There was absolute stillness in the room; then a babble of exclamations
broke out as Sylvester, his expression of dumb surprise giving place to
one of fury, struggled to free himself from the detective's firm grip.
“You cannot escape, Sylvester,” declared Kent, observing his efforts.
“Your carelessness in using your peculiar gift of penmanship in copying
Barbara McIntyre's signature in this memorandum of her visit here”--Kent
held up a sheet torn from his pad, “gave me the first clew. These, the
second,” he showed several pieces of blotting paper freshly used.
“See, in the mirror here is reflected the impression from your clever
imitations of the handwritings of Barbara, Colonel McIntyre, and Mrs.
Brewster.”
They crowded about Kent, all but Ferguson and his prisoner, who had
subsided in his chair with what the detective concluded was dangerous
quietude.
“My next step, now that suspicion was directed against Sylvester, was to
make personal inquiries regarding him,” went on Kent. “Judge Hildebrand,
who had just returned to Washington, said that he first met Sylvester at
a circus sideshow where he gave exhibitions as a contortionist. One of
his special stunts was to slip out of handcuffs and ropes.”
“So that explains last night,” Ferguson grinned. “You'll not do it
again, Sylvester,” and he shook an admonitory finger at the erstwhile
clerk.
“Judge Hildebrand became interested in Sylvester, found he was handy
with his pen and tired of the show business, and gave him an opening by
engaging him as confidential clerk,” continued Kent. “You will recall,
Colonel McIntyre, that you sent business papers in your handwriting and
that of your daughters to Judge Hildebrand's office to be typed by his
staff. That is how Sylvester became so well acquainted with your writing
and was able to forge a letter to the bank treasurer directing him to
turn over your negotiable securities to Jimmie Turnbull.”
“But how in the world did Sylvester induce Jimmie to present the forged
letter?” asked Colonel McIntyre.
Kent turned to the sullen prisoner. “Answer that question, Sylvester,”
he commanded, and the man roused himself from his dejected attitude.
“Anything in it for me if I do?” he asked with a cunning leer.
“That's for the courts to decide,” declared Kent.
The man thought a minute. “I'll take a chance,” he said finally. “But
that I waited for an opportunity to get my swag out of this safe, I
wouldn't have been caught--curse you!” and he scowled at Kent.
“Cut that out,” admonished Ferguson with a none too gentle dig in the
ribs, and Sylvester continued his statement.
“I overheard Colonel McIntyre tell Judge Hildebrand about his securities
and their present value, and the next day he came to consult the judge
about engaging a secretary. I fixed up credentials and went to Mr.
Turnbull; he believed my story that I was the colonel's new secretary
and got the securities.” Sylvester paused. “If I'd rested content with
that success I'd been all right,” he added. “But I was in too great a
hurry and forged Mr. Clymer's signature to a check for five thousand
dollars and presented it at the Metropolis Trust Company. As luck would
have it Mr. Turnbull cashed it for me himself.”
“But didn't he suspect you?” exclaimed Clymer. He had gradually
recovered from the shock of Rochester's charges on his arrival, and was
listening with keen attention to Sylvester's confession.
“No. I made the check payable to Colonel McIntyre and forged his
endorsement,” Sylvester spoke with an air of pride, and he smiled
in malicious enjoyment as, catching his eye, Barbara shrank back and
sheltered herself behind Kent. “Mr. Turnbull accepted the check;
later something must have aroused his suspicions, and I found when he
questioned me that he believed Colonel McIntyre had forged the check.”
“Good heavens! You let him think that?” gasped McIntyre; then wrath
gained the mastery. “You scoundrel!”
“Oh, I encouraged him to think it,” Sylvester grinned again. “You must
have handed Mr. Turnbull a raw deal; he was so ready to think evil of
you.”
“That is a lie!” exclaimed Helen hotly. “When I went downstairs to
investigate the noise I heard in the library, father, Jimmie told me
who he was to quiet my fright. He showed me a letter, which he had just
found on your desk in the library, confessing that you had forged Mr.
Clymer's name on the check, and begging Jimmie to conceal your crime and
save Barbara and me from the shame of having you exposed as a forger and
a thief.”
“I never wrote such a letter!” shouted McIntyre, deeply incensed.
“No, it was a clever plan,” acknowledged Sylvester. “On one of my trips
to your house, Colonel McIntyre, I secured wax impressions of your front
door lock. I went to your house Monday night and put the letter among
your papers just before Turnbull was admitted by your fool of a butler.”
“And you gave Jimmie Turnbull a dose of poison--” charged Kent, but
Sylvester, his lips gone dry, raised his manacled hands in protest.
“I did not poison him,” he cried. “I waited just to see if Turnbull got
the letter and to find out what he'd do with the securities, which he
had refused to turn over to me. After he had read the forged letter Mr.
Turnbull acted sort of faint and went out in the hall. I could just see
him put down a box on the hall table and lean against the wall. Then he
went into the dining room and came back a second later carrying a glass
of water, and I saw him take up and open a small box and toss some
white pills into his mouth; then he took a good drink, and, picking up a
handkerchief lying on the table, he went back into the library.”
There was silence as Sylvester's callous recital of the tragedy ended.
Helen, her eyes tearless and dark with suffering, sank slowly back in
her chair and rested her head against Barbara's sympathetic shoulder.
“So Turnbull's death was accidental after all,” exclaimed Ferguson. “Or
was it suicide?”
“Accident,” answered Kent. “I found some nitro-glycerine pills in the
umbrella stand by the hall table.” Colonel McIntyre nodded. “Evidently
Turnbull put down his pill box before getting a glass of water, and in
his attack of giddiness accidentally opened your box of aconitine pills,
Mrs. Brewster, instead of his own, and swallowed a fatal dose, thinking
they were nitroglycerine.”
Mrs. Brewster bowed her head in agreement. “That must have been it,” she
said. “However, I saw Colonel McIntyre tear off the paper wrapping
and open my package of pills just before dinner, and when I heard that
Jimmie had died from aconitine I--I--” she stammered and stopped short.
“You suspected I had murdered him?” asked McIntyre softly.
“Yes,” she looked appealingly at him. “Forgive me, I should never have
suspected you, but the pills, box and all, were missing the next morning
from the hall table.”
“Turnbull must have thrown the box into the umbrella stand,” explained
Kent. “That was where I found it. Did you get the securities,
Sylvester?” turning to the prisoner.
“No,” sullenly. “She did,” and a jerk of his thumb indicated Helen
McIntyre.
Helen raised her head and addressed them slowly.
“Jimmie and I expected Barbara to come in at any moment, and he
started to leave when we saw you coming downstairs,” she turned to Mrs.
Brewster. “Jimmie declared that if we were found together I might
be compromised. He couldn't explain his presence without exposing
father--we both thought you a forger, father,” she interpolated, as
McIntyre took her hand and pressed it understandingly. “So he insisted
that I should treat him like an ordinary burglar--we had both forgotten
Barbara's silly wager in our horror about father. Jimmie didn't dare
take the securities and father's confession with him for fear he'd be
searched at the police station, and the scandal would have come out
then.”
“True,” agreed McIntyre. “Go on, Helen.”
“So Jimmie thrust the securities and father's confession into an
envelope and sealed it with red wax, using Barbara's seal,” explained
Helen. “He hadn't time to write an address or message on it, but he told
me to return the envelope to him later in the day or give it to Philip
Rochester and ask his aid. I brought it here on Wednesday morning and
with Harry's permission put the envelope in the safe.”
“I tried to get it from there,” volunteered Sylvester, “for I overheard
Turnbull's plan, before I left by the reception room window.”
“So it was you and not Mr. Rochester whom I saw steal out of the
window,” exclaimed Mrs. Brewster.
“It's not the first time I've been mistaken for him,” exclaimed
Sylvester calmly.
Kent started and, gazing at Rochester and the clerk, saw there was a
general resemblance in coloring and physique.
“Did you present the checks to McDonald at the Metropolis Trust Company
bearing Rochester's and my forged signatures?” he asked.
“I did,” acknowledged Sylvester. “Mr. Rochester's wardrobe came in very
handy for deceiving the casual glance. You know, 'clothes make the man,
and want of it the fellow.'”
Kent looked up quickly, struck by an idea.
“Sylvester, did you steal the envelope containing the securities from me
at the Club de Vingt?” he asked.
Sylvester shook his head. “No, but she did,” pointing to Mrs. Brewster.
“It's no lie,” as McIntyre uttered an indignant denial. “When Ferguson
left here carrying off the securities from under my nose almost--I had
spent the whole day trying to learn the safe's combination; I trailed
him to the Club de Vingt, and heard the head waiter tell him you, Mr.
Kent, were sitting in the small smoking porch, so I climbed up the
trumpet vine; oh, it was strong and no climb for one who has done the
feats I have in the circus. I reached the porch just in time to see Mrs.
Brewster drop her fan, and when the men bent to pick it up she 'lifted'
the envelope and concealed it under her scarf.”
“Don't,” Mrs. Brewster laid a detaining hand on McIntyre as he stepped
forward. “The man is telling the truth. I thought it was the envelope
you gave me earlier in the evening--it was unaddressed and the red seal
was the same.”
“Just a moment,” interrupted Kent. “What did you do with the envelope?”
“When I returned home I dropped it inside one of the Venetian caskets,”
Mrs. Brewster replied. “No one ever went near them, and I thought
it would be safe there. You see, I was puzzled to know how it had
disappeared from the desk in the reception room, where I had left it in
one of the pigeon holes, intending to take it later to my room.”
“I took the envelope--your envelope--out of the desk,” confessed
McIntyre. “I would have spoken of it, Margaret, but was hurt that you
had left our marriage certificate lying around so carelessly.”
“Your what?” Barbara sprang up, astounded.
“Our marriage certificate,” repeated McIntyre firmly. “Margaret and I
were married last week in Baltimore. We would have told you, Helen,
but your peculiar conduct and Barbara's, so angered me that I forbade
Margaret to take you into our confidence.”
“Father!” Barbara got no further, for Helen had risen. She spoke with
quiet dignity.
“You forget, father, that since Monday night we have thought you a
forger and, worse, a murderer,” her voice faltered. “In our effort to
guard you we have become estranged. Margaret”--she held out her hand
with an affectionate gesture and with a sob her step-mother kissed her.
“How did this envelope get back inside our safe?” asked Kent a moment
later, picking it up and displaying the red seal, intact save for the
broken corner.
“I went downstairs about midnight or a little later and into the
library,” confessed Helen. “What was my surprise and terror to see
Grimes holding the envelope. To me it meant father's exposure as a
forger. I had a revolver in my hand and struck before I thought. Then
I must temporarily have lost my reason. It was only my thought to save
father that lent me courage and strength to thrust Grimes inside the
casket where Babs and I used to hide. I then returned to my room,
and was just coming downstairs again after secreting the envelope, to
release Grimes and get medical assistance if need be, when Margaret's
screams aroused the household.”
McIntyre interrupted his daughter with a hasty gesture, and addressed
his wife. “When Detective Ferguson questioned me as to your reason for
being in the library, Margaret, I stated you had gone down to get a
book left lying on the Venetian casket,” he said. “I waited for you
to volunteer an explanation of your presence there, but you never made
any.”
“I went down to get our marriage certificate.” Margaret forgot the
presence of others and spoke only to him, the love-light in her
eyes pleading against the censure she dreaded, as she made her brief
confession. “Mr. Clymer sent me a note, inclosing a canceled check,
stating the bank officials had decided my signature was a forgery. The
check was drawn to Barbara, and on examining it I noticed the peculiar
formation of the letter 'B'; it is characteristic of your handwriting
and Helen's.” She paused, and added:
“I was at a loss what to think. I knew you and Helen wrote alike;
Helen's extraordinary behavior to me led me to believe that perhaps she
had been short of funds, and forged my name to a check in desperation.
Then I remembered seeing you, Charles, open the box containing my
aconitine pills, the box's disappearance, and Jimmie's death from that
poison”--she raised her hands in an expressive gesture. “Although my
reason told me that you might be guilty, my loyalty and love refuted the
accusation.”
“Margaret!” McIntyre's voice shook with emotion; then controlling
himself he turned to Sylvester. “I presume this check was some more of
your deviltry?”
Helen answered for the clerk. Removing a soiled paper from her bag she
laid it on Kent's desk. “This note was handed to me by Grimes,” she
explained. “It reads: 'Helen, please cash this check and give money to
Mrs. Brewster's dressmaker. Father.' I followed the instructions.”
“And gave the money to my sister,” Sylvester chuckled at their surprise.
“My sister was taught in a French convent, and she is an excellent
seamstress, when she isn't drunk, as Mrs. McIntyre knows.”
“See here, Sylvester,” Clymer broke his long silence. “You were in the
police court on a charge of assault and battery brought by your wife
on Tuesday morning, and you were in the prisoner's cage at the moment
Turnbull died. How then was it possible for you to be at the McIntyre's
at midnight on Monday?”
“I was out on bail and appeared in the courtroom just in time for my
trial,” Sylvester explained. “I did not have to sit in the cage, but
recognizing Turnbull I went there to be with him.”
Kent placed the forged check bearing Margaret Brewster's signature on
the desk. “I take it this check is your work, Sylvester,” he said. “You
reaped the benefit by having the money paid to your sister. Did you
also have the fake telegram delivered to me stating Mr. Rochester was in
Cleveland?”
“I faked that,” broke in Rochester, before the clerk could make a
disclaimer. “I thought it best to disappear for a few days down in
Virginia, where I could think things over in peace.”
“So it was you, Sylvester, and not Mr. Rochester whom I encountered in
his apartment,” exclaimed Kent. “How did you get in the apartment?”
“From the fire-escape and along the window ledge to the bathroom
window.” Sylvester hitched his shoulders. “It was nothing for a man of
my agility.”
Ferguson eyed him with doubtful respect.
“You have courage,” he admitted grudgingly. “Come, we must get to
Headquarters,” and he aided Sylvester to his feet, but once standing,
Sylvester refused to move. Instead he turned to Helen.
“What was that you passed to Mr. Rochester in the police court and he
later gave to Mr. Turnbull?” he asked. “Oh, don't deny it, I saw you
palm a note, Mr. Rochester, from the young lady.”
“There is nothing now to conceal,” declared Helen. “After O'Ryan and
Jimmie left the house for the police station I grew fearful that Jimmie
might over-tax his strength in carrying out the farce of his arrest. So
as soon as I could I telephoned to Philip to meet me at the police court
and to bring some amyl nitrite capsules with him.”
“And the note, Sylvester, which you saw Miss McIntyre give me in court,”
concluded Rochester, as Helen paused, “told me to hand the capsules
to the burglar and to defend him in court. I did both, although badly
puzzled by the request.” Rochester hesitated. “I carried out your
wishes, Helen, without question; but when the burglar's identity
was revealed, I jumped to the conclusion that you had used me as an
instrument to kill him, for I knew something of the effects of amyl
nitrite.”
“Great Heavens!” exclaimed Helen, aghast.
Rochester looked at her and bit his lip; he knew of her affection for
Jimmie and her attachment to his memory, but he could not kill the hope
that when Time had healed the loss, his devotion might some day win her
for his own.
“I did you great injustice,” he admitted humbly. “But I was fearfully
shocked by the scene. I strove to divert suspicion by insisting that
Jimmie died from angina pectoris, and then you came, Helen, and demanded
an autopsy.”
“I had to,” Helen broke in. “I could not believe that Jimmie's death was
due to natural causes,” her voice quivered. “He had been so loyal--so
faithful--I could not be less true to him, even if, as I feared, my own
dear father was guilty of the crime.”
Kent turned and faced Sylvester, who had made a few shuffling steps
toward the door.
“You have done incalculable harm by your criminal acts,” he said
sternly. “But for your lying and trickery Jimmie Turnbull would be alive
to-day. I trust the Court will give you the maximum sentence.”
Sylvester eyed him insolently. “I've had a run for my money, and I stood
to win large sums if things had only gone right,” he announced; then
addressed Helen directly. “What did you do with the securities?”
“I put the envelope back in the open safe when I was here early this
afternoon,” she explained.
An oath ripped from Sylvester. “I mistook you for your sister,” he
snarled. “Had I known it was you, I'd have wrung the securities from
you.”
Helen stared at his suddenly contorted face. “Ah, you are the man who
looked in at the window of the reception room yesterday morning when I
was talking to Mr. Kent,” she cried. “I recognize you now.”
He continued to glare at her. “I also sent you a note by your sister
outside the Cafe St. Marks to secrete the letter 'B',” his voice rose
almost into a shout in his ungovernable rage. “I heard Turnbull tell you
to take the envelope to Rochester, and I banked on your bringing it here
or to his apartment. D-mn you! You've thwarted me at every turn.”
Rochester's powerful hand was clapped across his mouth with such force
that the clerk staggered against Ferguson.
“Here you, out you go.” The detective shoved the struggling man toward
the door leading into the corridor and Clymer sprang to his assistance;
a second later Rochester closed the door on their receding figures and
found Helen standing by his elbow.
“I must go,” she said, turning back to look at her father and his bride.
“Wait a minute.” Kent held up an envelope with its fateful red seal.
“This was delivered empty at Rochester's apartment last night--it is
addressed to him. Who wrote it?”
“I did,” exclaimed Mrs. McIntyre. “I felt I must consult either you,
Mr. Kent, or Mr. Rochester, so I sent the note to his apartment, but the
messenger boy hurried me, and it was not until hours later that I found
the note lying on the desk in the reception room and realized I had sent
an empty envelope.”
“I see.” Kent held up another envelope, the red seal broken at the
corner. “This is yours, Helen.”
Helen hesitated perceptibly before taking the envelope and tearing it
open. She handed the securities to her father.
“Here is father's forged confession,” she said as she took the remaining
paper from the envelope.
“It is a marvelous imitation of my handwriting,” declared McIntyre,
looking at it carefully, then tearing it into tiny bits he flung them
into the scrap-basket and pocketed the securities.
“And to think that I aided Sylvester's plot to gain the securities by
engaging him as our clerk,” groaned Rochester.
“It was clever of him to seek employment here,” agreed Kent. “But like
many crooks he over-reached himself through over-confidence. Must you
go, Colonel McIntyre?”
“Yes.” McIntyre walked over to Helen.
“My dear little girl,” he began and his voice was husky with feeling.
“How can I show my appreciation of your loyalty to me?”
“By being kind to Harry and Barbara.” Helen smiled bravely, although
her lips were trembling and for a moment she could not trust herself to
speak. “My romance is over; Barbara's is just beginning. And, father,
will you and Margaret come home with me--I am so lonely;” then turning
blindly away she fairly ran out of the office.
“Go with her,” said Rochester, a trifle unsteadily. “It has been a
terrible ordeal; God help her to forget!” His voice failed and he swept
his hand across his eyes as he held open the door into the corridor and
followed McIntyre and his wife outside.
Kent turned impulsively to Barbara, and his arms closed around her as
she raised her eyes to meet his, for she knew that the promise they
spoke would be loyally fulfilled, and that her haven of love and
happiness was reached at last.