THE RED SEAL
by Natalie Sumner Lincoln
CHAPTER I
IN THE POLICE COURT
Te Assistant District Attorney glanced down at the papers in his
hand and then up at the well-dressed, stockily built man occupying
the witness stand. His manner was conciliatory.
"According to your testimony, Mr. Clymer, the prisoner, John
Sylvester, was honest and reliable, and faithfully performed his
duties as confidential clerk," he stated. "Just when was Sylvester
in your employ?"
"Sylvester was never in my employ," corrected Benjamin Augustus
Clymer. The president of the Metropolis Trust Company was noted
for his precision of speech. "During the winter of 1918 I shared
an apartment with Judge James Hildebrand, who employed Sylvester."
"Was Sylvester addicted to drink?"
"No."
"Was he quarrelsome?"
"No."
"Was Sylvester married at that date?"
At the question a faint smile touched the corners of Clymer's clean
shaven mouth and his eyes traveled involuntarily toward the
over-dressed female whose charge of assault and battery against her
husband had brought Clymer to the police court as a "character"
witness in Sylvester's behalf.
"Sylvester left Judge Hildebrand to get married," he explained.
"He was a model clerk; honest, sober, and industrious."
"That is all, Mr. Clymer." The Assistant District Attorney spoke
in some haste. "You may retire, sir," and, as Clymer turned to
vacate the witness box, he addressed the presiding judge.
Clymer did not catch his remarks as, on stepping down, he was
button-holed by a man whose entrance had occurred a few minutes
before through the swing door which gave exit from the space
reserved for witnesses and lawyers into the body of the court room.
"Sit over here a second," the newcomer said in an undertone,
indicating the long bench under the window. "Has Miss McIntyre
been here?"
"Miss McIntyre - here?" Clymer stared in amazement at his questioner.
"No, certainly not."
"Don't be so positive," retorted the lawyer heatedly, his color
rising at the other's incredulous tone. "Helen McIntyre telephoned
me to meet her, and - by Jove, here she comes," as a slight stir
at the back of the court room caused him to glance in that direction.
A gray-haired patrolman, cap in hand, was in the lead of the small
procession which filed up the aisle, and Clymer gazed in astonishment
at Helen McIntyre and her twin sister, Barbara. What had brought
them at that hour to the police court?
The court room was filled with men, both white and black, while a
dozen or more slatternly negro women were seated here and there.
The Assistant District Attorney's plea for a postponement of the
Sylvester case on the ground of the absence of an important witness
and the granting of his plea was entirely lost on the majority of
those in the court room, their attention being wholly centered on
Helen McIntyre and Barbara, whose bearing and clothes spoke of a
fashionable and prosperous world to which nearly all present were
utterly foreign.
Barbara, sensitive to the concentrated regard which their entrance
had attracted, drew closer to Dr. Amos Stone, their family physician,
who had accompanied them at her particular request. Except for Mrs.
Sylvester, she and her sister were the only white women in the room.
Before they could take the seats to which they had been ushered,
the clerk's stentorian tones sent the girls' names echoing down
the court room and Barbara, much perturbed, found herself standing
with Helen before the clerk's desk. There was a moment's wait and
the deputy marshal, who had motioned to one of the prisoners sitting
in the "cage" to step outside, emphasized his order with a muttered
imprecation to hurry. A slouching figure finally shambled past him
and stopped some little distance from the group in front of the
Judge's bench.
"House-breaking," announced the clerk. "Charge brought by -" He
looked up at the two girls.
"Miss Helen McIntyre," answered one of the twins composedly.
"Daughter of Colonel Charles McIntyre of this city."
"Charge brought by Miss Helen McIntyre," continued the clerk,
"against -" and his pointed finger indicated the seedy looking man
slouching before them.
"Smith," said the latter, and his husky voice was barely audible.
"Smith," repeated the clerk. "First name -?"
"John," was the answer, given after a slight pause.
"John Smith, you are charged by Miss Helen McIntyre with
house-breaking. What say you - guilty or not guilty?"
The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other and shot an
uneasy look about him.
"Not guilty," he responded.
At that instant Helen caught sight of Benjamin Clymer and his
companion, Philip Rochester, and her pale cheeks flushed faintly at
the lawyer's approach. He had time but for a hasty handshake before
the clerk administered the oath to the prisoner and the witnesses
in the case.
Rochester walked back and resumed his seat by Clymer. Propping
himself in the corner made by the bench and the cage, inside of
which sat the prisoners, he opened his right hand and unfolded a
small paper. He read the brief penciled message it contained not
once but a dozen times. Folding the paper into minute dimensions
he tucked it carefully inside his vest pocket and glanced sideways
at Clymer. The banker hardly noticed his uneasy movements as he
sat regarding Helen McIntyre standing in the witness box. Although
paler than usual, the girl's manner was quiet, but Clymer, a close
student of human nature, decided she was keeping her composure by
will power alone, and his interest grew.
The Judge, from the Bench, was also regarding the handsome witness
and the burglar with close attention. Colonel Charles McIntyre, a
wealthy manufacturer, had, upon his retirement from active business,
made the National Capital his home, and his name had become a
household word for philanthropy, while his twin daughters were both
popular in Washington's gay younger set. Several reporters of local
papers, attracted by the mention of the McIntyre name, as well as
by the twins' appearance, watched the scene with keen expectancy,
eager for early morning "copy."
As the Assistant District Attorney rose to question Helen McIntyre,
the Judge addressed him.
"Is the prisoner represented by counsel?" he asked.
For reply the burglar shook his head. Rising slowly to his feet,
Philip Rochester advanced to the man's side.
"If it please the court," he began, "I will take the case for the
prisoner."
His offer received a quick acceptance from the Bench, but the scowl
with which the burglar favored him was not pleasant. Hitching at
his frayed flannel collar, the man partly turned his back on the
lawyer and listened with a heavy frown to Helen's quick answers to
the questions put to her.
"While waiting for my sister to return from a dance early this
morning," she stated, "I went downstairs into the library, and as
I entered it I saw a man slip across the room and into a coat
closet. I retained enough presence of mind to steal across to the
closet and turn the key in the door; then I ran to the window and
fortunately saw Officer O'Ryan standing under the arc light across
the street. I called him and he arrested the prisoner."
Her simple statement evoked a nod of approval from the Assistant
District Attorney, and Rochester frowned as he waived his right to
cross-examine her. The next witness was Officer O'Ryan, and his
testimony confirmed Helen's.
"The prisoner was standing back among the coats in the closet," he
said. "My automatic against his ribs brought him out."
"Did you search your prisoner?" asked Rochester, as he took the
witness.
"Yes, sir.
"Find any concealed weapons?"
"No, sir."
"A burglar's kit?"
"No, sir."
"Did the prisoner make a statement after his arrest?"
"No, sir; he came along peaceably enough, hardly a word out of
him," acknowledged O'Ryan regretfully. He enjoyed a reputation on
the force as a "scrapper," and a willing prisoner was a
disappointment to his naturally pugnacious disposition.
"Did you search the house?"
"Sure, and haven't I been telling you I did?" answered O'Ryan; his
pride in his achievement in arresting a burglar in so fashionable
a neighborhood as Sheridan Circle was giving place to resentment at
Rochester's manner of addressing him. At a sign from the lawyer,
he left the witness stand, and Rochester addressed the Judge.
"I ask the indulgence of the court for more time," he commenced,
"that I may consult my client and find if he desires to call
witnesses."
"The court finds," responded the Judge, "that a clear case of
house-breaking has been proven against the prisoner by reputable
witnesses. He will have to stand trial."
For the first time the prisoner raised his eyes from contemplation
of the floor.
"I demand trial by jury," he announced.
"It is your right," acknowledged the Judge, and turned to consult
his calendar.
Stepping forward, the deputy marshal laid his hand on the burglar's
shoulder.
"Go inside," he directed and held open the cage door, which
immediately swung back into place, and Rochester, following closely
at the prisoner's heels, halted abruptly. A fit of coughing shook
the burglar and he paused by the iron railing, gasping for breath.
"Water," he pleaded, and a court attendant handed a cup to
Rochester, standing just outside the cage, and he passed it over
the iron railing to the burglar. Then turning on his heel the
lawyer rejoined Clymer, his discontent plainly discernible.
"A clear case against your client," remarked Clymer, reading his
thoughts. "Don't take the affair to heart, man; you did your
best under difficulties."
Rochester shook his head gloomily. "I might have - Jove! why didn't
I ask for bail?"
"Bail!" The banker suppressed a chuckle as he eyed the threadbare
suit and tattered appearance of the burglar, who had resumed his
seat in the prisoner's cage. "Who would have stood surety for that
scarecrow?"
"I would have." Rochester spoke with some vehemence, but his words
were partly drowned by the violent fit of coughing which again shook
the burglar, and before he could finish his sentence, Helen McIntyre
stood at his elbow. She bowed gravely to Clymer who rose at her
approach, and laid a persuasive hand on Rochester's sleeve.
"Will you come with us?" she asked. "Barbara and Dr. Stone are
ready to leave. The doctor wishes to -" As she spoke she looked
across at Stone, who stood opposite her in the little group. He
failed to catch both her word and her eye, his gaze, passing over
her shoulder, was riveted on the burglar.
"Something is wrong," he announced and pushed past Barbara. "Let
me inside the cage," he directed as the deputy marshal kept the gate
closed at his approach. "Your prisoner appears ill."
One glance at the burglar proved the truth of the physician's
statement and the gate was hastily opened. Stone bent over the man,
whose spasmodic breathing could be heard distinctly through the
court room, then his gaze shifted to the other occupants of the cage.
"The man must have air," he declared. "Your aid here." Looking up
his eyes met Clymer's, and the latter came swiftly into the cage,
followed by Rochester, and the deputy marshal slammed the door shut
behind them.
"Step out this way," he said, as Clymer aided the physician in
lifting the burglar, and he led them into the ante-room whence
prisoners were taken into the cage.
Stretching his burden on the floor, Stone tore open the man's shirt
and felt his heart, while Clymer, spying a water cooler, sped across
the room and returned immediately with a brimming glass.
"Here's water," he said, but Stone refused the proffered glass.
"No use," he announced. "The man is dead."
"Dead!" echoed the deputy marshal. "Well, I'll be - say, doctor,"
but Stone had darted out of the room, and he turned open-mouthed to
Clymer. "If it wasn't Doctor Stone I would say he was crazy," he
declared.
"Tut! Feel the man's heart and convince yourself," suggested
Clymer tartly, and the deputy marshal, dropping on one knee, did so.
Detecting no heart-beat, the officer passed his hand over the dead
man's unshaven chin and across his forehead, brushing back the
unkempt hair. Under his none too gentle touch the wig slipped
back, revealing to his astonished gaze a head of short cropped, red
hair.
Clymer, who had followed the deputy marshal's movements with
interest, gave a shout which was echoed by Rochester and Dr. Stone,
who returned at that moment.
"Good God!" gasped Clymer, shaken out of his accustomed calm.
"Jimmie Turnbull!"
The deputy marshal eyed the startled men.
"You don't mean -" he stammered, and paused.
For answer Dr. Stone straightened the dead man and removed the wig.
"James Turnbull," he said gravely, and turning, addressed Rochester,
who had dropped down on the nearest chair. "Cashier of the
Metropolis Trust Company, Rochester, and your roommate, masquerading
as a burglar."
CHAPTER II
THE GAME OF CONSEQUENCES
R 0 Chester did not appear to hear Dr. Stone's words. With eyes
half starting from their sockets he sat staring at the dead man,
completely oblivious of the others' presence. After watching him
for a moment the physician turned briskly to the dazed deputy
marshal.
"Summon the coroner," he directed. "We cannot move the body until
he comes."
His curt tone brought the official's wits back with a jump and he
made for the exit, only to be stopped at the threshold by a
sandy-haired man just entering the room.
At the word coroner, Rochester raised himself from his bent attitude
and brushed his hand across his eyes.
"No need for a coroner to diagnose the case," he objected. "Poor
Turnbull always said he would go off like that."
Stone moved nearer. "Like that?" he questioned, pointing to the
still figure. "Explain yourself, Rochester. Did Turnbull expect
to die here in this manner?"
"No - no - certainly not." The lawyer moistened his dry lips. "But
when a man has angina pectoris he knows the end may come at any
moment and in any place. Turnbull made no secret of suffering from
that disease." Rochester turned toward Clymer. "You knew it."
Benjamin Clymer, who had been gazing alternately at the dead man
and vaguely about the room, looked startled at the abrupt question.
"I knew Turnbull had bad attacks of the heart; we all knew it at
the bank," he stated. "But I understood the disease had responded
to treatment."
"There is no cure for angina pectoris," declared Rochester.
"No permanent cure," amended Stone, and would have added more, but
Rochester stopped him.
"Now that you know Turnbull died of angina pectoris there is no
necessity of sending for the coroner," Rochester spoke in haste, his
words tumbling over each other. "I will go at once and communicate
with an undertaker." But before he could rise from his chair the
sandy-haired man, who had conducted a whispered conversation with
the deputy marshal, advanced toward the group.
"Just a moment, gentlemen," he said, and turned back a lapel of his
coat and displayed a metal badge. "I am Ferguson of the Central
Office. Do you know the deceased?"
"He was my intimate friend," announced Rochester before his
companions could reply to the detective's question, which was
addressed to all. "Mr. Clymer, here, can tell you that Jimmie
Turnbull, cashier of his bank, was well known in financial and
social Washington."
"How came he here in this fix?" asked Ferguson with more force than
grammatic clarity.
"A sudden heart attack - angina pectoris, you know," replied
Rochester glibly, "with fatal results."
"I wasn't alluding to what killed him," Ferguson explained. "But
why was the cashier of the Metropolis Trust Company," he looked
questioningly at Clymer whom he knew quite well by sight, "and a
social high-light, decked out in these clothes and a wig, too?"
leaning down, the better to examine the clothing on the dead man.
"He had just been held for the Grand Jury on a charge of
house-breaking," volunteered the deputy marshal. "I reckon that
brought on his heart-attack."
"True, true," agreed Rochester. "The excitement was too much for
him."
"House-breaking" ejaculated the detective. "Dangerous sport for
a man suffering with angina pectoris, aside from anything else.
Who preferred charges?"
"The Misses McIntyre," answered the deputy marshal, to whom the
question was addressed. "Like to interview them?"
"Yes."
"No, no!" Rochester was on his feet instantly. "There is no
necessity to bring the twins out here - it's too tragic!"
"Tragic?" echoed Ferguson. "Why?"
"Why - why - Turnbull was arrested in their house," Rochester was
commencing to stutter. "He was their friend -"
"Caught burglarizing, heh?" Ferguson's eyes glowed; the case
already whetted his remarkably keen inquisitorial instinct which
had gained him place and certain fame in the Washington police force.
"Are the Misses McIntyre still in the building?"
"They were in the court room just before we brought Turnbull's body
here," responded the deputy marshal. "I guess they are still
waiting, eh, doctor?"
Stone, thus appealed to, nodded. "I agree with Mr. Rochester," he
said, and the gravity of his manner impressed Ferguson. "It is
better for me to break the news of Mr. Turnbull's death to the young
ladies before bringing them here. Therefore, with your permission,
Ferguson - He got no further.
Through the outer entrance of the room came Helen McIntyre and her
sister Barbara, conducted by the same bowing patrolman who had
ushered them into the court room an hour before.
"My God! Too late!" stammered Rochester under his breath, and he
turned in desperation to Benjamin Clymer. The bank president's
state of mind at the extraordinary masquerade and sudden death of
his popular and trusted cashier bordered on shocked horror, which
had made him a passive witness of the rapidly shifting scene.
Rochester clutched his arm in his agitation. "Get the twins out
of here - do something, man! Don't you know that Turnbull was
in love with -"
His fervid whisper penetrated further than he realized and one of
the McIntyre twins looked inquiringly in their direction. Clymer,
more startled than his demeanor indicated, wondered if she had
overheard Rochester's ejaculations, but whatever action the banker
contemplated in response to the lawyer's appeal was checked by a
scream from the girl on his right. With ashen face and trembling
finger she pointed to Turnbull's body which suddenly confronted her
as she walked forward.
"Who is it?" she gasped. "Babs, tell me!" And she held out her
hand imploringly.
Her sister stepped to her side and bent over Turnbull. When she
looked up her lips alone retained their color.
"Hush!" she implored, giving her sister a slight shake. "Hush!
It is Jimmie Turnbull. Can you not see for yourself, dear?"
It seemed doubtful if Helen heard her; with attention wholly
centered on the dead man she swayed on her feet, and Dr. Stone,
thinking she was about to fall, placed a supporting arm about
her.
"Do you not know Jimmie?" asked her sister. "Don't stare so,
dearest." Her tone was pleading.
"Perhaps the young lady has some difficulty in recognizing Mr.
Turnbull in his disguise," suggested Ferguson, who stood somewhat
in the background but closely observing the scene.
"Disguise!" Helen raised her eyes and Ferguson, hardened as he
had become to tragic scenes, felt a throb of pity as he caught
the pent-up agony in her mute appeal.
"Yes, Miss," he said awkwardly. "The burglar you caught in your
house was Mr. Turnbull in disguise.
Barbara McIntyre released her grasp of her sister's arm and
collapsed on a chair. Stone, still supporting Helen, felt her
muscles grow taut and an instant later she stepped back from his
side and stood by her sister. As the two girls faced the circle
of men, the likeness between them was extraordinary. Each had
the same slight graceful figure, equal height; and feature for
feature, coloring matching coloring, they were identical; their
gowns, even, were cut on similar lines, only their hats varied in
shape and color.
"Do I understand, gentlemen," Helen began, and her voice gained
steadiness as she proceeded, "that the burglar whom Officer O'Ryan
and I caught lurking in our house was James Turnbull?"
"He was," answered Ferguson, and Stone, as the twins looked dumbly
at him, confirmed the detective's statement with a brief, "Yes."
The silence that ensued was broken by Barbara rising to her feet.
"Jimmie won his wager," she announced. Her gaze did not waver
before the concentrated regard of the men facing her. "He broke
into our house - but, oh, how can I pay my debt to him now that
he is dead!"
"Hush!" Helen laid a cautioning hand on her sister's arm as the
latter's voice gained in shrillness, the shrillness of approaching
hysteria.
"I am all right, Helen." Barbara waved her away impatiently.
"What caused Jimmie's death?"
"Angina pectoris," declared Rochester. "Too much excitement brought
on a fatal attack." Barbara nodded dazedly. "I knew he had heart
trouble, but -" She stepped toward Turnbull and her voice quivered
with feeling. "Don't leave Jimmie lying there; take him to his
room, doctor," turning entreatingly to Stone.
The physician looked at her compassionately. "I will, just as soon
as the coroner views the body," he promised. "But come away now,
Babs; this is no place for you and Helen." He signed to the deputy
marshal to open the door as he walked across the room, Barbara
keeping step with him, and her sister following in their wake.
At the door Barbara paused and looked back.
"Will there be an inquest?" she asked.
"That's for the coroner to decide," responded Ferguson. "As long
as Mr. Turnbull entered your house on a wager and died from an
attack of angina pectoris the inquest is likely to be a mere
formality. Ah, here is the coroner now," as a man paused in the
doorway.
Helen McIntyre moved back from the door to make room for Coroner
Penfield. Having had occasion to attend court that morning, he
was passing the door when attracted by the group just inside the
room. Courteously acknowledging Helen's act, Penfield stepped
briskly across the threshold and stopped abruptly on catching sight
of the lonely figure on the floor.
"Won't you hold an autopsy, Ferguson?" asked Clymer, breaking his
long silence.
"No, sir, we never do when the cause of death is apparent," the
detective bowed to Coroner Penfield. "Isn't that so, Coroner?"
Penfield nodded. "Unless the condition of the body indicates foul
play or the relatives specially request it, we do not perform
autopsies," he answered. "What has happened here?" and he gazed
about with quickened interest.
"Mr. Turnbull, who masqueraded as a burglar on a wager with Miss
McIntyre died suddenly from angina pectoris," explained the deputy
marshal.
"Just a case of death from natural causes," broke in Rochester.
"Please write out a permit for me to remove Turnbull's body, Dr.
Penfield."
Helen McIntyre took a step forward. Her eyes, twice their
accustomed size, shone brightly, in contrast to her dead white
face. Carefully avoiding her sister's glance she addressed the
coroner.
"I must insist," she began and stopped to control her voice. "As
Mr. Turnbull's fiancee, I -" she faltered again. "I demand that
an autopsy be held to determine the cause of his death."
CHAPTER III
THE ROOM WITH THE SEVEN DOORS
Mrs. Brewster regarded her surroundings with inward satisfaction.
It would have taken a far more captious critic than the pretty
widow to find fault with the large, high-ceilinged room in which
she sat. The handsome carved Venetian furniture, the rich hangings
and valuable paintings on the walls gave evidence of Colonel
McIntyre's artistic taste and appreciation of the beautiful. Mrs.
Brewster had never failed, during her visit to the McIntyre twins,
to examine the rare curios in the carved cabinets and the tapestries
on the walls, but that afternoon, with one eye on the clock and the
other on her embroidery, she sat waiting in growing impatience for
the interruption she anticipated.
The hands of the clock had passed the hour of five before the buzz
of a distant bell brought her to her feet. Hurrying to the window
she peeped between the curtains in time to see a stylish roadster
electric glide down the driveway leading from the McIntyre residence
and stop at the curb. As she turned to go back to her chair Dr.
Stone was ushered into the library by the footman. Mrs. Brewster
welcomed her cousin with frank relief.
"I have waited so impatiently for you," she confessed, making room
for him to sit on the sofa by her side.
"I was detained, Margaret." Stone's voice was not over-cordial;
three imperative telephone calls from her, coming at a moment when
he had been engaged with a serious case in his office, had provoked
him. "Do you wish to see me professionally?"
"Indeed, I don't." She laughed frankly. "I am the picture of
health."
Stone, observing her fine coloring and clear eyes, silently agreed
with her. The widow made a charming picture in her modish tea-gown,
and the physician, watching her with an appraising eye, acknowledged
the beauty which had captivated all Washington. Mrs. Brewster had
carried her honors tactfully, a fact which had gained her popularity
even among the dowagers and match-making mothers who take an active
part in Washington's social season.
"Then, Margaret, what do you wish to see me about?" Stone asked,
after waiting without result for her to continue speaking.
She laughed softly. "You are the most practical of men," she said.
"It would not have been so difficult to find a companion anxious to
spend the whole afternoon with me for my sake alone."
"Colonel McIntyre, for instance?" he teased, and laughed amusedly
at her heightened color. "Have a care, Margaret; McIntyre's
flirtations are all very well, but he is the type of man to be
deadly in earnest when once he falls in love."
"Thanks for your warning," Mrs. Brewster smiled, then grew serious.
"I sent for you to ask about Jimmie Turnbull's death this morning.
Barbara told me you accompanied them to the police court."
"Yes. Why weren't you with the girls?"
"Because I was told nothing of their trip to the, police court
until they had returned," she replied. "How horribly tragic the
whole affair is!" And a shiver she could not suppress crept down
her spine.
"It is," agreed Stone. "What possessed Jimmie Turnbull to play so
mad a trick?"
"His wager with Barbara."
Stone leaned a little nearer. "Have you learned the nature of that
wager?" he asked, lowering his voice.
"No. Babs was in so hysterical a condition when she returned from
the police court that she gave a very incoherent account of the
whole affair, and she has kept her room ever since luncheon,"
explained Mrs. Brewster.
Stone looked puzzled. "I understood that Jimmie was attentive to
Helen McIntyre and not to Barbara," he said. "But upon my word,
Barbara appeared more overcome by Jimmie's death than Helen."
Mrs. Brewster did not reply at once; instead, she glanced carefully
around. The room was generally the rallying place of the McIntyres.
It stretched across almost the entire width of the house; the
diamond-paned and recessed windows gave it a medieval air in keeping
with its antique furniture, and the seven doors opening from it
led, respectively, to the large dining room beyond, a morning room,
billiard room, the front and back halls, and the Italian loggia
which over-looked the stretch of ground between the McIntyre
residence and its neighbor on the north. Apparently, she and Dr.
Stone had the room to themselves.
"I cannot answer your question with positiveness," she stated.
"Frankly, Jimmie appeared impartial in his attentions to the twins.
When he wasn't with Barbara he was with Helen, and vice versa."
Stone gazed at her in some perplexity. "Are you aware that Helen
stated at the police court this morning that she was Turnbull's
fiancee?"
"What!" Mrs. Brewster actually bounced in her seat. "You - you
astound me!"
"I was a bit surprised myself," acknowledged the physician. "I
thought Rochester - however, that is neither here nor there. Helen
not only announced she was Jimmie's fiancee but as such demanded
that a post-mortem examination be held to determine the cause of
his death."
Mrs. Brewster's pretty color faded and the glance she turned on her
cousin was sharp. "Why should Helen suspect foul play?" she demanded.
"For that is what her request hinted."
"True." Stone pulled his beard absentmindedly. "Ah, here is Colonel
McIntyre," he exclaimed as the portieres before the hall door parted
and a tall man strode into the library.
McIntyre was a favorite with the old physician, and he welcomed his
arrival with warmth. Exchanging a word of greeting with Mrs.
Brewster, McIntyre drew up a chair and dropped into it.
"I called at your office, doctor," he said. "Went there at once on
learning the shocking news about poor Turnbull. Why in the world
didn't he announce who he was when my daughter had him arrested as
a burglar? He must have realized that prolonged excitement was bad
for his weak heart."
Mrs. Brewster, who had settled herself more comfortably in her corner
of the sofa on McIntyre's arrival, answered his remark.
"I only knew Jimmie superficially," she said, "but he had one
distinguishing trait patent to all, his inordinate fondness for
practical jokes. Probably the predicament he found himself in
was highly to his taste - until his heart failed."
Her voice, slightly raised, carried across the room and reached the
ears of a tall, slender girl who had stood hesitating on the
threshold of the dining worn door on beholding the group by the
sofa. All hesitation vanished, however, as the meaning of Mrs.
Brewster's remark dawned on her, and she walked over to the sofa.
"You are very unjust, Margaret," she stated, and at sound of her
low triante voice McIntyre whirled around and frowned slightly.
"Jimmie was thinking of the predicament of others, not of himself."
"What do you mean, Helen?" her father demanded.
"Why, how could Jimmie reveal his identity in court without
involving us?" she asked. "Good afternoon, doctor," recollecting
her manners, and her attention thus diverted, she missed the sudden
questioning look which Mrs. Brewster and her father exchanged. "No,"
she continued, "Jimmie sacrificed himself for others."
"By becoming a burglar." McIntyre laughed shortly. "Don't talk
arrant nonsense, Helen."
The girl flushed at his tone, and Dr. Stone, an interested onlooker,
marveled at the fleeting flash of disdain which lighted her dark
eyes. Stone's interest grew. The McIntyre family had always been
particularly congenial, and the devotion of Colonel McIntyre (left
a widower when the twins were in short frocks) to his daughters had
been commented on frequently by their wide circle of friends in
Washington and by acquaintances made in their travels abroad.
Colonel McIntyre had married when quite a young man. Frugality and
industry and a brilliant mind had reaped their reward, and, wiser
than the majority of Americans, he retired early from business and
devoted himself to a life of leisure and the education of his
daughters. Their debut the previous autumn had been one of the
social events of the Washington season, and the instant popularity
the girls had attained proved a source of pride to Colonel McIntyre.
His chief pleasure consisted in gratifying their every whim, and
Dr. Stone, knowing the family as he did, wondered at the faintly
discernible air of constraint in the girl's manner. Usually frank
to a sometimes embarrassing degree, she appeared to some disadvantage
as she sat gazing moodily at the tips of her patent-leather pumps.
Dr. Stone's attention shifted to Colonel McIntyre and lastly to
the pretty widow at his elbow. Had Dame Rumor spoken truly in the
report, widely circulated, that the colonel had fallen a victim to
the charms of Margaret Brewster, his daughters' guest? If so, it
might account for the young girl's manner - however devoted
McIntyre's daughters might be to Mrs. Brewster as a friend and
companion, they might resent having so young a woman for their
step-mother.
Not receiving any reply to his remarks, McIntyre was about to
address his daughter again when she spoke.
"Jimmie will be justified," she declared stoutly. "Has the coroner
held the autopsy yet, Dr. Stone?"
"Autopsy!" McIntyre spoke with sharp abruptness. "I thought it was
clearly established that Jimmie died from angina pectoris?"
"It is so believed," responded Stone. His mystification was growing;
had not Helen informed her father of the scene which had transpired
at the police court, and of her request to the coroner? "I
understand the post-mortem examination will be made this afternoon,
Helen."
A heavy paper knife, nicely balanced between McIntyre's well
manicured fingers, dropped to the floor as a step sounded behind
him and the butler, Grimes, stopped by his side.
"Mr. Rochester just telephoned that his partner, Mr. Harry Kent, is
out of town, Miss" - bowing to the silent girl. Grimes always
contented himself with addressing his "young ladies" by the simple
prefix "Miss," and never added their given names, because, as he
expressed it, "them twins are alike as two peas, and which is which,
I dunno." Considering himself one of the family from his long
service with Colonel McIntyre, he kept a watchful eye on the twins,
but their pranks in childhood had often exasperated him into giving
notice, which he generally found it convenient to forget when the
first of a new month came around.
"Mr. Kent will be back to-morrow," added the butler, as silence
followed the delivery of his message. "Mr. Rochester wishes to know
if he can transact any business for you."
"Please thank him and say no." The girl's color rose as she caught
her father's disapproving look. The colonel waited until the butler
had disappeared before addressing her.
"Why did you send for Harry Kent?" he questioned. "You know I do
not approve of his attentions to Barbara. Rochester is well
enough -"
"Speaking of Rochester "- Mrs. Brewster saw the gathering storm
clouds in the girl's expressive eyes, and broke hastily into the
conversation. "I see by the paper, Cousin Amos" - she turned so
as to face Dr. Stone -" that Mr. Rochester declared positively
that Jimmie Turnbull died from angina pectoris."
"What's Philip's opinion worth?" The young girl smiled disdainfully.
"Philip seems to think that having shared an apartment with Jimmie,
gives him intimate knowledge of Jimmie's health. Philip is not a
medical man."
"No," acknowledged her father. "But here is a medical man who was
on the spot when Jimmie died. What's your opinion, Stone?"
Stone, suddenly conscious of the keen attention of his companions,
spoke slowly as was his wont when making a serious statement.
"Rochester's contention that Jimmie died from angina pectoris would
seem borne out by what transpired," he said. "Undoubtedly Jimmie
felt an attack coming on and used the customary remedy to relieve
it -"
"And what was that remedy?" questioned Mrs. Brewster swiftly.
"Amy1 nitrite." Stone spoke with decision. "I could detect its
presence by the fruity, pleasant odor which always accompanies the
drug's use."
"Ah!" The exclamation slipped from Mrs. Brewster. "Is the drug
administered in water?"
"No, it is inhaled - take care, you have dropped your handkerchief."
Stone pulled himself up short in his speech, and bent over but the
young girl was too quick for him, and stooped first to pick up her
handkerchief.
As she raised her head Stone caught sight of the tiny mole under
the lobe of her left ear. It was the one mark which distinguished
Barbara from her twin sister. Colonel McIntyre had addressed his
daughter as Helen, and she had not undeceived him - Why? The
perplexed physician gave up the problem.
"The drug," he went on to explain, "amyl nitrite comes in pearl
capsules and is crushed in a handkerchief and the fumes inhaled."
Mrs. Brewster leaned forward suddenly. "Would that cause death?"
she asked.
Stone shook his head in denial. "Not the customary dose of three
minims," he answered, and turning, found that Barbara had stolen
from the room.
CHAPTER IV
BARBARA ENGAGES COUNSEL
Bidding a hasty good morning to the elevator girl, Harry Kent,
suit-case in hand, entered the cage and was carried up to the
fourth floor of the Wilkins Building. Several business
acquaintances stopped to chat with him as he walked down the
corridor to his office, and it was fully fifteen minutes before he
turned the knob of the door bearing the firm name - ROCHESTER AND
KENT, ATTORNEYS - on its glass panel. As he stepped inside the
anteroom which separated the two offices occupied respectively by
him and his senior partner, Philip Rochester, a stranger rose from
the clerk's desk.
"Yes, sir?" he asked interrogatively.
Kent eyed him in surprise. "Mr. Rochester here? " he inquired.
"No, sir. It am in charge of the office."
"You are!" Kent's surprise increased. "I happen to be Mr. Kent,
junior partner in this firm."
"I beg your pardon, sir." The dapper clerk bowed and hurrying to
his desk took up a letter. "Mr. Rochester left this for you, Mr.
Kent, before his departure last night."
"His departure!" Kent deposited his suit-case on one of the chairs
and tore open the envelope. The note was a scrawl, which he had
some difficulty in deciphering.
"Dear Kent," it ran. "Am called out of town; will be back Saturday.
Saunders gave me some of his cheek this afternoon, so I fired him.
I engaged John Sylvester to fill his place, who comes highly
recommended. He will report for work to-morrow. Ta-ta - PHIL."
Kent thrust the note into his pocket and picked up his suit-case.
"Mr. Rochester states that he has engaged you," he said. "Your
references -?"
"Here, sir." The clerk handed him a folded paper, and Kent ran his
eyes down the sheet from the sentence: "To whom it may concern"
to the signature, Clark Hildebrand. The statement spoke in high
terms of John Sylvester, confidential clerk.
"I can refer you to my other employers, Mr. Kent," Sylvester
volunteered as the young lawyer stood regarding the paper. "If you,
desire further information there is Mr. Clymer and -"
"No, Judge Hildebrand'S recommendation is sufficient." And at Kent's
smile the clerk's anxious expression vanished. "Did Mr. Rochester
give you any outline of the work?"
"Yes, sir; he told me to file the papers in the Hitchcock case, and
attend to the morning correspondence."
"Very good. Has any one called this morning?"
"No, sir. These letters were addressed to you personally, and I
have not opened them," Sylvester handed a neatly arranged package
to Kent. "These," indicating several letters lying open on his desk,
"are to the firm."
"Bring them to me in half an hour," and Kent walked into his private