The Red Seal [45]
the rest of the desk ornaments, but before heating the wax he looked for his signet ring, and frowned when he recalled leaving it on his dresser. He hesitated a moment, then catching sight of a silver seal lying at the back of the desk he picked it up and moistened the initial. A few minutes later he blew out the candle, returned the wax and seal to a pigeon hole, and carefully placed the envelope with its well stamped letter "B" in his coat pocket, and tramped upstairs.
Helen heard his heavy tread coming down the hall toward her room, and scrambled back to bed. She had but time to arrange her dressing sacque when her father walked in.
"Good morning, my dear," he said and, stooping over, kissed her. As he straightened up, the side of his single-breasted coat turned back and exposed to Helen's bright eyes the end of a white envelope. "Barbara told me you are not well," he wheeled forward a chair and sat down by the bed. "Hadn't I better send for Dr. Stone?" "Oh, no," her reply, though somewhat faint, was emphatic, and he frowned.
"Why not?" aggressively. "I trust you do not share Barbara's suddenly developed prejudice against the good doctor."
"I do not require a physician," she said evasively. "I am well."
McIntyre regarded her vexedly. He could not decide whether her flushed cheeks were from fever or the result of exertion or excitement. Excitement over what? He looked about the room; it reflected the taste of its dainty owner in its furnishings, but nowhere did he find an answer to his unspoken question, until his eye lighted on a box of rouge under the electric lamp on her bed stand.
"Don't use that," he said, touching the box.
"You know I detest make-up."
"Oh, that!" She turned to see what he was talking about. "That rouge belongs to Margaret Brewster."
McIntyre promptly changed the conversation. "Have you had your breakfast?" he asked.
"Yes; Grimes took the tray down some time ago." Helen watched her father fidget with his watch fob for several minutes, then asked with characteristic directness. "What do you wish?"
"To see that you have proper medical attention if you are ill," he returned promptly. "How would a week or ten days at Atlantic City suit you and Barbara?"
"Not at all." Helen sat up from her reclining position on the pillows. "You forget, father, that we have a house-guest; Margaret Brewster is not leaving until May."
"I had not forgotten," curtly. "I propose that she go with us."
A faint "Oh!" escaped Helen, otherwise she made no comment, and McIntyre, after contemplating her for a minute, looked away.
"Either go to Atlantic City with us, Helen, or resume your normal, everyday life," he said shortly. "I am tired of heroics; Jimmie Turnbull was hardly the man to inspire them."
"Stop!" Helen's voice rang out imperiously. "I will not permit one word said in disparagement of Jimmie, least of all from you, father. Wait," as he attempted to speak. "I do not know what traits of character I may have inherited from you, but I have all mother's loyalty, and - that loyalty belongs to Jimmie."
McIntyre's eyes shifted under her gaze.
"I regret very much this obsession," he said rising. "I will not attempt to reason with you again, Helen, but "- he made no effort to lower his voice, "the world - our world will soon know what manner of man James Turnbull was, of that I am determined."
"And I "- Helen faced her father proudly - "I will leave no stone unturned to defend his memory."
Her father wheeled about. "In doing so, see that you do not compromise yourself," he remarked coldly, and before the infuriated girl could answer, he slammed the door shut and stalked downstairs.
Some half hour later he opened the door of Rochester and Kent's law office and would have walked unceremoniously into Kent's private office had not John Sylvester stepped forward from behind his desk in the corner.
"Good morning, Colonel," he said civilly. "Mr. Kent is not here. Do you wish to leave any message?"
"Oh, good morning, Sylvester," McIntyre's manner
Helen heard his heavy tread coming down the hall toward her room, and scrambled back to bed. She had but time to arrange her dressing sacque when her father walked in.
"Good morning, my dear," he said and, stooping over, kissed her. As he straightened up, the side of his single-breasted coat turned back and exposed to Helen's bright eyes the end of a white envelope. "Barbara told me you are not well," he wheeled forward a chair and sat down by the bed. "Hadn't I better send for Dr. Stone?" "Oh, no," her reply, though somewhat faint, was emphatic, and he frowned.
"Why not?" aggressively. "I trust you do not share Barbara's suddenly developed prejudice against the good doctor."
"I do not require a physician," she said evasively. "I am well."
McIntyre regarded her vexedly. He could not decide whether her flushed cheeks were from fever or the result of exertion or excitement. Excitement over what? He looked about the room; it reflected the taste of its dainty owner in its furnishings, but nowhere did he find an answer to his unspoken question, until his eye lighted on a box of rouge under the electric lamp on her bed stand.
"Don't use that," he said, touching the box.
"You know I detest make-up."
"Oh, that!" She turned to see what he was talking about. "That rouge belongs to Margaret Brewster."
McIntyre promptly changed the conversation. "Have you had your breakfast?" he asked.
"Yes; Grimes took the tray down some time ago." Helen watched her father fidget with his watch fob for several minutes, then asked with characteristic directness. "What do you wish?"
"To see that you have proper medical attention if you are ill," he returned promptly. "How would a week or ten days at Atlantic City suit you and Barbara?"
"Not at all." Helen sat up from her reclining position on the pillows. "You forget, father, that we have a house-guest; Margaret Brewster is not leaving until May."
"I had not forgotten," curtly. "I propose that she go with us."
A faint "Oh!" escaped Helen, otherwise she made no comment, and McIntyre, after contemplating her for a minute, looked away.
"Either go to Atlantic City with us, Helen, or resume your normal, everyday life," he said shortly. "I am tired of heroics; Jimmie Turnbull was hardly the man to inspire them."
"Stop!" Helen's voice rang out imperiously. "I will not permit one word said in disparagement of Jimmie, least of all from you, father. Wait," as he attempted to speak. "I do not know what traits of character I may have inherited from you, but I have all mother's loyalty, and - that loyalty belongs to Jimmie."
McIntyre's eyes shifted under her gaze.
"I regret very much this obsession," he said rising. "I will not attempt to reason with you again, Helen, but "- he made no effort to lower his voice, "the world - our world will soon know what manner of man James Turnbull was, of that I am determined."
"And I "- Helen faced her father proudly - "I will leave no stone unturned to defend his memory."
Her father wheeled about. "In doing so, see that you do not compromise yourself," he remarked coldly, and before the infuriated girl could answer, he slammed the door shut and stalked downstairs.
Some half hour later he opened the door of Rochester and Kent's law office and would have walked unceremoniously into Kent's private office had not John Sylvester stepped forward from behind his desk in the corner.
"Good morning, Colonel," he said civilly. "Mr. Kent is not here. Do you wish to leave any message?"
"Oh, good morning, Sylvester," McIntyre's manner