The Red Seal [16]
-" Stuart turned to his companion. "Sorry I brought you here on an idiotic chase, Mr. Ferguson."
"That's all right," responded the detective good naturedly. "Would you like me to look through the apartment just to see if any one really is concealed on the premises, Mr. Kent?" he asked, and added quickly, seeing Kent hesitate, "I am from the central office; Mr. Stuart can vouch for me."
Kent's hesitation vanished. "I'd be obliged if you would, Ferguson." As he spoke he led the way to Rochester's bedroom. "Come with us, Stuart," as the clerk loitered behind.
"Guess not, sir; I'm needed down at the desk, we are short-handed to-night. Let me know how the hunt turns out," and he stepped into the vestibule. "Good night."
"Good night," called Kent, and he accompanied Ferguson as far as the bathroom door, then returned to his inspection of Rochester's table. He had just completed his task when the detective rejoined him.
"No trace of any one," the latter announced. "Some one put up a joke on Stuart, I imagine. Find what you wished, sir?"
Kent was distinctly annoyed by the question. "Yes," he replied shortly.
Ferguson ignored his curt tone. "Will you spare me a few minutes of your time, Mr. Kent?" he asked persuasively. "I won't detain you long."
"Certainly." Kent moved over to the chair in the window which he had occupied before and pointed to another, equally as comfortable.
"What can I do for you?" he asked as Ferguson dropped back and stretched himself in the soft depths of the big chair.
"Supply some information," answered the detective promptly. "Just a minute," as Kent started to interrupt. "You don't recall me, but I met you while working on the Chase case; you handled that trial in great shape," Ferguson looked admiringly at his companion. "Lots of the praise went to your partner, Mr. Rochester, but I know you did the work. Now, please let me finish," holding up a protesting hand. "I know you've carried Mr. Rochester in your firm; he's dead wood." Kent was silent. What the detective said was only too true. Rochester, realizing the talent and industry which characterized his younger partner, had withdrawn more and more from active practice, and had devoted himself to the social life of the National Capital.
"This is rather a long-winded way of reaching my point," finished the detective. "But, Mr. Kent, I want your assistance in a puzzling case."
"Go on, I'm listening." As he spoke, Kent drew out his cigar case and handed it to Ferguson. "The matches are on the smoking stand at your elbow. Now, what is it, Ferguson?"
His companion did not reply at once; instead he puffed at his cigar.
"Did you read in the paper about Mr. Turnbull's death?" he asked when the cigar was drawing to his satisfaction, and as Kent nodded a silent affirmative in answer to his question, he asked another. "Did you know him well?"
"Yes."
"Did he have an enemy?"
"Not to my knowledge." Kent was watching the detective narrowly; what was he driving at? "On the contrary Turnbull was extremely popular."
"With Colonel McIntyre?" Ferguson had hoped to surprise Kent with the question, but his companion's expression did not alter.
"N-no, perhaps he was not over-popular with the colonel," he admitted slowly. "What prompts the question, Ferguson?"
The detective hitched his chair nearer. "I'm going to lay all my cards on the table," he announced. "I need advice and you are the man to give it to me. Listen, Mr. Kent, this Jimmie Turnbull masquerades as a burglar night before last at the McIntyre house, is arrested, a charge brought against him for house-breaking by Miss Helen McIntyre, and shortly after he dies -"
"From angina pectoris," finished Kent, as the detective paused.
"So Mr. Rochester contended," admitted Ferguson. "We'll let that go for a minute. Now, when Miss McIntyre saw Turnbull's body, she demanded an autopsy. Why?"
"To discover the cause of death," answered Kent quietly. "That is obvious, Ferguson."
"Sure. And why did she wish to discover it?"
"That's all right," responded the detective good naturedly. "Would you like me to look through the apartment just to see if any one really is concealed on the premises, Mr. Kent?" he asked, and added quickly, seeing Kent hesitate, "I am from the central office; Mr. Stuart can vouch for me."
Kent's hesitation vanished. "I'd be obliged if you would, Ferguson." As he spoke he led the way to Rochester's bedroom. "Come with us, Stuart," as the clerk loitered behind.
"Guess not, sir; I'm needed down at the desk, we are short-handed to-night. Let me know how the hunt turns out," and he stepped into the vestibule. "Good night."
"Good night," called Kent, and he accompanied Ferguson as far as the bathroom door, then returned to his inspection of Rochester's table. He had just completed his task when the detective rejoined him.
"No trace of any one," the latter announced. "Some one put up a joke on Stuart, I imagine. Find what you wished, sir?"
Kent was distinctly annoyed by the question. "Yes," he replied shortly.
Ferguson ignored his curt tone. "Will you spare me a few minutes of your time, Mr. Kent?" he asked persuasively. "I won't detain you long."
"Certainly." Kent moved over to the chair in the window which he had occupied before and pointed to another, equally as comfortable.
"What can I do for you?" he asked as Ferguson dropped back and stretched himself in the soft depths of the big chair.
"Supply some information," answered the detective promptly. "Just a minute," as Kent started to interrupt. "You don't recall me, but I met you while working on the Chase case; you handled that trial in great shape," Ferguson looked admiringly at his companion. "Lots of the praise went to your partner, Mr. Rochester, but I know you did the work. Now, please let me finish," holding up a protesting hand. "I know you've carried Mr. Rochester in your firm; he's dead wood." Kent was silent. What the detective said was only too true. Rochester, realizing the talent and industry which characterized his younger partner, had withdrawn more and more from active practice, and had devoted himself to the social life of the National Capital.
"This is rather a long-winded way of reaching my point," finished the detective. "But, Mr. Kent, I want your assistance in a puzzling case."
"Go on, I'm listening." As he spoke, Kent drew out his cigar case and handed it to Ferguson. "The matches are on the smoking stand at your elbow. Now, what is it, Ferguson?"
His companion did not reply at once; instead he puffed at his cigar.
"Did you read in the paper about Mr. Turnbull's death?" he asked when the cigar was drawing to his satisfaction, and as Kent nodded a silent affirmative in answer to his question, he asked another. "Did you know him well?"
"Yes."
"Did he have an enemy?"
"Not to my knowledge." Kent was watching the detective narrowly; what was he driving at? "On the contrary Turnbull was extremely popular."
"With Colonel McIntyre?" Ferguson had hoped to surprise Kent with the question, but his companion's expression did not alter.
"N-no, perhaps he was not over-popular with the colonel," he admitted slowly. "What prompts the question, Ferguson?"
The detective hitched his chair nearer. "I'm going to lay all my cards on the table," he announced. "I need advice and you are the man to give it to me. Listen, Mr. Kent, this Jimmie Turnbull masquerades as a burglar night before last at the McIntyre house, is arrested, a charge brought against him for house-breaking by Miss Helen McIntyre, and shortly after he dies -"
"From angina pectoris," finished Kent, as the detective paused.
"So Mr. Rochester contended," admitted Ferguson. "We'll let that go for a minute. Now, when Miss McIntyre saw Turnbull's body, she demanded an autopsy. Why?"
"To discover the cause of death," answered Kent quietly. "That is obvious, Ferguson."
"Sure. And why did she wish to discover it?"