The Red Seal
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
office, carefully closing the door behind him. Opening his suit-case he
took out his brief bag and laid it on the desk in front of him together
with the package of letters. Instead of opening the letters immediately,
he tilted back in his chair and regarded the opposite wall in deep
thought. Philip Rochester could not have selected a worse time to absent
himself; three important cases were on the calendar for immediate trial
and much depended on the firm's successful handling of them. Kent swore
softly under his breath; his last warning to Rochester, that he would
dissolve their partnership if the older man continued to neglect his
practice, had been given only a month before and upon Kent's return
from eight months' service in the Judge Advocate General's Department in
France. Apparently his warning had fallen on deaf ears and Rochester was
indulging in another periodic spree, for so Kent concluded, recalling
the unsteady penmanship of the note handed to him by the new clerk, John
Sylvester.
Kent was still frowning at the opposite wall when a faint knock sounded,
and at his call Sylvester entered.
“Here are the letters received this morning, sir, and type-written
copies of the answers to yesterday's correspondence which Mr. Rochester
dictated before leaving,” Sylvester explained as he placed the papers on
Kent's desk. “If you will o.k. them, I will mail them at once.”
Kent went through the letters with care, and the new clerk rose in
his estimation as he read the excellent dictation of the clearly typed
answers.
“These will do admirably,” he announced. “Sit down and I will reply to
the other letters.”
At the end of an hour Sylvester closed his stenographic note book and
collected the correspondence, by that time scattered over Kent's desk.
“I'll have these notes ready for your signature before lunch,” he said
as he picked up a newspaper from the floor where it had tumbled during
Kent's search for some particular letter heads. “I brought in the
morning paper, sir; thought perhaps you had not seen it.”
“Thanks.” Kent swung his chair nearer the window and opened the
newspaper. He had purchased a copy when walking through Union Station
on his arrival, but had left it in the cafeteria where he had snatched a
cup of coffee and hot rolls before hurrying to his office.
He read a column devoted to international affairs, scanned an account
of a senatorial wrangle, and was about to turn to the second page,
whistling cheerily, when his attention was arrested by the headings:
BANK CASHIER DIES IN POLICE COURT
JAMES TURNBULL, MISTAKEN FOR BURGLAR,
SUFFERS FATAL ATTACK OF ANGINA PECTORIS
Kent's whistle stopped abruptly, and clutching the paper in both hands,
he devoured the short account printed under the scare heads:
“While masquerading as a burglar on a wager,
James Turnbull, cashier of the Metropolis Trust
Company, was arrested by Officer O'Ryan at an
early hour yesterday morning in the residence of
Colonel Charles McIntyre.
“Officer O'Ryan conducted his prisoner to the
8th Precinct Police Station, and later he was
arraigned in the police court. The Misses
McIntyre appeared in person to prefer the
charges against the supposed burglar, who, on
being sworn, gave the name of John Smith.
“Philip Rochester, the well known criminal
lawyer, was assigned by the court to defend the
prisoner. Upon the evidence submitted Judge
Mackall held the prisoner for trial by the grand
jury.
“It was just after the Judge's announcement
that 'John Smith,' then sitting in the prisoners
cage, was seized with the attack of angina pectoris
which ended so fatally a few minutes later.
It was not until after he had expired that those
rendering him medical assistance became aware
that he was James Turnbull in disguise.
“James Turnbull was a native of Washington,
his father, the late Hon Josiah Turnbull of
Connecticut, having made this city his permanent
home in the early '90s. Mr. Turnbull was looked
upon as one of the rising young men in banking
circles; he was also prominent socially, was a
member of the Alibi, Metropolitan, and Country
Clubs, and until recently was active in all forms
of athletics, when his ill-health precluded active
exercise.
“Officer O'Ryan, who was greatly shocked by
the fatal termination to Mr. Turnbull's rash
wager, stated to the representatives of the press
that Mr. Turnbull gave no hint of his identity
while being interrogated at the 8th Precinct
Station. Friends attribute Mr. Turnbull's
disinclination to reveal himself to the court, to
his enjoyment of a practical joke, not realizing
that the resultant excitement of the scene would
react on his weak heart.
“Mr. Turnbull is survived by a great aunt; he had
no nearer relatives living. It is a singular
coincidence that the lawyer appointed by the
court to defend Turnbull was his intimate friend,
Philip Rochester, who made his home with the
deceased.”
Kent read the column over and over, then, letting the paper slip to
the floor, sat back in his chair, too dumb-founded for words. Jimmie
Turnbull arrested as a burglar in the home of the girl he loved on
charges preferred by her, and defended in court by his intimate friend,
both of whom were unaware of his identity! Kent rumpled his fair
hair until it stood upright. And Jimmie's death had followed almost
immediately as the result of over-excitement!
Kent's eyes grew moist; he had been very fond of the eccentric, lovable
bank cashier, whose knack of performing many a kindly act, unsolicited,
had endeared him to friends and acquaintances alike. Kent had seen much
of him after his return from France, for Jimmie's attention to Helen
McIntyre had been only second to Kent's devotion to the latter's sister,
Barbara. The two men had one bond in common. Colonel McIntyre disliked
them and discouraged their calling, to the secret fury of both, but love
had found a way--Kent's eyes kindled at the recollection of Barbara's
half-shy, wholly tender reception of his ardent pleading.
Turnbull's courtship had met with a set-back where he had least
expected it--Philip Rochester had fallen deeply in love with Helen and,
encouraged by her father, had pressed his suit with ardor. Frequent
quarrels between the two close friends had been the outcome, and Jimmie
had confided to Kent, before the latter left on the business trip to
Chicago from which he had returned that morning, that the situation had
become intolerable and he had notified Rochester that he would no longer
share his apartment with him, and to look for other quarters as quickly
as possible.
So buried was Kent in his thoughts that he never heard Sylvester's
knock, and it was not until the clerk stood at his elbow that he awoke
from his absorption.
“A lady to see you, Mr. Kent,” he announced. “Shall I show her in?”
“Certainly--her name?”
“She gave none.” Sylvester paused on his way back to the door. “It is
one of the Misses McIntyre.”
“Good Lord!” Kent was on his feet, straightening his tie and brushing
his rumpled hair. “Here, wait a minute”--clutching a whisk broom in a
frantic endeavor to remove some of the signs of travel which still clung
to him. But he had only opportunity for one dab at his left shoulder
before Barbara entered the office. All else forgotten, Kent tossed down
the whisk broom and the next instant he had clasped her hand in both of
his, his eyes telling more eloquently than his stumbling words, his joy
at seeing her again.
“This is a business call,” she stated demurely, “on you and Mr.
Rochester.” Her lovely eyes held a glint of mischief as she mentioned
Kent's partner, then her expression grew serious. “I want legal advice.”
“I am afraid you will have to put up with me,” Kent moved his chair
closer to the one she had selected by the desk. “Rochester is out of
town.”
“What!” Barbara sat bolt upright. “Where--where's he gone?”