her ears to discover the time by the ticking of her clock, but either it was between the half or quarters of an hour, or it had stopped, for no chimes sounded. With a gasp of exasperation, Helen flung back the bed clothes and sat up. Switching on the light by the side of her bed she hunted for a book, but not finding any, she contemplated for a short space of time a pair of rubber-heeled shoes just showing themselves under the edge of a chair. With sudden decision she left the bed and dressed rapidly. It was not until she had put on her rubber-heeled shoes that she paused. Her hesitation, however, was but brief. Stepping to the bureau, she pulled out a lower drawer and running her hand inside, touched a concealed spring. From the cavity thus exposed she took a small automatic pistol, and with a stealthy glance about her, crept from the room.
The library had been vacant fully an hour when a mouse, intent on making a raid on the candy which Barbara had carelessly left lying loose on one of the tables, paused as a faint creaking sound broke the stillness, then as the noise increased, the mouse scurried back to its hole. The noise resembled the turning of rusty hinges and the soft thud of one piece of wood striking another. There was a strained silence, then, from out of the darkness appeared a tiny stream of light directed full on a white envelope bearing a large red seal.
The next instant the envelope was plucked from the hand holding it, and a figure lay crumpled on the floor from the blow of a descending weapon.
It was closely approaching one o'clock in the morning before Mrs. Brewster stirred from her comfortable bedroom chair. Taking up her electric torch, which she kept always by the side of her bed, she walked quickly down the staircase and into the pitch dark library. Directing her torch-light so that she steered a safe course among the chairs and tables, she approached one of the pieces of carved Venetian furniture and reached out her hand to touch a trap-door. As she looked for the spring she was horrified to see a thin stream of blood oozing through the carving until, reaching the letter “B,” it outlined that initial in sinister red.
Scream after scream broke from Mrs. Brewster. She was swaying upon her feet by the time Colonel McIntyre and his daughter Helen reached the library.
“Margaret! What is it?” McIntyre demanded. “Calm yourself, my darling.”
The frenzied woman shook off his soothing hand.
“See, see!” she cried and pointed with her torch.
“She means the Venetian casket,” explained Helen, who had paused before joining them to switch on the light.
Colonel McIntyre gazed in amazement at the piece of furniture; then catching sight of the blood-stain, he raised the small trap-door or peep hole, in the top of the oblong box which stood breast high, supported on a beautifully carved base.
There was a breathless pause; then McIntyre unceremoniously jerked the electric torch from Mrs. Brewster's nervous fingers and turned its rays of the interior of the casket. Stretched at full length lay the figure of a man, and from a wound in his temple flowed a steady stream of blood.
“Good God!” McIntyre staggered back against Helen. “Grimes!”