“The bell is out of order,” she explained. “I saw you from the window. Hurry, and Grimes won't know that you are here,” and she darted3 ahead of him into the reception room. Kent followed more slowly; he was hurt that she had had no other greeting for him.
“Babs, aren't you glad to see me?” he asked wistfully.
For an instant her eyes were lighted by her old sunny smile.
“You know I am,” she whispered softly. As his arms closed around her and their lips met in a tender kiss she added fervently5, “Oh, Harry, why didn't you make me marry you in the happy bygone days?”
“I asked you often enough,” he declared.
“Will you go with me to Rockville at once?” Her face changed and she drew back from him. “No,” she said. “It is selfish of me to think of my own happiness now.”
“How about mine?” demanded Kent with warmth. “If you won't consider yourself, consider me.”
“I do.” She looked out of the window to conceal6 sudden blinding tears. There was a hint of hidden tragedy in her lovely face which went to Kent's heart.
“Sweetheart,” his voice was very tender, “is there nothing I can do for you?”
Kent studied her in silence; that she was in deadly earnest he recognized, she was no hysterical9 fool or given to sentimental10 twaddle.
“You came to me on Wednesday to ask my aid in solving Jimmie Turnbull's death,” he said. “I have learned certain facts—”
Barbara sprang to her feet. “Wait,” she cautioned. “Let me close the door. Now, go on—” with her customary impetuosity she reseated herself.
“Before I do so, I must tell you, Babs, that I recognized the fraud you and Helen perpetrated at the coroner's inquest yesterday afternoon.”
“Fraud?”
“Yes,” quietly. “I am aware that you impersonated Helen on the witness stand and vice11 versa. You took a frightful12 risk.”
“I never doubted you told the truth regarding the events of Monday night as you saw them, but the coroner's questions were put to you under the impression that you were Helen.” Kent scrutinized14 her keenly. “Would Helen have been able to give the same answers that you did without perjuring15 herself?”
Barbara started and her face paled. “Are you insinuating16 that Helen killed Jimmie?” she cried.
“No,” his emphatic17 denial was prompt. “But I do believe that she knows more of what transpired18 Monday night than she is willing to admit. Is that not so, Barbara?”
“Yes,” she acknowledged reluctantly.
“Does she know who poisoned Jimmie?”
“No—no!” Barbara rested a firm hand on his shoulder. “I swear Helen does not know. You must believe me, Harry.”
“Well, what if I do?” asked Helen quietly, and Kent, looking around, found her standing20 just inside the door. Her entrance had been noiseless.
“You should tell the authorities, Helen.” Kent rose as she passed him and selected a seat which brought her face somewhat in shadow. “If you do not you may retard21 justice.”
“But if I speak I may involve the innocent,” she retorted. “I—” her eyes shifted from him to Barbara and back again. “I cannot undertake that responsibility.”
“Better that than let the guilty escape through your silence,” protested Kent. “Possibly the theories of the police may coincide with yours.
“What are they?” asked Barbara impetuously.
Kent considered before replying. If Detective Ferguson had gone so far as to secure a search warrant to go through Rochester's apartment and office it would not be long before the fact of his being a “suspect” would be common property; there could, therefore, be no harm in his repeating Ferguson's conversation to the twins. In fact, as their legal representative, they were entitled to know the latest developments from him.
“Detective Ferguson believes that the poison was administered by Philip Rochester,” he said finally, and watched to see how the announcement would affect them. Barbara's eyes opened to their widest extent, and back in her corner, into which she had gradually edged her chair, Helen emitted a long, long breath as her taut22 muscles relaxed.
“What makes Ferguson think Philip guilty?” demanded Barbara.
“It is known that he and Jimmie were not on good terms,” replied Kent. “Then Rochester's disappearance23 after Jimmie's death lends color to the theory.”
“Has Philip really disappeared?” asked Helen. “You showed me a telegram—”
“Apparently24 the telegram was a fake,” admitted Kent. “The Cleveland police report that he is not at the address given in the telegram.”
“But who could have an object in sending such a telegram?” asked Barbara slowly.
“Rochester, in the hope of throwing the police off his track, if he really killed Jimmie.” Kent looked straight at Helen. “It was while searching our office safe for trace of Rochester's present address that Ferguson obtained possession of your sealed envelope.”
Helen plucked nervously25 at the ribbon on her gown. “Did the detective open the envelope” she asked.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive; the red seal was unbroken.”
“We were in the little smoking porch off the dining room at the Club de Vingt.” Barbara smiled her remembrance of it, and motioned Kent to continue. “Ferguson had just put down the envelope on the table and I started to pick it up when cheering in the dining room distracted my attention and I, with the others, went to see what it was about. When I returned to the porch the envelope was no longer on the table.”
“Who were with you?” questioned Helen.
“Your father, Mrs. Brewster—”
“Of course,” murmured Barbara. “Go on, Harry.”
“Detective Ferguson and Ben Clymer,” Barbara made a wry27 face, “and”—went on Kent, not heeding28 her, “each of these persons deny any further knowledge of the envelope, except they declare it was lying on the table when we all made a dash for the dining room.
“Who was the last to leave the porch?” asked Helen.
“Ben Clymer.”
“And he saw no one take the envelope?”
“He declares that he had his back to the table, part of the time, but to the best of his knowledge no one took the envelope.”
“One of them must have,” insisted Barbara.
“The envelope hadn't legs or wings.”
“One of them did take it,” agreed Kent.
“But which one is the question. Frankly29, to find the answer, I must know the contents of the envelope, Helen.”
“Why?”
“Because then I will have some idea who would be enough interested in the envelope to steal it.”
Helen considered him long and thoughtfully. “I cannot answer your question,” she announced finally. She saw his face harden, and hastened to explain. “Not through any lack of confidence in you, Harry, b-b-but,” she stumbled in her speech. “I—I do not know what the envelope contains.”
Kent stared at her open-mouthed. “Then who requested you to lock the envelope in Rochester's safe?” he demanded, and receiving no reply, asked suddenly: “Was it Rochester?”
“I am not at liberty to tell you,” she responded; her mouth set in obstinate30 lines and before he could press his request a second time, she asked: “Philip Rochester defended Jimmie in court when every one thought him a burglar; why then, should Philip have picked him out to attack—he is not a homicidal maniac31?”
“No, but the police contend that Rochester recognized Jimmie in his make-up and decided32 to kill him; hoping his death would be attributed to angina pectoris, and no post-mortem held,” wound up Kent.
“I don’t quite understand”—Helen raised her handkerchief to her forehead and removed a drop of moisture. “How did Philip kill Jimmie there in court before us all?”
“Ferguson believes that he put the dose of aconitine in the glass of water which Jimmie asked for,” explained Kent, and would have continued his remarks, but a scream from Barbara startled him.
“There, look at the window,” she cried. “I saw a face peering in. Look quick, Harry, look!”
Kent needed no second bidding, but although he craned his head far outside the open window and gazed both up and down the street and along the path to the kitchen door, he failed to see any one. “Was it a man or woman?” he asked, turning back to the room.
“I—I couldn't tell; it was just a glimpse.” Barbara stood resting one hand on the table, her weight leaning upon it. Not for words would she have had Kent know that her knees were shaking under her.
“Did you see the face, Helen?” As he put the question Kent looked around at the silent girl in the corner; she had slipped back in her chair and, with closed eyes, lay white-lipped and limp. With a leap Kent gained her side and his hand sought her pulse.
“Ring for brandy and water,” he directed as Barbara came to his aid. “Helen has fainted.”
Twenty minutes later Kent hastened out of the McIntyre house and, turning into Connecticut Avenue, boarded a street car headed south. After carrying Helen to the twins' sitting room he had assisted Barbara in reviving her. He had wondered at the time why Barbara had not summoned the servants, then concluded that neither sister wished a scene. That Helen was worse than she would admit he appreciated, and advised Barbara to send for Dr. Stone. The well-meant suggestion had apparently fallen on deaf ears, for no physician had appeared during the time he was in the house, nor had Barbara used the telephone, almost at her elbow as she sat by her sister's couch, to summon Dr. Stone. Kent had only waited long enough to convince himself that Helen was out of danger, and then had departed.
It was nearly one o'clock when he finally stepped inside his office, and he found his clerk and a dressy female bending eagerly over a newspaper. They looked up at his approach and Sylvester came forward.
“This is my wife, sir,” he explained, and Kent bowed courteously33 to Mrs. Sylvester. “We were just reading this account of Mr. Rochester's disappearance; it's dreadful, sir, to think that the police believe him guilty of Mr. Turnbull's murder.”
“Dreadful, indeed,” agreed Kent; the news had been published even sooner than he had imagined. “What paper is that?”
“The noon edition of the Times.” Sylvester handed it to him.
“Thanks,” Kent flung down his hat and spread open the paper. “Who have been here to-day?”
“Colonel McIntyre, sir; he left a card for you.” Sylvester hurried into Kent's office, to return a moment later with a visiting card. “He left this, sir, for you with most particular directions that it be handed to you at once on your arrival.”
“Any one else been in this morning?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” Sylvester consulted a written memorandum35. “Mr. Black called, also Colonel Thorne, Senator Harris, and Mrs. Brewster.”
“Mrs. Brewster!” The newspaper slipped from Kent's fingers in his astonishment36. “What did she want here?”
“To see you, sir, so she said, but she first asked for Mr. Rochester,” explained Sylvester, stooping over to pick up the inside sheet of the Times which had separated from the others. “I told her that Mr. Rochester was unavoidably detained in Cleveland; then she said she would consult you and I let her wait in your office for the good part of an hour.”
Kent thought a moment then walked toward his door; on its threshold he paused, struck by a sudden idea.
“Did Colonel McIntyre come with Mrs. Brewster?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Kent; he came in while she was here.”
“And they went off together,” volunteered Mrs. Sylvester, who had been a silent listener to their conversation. Kent started; he had forgotten the woman. “Excuse me, Mr. Kent,” she continued, and stepped toward him. “I presume, likely, that you are very interested in this charge of murder against your partner, Mr. Rochester.”
“I am,” affirmed Kent, as Mrs. Sylvester paused.
“I am too, sir,” she confided37 to him. “Cause you see I was in the court room when Mr. Turnbull died and I'm naturally interested.”
“Naturally,” agreed Kent with a commiserating38 glance at his clerk; the latter's wife threatened to be loquacious39, and he judged from her looks that it was a habit which had grown with the years. As a general rule he abhorred40 talkative women, but—“And what took you to the police court on Tuesday morning?”
“Why, me and Mr. Sylvester have our little differences like other married couples,” she explained. “And sometimes we ask the Court to settle them.” She caught Kent's look of impatience41 and hurried her speech. “The burglar case came on just after ours was remanded, and seeing the McIntyre twins, whom I've often read about, I just thought I'd stay. Let me have that paper a minute.”
“Certainly,” Kent gave her the newspaper and she ran her finger down the columns devoted42 to the Turnbull case with a slowness that set his already excited nerves on edge.
“Here's what I'm looking for,” she exclaimed triumphantly43, a minute later, and pointed45 to the paragraph:
“Mrs. Margaret Perry Brewster, the fascinating widow, added
nothing material to the case in her testimony, and she was
quickly excused, after stating that she was told about the
tragedy by the McIntyre twins upon their return from the
Police Court.”
“Well what of it?” asked Kent.
“Only this, Mr. Kent;” Mrs. Sylvester enjoyed nothing so much as talking to a good looking man, especially in the presence of her husband, and she could not refrain from a triumphant44 look at him as she went on with her remarks. “There was a female sitting on the bench next to me in Court; in fact, she and I were the only women on that side, and I kinder noticed her on that account, and then I saw she was all done up in veils—I couldn't see her face.
“I caught her peering this way and that during the burglar's hearing; I don't reckon she could see well through all the veils. Now, don't get impatient, Mr. Kent; I'm getting to my point—that woman sitting next to me in the police court was the widow Brewster.”
“What!” Kent laughed unbelievingly. “Oh, come, you are mistaken.”
“I am not, sir.” Mrs. Sylvester spoke with conviction. “Now, why does Mrs. Brewster declare at the coroner's inquest that she only heard of the Turnbull tragedy from the McIntyre twins on their return home?”
“You must be mistaken,” argued Kent. “Why, you admit yourself that the woman was so swathed in veils that you could not see her face.”
“No, but I heard her laugh in court,” Mrs. Sylvester spoke in deep earnestness and Kent placed faith in her statement in spite of his outward skepticism. “And I heard her laugh in this corridor this morning and I placed her as the same woman. I asked Mr. Sylvester who she was, and he told me. I'd been reading this account of the Turnbull inquest, and I recollected46 seeing Mrs. Brewster's name, and my husband and I were just reading the account over when you came in.”
Kent gazed in perplexity at Mrs. Sylvester. “Why did Mrs. Brewster laugh in the police court?” he asked.
“When Dr. Stone exclaimed to the deputy marshal—'Your prisoner appears ill!'” declared Mrs. Sylvester; she enjoyed the dramatic, and that Kent was hanging on her words she was fully4 aware, in spite of his expressionless face. “Dr. Stone lifted the burglar in his arms and then Mrs. Brewster laughed as she laughed in the corridor to-day—a soft gurgling laugh.”
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1
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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8
weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perjuring
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| v.发假誓，作伪证( perjure的现在分词 ) | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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retard
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| n.阻止，延迟；vt.妨碍，延迟，使减速 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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commiserating
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| v.怜悯，同情( commiserate的现在分词 ) | |
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loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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40
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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41
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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42
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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43
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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45
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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46
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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