The Red Seal
“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 Brewster waited until the young secretary had withdrawn out of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