"I am not," declared Kent emphatically. "What prompts the question?"

"The fact that you are Rochester's partner," Ferguson pointed out; his manner was still stiff. "It would be only natural for you to help him disappear out of friendship, or"--with a sidelong glance--"from a desire to hush up a scandal."

"On the contrary I want Rochester found and every bit of evidence against him sifted out and aired," retorted Kent. "Two heads are better than one, Ferguson; let us work together. Rochester must be located within the next twenty-four hours."

Ferguson debated a moment, but Kent's speech as well as his manner indicated his sincerity, and the detective shook off his suspicions.

"Have you had any further news of your partner?" he asked.

"No; that is"--recalling the scene in the bank early that afternoon--"nothing that relates to Rochester's present whereabouts.

Now, Ferguson, to put your charges against Rochester in concrete form, you believe that he was insanely jealous of Jimmie Turnbull, that he recognized him in the Police Court in his burglar disguise, slipped a dose of aconitine in a gla.s.s of water which Turnbull drank, and after declaring that his friend had died from angina pectoris, disappeared. Is that all the case you have against him?"

"At present, yes," admitted the detective cautiously.

"All circ.u.mstantial evidence--"

"But it will hold in court--"

"Ah, will it?" questioned Kent. "There's one big flaw in your case, Ferguson; the poison used to kill Turnbull."

"Aconitine?"

"Exactly. Your theory is that Rochester slipped the poison in the gla.s.s of water on recognizing Turnbull in the police court; now, it is stretching probability to suppose that Rochester, a strong healthy man, was carrying that drug around in his vest pocket."

Ferguson sat forward in his chair, his eyes glittering. "Do you mean to say that you think the murder of Turnbull was premeditated and not committed on the spur of the moment?" he asked.

"The fact that aconitine was used convinces me of that," answered Kent.

Ferguson thought a moment. "If that is the case," he said, grudgingly, "it sort of squashes the charge against Philip Rochester."

"It would seem to," agreed Kent. "But every shred of evidence I find points to Rochester as the guilty man."

Ferguson edged his chair forward. "What have you discovered?" he demanded eagerly.

"This," Kent spoke with increased earnestness. "That Philip Rochester is apparently a bankrupt, that he has over-drawn his private account at the Metropolis Trust Company, and withdrawn our partnership funds from the same bank."

"Your partnership funds!" echoed the detective, eyeing Kent sharply.

"How did you come to let him do that?"

"I was not aware that he had done so until Mr. Clymer told me of the transaction this afternoon," answered Kent.

"You did not know"--Ferguson looked at him in dawning comprehension.

"You mean Rochester absconded with the funds?"

"Some one forged my name to checks drawn on the firm's account," Kent continued. "I understood they were made payable to cash and presented by Rochester on the day of Turnbull's death."

Ferguson whistled as a slight vent to his feelings. "So you suspect Rochester of being a forger?" Kent made no reply, and he added; after a moment's deliberation, "What bearing has this discovery on Turnbull's death, aside from Rochester's need of funds to make a clean disappearance?"

"If it is true that Rochester was financially embarra.s.sed and forged checks on the Metropolis Trust Company, it establishes another motive for the killing of Turnbull," argued Kent. "Turnbull was cashier of that bank."

"I see; he may have discovered the forgeries--but hold on." Ferguson checked his rapid speech. "When were these forged checks presented at the bank?"

"Tuesday afternoon."

Ferguson's face fell. "Pshaw! man; that was after Turnbull's death--how could he detect the forgeries?"

Kent did not reply at once; instead, he glanced keenly about the living room. The detective had only switched on one of the reading lamps and the greater part was in shadow. It was a pleasant and home-like room, and Kent was conscious of a keener pang for the loss of Jimmie Turnbull and the disappearance of Philip Rochester, as he gazed around. The lawyer and the bank cashier had been, until that winter, congenial comrades, sharing their business success and their apartment in complete accord; and now a shadow as black as that enveloping the unlighted apartment hung over their good names, threatening one or the other with the charge of forgery and of murder. Kent sighed and turned back to the silent detective.

"I can best answer your question by telling you that the day after Jimmie Turnbull died Mr. Clymer sent for me," he began. "I found Colonel McIntyre with him and was told that the Colonel had lost valuable securities left at the bank. These securities had been given by the treasurer of the bank to Jimmie Turnbull when he presented a letter from Colonel McIntyre instructing the bank to surrender the securities to Jimmie."

"Well?" questioned Ferguson. "Go on, sir."

"That letter was a forgery." Kent sat back and watched the detective's rapidly changing expression. "And no trace has been found of the Colonel's securities, last known to be in the possession of Turnbull."

"Great heavens!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Ferguson.

"Which was the forger--Turnbull or Rochester?"

Kent shook a puzzled head. "That is for us to discover," he said soberly. "Colonel McIntyre contends that Turnbull forged the letter and stole the securities, then fearing his guilt would become known, committed still another crime--that of suicide, he could have swallowed a dose of aconitine while at the police court."

"Well, I'll be--blessed!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Ferguson. "But if he was the forger how does that square with Rochester's peculiar behavior? The checks bearing your forged signatures were presented, mind you, by Rochester after Turnbull's death?"

"It doesn't square," acknowledged Kent frankly. "There is this to be said for Turnbull: he was the soul of honor, his affairs were found to be in excellent condition, he was drawing a good salary, his investments paying well--he did not need to acquire securities or money by resorting to forgery."

"Whereas Philip Rochester was on the point of bankruptcy," remarked Ferguson. "Do you suppose he forged Colonel McIntyre's letter and gave it to Turnbull, and the latter got the securities from the bank treasurer and handed them over to Rochester in good faith, supposing his room-mate would give the papers to Colonel McIntyre?"

Kent nodded in agreement. "It looks that way to me," he said gloomily.

"Philip Rochester stood well in the community, his law practice is large and lucrative, and if it had not been for his periods of idleness and--and"--hesitating--"pa.s.sion for good living, he would never have run into debt."

"But he got there." Ferguson's laugh was contemptuous. "A desperate man will do anything, Mr. Kent."

"I know," Kent looked dubious. "I would believe him guilty if it were not for the use of aconitine--that shows premeditation on the part of the murderer."

"And why shouldn't Rochester plan Turnbull's murder ahead of the scene in the police court?" argued Ferguson. "Wasn't he living in deadly fear of exposure? If he did not commit the murder, why did he run away? And if he is innocent, why doesn't he come forward and prove it?"

"He may not know that he is suspected of the crime," retorted Kent, rising. "It is for us to find Rochester, and I suggest that we search this apartment thoroughly."

"I have already done so," objected Ferguson. "And there wasn't the faintest clew to his hiding place."

"For all that I am not satisfied." Kent walked over and switched on another light. "When I came here on Wednesday night I had a tussle with some man, but he escaped in the dark without my seeing him. I believe he was Rochester."

"You are probably right." Ferguson crossed the room. "And if he came back once, he may return again. Come ahead," and he plunged into the first bedroom. The two men subjected each room to an exhaustive search, but their labors were their only reward; except for an acc.u.mulation of dust, the apartment was undisturbed. They had reached the kitchenette-pantry when the gong over their heads sounded loudly, and Kent, with a muttered exclamation hastened toward the front door of the apartment. Ferguson, intent on studying the "L" of the building as seen from the window, was hardly conscious of his departure, and some seconds elapsed before he turned toward the door. As he gained it, he saw a dark shape dart down the hall. With a bound Ferguson started in pursuit, and the next second grappled with the flying man just as the electric lights went out and they were plunged in darkness.

Suddenly Kent's voice echoed down the hall. "Come here quick, Ferguson!"

There was a note of urgency about his appeal, and Ferguson straining his muscles until the blood pounded in his temples, threw the struggling man into a tufted arm-chair which stood by the entrance to the small dining room, and drawing out his handcuffs, slipped them on securely. "Stay there," Ferguson admonished his prisoner. "Or there will be worse coming to you," and he thrust the muzzle of his revolver against the man's heaving chest to ill.u.s.trate his meaning; then as Kent called again, he sped down the hall and brought up breathless at the front door. The light was still burning in the corridor, though not very brightly, and he saw Kent hand the grinning messenger boy a shiny quarter. Touching his battered cap the boy went whistling away. "Tell the elevator boy to report that a fuse has burned out in Mr. Rochester's apartment,"

Ferguson called after him, and the lad waved his hand as he dashed into the elevator.

Paying no attention to the detective's call, Kent showed him a white envelope which bore the simple address: