The Red Seal
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.”
CHAPTER XVI. THE CRIMSON OUTLINE
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