The Red Seal [4]
sport for a man suffering with angina pectoris, aside from anything else. Who preferred charges?"
"The Misses McIntyre," answered the deputy marshal, to whom the question was addressed. "Like to interview them?"
"Yes."
"No, no!" Rochester was on his feet instantly. "There is no necessity to bring the twins out here - it's too tragic!"
"Tragic?" echoed Ferguson. "Why?"
"Why - why - Turnbull was arrested in their house," Rochester was commencing to stutter. "He was their friend -"
"Caught burglarizing, heh?" Ferguson's eyes glowed; the case already whetted his remarkably keen inquisitorial instinct which had gained him place and certain fame in the Washington police force. "Are the Misses McIntyre still in the building?"
"They were in the court room just before we brought Turnbull's body here," responded the deputy marshal. "I guess they are still waiting, eh, doctor?"
Stone, thus appealed to, nodded. "I agree with Mr. Rochester," he said, and the gravity of his manner impressed Ferguson. "It is better for me to break the news of Mr. Turnbull's death to the young ladies before bringing them here. Therefore, with your permission, Ferguson - He got no further.
Through the outer entrance of the room came Helen McIntyre and her sister Barbara, conducted by the same bowing patrolman who had ushered them into the court room an hour before.
"My God! Too late!" stammered Rochester under his breath, and he turned in desperation to Benjamin Clymer. The bank president's state of mind at the extraordinary masquerade and sudden death of his popular and trusted cashier bordered on shocked horror, which had made him a passive witness of the rapidly shifting scene. Rochester clutched his arm in his agitation. "Get the twins out of here - do something, man! Don't you know that Turnbull was in love with -"
His fervid whisper penetrated further than he realized and one of the McIntyre twins looked inquiringly in their direction. Clymer, more startled than his demeanor indicated, wondered if she had overheard Rochester's ejaculations, but whatever action the banker contemplated in response to the lawyer's appeal was checked by a scream from the girl on his right. With ashen face and trembling finger she pointed to Turnbull's body which suddenly confronted her as she walked forward.
"Who is it?" she gasped. "Babs, tell me!" And she held out her hand imploringly.
Her sister stepped to her side and bent over Turnbull. When she looked up her lips alone retained their color.
"Hush!" she implored, giving her sister a slight shake. "Hush! It is Jimmie Turnbull. Can you not see for yourself, dear?"
It seemed doubtful if Helen heard her; with attention wholly centered on the dead man she swayed on her feet, and Dr. Stone, thinking she was about to fall, placed a supporting arm about her.
"Do you not know Jimmie?" asked her sister. "Don't stare so, dearest." Her tone was pleading.
"Perhaps the young lady has some difficulty in recognizing Mr. Turnbull in his disguise," suggested Ferguson, who stood somewhat in the background but closely observing the scene.
"Disguise!" Helen raised her eyes and Ferguson, hardened as he had become to tragic scenes, felt a throb of pity as he caught the pent-up agony in her mute appeal.
"Yes, Miss," he said awkwardly. "The burglar you caught in your house was Mr. Turnbull in disguise.
Barbara McIntyre released her grasp of her sister's arm and collapsed on a chair. Stone, still supporting Helen, felt her muscles grow taut and an instant later she stepped back from his side and stood by her sister. As the two girls faced the circle of men, the likeness between them was extraordinary. Each had the same slight graceful figure, equal height; and feature for feature, coloring matching coloring, they were identical; their gowns, even, were cut on similar lines, only their hats varied in shape and color.
"Do I understand, gentlemen," Helen began, and her voice gained steadiness as she proceeded, "that the burglar whom Officer O'Ryan and I
"The Misses McIntyre," answered the deputy marshal, to whom the question was addressed. "Like to interview them?"
"Yes."
"No, no!" Rochester was on his feet instantly. "There is no necessity to bring the twins out here - it's too tragic!"
"Tragic?" echoed Ferguson. "Why?"
"Why - why - Turnbull was arrested in their house," Rochester was commencing to stutter. "He was their friend -"
"Caught burglarizing, heh?" Ferguson's eyes glowed; the case already whetted his remarkably keen inquisitorial instinct which had gained him place and certain fame in the Washington police force. "Are the Misses McIntyre still in the building?"
"They were in the court room just before we brought Turnbull's body here," responded the deputy marshal. "I guess they are still waiting, eh, doctor?"
Stone, thus appealed to, nodded. "I agree with Mr. Rochester," he said, and the gravity of his manner impressed Ferguson. "It is better for me to break the news of Mr. Turnbull's death to the young ladies before bringing them here. Therefore, with your permission, Ferguson - He got no further.
Through the outer entrance of the room came Helen McIntyre and her sister Barbara, conducted by the same bowing patrolman who had ushered them into the court room an hour before.
"My God! Too late!" stammered Rochester under his breath, and he turned in desperation to Benjamin Clymer. The bank president's state of mind at the extraordinary masquerade and sudden death of his popular and trusted cashier bordered on shocked horror, which had made him a passive witness of the rapidly shifting scene. Rochester clutched his arm in his agitation. "Get the twins out of here - do something, man! Don't you know that Turnbull was in love with -"
His fervid whisper penetrated further than he realized and one of the McIntyre twins looked inquiringly in their direction. Clymer, more startled than his demeanor indicated, wondered if she had overheard Rochester's ejaculations, but whatever action the banker contemplated in response to the lawyer's appeal was checked by a scream from the girl on his right. With ashen face and trembling finger she pointed to Turnbull's body which suddenly confronted her as she walked forward.
"Who is it?" she gasped. "Babs, tell me!" And she held out her hand imploringly.
Her sister stepped to her side and bent over Turnbull. When she looked up her lips alone retained their color.
"Hush!" she implored, giving her sister a slight shake. "Hush! It is Jimmie Turnbull. Can you not see for yourself, dear?"
It seemed doubtful if Helen heard her; with attention wholly centered on the dead man she swayed on her feet, and Dr. Stone, thinking she was about to fall, placed a supporting arm about her.
"Do you not know Jimmie?" asked her sister. "Don't stare so, dearest." Her tone was pleading.
"Perhaps the young lady has some difficulty in recognizing Mr. Turnbull in his disguise," suggested Ferguson, who stood somewhat in the background but closely observing the scene.
"Disguise!" Helen raised her eyes and Ferguson, hardened as he had become to tragic scenes, felt a throb of pity as he caught the pent-up agony in her mute appeal.
"Yes, Miss," he said awkwardly. "The burglar you caught in your house was Mr. Turnbull in disguise.
Barbara McIntyre released her grasp of her sister's arm and collapsed on a chair. Stone, still supporting Helen, felt her muscles grow taut and an instant later she stepped back from his side and stood by her sister. As the two girls faced the circle of men, the likeness between them was extraordinary. Each had the same slight graceful figure, equal height; and feature for feature, coloring matching coloring, they were identical; their gowns, even, were cut on similar lines, only their hats varied in shape and color.
"Do I understand, gentlemen," Helen began, and her voice gained steadiness as she proceeded, "that the burglar whom Officer O'Ryan and I