The Red Seal
Benjamin Clymer was standing in the vestibule of the Saratoga, where he
made his home, when the McIntyre limousine drew up, and he did not keep
them waiting, as Colonel McIntyre had predicted he would on the drive to
Clymer's apartment house.
“The clerk gave me your message when I came in, McIntyre,” he explained
as the car drove off. “I called up your residence and Grimes said you
were on the way here.”
Barbara, tucked away in her corner of the limousine, listened to Mrs.
Brewster's animated chatter with utter lack of interest; she wished most
heartily that she had not been over-persuaded by her sister, and had
remained at home. That her father had accepted her lame explanation and
her presence in the party with unaffected pleasure had been plain. Mrs.
Brewster, after a quiet inquiry regarding her health, had been less
enthusiastic in her welcome. Barbara was just stifling a yawn when the
limousine stopped at the entrance to the Cafe St. Marks.
Inside the cafe all was light and gaiety, and Barbara brightened
perceptibly as the attentive head waiter ushered them to the table
Colonel McIntyre had reserved earlier in the evening.
“It's a novel idea turning the old church into a cafe,” Barbara remarked
to Benjamin Clymer. “A sort of casting bread upon the waters of famished
Washington. I wonder if they ever turn water into wine?”
“No such luck,” groaned Clymer dismally, looking with distaste at the
sparkling grape juice being poured into the erstwhile champagne goblet
by his plate. “The cafe is crowded to-night,” and he gazed with interest
about the room. Colonel McIntyre, who had loitered behind to speak to
several friends at an adjacent table, took the unoccupied seat by
Mrs. Brewster and was soon in animated conversation with the widow and
Clymer; Barbara, her healthy appetite asserting itself, devoted her
entire attention to the delicious delicacies placed before her. The
arrival of the after-the-theater crowd awoke her from her abstraction,
and she accepted Clymer's invitation to dance with alacrity. When they
returned to the table she discovered that Margaret Brewster and her
father had also joined the dancers.
Barbara watched them while keeping up a disjointed conversation with
Clymer, whose absentminded remarks finally drew Barbara's attention, and
she wondered what had come over the generally entertaining banker. It
was on the tip of her tongue to ask him the reason for his distrait
manner when her thoughts were diverted by his next remark.
“Your father and Mrs. Brewster make a fine couple,” he said. “Colonel
McIntyre is the most distinguished looking man in the cafe and Mrs.
Brewster is a regular beauty.”
Instead of replying Barbara turned in her seat and scanned her father as
he and Mrs. Brewster passed them in the dance. Colonel McIntyre did not
look his age of forty-seven years. His hair, prematurely gray, had a
most attractive wave to it, and his erect and finely proportioned figure
showed to advantage in his well-cut dress suit. Barbara's heart swelled
with pride--her dear and handsome father! Then she transferred
her regard to Margaret Brewster; she had been such a satisfactory
friend--why oh, why did she wish to become her step-mother? The twins,
with the unerring instinct of womanhood, had decided ten days before
that Weller's warning to his son was timely--Mrs. Brewster was a most
dangerous widow.
“How is your sister?” inquired Clymer, breaking the silence which had
lasted nearly five minutes. He was never quite certain which twin he was
talking to, and generally solved the problem by familiarizing himself
with their mode of dress. The plan had not always worked as the twins
had a bewildering habit of exchanging clothes, to the enjoyment of
Barbara's mischief loving soul, and the mystification of their numerous
admirers.
“She is rather blue and depressed,” answered Barbara. “We are both
feeling the reaction from the shock of Jimmie Turnbull's tragic death.
You must forgive me if I am a bore; I am not good company to-night.”
The arrival of the head waiter at their table interrupted Clymer's
reply.
“This gentleman desires to speak to you a moment, Miss McIntyre,” he
said, and indicated a young man in a sack suit standing just back of
him.
“I'm Parker of the Post,” the reporter introduced himself with a bow
which included Clymer. “May I sit down?” laying his hand on the back of
Mrs. Brewster's vacant chair.
“Surely; and won't you have an ice?” Barbara's hospitable instincts were
aroused. “Here, waiter--”
“No, thanks; I haven't time,” protested Parker, slipping into the chair.
“I just came from your house, Miss McIntyre; the butler said I might
find you here, and as it was rather important, I took the liberty of
introducing myself. We plan to run a story, featuring the dangers of
masquerading in society, and of course it hinges on the death of Mr.
Turnbull. I'm sorry”--he apologized as he saw Barbara wince. “I realize
the topic is one to make you feel badly; but I promise to ask only few
questions.” His smile was very engaging and Barbara's resentment receded
somewhat.
“What are they?” she asked.
“Did you recognize Mr. Turnbull in his burglar's make-up when you
confronted him in the police court?” Parker drew out copy paper and a
pencil, and waited for her reply. There was a pause.
“I did not recognize Mr. Turnbull in court,” she stated finally. “His
death was a frightful shock.”
“Sure. It was to everybody,” agreed Parker. “How about your sister, Miss
Barbara; did she recognize him?”
“No.” faintly.
Parker showed his disappointment; he was not eliciting much information.
Abruptly he turned to Clymer, whose prominent position in the financial
world made him a familiar figure to all Washingtonians.
“Weren't you present in the police court on Tuesday morning also?”
Parker asked.
“Yes,” Clymer modified the curt monosyllable by adding, “I helped Dr.
Stone carry Turnbull out of the prisoners' cage and into the anteroom.”
“And did you recognize your cashier?” demanded Parker. At the question
Barbara set down her goblet of water without care for its perishable
quality and looked with quick intentness at the banker.
“I recognized Mr. Turnbull when his wig was removed,” answered Clymer,
raising his head in time to catch Barbara's eyes gazing steadfastly at
him. With a faint flush she turned her attention to the reporter.
“Mr. Turnbull's make-up must have been superfine,” Parker remarked.
“Just one more question. Can you tell me if Mr. Philip Rochester
recognized his room-mate when he was defending him in court?”
“No, I cannot,” and observing Parker's blank expression, she added, “why
don't you ask Mr. Rochester?”
“Because I can't locate him; he seems to have vanished off the face of
the globe.” The reporter rose. “You can't tell me where's he's gone, I
suppose?”
“I haven't the faintest idea,” answered Barbara truthfully. “I was at
his office this--” she stopped abruptly on finding that Mrs. Brewster
was standing just behind her. Had the widow by chance overheard her
remark? If so, her father would probably learn of her visit to the
office of Rochester and Kent that morning.
“Do I understand that Philip Rochester is out of town?” inquired Mrs.
Brewster. “Why, I had an appointment with him to-morrow.”
“He's gone and left no address that I can find,” explained Parker.
“Thank you, Miss McIntyre; good evening,” and the busy reporter hurried
away.
There was a curious expression in Mrs. Brewster's eyes, but she dropped
her gaze on her finger bowl too quickly for Clymer to analyze its
meaning.
“What can have taken Mr. Rochester out of town?” she asked. The question
was not addressed to any one in particular, but Colonel McIntyre
answered it, as he did most of the widow's remarks.
“Dry Washington,” he explained. “It isn't the first trip Philip has made
to Baltimore since the 'dry' law has been in force, eh, Clymer?”
“No, and it won't be his last,” was the banker's response. “What's the
matter, Miss McIntyre?” as Barbara pushed back her chair.
“I feel a little faint,” she stammered. “The air here is--is stifling.
If you don't mind, father, I'll take the car and drive home.”
“I'll come with you,” announced Mrs. Brewster, rising hurriedly; and
as she turned solicitously to aid Barbara she caught Colonel McIntyre's
admiring glance and his whispered thanks.
Outside the cafe Clymer discovered that the McIntyre limousine was not
to be found, and, cautioning Barbara and the widow to remain where they
were, he went back into the cafe in search of Colonel McIntyre, who had
stayed behind to pay his bill.
A sudden exodus from the cafe as other diners came out to get their cars,
separated Barbara from Mrs. Brewster just as the former caught sight of
her father's limousine coming around McPherson Square. Not waiting to
see what had become of her companion, Barbara started up the sidewalk
intent on catching their chauffeur's attention. As she stood by the
curb, a figure brushed by her and a paper was deftly slipped inside her
hand.
Barbara wheeled about abruptly. She stood alone, except for several
elaborately dressed women and their companions some yards away who
were indulging in noisy talk as they hurried along. At that moment the
McIntyre limousine stopped at the curb and the chauffeur opened the
door.
“Take me home, Harris,” she ordered. “And then come back for Mrs.
Brewster and father. I don't feel well--hurry.”
“Very good, miss,” and touching his cap the chauffeur swung his car up
Fifteenth Street.
The limousine had turned into Massachusetts Avenue before Barbara
switched on the electric lamp in the car and opened the note so
mysteriously given to her. She read feverishly the few lines it
contained,
Dear Helen:
The coroner will call an inquest. Secrete letter “B.”
The note was unsigned but it was in the handwriting of Philip Rochester.
CHAPTER VII. THE RED SEAL
The gloomy morning, with leaden skies and intermittent rain, reflected
Harry Kent's state of mind. He could not fix his attention on the
business letters which Sylvester placed before him; instead, his
thoughts reverted to the scene in Rochester's and Turnbull's apartment
the night before, the elusive visitor he had found there on his arrival,
his interview with Detective Ferguson, and above all the handkerchief,
saturated with amyl nitrite, and bearing the small embroidered
letter “B”--the initial, insignificant in size, but fraught with dire
possibilities if, as Ferguson hinted, Turnbull had been put to death by
an over-dose of the drug. “B “--Barbara; Barbara--“B”--his mind rang the
changes; pshaw! other names than Barbara began with “B.”
“Shall I transcribe your notes, Mr. Kent?” asked Sylvester, and Kent
awakened from his reverie, discovered that he had scrawled the name
Barbara and capital “Bs” on the writing pad. He tore off the sheet and
crumpled it into a small ball. “No, my notes are unimportant.” Kent
unlocked his desk and took some manuscript from one of the drawers.
“Make four copies of this brief, then call up the printer and ask how
soon he will complete the work on hand. Has Mr. Clymer telephoned?”
“Not this morning.” Sylvester rose, papers in hand. “There has been a
Mr. Parker of the Post who telephones regularly once an hour to ask
for Mr. Rochester's address and when he is expected at the office.” He
paused and looked inquiringly at Kent. “What shall I say the next time
he calls?”
“Switch him on my phone,” briefly. “That is all now, Sylvester. I must
be in court by noon, so have the brief copied by eleven.”
“Yes, sir,” and Sylvester departed, only to return a second later. “Miss
McIntyre to see you,” he announced, and stood aside to allow the girl to
enter.