The Red Seal [21]
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
"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