The Red Seal | Page 5

O'Ryan regretfully. He enjoyed a reputation on the force
as a "scrapper," and a willing prisoner was a disappointment to his
naturally pugnacious disposition.
"Did you search the house?"
"Sure, and haven't I been telling you I did?" answered O'Ryan; his
pride in his achievement in arresting a burglar in so fashionable a
neighborhood as Sheridan Circle was giving place to resentment at
Rochester's manner of addressing him. At a sign from the lawyer, he

left the witness stand, and Rochester addressed the Judge.
"I ask the indulgence of the court for more time," he commenced, "that
I may consult my client and find if he desires to call witnesses."
"The court finds," responded the Judge, "that a clear case of
house-breaking has been proven against the prisoner by reputable
witnesses. He will have to stand trial."
For the first time the prisoner raised his eyes from contemplation of the
floor.
"I demand trial by jury," he announced.
"It is your right," acknowledged the Judge, and turned to consult his
calendar.
Stepping forward, the deputy marshal laid his hand on the burglar's
shoulder.
"Go inside," he directed and held open the cage door, which
immediately swung back into place, and Rochester, following closely
at the prisoner's heels, halted abruptly. A fit of coughing shook the
burglar and he paused by the iron railing, gasping for breath.
"Water," he pleaded, and a court attendant handed a cup to Rochester,
standing just outside the cage, and he passed it over the iron railing to
the burglar. Then turning on his heel the lawyer rejoined Clymer, his
discontent plainly discernible.
"A clear case against your client," remarked Clymer, reading his
thoughts. "Don't take the affair to heart, man; you did your best under
difficulties."
Rochester shook his head gloomily. "I might have - Jove! why didn't I
ask for bail?"
"Bail!" The banker suppressed a chuckle as he eyed the threadbare suit
and tattered appearance of the burglar, who had resumed his seat in the

prisoner's cage. "Who would have stood surety for that scarecrow?"
"I would have." Rochester spoke with some vehemence, but his words
were partly drowned by the violent fit of coughing which again shook
the burglar, and before he could finish his sentence, Helen McIntyre
stood at his elbow. She bowed gravely to Clymer who rose at her
approach, and laid a persuasive hand on Rochester's sleeve.
"Will you come with us?" she asked. "Barbara and Dr. Stone are ready
to leave. The doctor wishes to -" As she spoke she looked across at
Stone, who stood opposite her in the little group. He failed to catch
both her word and her eye, his gaze, passing over her shoulder, was
riveted on the burglar.
"Something is wrong," he announced and pushed past Barbara. "Let me
inside the cage," he directed as the deputy marshal kept the gate closed
at his approach. "Your prisoner appears ill."
One glance at the burglar proved the truth of the physician's statement
and the gate was hastily opened. Stone bent over the man, whose
spasmodic breathing could be heard distinctly through the court room,
then his gaze shifted to the other occupants of the cage.
"The man must have air," he declared. "Your aid here." Looking up his
eyes met Clymer's, and the latter came swiftly into the cage, followed
by Rochester, and the deputy marshal slammed the door shut behind
them.
"Step out this way," he said, as Clymer aided the physician in lifting the
burglar, and he led them into the ante-room whence prisoners were
taken into the cage.
Stretching his burden on the floor, Stone tore open the man's shirt and
felt his heart, while Clymer, spying a water cooler, sped across the
room and returned immediately with a brimming glass.
"Here's water," he said, but Stone refused the proffered glass.

"No use," he announced. "The man is dead."
"Dead!" echoed the deputy marshal. "Well, I'll be - say, doctor," but
Stone had darted out of the room, and he turned open-mouthed to
Clymer. "If it wasn't Doctor Stone I would say he was crazy," he
declared.
"Tut! Feel the man's heart and convince yourself," suggested Clymer
tartly, and the deputy marshal, dropping on one knee, did so. Detecting
no heart-beat, the officer passed his hand over the dead man's unshaven
chin and across his forehead, brushing back the unkempt hair. Under
his none too gentle touch the wig slipped back, revealing to his
astonished gaze a head of short cropped, red hair.
Clymer, who had followed the deputy marshal's movements with
interest, gave a shout which was echoed by Rochester and Dr. Stone,
who returned at that moment.
"Good God!" gasped Clymer, shaken out of his accustomed calm.
"Jimmie Turnbull!"
The deputy marshal eyed the startled men.
"You don't mean -" he stammered,