The Assistant District Attorney glanced down at the papers in his hand
and then up at the well-dressed, stockily built man occupying the
witness stand. His manner was conciliatory.
“According to your testimony, Mr. Clymer, the prisoner, John Sylvester,
was honest and reliable, and faithfully performed his duties as
confidential clerk,” he stated. “Just when was Sylvester in your
employ?”
“Sylvester was never in my employ,” corrected Benjamin Augustus
Clymer. The president of the Metropolis Trust Company was noted for his
precision of speech. “During the winter of 1918 I shared an apartment
with Judge James Hildebrand, who employed Sylvester.”
“Was Sylvester addicted to drink?”
“No.”
“Was he quarrelsome?”
“No.”
“Was Sylvester married at that date?”
At the question a faint smile touched the corners of Clymer's clean
shaven mouth and his eyes traveled involuntarily toward the over-dressed
female whose charge of assault and battery against her husband
had brought Clymer to the police court as a “character” witness in
Sylvester's behalf.
“Sylvester left Judge Hildebrand to get married,” he explained. “He was
a model clerk; honest, sober, and industrious.”
“That is all, Mr. Clymer.” The Assistant District Attorney spoke in
some haste. “You may retire, sir,” and, as Clymer turned to vacate the
witness box, he addressed the presiding judge.
Clymer did not catch his remarks as, on stepping down, he was
button-holed by a man whose entrance had occurred a few minutes before
through the swing door which gave exit from the space reserved for
witnesses and lawyers into the body of the court room.
“Sit over here a second,” the newcomer said in an undertone, indicating
the long bench under the window. “Has Miss McIntyre been here?”
“Miss McIntyre--here?” Clymer stared in amazement at his questioner.
“No, certainly not.”
“Don't be so positive,” retorted the lawyer heatedly, his color rising
at the other's incredulous tone. “Helen McIntyre telephoned me to meet
her, and--by Jove, here she comes,” as a slight stir at the back of the
court room caused him to glance in that direction.
A gray-haired patrolman, cap in hand, was in the lead of the small
procession which filed up the aisle, and Clymer gazed in astonishment
at Helen McIntyre and her twin sister, Barbara. What had brought them at
that hour to the police court?
The court room was filled with men, both white and black, while a dozen
or more slatternly negro women were seated here and there. The Assistant
District Attorney's plea for a postponement of the Sylvester case on the
ground of the absence of an important witness and the granting of his
plea was entirely lost on the majority of those in the court room, their
attention being wholly centered on Helen McIntyre and Barbara, whose
bearing and clothes spoke of a fashionable and prosperous world to which
nearly all present were utterly foreign.
Barbara, sensitive to the concentrated regard which their entrance had
attracted, drew closer to Dr. Amos Stone, their family physician,
who had accompanied them at her particular request. Except for Mrs.
Sylvester, she and her sister were the only white women in the room.
Before they could take the seats to which they had been ushered, the
clerk's stentorian tones sent the girls' names echoing down the court
room and Barbara, much perturbed, found herself standing with Helen
before the clerk's desk. There was a moment's wait and the deputy
marshal, who had motioned to one of the prisoners sitting in the “cage”
to step outside, emphasized his order with a muttered imprecation to
hurry. A slouching figure finally shambled past him and stopped some
little distance from the group in front of the Judge's bench.
“House-breaking,” announced the clerk. “Charge brought by--” He looked
up at the two girls.
“Miss Helen McIntyre,” answered one of the twins composedly. “Daughter
of Colonel Charles McIntyre of this city.”
“Charge brought by Miss Helen McIntyre,” continued the clerk,
“against--” and his pointed finger indicated the seedy looking man
slouching before them.
“Smith,” said the latter, and his husky voice was barely audible.
“Smith,” repeated the clerk. “First name--?”
“John,” was the answer, given after a slight pause.
“John Smith, you are charged by Miss Helen McIntyre with house-breaking.
What say you--guilty or not guilty?”
The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other and shot an uneasy
look about him.
“Not guilty,” he responded.
At that instant Helen caught sight of Benjamin Clymer and his companion,
Philip Rochester, and her pale cheeks flushed faintly at the lawyer's
approach. He had time but for a hasty handshake before the clerk
administered the oath to the prisoner and the witnesses in the case.
Rochester walked back and resumed his seat by Clymer. Propping himself
in the corner made by the bench and the cage, inside of which sat the
prisoners, he opened his right hand and unfolded a small paper. He read
the brief penciled message it contained not once but a dozen times.
Folding the paper into minute dimensions he tucked it carefully inside
his vest pocket and glanced sideways at Clymer. The banker hardly
noticed his uneasy movements as he sat regarding Helen McIntyre standing
in the witness box. Although paler than usual, the girl's manner was
quiet, but Clymer, a close student of human nature, decided she was
keeping her composure by will power alone, and his interest grew.
The Judge, from the Bench, was also regarding the handsome witness and
the burglar with close attention. Colonel Charles McIntyre, a wealthy
manufacturer, had, upon his retirement from active business, made the
National Capital his home, and his name had become a household word for
philanthropy, while his twin daughters were both popular in Washington's
gay younger set. Several reporters of local papers, attracted by the
mention of the McIntyre name, as well as by the twins' appearance,
watched the scene with keen expectancy, eager for early morning “copy.”
As the Assistant District Attorney rose to question Helen McIntyre, the
Judge addressed him.
“Is the prisoner represented by counsel?” he asked.
For reply the burglar shook his head. Rising slowly to his feet, Philip
Rochester advanced to the man's side.
“If it please the court,” he began, “I will take the case for the
prisoner.”
His offer received a quick acceptance from the Bench, but the scowl with
which the burglar favored him was not pleasant. Hitching at his frayed
flannel collar, the man partly turned his back on the lawyer and
listened with a heavy frown to Helen's quick answers to the questions
put to her.
“While waiting for my sister to return from a dance early this morning,”
she stated, “I went downstairs into the library, and as I entered it I
saw a man slip across the room and into a coat closet. I retained enough
presence of mind to steal across to the closet and turn the key in
the door; then I ran to the window and fortunately saw Officer O'Ryan
standing under the arc light across the street. I called him and he
arrested the prisoner.”
Her simple statement evoked a nod of approval from the Assistant
District Attorney, and Rochester frowned as he waived his right
to cross-examine her. The next witness was Officer O'Ryan, and his
testimony confirmed Helen's.
“The prisoner was standing back among the coats in the closet,” he said.
“My automatic against his ribs brought him out.”
“Did you search your prisoner?” asked Rochester, as he took the witness.
“Yes, sir.
“Find any concealed weapons?”
“No, sir.”
“A burglar's kit?”
“No, sir.”
“Did the prisoner make a statement after his arrest?”
“No, sir; he came along peaceably enough, hardly a word out of him,”
acknowledged 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, 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.”