The Red Seal
himself he turned to Sylvester. “I presume this check was some more of
your deviltry?”
Helen answered for the clerk. Removing a soiled paper from her bag she
laid it on Kent's desk. “This note was handed to me by Grimes,” she
explained. “It reads: 'Helen, please cash this check and give money to
Mrs. Brewster's dressmaker. Father.' I followed the instructions.”
“And gave the money to my sister,” Sylvester chuckled at their surprise.
“My sister was taught in a French convent, and she is an excellent
seamstress, when she isn't drunk, as Mrs. McIntyre knows.”
“See here, Sylvester,” Clymer broke his long silence. “You were in the
police court on a charge of assault and battery brought by your wife
on Tuesday morning, and you were in the prisoner's cage at the moment
Turnbull died. How then was it possible for you to be at the McIntyre's
at midnight on Monday?”
“I was out on bail and appeared in the courtroom just in time for my
trial,” Sylvester explained. “I did not have to sit in the cage, but
recognizing Turnbull I went there to be with him.”
Kent placed the forged check bearing Margaret Brewster's signature on
the desk. “I take it this check is your work, Sylvester,” he said. “You
reaped the benefit by having the money paid to your sister. Did you
also have the fake telegram delivered to me stating Mr. Rochester was in
Cleveland?”
“I faked that,” broke in Rochester, before the clerk could make a
disclaimer. “I thought it best to disappear for a few days down in
Virginia, where I could think things over in peace.”
“So it was you, Sylvester, and not Mr. Rochester whom I encountered in
his apartment,” exclaimed Kent. “How did you get in the apartment?”
“From the fire-escape and along the window ledge to the bathroom
window.” Sylvester hitched his shoulders. “It was nothing for a man of
my agility.”
Ferguson eyed him with doubtful respect.
“You have courage,” he admitted grudgingly. “Come, we must get to
Headquarters,” and he aided Sylvester to his feet, but once standing,
Sylvester refused to move. Instead he turned to Helen.
“What was that you passed to Mr. Rochester in the police court and he
later gave to Mr. Turnbull?” he asked. “Oh, don't deny it, I saw you
palm a note, Mr. Rochester, from the young lady.”
“There is nothing now to conceal,” declared Helen. “After O'Ryan and
Jimmie left the house for the police station I grew fearful that Jimmie
might over-tax his strength in carrying out the farce of his arrest. So
as soon as I could I telephoned to Philip to meet me at the police court
and to bring some amyl nitrite capsules with him.”
“And the note, Sylvester, which you saw Miss McIntyre give me in court,”
concluded Rochester, as Helen paused, “told me to hand the capsules
to the burglar and to defend him in court. I did both, although badly
puzzled by the request.” Rochester hesitated. “I carried out your
wishes, Helen, without question; but when the burglar's identity
was revealed, I jumped to the conclusion that you had used me as an
instrument to kill him, for I knew something of the effects of amyl
nitrite.”
“Great Heavens!” exclaimed Helen, aghast.
Rochester looked at her and bit his lip; he knew of her affection for
Jimmie and her attachment to his memory, but he could not kill the hope
that when Time had healed the loss, his devotion might some day win her
for his own.
“I did you great injustice,” he admitted humbly. “But I was fearfully
shocked by the scene. I strove to divert suspicion by insisting that
Jimmie died from angina pectoris, and then you came, Helen, and demanded
an autopsy.”
“I had to,” Helen broke in. “I could not believe that Jimmie's death was
due to natural causes,” her voice quivered. “He had been so loyal--so
faithful--I could not be less true to him, even if, as I feared, my own
dear father was guilty of the crime.”
Kent turned and faced Sylvester, who had made a few shuffling steps
toward the door.
“You have done incalculable harm by your criminal acts,” he said
sternly. “But for your lying and trickery Jimmie Turnbull would be alive
to-day. I trust the Court will give you the maximum sentence.”
Sylvester eyed him insolently. “I've had a run for my money, and I stood
to win large sums if things had only gone right,” he announced; then
addressed Helen directly. “What did you do with the securities?”
“I put the envelope back in the open safe when I was here early this
afternoon,” she explained.
An oath ripped from Sylvester. “I mistook you for your sister,” he
snarled. “Had I known it was you, I'd have wrung the securities from
you.”
Helen stared at his suddenly contorted face. “Ah, you are the man who
looked in at the window of the reception room yesterday morning when I
was talking to Mr. Kent,” she cried. “I recognize you now.”
He continued to glare at her. “I also sent you a note by your sister
outside the Cafe St. Marks to secrete the letter 'B',” his voice rose
almost into a shout in his ungovernable rage. “I heard Turnbull tell you
to take the envelope to Rochester, and I banked on your bringing it here
or to his apartment. D-mn you! You've thwarted me at every turn.”
Rochester's powerful hand was clapped across his mouth with such force
that the clerk staggered against Ferguson.
“Here you, out you go.” The detective shoved the struggling man toward
the door leading into the corridor and Clymer sprang to his assistance;
a second later Rochester closed the door on their receding figures and
found Helen standing by his elbow.
“I must go,” she said, turning back to look at her father and his bride.
“Wait a minute.” Kent held up an envelope with its fateful red seal.
“This was delivered empty at Rochester's apartment last night--it is
addressed to him. Who wrote it?”
“I did,” exclaimed Mrs. McIntyre. “I felt I must consult either you,
Mr. Kent, or Mr. Rochester, so I sent the note to his apartment, but the
messenger boy hurried me, and it was not until hours later that I found
the note lying on the desk in the reception room and realized I had sent
an empty envelope.”
“I see.” Kent held up another envelope, the red seal broken at the
corner. “This is yours, Helen.”
Helen hesitated perceptibly before taking the envelope and tearing it
open. She handed the securities to her father.
“Here is father's forged confession,” she said as she took the remaining
paper from the envelope.
“It is a marvelous imitation of my handwriting,” declared McIntyre,
looking at it carefully, then tearing it into tiny bits he flung them
into the scrap-basket and pocketed the securities.
“And to think that I aided Sylvester's plot to gain the securities by
engaging him as our clerk,” groaned Rochester.
“It was clever of him to seek employment here,” agreed Kent. “But like
many crooks he over-reached himself through over-confidence. Must you
go, Colonel McIntyre?”
“Yes.” McIntyre walked over to Helen.
“My dear little girl,” he began and his voice was husky with feeling.
“How can I show my appreciation of your loyalty to me?”
“By being kind to Harry and Barbara.” Helen smiled bravely, although
her lips were trembling and for a moment she could not trust herself to
speak. “My romance is over; Barbara's is just beginning. And, father,
will you and Margaret come home with me--I am so lonely;” then turning
blindly away she fairly ran out of the office.
“Go with her,” said Rochester, a trifle unsteadily. “It has been a
terrible ordeal; God help her to forget!” His voice failed and he swept
his hand across his eyes as he held open the door into the corridor and
followed McIntyre and his wife outside.
Kent turned impulsively to Barbara, and his arms closed around her as
she raised her eyes to meet his, for she knew that the promise they
spoke would be loyally fulfilled, and that her haven of love and
happiness was reached at last.