The Red Seal | Page 6

and paused.
For answer Dr. Stone straightened the dead man and removed the wig.
"James Turnbull," he said gravely, and turning, addressed Rochester,
who had dropped down on the nearest chair. "Cashier of the Metropolis
Trust Company, Rochester, and your roommate, masquerading as a
burglar."

CHAPTER II
THE GAME OF CONSEQUENCES

R 0 Chester did not appear to hear Dr. Stone's words. With eyes half
starting from their sockets he sat staring at the dead man, completely
oblivious of the others' presence. After watching him for a moment the
physician turned briskly to the dazed deputy marshal.
"Summon the coroner," he directed. "We cannot move the body until
he comes."
His curt tone brought the official's wits back with a jump and he made
for the exit, only to be stopped at the threshold by a sandy-haired man
just entering the room.
At the word coroner, Rochester raised himself from his bent attitude
and brushed his hand across his eyes.
"No need for a coroner to diagnose the case," he objected. "Poor
Turnbull always said he would go off like that."
Stone moved nearer. "Like that?" he questioned, pointing to the still
figure. "Explain yourself, Rochester. Did Turnbull expect to die here in
this manner?"
"No - no - certainly not." The lawyer moistened his dry lips. "But when
a man has angina pectoris he knows the end may come at any moment
and in any place. Turnbull made no secret of suffering from that
disease." Rochester turned toward Clymer. "You knew it."
Benjamin Clymer, who had been gazing alternately at the dead man
and vaguely about the room, looked startled at the abrupt question.
"I knew Turnbull had bad attacks of the heart; we all knew it at the
bank," he stated. "But I understood the disease had responded to
treatment."
"There is no cure for angina pectoris," declared Rochester.
"No permanent cure," amended Stone, and would have added more, but
Rochester stopped him.

"Now that you know Turnbull died of angina pectoris there is no
necessity of sending for the coroner," Rochester spoke in haste, his
words tumbling over each other. "I will go at once and communicate
with an undertaker." But before he could rise from his chair the
sandy-haired man, who had conducted a whispered conversation with
the deputy marshal, advanced toward the group.
"Just a moment, gentlemen," he said, and turned back a lapel of his coat
and displayed a metal badge. "I am Ferguson of the Central Office. Do
you know the deceased?"
"He was my intimate friend," announced Rochester before his
companions could reply to the detective's question, which was
addressed to all. "Mr. Clymer, here, can tell you that Jimmie Turnbull,
cashier of his bank, was well known in financial and social
Washington."
"How came he here in this fix?" asked Ferguson with more force than
grammatic clarity.
"A sudden heart attack - angina pectoris, you know," replied Rochester
glibly, "with fatal results."
"I wasn't alluding to what killed him," Ferguson explained. "But why
was the cashier of the Metropolis Trust Company," he looked
questioningly at Clymer whom he knew quite well by sight, "and a
social high-light, decked out in these clothes and a wig, too?" leaning
down, the better to examine the clothing on the dead man.
"He had just been held for the Grand Jury on a charge of
house-breaking," volunteered the deputy marshal. "I reckon that
brought on his heart-attack."
"True, true," agreed Rochester. "The excitement was too much for
him."
"House-breaking" ejaculated the detective. "Dangerous 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