The genial president of the Metropolis Trust Company was late. Mrs. Brewster, waiting in his well-appointed office, restrained her ill-temper only by an exertion of will-power. She detested being kept waiting, and that morning she had many errands to attend to before the luncheon hour.
“May I use your telephone?” she asked Mr. Clymer's secretary, and the young man rose with alacrity from his desk. Mrs. Brewster never knew what it was to lack attention, even her own sex were known on occasions to give her gowns and, (what captious critics termed her “frivolous conduct”) undivided attention.
“Can I look up the number for you?” the secretary asked as Mrs. Brewster took up the telephone book and fumbled for the gold chain of her lorgnette.
“Oh, thank you,” her smile showed each pretty dimple. “I wish to speak to Mr. Kent, of the firm of Rochester and Kent.”
“Harry Kent?” The young secretary dropped the book without looking at it, and gave a number to the operator, and then handed the instrument to Mrs. Brewster.
“Mr. Kent not in, did you say?” asked the widow. “Who is speaking? Ah, Mr. Sylvester—has Mr. Rochester returned?—-Both partners away”... she paused... “I'll call later—Mrs. Brewster, good morning.”
Mrs. Brewster hung up the receiver and turned to the secretary.
“I don't believe I can wait any longer,” she began, and paused, as Benjamin Clymer appeared in the doorway.
“So sorry to be late,” he exclaimed, shaking her hand warmly. “And I am sorry, also, to have called you here on such an errand.”
Mrs. Brewster waited until the young secretary had withdrawn out of earshot before replying; then taking the chair Clymer placed for her near his own, she opened her gold mesh bag and took out a canceled check and laid it on the desk in front of the bank president.
“Your bank honored this check?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Who presented it?”
Clymer pressed the buzzer and his secretary came at once.
“Ask Mr. McDonald to step here,” and as the man vanished on his errand, he addressed Mrs. Brewster. “How is Colonel McIntyre this morning?”
Mrs. Brewster's eyes opened at the question. “Quite well,” she replied, and prompted by her curiosity added: “What made you think him ill?”
“I stopped at Dr. Stone's office on the way down town, and his boy told me the doctor had been sent for by Colonel McIntyre,” Clymer explained. “I hope neither of the twins is ill.”
“No. Colonel McIntyre sent for Dr. Stone to attend Grimes—”
“The butler! Too bad he is ill; Grimes is an institution in the McIntyre household.” Clymer spoke with sincere regret, and Mrs. Brewster eyed him approvingly; she liked good-looking men of his stamp. “Come in, McDonald,” as the bank teller appeared. “You know Mrs. Brewster?”
“Mr. McDonald was one of my first acquaintances in Washington,” and Mrs. Brewster smiled as she held out her hand.
“About this check, McDonald,” Clymer handed it to the teller as he spoke. “Who presented it?”
“Miss McIntyre.”
“Which Miss McIntyre?” Mrs. Brewster put the question with swift intentness.
“I can't tell one twin from the other,” confessed McDonald. “But, as you see, the check is made payable to Barbara McIntyre.”
“The inference being that Barbara McIntyre presented the check for payment,” commented Clymer, and McDonald bowed. “It would seem, therefore, that Barbara wrote your signature on the check, Mrs. Brewster.”
“No.” The widow had whitened under her rouge, but her eyes did not falter in their direct gaze. “The signature is genuine. I drew the check.”
The two men exchanged glances. The bank president was the first to break the short silence. “In that case there is nothing more to be said,” he remarked, and picking up the check handed it to Mrs. Brewster. Without a glance at it, she folded the paper and placed it inside her gold mesh bag.
“I must not take up any more of your time,” she said. “I thank you—both.”
“Mrs. Brewster.” Clymer spoke impulsively. “I'd like to shake hands with you.”
Coloring warmly, the widow slipped her small hand inside his, and with a friendly bow to McDonald, she walked through the bank, keeping up with Clymer's long strides as best she could. As they crossed the sidewalk to the waiting limousine they ran almost into the arms of Harry Kent, whose rapid gait did not suit the congested condition of the “Wall Street” of Washington. “I tried to reach you on the telephone this morning,” exclaimed Mrs. Brewster, after greeting him.
“So my clerk informed me when I saw him a few minutes ago.” Kent helped her inside the limousine. “Won't you come to my office now?”
“But that will be taking you from Mr. Clymer,” remonstrated Mrs. Brewster. “Weren't you on the way to the bank?”
“I was,” admitted Kent. “But I can see Mr. Clymer later in the day.”
“And I'll be less occupied then,” added Clymer. “Go with Mrs. Brewster, Kent; good morning, madam,” and with a courtly bow Clymer withdrew.
Kent's office was only around the corner, and as Mrs. Brewster kept up a running fire of impersonal gossip, Kent had no opportunity to satisfy his curiosity regarding her reasons for wanting to interview him. As the limousine drew up at the curb in front of his office, a man darting down the steps of the building, caught sight of Kent and hurried to the car window.
“I was just trying to catch you at the bank, Mr. Kent,” he explained, and looking around Kent recognized Sylvester. “There's been three telephone calls for you in succession from Colonel McIntyre to hurry to his home.”
“Thanks, Sylvester.” Kent turned to Mrs. Brewster. “Would you mind driving me to the McIntyre? We can talk on the way there.”
Mrs. Brewster picked up the speaking tube. “Home, Harris,” she directed, as the chauffeur listened for the order.
Neither spoke as the big car started up the street but as they swung past old St. John's Church, Mrs. Brewster broke her silence.
“Mr. Kent,” she drew further back in her corner. “I claim a woman's privilege—to change my mind. Forget that I ever expressed a wish to consult you professionally, and remember, I am always glad to meet you as a friend.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Brewster, as you wish.” Kent's tone, expressing polite acquiescence, covered mixed feelings. What had caused the widow to change her mind so suddenly, and above all, what had she wished to consult him about? He faced her more directly. She was charmingly gowned, and in spite of his perplexities, he could not but admire her air of quiet elegance and the soft dark eyes regarding him in friendly good-fellowship. Suddenly realizing that his glance had become a fixed stare, he hastily averted his eyes from her face, catching sight, as he did so, of the gold mesh bag lying in her lap. The glint of sunlight brought into prominence the handsomely engraved letter “B” on its surface. An unexpected swerve of the limousine, as the chauffeur turned short to avoid a speeding army truck, caused both Kent and Mrs. Brewster to sway forward and the gold mesh bag slid to the floor, carrying with it the widow's handkerchief and gold vanity box. Kent stooped over and picked up the articles as well as the contents of the mesh bag, which had opened in its descent and spilled her money and papers over the floor of the limousine.
“Oh, thank you,” exclaimed Mrs. Brewster, as he handed her the bag, box, and bank notes. “Don't bother to look for that quarter; Harris will find it at the garage.”
Kent ignored her remark as he again searched the floor of the car; he was glad of the pretext to avoid looking at the widow. He wanted time to collect his thoughts for, in Picking up her belongings, her handkerchief had caught his attention—he had seen its mate in the possession of Detective Ferguson, and clinging to it the broken portions of the capsules of amyl nitrite which Jimmie Turnbull had inhaled just before his mysterious death.
Into Kent's mind flashed Mrs. Sylvester's statement that Mrs. Brewster was in the police court at the time of the tragedy, although in her testimony at the inquest she had sworn she had not heard of Jimmie's death until the return of Helen and Barbara McIntyre. She had been in the police court, and Jimmie had used her handkerchief—a mate to the one she was then holding, the letter “B” with its peculiar twist was unmistakable—and “B” stood for Brewster as well as for Barbara! Kent drew in his breath sharply.
“My handkerchief, please,” the widow held out her hand, and after a moment's hesitation, Kent gave it to her.
“Pardon me,” he apologized. “I was struck by the handkerchief's appearance.”
Mrs. Brewster turned it over. “In what way is the handkerchief unique?” she asked, laughing.
“Because Jimmie Turnbull crushed amyl nitrite capsules in its mate just before he died,” explained Kent quietly. “Detective Ferguson claims that Jimmie unintentionally broke more than one capsule in the handkerchief, was overcome by the powerful fumes and died.”
“But the inquest proved that Jimmie was killed by a dose of aconitine poison,” she reminded him, as she tucked the handkerchief up her sleeve.
Kent did not reply immediately. “A man does not usually carry a woman's handkerchief about with him,” he commented slowly. “Odd, is it not, that Jimmie should have used a handkerchief of yours in the police court just prior to his death, while you were sitting a few feet away?”
“I?” Mrs. Brewster turned and regarded him steadfastly. She was deadly white under her rouge. “Mr. Kent, are you crazy?”
“Yes, crazy to know why you kept your presence in the police court on Tuesday morning a secret,” replied Kent. In their earnestness neither noticed Kent's absent-minded clutch on a small folded paper which he had picked up from the floor of the limousine. “Mrs. Brewster, why did you laugh when Dr. Stone carried Jimmie Turnbull out of the court room?”
Mrs. Brewster sat still in her corner of the car; so still that Kent, observing her closely, feared that she had fainted. She had dropped her eyes, and her face, set like marble, gave him no key to her thoughts.
The door of the limousine was jerked open almost before the car came to a full stop in front of the McIntyre residence, and Colonel McIntyre offered his hand to help Mrs. Brewster out. On the step she turned to Kent, who had lifted his hat to McIntyre in silent greeting.
“Your forte lies as a romancer rather than a lawyer, Mr. Kent,” she said, and not giving him time for a reply, almost ran inside the house.
“Glad you could get here so soon, Kent,” remarked McIntyre, signing to his chauffeur to drive on before he led the way into the house. “Grimes has worked himself almost into a fever asking for you.”
“Grimes?”
“Yes. Grimes was attacked in our library early this morning by some unknown person, and is in bed with a bad wound on his temple and a tendency to hysteria,” McIntyre explained.
“Come upstairs.”
Kent handed his cane and hat to the footman and followed Colonel McIntyre, who stalked ahead without another word. As they mounted the stairs Kent glanced at the folded paper which he still held, and was surprised to see that it was a check. The signature showed him that he had unintentionally walked off with Mrs. Brewster's property. His decision to hand it to Colonel McIntyre was checked by the Colonel disappearing inside a bedroom, with a muttered injunction to “wait there,” and Kent stuffed the check inside his vest pocket. It would serve as an excuse to interview Mrs. Brewster again before leaving the house. He was determined to have an answer to the question he had put to her in the limousine. Why had she gone to the police court, and why kept her presence there a secret?
When Colonel McIntyre reappeared in the hall he was accompanied by Detective Ferguson. “Sorry to keep you standing, Kent,” he said. “I have sent for you and Ferguson, first because Grimes insists on seeing you, and second, because I am determined that this midnight house-breaking shall be thoroughly investigated and put an end to. This way,” and he led them into a large airy bedroom on the third floor, to which Grimes had been carried unconscious that morning, instead of to his own bedroom in the servants' quarters.
Grimes, with his head swathed in bandages, was a woe-begone object. He greeted Colonel McIntyre and the detective with a sullen glare, but his eyes brightened at sight of Kent, and he moved a feeble hand in welcome.
“Sit down, sirs,” he mumbled. “There's chairs for all.”
“Don't worry about us,” remarked McIntyre cheerily. “Just tell us how you got that nasty knock on the head.”
“I dunno, sir; it came like a clap o' thunder,” Grimes tried to lift his head, but gave over the attempt as excruciating pain followed the effort.
“What hour of the morning was it?” asked Ferguson.
“About one o'clock, as near as I can tell, sir.”
“And what were you doing in the library at that hour, Grimes?” demanded McIntyre.
“Trying to find out what your household was up to, sir,” was Grimes' unexpected answer, and McIntyre started.
“Explain your meaning, Grimes,” he commanded sternly.
“You can do it better than I can, sir,” retorted Grimes. “You know the reason every one's searching the room with the seven doors.”
“The room with the seven doors!” echoed Ferguson. “Which is that?”
“Grimes means the library.” McIntyre's tone was short. “I have no idea, Grimes, what your allegations mean. Be more explicit.”
The butler eyed him in no friendly fashion. “Wasn't Mr. Turnbull arrested in that very room?” he demanded. “And what was he looking for?”
“Mr. Turnbull's presence has been explained,” replied McIntyre. “He came here disguised as a burglar on a wager with my daughter, Miss Barbara.”
“Ah, did he now?” Grimes' rising inflection indicated nervous tension. “Did a man with a bad heart come here in the dead of night for nothing but that foolishness?” Grimes glared at his three visitors. “You bet he didn't.”
Ferguson, who had followed the dialogue between McIntyre and his servant with deep attention, addressed the excited man.
“Why did Mr. Turnbull enter Colonel McIntyre's library on Monday night disguised as a burglar?” he asked.
Grimes, by a twist of his head, managed to regard the detective out of the corner of his eye.
“Aye, why did he?” he repeated. “That's what I went to the library last night to find out.”
“Did you discover anything?” The question shot from McIntyre, and both Ferguson and Kent watched him as they waited for Grimes' reply. The butler took his time.
“No, sir.”
McIntyre threw himself back in his chair and his eyebrows rose in interrogation as he touched his forehead significantly and glanced at Grimes. That the butler caught his meaning was evident from his expression, but he said nothing. The detective was the first to speak.
“Did you hear any one break into the house when you were prowling around, Grimes?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
The detective turned to Colonel McIntyre. “After finding Grimes did you search the house?” he inquired.
“Yes. The patrolman, O'Ryan, and my new footman, Murray, went with me through the entire house, and we found all doors and windows to the front and rear of the house securely locked,” responded McIntyre; “except the window of the reception room on the ground floor. That was closed but unlatched.”
Kent wondered if the grimace which twisted the butler's face was meant for a smile.
“That there window was locked when I went to bed,” Grimes stated with slow distinctness. “And I was the last person in this house to go to my room.”
McIntyre started to speak when Ferguson stopped him.
“Just let me handle this case,” he said persuasively. “You have called in the police,” and as McIntyre commenced some uncomplimentary remark, he added with sternness. “Don't interfere, sir. Now, Grimes, your statements imply one of two things—some member of the household either went downstairs after you had retired, and opened the window in the reception room to admit the person who afterwards attacked you in the library, or”—Ferguson paused significantly, “some member of this household knocked you senseless in the library. Which was it?”
There was a tense silence. McIntyre, by an obvious effort, refrained from speech as they waited for Grimes' answer.
“I dunno who hit me.” Grimes avoided looking at the three men. “But some one did, and that window in the reception room was locked when I went upstairs to my bedroom after every one had retired. I'm telling you God's truth, sir.”
McIntyre eyed him in wrathful silence, then turned to his companions.
“The blow has knocked Grimes silly,” he commented. “There is certainly no motive for any of us to attack Grimes, nor has any trace of a weapon been found such as must have been used against Grimes. O'Ryan and I looked particularly for it, after removing Grimes from the Venetian casket, where my daughter Helen, Mrs. Brewster and I discovered him lying unconscious.”
“What's this Venetian casket like?” asked Ferguson before Kent could question McIntyre.
“It is a fine sample of carving of the Middle Ages,” replied McIntyre. “I purchased the pair when in Venice years ago. They are over six feet in length, about three feet wide, and rest on a carved base. There is a door at the end through which it was customary in the Middle Ages to slide the body, after embalming, for the funeral ceremonies, after which the body was removed, placed in another casket and buried. There is a square opening or peep hole on the top of the casket through which you can look at the body; a cleverly concealed door covers this opening. In fact,” added McIntyre, “the door at the end is not at first discernible, and is hard to open, unless one has the knack of doing so.”
“Hum! It looks as if whoever put Grimes inside the casket was familiar with it,” remarked Ferguson dryly, and McIntyre bit his lip. “Guess I'll go and take a look at the casket. I'll come back, Grimes.”
Kent rose with the others and started to follow them to the door, but Grimes beckoned him to approach the bed. The butler waited until he heard McIntyre's heavy tread and the lighter footfall of the detective recede down the hall before speaking.
“I was only going to say, sir,” he whispered as Kent, at a sign from him, stooped over the bed, “I got a box of aconitine pills for Mrs. Brewster on Sunday—the stuff that poisoned Mr. Turnbull,” he paused to explain.
“Yes, go on,” urged Kent, catching the man's excitement. “You gave it to Mrs. Brewster—”
“No, sir; I didn't; I left the box on the hall table,” Grimes cleared his throat nervously. “I dunno who picked up that box o' poison, Mr. Kent; so help me God, I dunno!”
Kent thought rapidly. “Have you told any one of this?” he asked.
Grimes nodded. “Only one person,” he admitted. “I spoke to Miss Barbara last night as she was going to bed.” Grimes laid a hot hand on Kent's and glanced fearfully around the room. “Bend nearer, sir; I don't want none other to hear me. Just before I got that knockout blow in the library last night, I heard the swish o' skirts—and Miss Barbara was the only living person who knew I knew about the poison.”
Kent stared in stupefaction at the butler. He was aroused by a cold voice from the doorway.
“We are waiting for you, Kent,” and Colonel McIntyre stood aside to let him pass from the room ahead of him, then without a backward glance at the injured butler, he closed and locked the bedroom door.
As Kent walked into the library he found Colonel McIntyre by his side; the latter's even breathing gave no indication of the haste he had made down the staircase to catch up with Kent.
Detective Ferguson hardly noted their arrival, his attention being given wholly to the examination of the Venetian casket which had played such an important part in the drama of the night before. The casket and its companion piece stood on either side of the room near a window recess. The long straight shape of the high boxes on their graceful base gave no indication of the use to which they had been put in ancient days, but made attractive as well as unique pieces of furniture.
Kent crossed the library and, after looking inside the casket, examined the exterior with care.
“Don't touch that crest,” cautioned Ferguson, observing that Kent's glance remained focused on the blood-stained, raised letter “B” and the carving back of it. “In fact, don't touch any part of the casket, I'm trying to get finger prints.”
Kent barely heard the warning as he turned to McIntyre.
“Haven't I seen that letter 'B' design on your stationery, Colonel?” he asked.
“Barbara uses it,” was the reply. “She fancied the antique lettering, and copied the 'B' for the engraver; she is handy with her pen, you know.”
“Did she wish the 'B' for a seal?” inquired Kent.
“Yes, she had a seal made like it also.” McIntyre moved closer to the casket. “Found anything, Ferguson?”
The detective withdrew his head from the opening at the end of the casket, and regarded the furniture vexedly.
“Not a thing,” he acknowledged. “Except I am convinced that it required dexterity to slip Grimes inside the casket. The butler is small and slight, but he must have been unconscious from that tap on the forehead and, therefore, a dead weight. Whoever picked him up must have been some athlete, and”—running his eyes up and down Colonel McIntyre's well-knit, erect frame—“pretty familiar with the workings of this casket.”
“Pooh! It's not so difficult a feat,” McIntyre shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “My daughters, as children, used to play hide and seek inside the casket with each new governess.”
Ferguson stepped forward briskly. “Mr. Kent, let me see if I can lift you inside the casket; make yourself limp—that's it!” as Kent, entering into the investigation heart and soul, relaxed his muscles and fell back against the detective.
A moment later he was swung upward and pushed head-first inside the casket and the door closed. The air, though close, was not unpleasant and Kent, his eyes growing gradually accustomed to the dark interior, tried to discover the trap door at the top of the box but without success. Putting out his hands he felt along the top. The height of the casket did not permit him to sit up, so he was obliged to slide his body down toward his feet to feel along the sides of the casket. This maneuver soon brought his knees in violent contact with the top, and at the sound Ferguson opened the door and assisted him out.
“Had enough of it?” he asked, viewing Kent's reddened cheeks with faint amusement. “I wonder if Grimes could breathe in there for any lengthy period. If so, it would help establish the time which elapsed between his being incarcerated and your finding him, Colonel.”
“How so?” demanded McIntyre.
“Well, if he couldn't get air and you hadn't discovered him at once, he'd have died,” explained Ferguson. “If you did find him immediately the person who knocked him down must have made a lightning escape.”
“Air does get in the casket in some way,” broke in Kent. “It wasn't so bad inside. Colonel McIntyre,” Kent stopped a moment to remove a piece of red sealing wax clinging to the cuff of his suit. It had not been there when he entered the casket. Kent dropped the wax in his vest pocket as he again addressed his host. “Who first discovered Grimes in the casket?”
“Mrs. Brewster.”
“And what was Mrs. Brewster doing in the library at that hour?” glancing keenly at McIntyre as he put the question.
“She could not sleep and came down for a book,” explained the Colonel.
Ferguson, who had walked several times around the library, looking behind first one and then the other of the seven doors, paused to ask:
“What attracted Mrs. Brewster's attention to the casket?”
“The blood stain on its side,” McIntyre answered.
“What—that!” Ferguson eyed McIntyre incredulously. “Come, sir, do you mean to tell me she noticed that little bit of a stain in a dark room?”
“She had an electric torch,” shortly.
“But why should she turn the torch on this casket?” persisted the detective. “She came to the library for a book, and the bookcases are in another part of the room.”
“Quite so, but the book she wished was lying on the top of this casket,” replied McIntyre, meeting their level looks with one equally steadfast. “I know because I left the book there.”
Ferguson glanced from McIntyre to Kent and back again at the Colonel in non-plussed silence. The explanation was pat.
“I'd like to talk with Mrs. Brewster,” he remarked dryly.
“Certainly.” McIntyre pressed an electric button. The summons was answered immediately by the new servant, Murray. “Ask Mrs. Brewster if she can see Detective Ferguson in the library, Murray,” McIntyre directed.
“Beg pardon, sir, but Mrs. Brewster has just gone out,” and with a bow Murray withdrew.
Kent, who had drawn forward a chair preparatory to sitting down and participating in the interview with the widow, changed his mind.
“I must leave at once,” he said, after consulting his watch. “Please inform Mrs. Brewster, Colonel, that I will be in my office this afternoon, and I expect her to make me the visit she postponed this morning. Ferguson,” turning back to address the detective, “you'll find me at the Saratoga for the next hour. Good morning,” and paying no attention to Colonel McIntyre's request to remain, he left the room.
There was no one in the hall and Kent debated a moment whether or not to ring for the servant and ask to see Barbara, but, at sight of the hall table, Grimes' confidences recurred to him and drove everything else out of his mind. Stopping before the table he contemplated its smooth surface before moving the few ornaments it held. Satisfied that no pillbox stood behind any of them, he pulled open the two drawers and tumbled their contents about. His efforts only brought to light some half-empty cigarette boxes, matches, a scratch pad or two, and old visiting cards.
Kent shut the drawers, picked up his hat, and took his cane from the tall china umbrella-stand by the hall table. As he stepped through the front doorway he caught sight of the end of his cane, which he was carrying tucked under his arm. Fastened to the ferule of the cane was the round top of a paste-board pill box.
Kent backed so swiftly into the house again that his figure blocked the closing of the front door, which he had started to pull shut after him. Letting the door close gently he walked back to the umbrella stand. It was a tall heavy affair, and he had some difficulty in tipping it over and letting its contents spill on the floor. A soft exclamation escaped him as three little pellets rolled past him, and then came the bottom of a box.
With hasty fingers Kent picked them up, placed them in the box, and fitted on the top, first carefully smoothing over the hole made by his cane when thrust into the umbrella stand by the footman. Replacing the stand he wrapped the box containing the pills in his handkerchief and hurried from the house.
Kent found the operative from Detective Headquarters sitting on duty in Rochester's living room when he entered that apartment a quarter of an hour later.
“Any one called here?” he asked, as the man, whom he had met the night before, greeted him.
“Not a soul, Mr. Kent.” Nelson suppressed a yawn; his relief was late in coming, and he had had little sleep the night before. “There's been no disturbance of any kind, not even a ring at the telephone.”
Kent considered a moment, then sat down by the telephone and gave a number to Central.
“That you, Sylvester?” he called into the mouth-piece. “If Mrs. Brewster comes to the office, telephone me at Mr. Rochester's apartment, Franklin 52. Don't let Mrs. Brewster leave until I have seen her.”
“Yes, sir,” came the reply, and Kent hung up the receiver.
“Had any luncheon?” he asked Nelson as the man loitered around.
“Not yet”—Nelson's eyes brightened at the word. It was long past his usual meal hour.
“Run down to the cafe on the first floor and tell the head waiter to give you a square meal and charge it to me,” Kent directed. “Order something substantial; you must be used up.”
The man hung back. “Thank you, Mr. Kent, but I don't like to leave here until my relief comes,” he objected.
“That's all right, I'll stay in the apartment until you return,” and Kent settled the question by opening the door leading into the outer corridor. “Ferguson will be around shortly, so hurry.”
Kent watched the man scurry toward the elevator shaft, then returned to Rochester's apartment and once more took up the telephone. The operative's reluctance to leave the apartment unguarded had altered his plans somewhat.
“Is this Dr. Stone's office?” he asked a moment later, as a faint “hello,” came over the wire. “Oh, doctor, this is Kent. Please come over to Rochester's apartment; I would like to consult you in regard to an important matter. You'll come now? Thanks.”
The doctor kept Kent waiting less than five minutes. The clock was striking one when he appeared, bland and smiling. Hardly waiting for him to select a seat Kent flung himself into a chair in front of Rochester's desk and laid the pill box on the writing pad.
“Now, doctor,” he began, and his manner gained in seriousness, “what, in your opinion, killed Jimmie Turnbull?”
“The post-mortem examination proved that he had swallowed aconitine in sufficient quantity to cause death,” Stone replied. “He undoubtedly died from the effects of that poison.”
“Is aconitine difficult to procure?” asked Kent.
“It is often prescribed for fevers.” Stone made himself comfortable in a near-by chair. “Aconitine is the alkaloid of aconite. I believe that in India it is frequently employed, not only for the destruction of wild beasts, but for criminal purposes. The India variety is known as the Bish poison.”
Kent started—Bish poison—was he never to get away from the letter “B”?
“Can you procure Bish in this country?” he asked.
Stone considered the question. “You might be able to purchase it from some Hindoo residing or traveling in the United States,” he said, after a pause. “I doubt if you could buy it in a drug store.”
Kent heaved a sigh of relief as he hitched his chair closer to the physician.
“Did you prescribe a dose of aconitine for Mrs. Brewster recently?” he asked.
“I did, for an attack of rheumatic neuralgia.” Stone eyed him curiously. “What then, Kent?”
“Is this the box the medicine came in?” and Kent placed the cover in Stone's hand.
Stone turned the paste-board over and studied the defaced label. “I cannot answer that question positively,” he said. “The label bears my name and that of the druggist, but the directions are missing.”
“But the number's on it,” put in Kent swiftly. “Come, Stone, call up the druggist, repeat the number to him, and ask if it calls for your aconitine prescription.”
Stone hesitated as if about to speak, then, reaching out his hand, he picked up the telephone and held a short conversation with the drug clerk of the Thompson Pharmacy.
“That is the box which contained the aconitine pills for Mrs. Brewster,” he said, when he had replaced the telephone. “Now, Kent, I have secured the information you wished; kindly tell me your reasons for desiring it.”
It was Kent's turn to hesitate. “Do you know many instances where aconitine was used by murderers?” he questioned.
“N-no. I believe it was the drug used in the celebrated Lamson poison case,” replied the physician slowly. “I cannot recall any others just at the moment.”
“How about suicides?”
“It is seldom, if ever, used for suicides.” Stone spoke with more assurance. “I have found in my practice, Kent, that suicides can be classed as follows: drowning by the young, pistols by the adult, and hanging by the aged; women generally prefer asphyxiation, using illuminating gas. But this is beside the question, unless”—bending a penetrating look at his companion—“unless you believe Jimmie Turnbull committed suicide.”
“That idea has occurred to me,” admitted Kent. “But it doesn't square with other facts which have developed, nor is it in keeping with the character of the man.”
“Men who suffer from a mortal disease sometimes commit desperate acts, not at all in accord with their previous conduct,” responded Stone gravely. “Come, Kent, you have not answered my question. Why did you wish information about this box of aconitine pills prescribed for Mrs. Brewster during her attack of neuralgia?”
“You have just stated that aconitine is not usually administered to murder a person,” Kent spoke seriously, choosing his words with care. “Do you wonder then, that I consider it more than a coincidence that Jimmie Turnbull should have died from a dose of that poison, and that the drug should have been prescribed for one of the inmates of the house he visited shortly before his death?”
The physician sat upright, his face had grown gray. “Mr. Kent,” he commenced indignantly, “are you aware what you are insinuating? Are you, also, aware that Mrs. Brewster is my cousin, a charming, honorable woman, without a stain on her character?”
Kent set the bottom of the box containing the pills in front of the doctor.
“I have found out that this box, with its dangerous drug, was left on the hall table in the McIntyre house; apparently any one had access to its contents, therefore my remarks are not directed against Mrs. Brewster any more than against any person in the McIntyre household, from the Colonel to the servants. I found these three pills at the McIntyre house this morning; how many did your prescription call for?”
Stone picked up the small pills and, as he balanced them in his palm, his manner grew more alert. Suddenly he dropped two back in the box and touched the third pill with the tip of his tongue; not content with that he crushed it in his fingers, sniffed the drug, and again tested it with his tongue. His expression was peculiar as he looked up at Kent.
“These are not aconitine pills,” he stated positively. “They are nitro-glycerine. How did they get in this box?”
Kent rubbed his chin in bewilderment. The box bearing the aconitine label and the pills had all rolled out of the china umbrella stand, and he had taken it for granted that the pills belonged in the box.
“I found them loose in the same receptacle,” he explained. “And concluded they were what remained of the aconitine pills which Grimes, the McIntyre butler, said he left on the hall table Sunday afternoon.”
Stone smiled with what Kent, who was watching him closely, judged to be an odd mixture of relief and apprehension.
“You could not have found more dissimilar medicine to go in this pill box, although the two kinds of pills are identical in color and size,” he said. “Aconitine depresses the heart action while the other stimulates it.”
The physician's statement fell on deaf ears. Raising his head after contemplating the pills, Kent had looked across the room and his glance had fallen on a wing chair, standing just inside the doorway of the living room, and thrown partly in shadow by the portieres. The wing of the chair appeared to move. Kent rubbed his eyes and looking again, caught the same slight movement.
Bounding toward the chair Kent saw that the brown shape which he had mistaken for part of the tufted upholstery was the sleek brown hair of a man's well-shaped head. He halted abruptly on meeting the gaze of a pair of mocking eyes.
“Rochester?” he gasped unbelievingly. “Rochester!”
His partner laughed softly as Stone approached. “I have been an interested listener,” he said. “Let me complete the good doctor's argument. Nitro-glycerine would have benefitted Jimmie Turnbull and his feeble heart; whereas the missing aconitine pills killed him.”
Stone regarded him with severity. “How did you get in this apartment?” he demanded, declining the challenge Rochester had offered in addressing his opinion of Turnbull's death directly to him.
Rochester dangled his bunch of keys in the physician's face and smiled at his excited partner. “If you two hadn't been so absorbed in your conversation you would have heard me walk in,” he remarked.
“Where have you been?” demanded Kent, partly recovering from his astonishment which had deprived him of speech.
“I decided to take a vacation at a moment's notice.” Rochester spoke with the same slow drawl which was characteristic of him. “You should be accustomed to my eccentricities by this time, Harry.”
“We are,” announced Detective Ferguson from the hallway, where he and Nelson had been silent witnesses of the scene. “And we'll give you a chance to explain them in the police court.”
“On what charge?” demanded Rochester.
“Poisoning your room-mate, Mr. Turnbull,” replied the detective, drawing out a pair of handcuffs. “You are mighty clever, Mr. Rochester. I've got to hand it to you for your mysterious disappearances in and out of this apartment, and for murdering Mr. Turnbull right in the police court in the presence of the judge, police officials, and spectators.”
Kent stepped forward at sight of the handcuffs and laid a restraining hand on the detective's shoulder. Rochester saw the movement, guessed Kent's intention, and smiled.
“We can settle the case here,” he said cheerfully. “No need of troubling the police judge. Now, Mr. Detective, how did I kill Jimmie Turnbull before all those people without any one becoming aware of the fact?”
“Slipped the poison in the glass of water you handed him,” answered Ferguson promptly. “A nervy sleight-of-hand, but you'll swing for it.”
Rochester's smile was exasperating as he turned to Dr. Stone.
“Judging from Stone's remarks about aconitine—which I overheard,” he interpolated. “I gather the doctor is tolerably familiar with the action of the drug. Does aconitine kill instantly, doctor?”
Stone cleared his throat before speaking. “No; the fatal period averages about four hours,” he said, and Rochester's eyes sparkled as he looked up at the detective.
“Jimmie died almost immediately after I handed him that drink of water,” he declared. “If you wish to know who administered that aconitine poison, you will have to find out who Jimmie was with at the McIntyre house in the early hours of Tuesday morning.”
The sharp imperative ring of the telephone bell cut the silence which followed. Kent, standing nearest the instrument, picked it up, and recognized Sylvester's voice over the wire.
“A message has just come, Mr. Kent,” he called, “from Mrs. Brewster saying that she will be in your office at four o'clock.”