"Checks on that account must bear both Rochester's signature and mine."

"Checks bearing both signatures have been presented for the total sum deposited to your credit," stated Clymer and he picked up four canceled checks. "See for yourself."

Kent stared at the checks in dumbfounded silence; then carrying them to the light he examined them with minute care before bringing them back to the bank president.

"This is the first I have heard of these transactions," he said.

"You mean--"

"That the signatures are clever forgeries." His statement was heard with gravity. Taylor exchanged a meaning look with the New Yorker.

"You mean your signature is a forgery," he suggested. "Rochester had a peculiar gift of penmanship."

Kent sprang up. "Do you accuse Philip Rochester of signing these checks and inserting my name to them?"

"I do," calmly. "I am not familiar with your signature, Kent, but that Rochester wrote the body of those four checks and put his own signature at the bottom I will swear to in any court of law. To make them valid he had to add your name."

"But, d--mn it, man!" Kent stared in bewilderment at his three companions. "Rochester was honorable and straight-forward--"

"And addicted to drink," put in Harding. "But not a forger," retorted Kent firmly. Harding's only rejoinder was a skeptical smile as he turned to address Clymer.

"So Rochester not only has taken his own money, but withdrawn that belonging to the firm of Rochester and Kent without the knowledge of his junior partner; it looks black, Mr. Clymer," he remarked. "Especially when taken in consideration with his other involved financial transactions."

"Where will we find Rochester, Kent?" asked Taylor, before the bank president could answer the New Yorker.

Kent paused in indecision. What reply could he make without further involving Rochester in trouble? He had not the faintest idea where Rochester was, but to state that he was missing could not but add to the belief that he had made away with all the money he could lay his hands on. The noon edition of the Times had hinted at Rochester's disappearance but had stated they could not get the statement confirmed from Police Headquarters; obviously Harding and Taylor had not seen the newspaper.

Was it just to the men before him to keep them in the dark? If their claims were true, and Kent never doubted that they were, they had already lost money through Rochester's extraordinary behavior. Kent turned sick at the thought of his own loss--his savings swept away.

Would Barbara wait for him--was it fair to ask her?

Taylor broke the prolonged silence.

"I met Detective Ferguson on my way here," he stated. "He told me that the police were looking for Rochester."

"What?" Harding looked up, startled. "Why didn't you inform me of that?"

"Well, I thought we'd better hear from Mr. Clymer the true state of Rochester's finances," responded Taylor. "I never antic.i.p.ated such facts as he has given us."

"But if you knew the police were after Rochester--" objected Harding.

Clymer broke into the conversation; there was a heavy frown on his usually placid countenance. "I judged from Detective Ferguson's confidences to us, Kent, at the Club de Vingt that he was wanted by the police in connection with the Turnbull tragedy, but the facts brought out through Harding's action to attach Rochester's bank account, puts a different construction on Rochester's disappearance."

"What had Rochester to do with Jimmie Turnbull?" questioned Harding, before Kent could answer Clymer.

"They lived together," he replied shortly.

"And one dies and the other disappears," Harding whistled dolefully.

"Wasn't Mr. Turnbull an official of this bank, Mr. Clymer?"

"Yes, our cashier."

"Were his affairs involved?"

"Not in the least," Clymer spoke with emphasis. "A most honorable fellow, Jimmie Turnbull; his murder was a shocking affair."

"Have the police found any motive for the crime, Kent?" asked Taylor.

"I believe not."

Harding, who had been ruminating in silence, leaned forward, his expression alight with a sudden idea.

"Could it be that Turnbull found out that Rochester was pa.s.sing forged checks, and Rochester insured his silence by poisoning him?" he asked.

Clymer and Kent exchanged glances, as Kent's thoughts reverted to the forged letter presented by Turnbull to the bank's treasurer, whereby he had been given McIntyre's valuable negotiable securities. Could it be that Rochester had written the letter, given it to his room-mate, Turnbull, and the latter, thinking it genuine, had secured the McIntyre securities and handed them over to Rochester? The idea took Kent's breath away; and yet, the more he contemplated it, the more feasible it appeared.

"What's the date on those checks?" demanded Kent.

"Tuesday of this week--the day Jimmie Turnbull died." Clymer turned them over. "They are drawn payable to cash, and bear no endors.e.m.e.nt, which shows Rochester must have presented them himself."

Harding and Taylor glanced significantly at each other, but neither spoke. Suddenly Kent pushed back his chair and rose without ceremony.

"Don't go, Kent." Clymer took up some papers. "There's a matter--"

"It will keep." Kent's mouth was set and determined. "I give you my word of honor that all Rochester's honest debts will be paid by the firm if necessary; I will obligate myself to that extent," he paused. "As for you fellows," turning to Harding and Taylor who had also risen. "Give me twenty-four hours--"

"What for?" they chorused.

"To locate Philip Rochester," and waiting for no answer Kent bolted out of the office.

CHAPTER XV. WHEN THE LIGHT FAILED

The city lights were springing up block after block along Pennsylvania Avenue as Detective Ferguson left that busy thoroughfare and hurried to the Saratoga. He stepped inside the lobby of the apartment house a full minute before his appointment with its manager, and went at once to look him up. Before he could carry out his purpose he was joined by Harry Kent.

"Finley had to go out," the latter explained.

"I told him I would go up to Rochester's apartment with you."

Ferguson thoughtfully caressed his clean-shaven jaw for a second, then came to a rapid decision.

"Lead the way, sir," he said. "I'll follow." Kent found him a silent companion while in the elevator and when walking down the corridor to Rochester's apartment, but once inside the living room, with the outer door tightly closed, Ferguson tossed down his hat and his whole demeanor changed.

"Sit down, Mr. Kent." He selected a chair near Rochester's desk for himself, as Kent found another. "Let's thrash this thing out; are you working with me or against me?"

"Why do you ask?" Kent's surprise at the question was evident.

"Because every time I arrange to examine this apartment or inquire into Rochester's whereabouts you show up." Ferguson's small eyes were trying to out-stare Kent, but the latter's clear gaze did not drop before his.

"Are you aiding Philip Rochester in his efforts to elude arrest?"