The next instant the envelope was plucked from the hand holding it, and a figure lay crumpled on the floor from the blow of a descending weapon.

It was closely approaching one o'clock in the morning before Mrs.

Brewster stirred from her comfortable bedroom chair. Taking up her electric torch, which she kept always by the side of her bed, she walked quickly down the staircase and into the pitch dark library. Directing her torch-light so that she steered a safe course among the chairs and tables, she approached one of the pieces of carved Venetian furniture and reached out her hand to touch a trap-door. As she looked for the spring she was horrified to see a thin stream of blood oozing through the carving until, reaching the letter "B," it outlined that initial in sinister red.

Scream after scream broke from Mrs. Brewster. She was swaying upon her feet by the time Colonel McIntyre and his daughter Helen reached the library.

"Margaret! What is it?" McIntyre demanded. "Calm yourself, my darling."

The frenzied woman shook off his soothing hand.

"See, see!" she cried and pointed with her torch.

"She means the Venetian casket," explained Helen, who had paused before joining them to switch on the light.

Colonel McIntyre gazed in amazement at the piece of furniture; then catching sight of the blood-stain, he raised the small trap-door or peep hole, in the top of the oblong box which stood breast high, supported on a beautifully carved base.

There was a breathless pause; then McIntyre unceremoniously jerked the electric torch from Mrs. Brewster's nervous fingers and turned its rays of the interior of the casket. Stretched at full length lay the figure of a man, and from a wound in his temple flowed a steady stream of blood.

"Good G.o.d!" McIntyre staggered back against Helen. "Grimes!"

CHAPTER XVII. A QUESTION OF HOUSE-BREAKING

The genial president of the Metropolis Trust Company was late.

Mrs. Brewster, waiting in his well-appointed office, restrained her ill-temper only by an exertion of will-power. She detested being kept waiting, and that morning she had many errands to attend to before the luncheon hour.

"May I use your telephone?" she asked Mr. Clymer's secretary, and the young man rose with alacrity from his desk. Mrs. Brewster never knew what it was to lack attention, even her own s.e.x were known on occasions to give her gowns and, (what captious critics termed her "frivolous conduct") undivided attention.

"Can I look up the number for you?" the secretary asked as Mrs. Brewster took up the telephone book and fumbled for the gold chain of her lorgnette.

"Oh, thank you," her smile showed each pretty dimple. "I wish to speak to Mr. Kent, of the firm of Rochester and Kent."

"Harry Kent?" The young secretary dropped the book without looking at it, and gave a number to the operator, and then handed the instrument to Mrs. Brewster.

"Mr. Kent not in, did you say?" asked the widow. "Who is speaking? Ah, Mr. Sylvester--has Mr. Rochester returned?---Both partners away"... she paused... "I'll call later--Mrs. Brewster, good morning."

Mrs. Brewster hung up the receiver and turned to the secretary.

"I don't believe I can wait any longer," she began, and paused, as Benjamin Clymer appeared in the doorway.

"So sorry to be late," he exclaimed, shaking her hand warmly. "And I am sorry, also, to have called you here on such an errand."

Mrs. Brewster waited until the young secretary had withdrawn out of earshot before replying; then taking the chair Clymer placed for her near his own, she opened her gold mesh bag and took out a canceled check and laid it on the desk in front of the bank president.

"Your bank honored this check?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Who presented it?"

Clymer pressed the buzzer and his secretary came at once.

"Ask Mr. McDonald to step here," and as the man vanished on his errand, he addressed Mrs. Brewster. "How is Colonel McIntyre this morning?"

Mrs. Brewster's eyes opened at the question. "Quite well," she replied, and prompted by her curiosity added: "What made you think him ill?"

"I stopped at Dr. Stone's office on the way down town, and his boy told me the doctor had been sent for by Colonel McIntyre," Clymer explained.

"I hope neither of the twins is ill."

"No. Colonel McIntyre sent for Dr. Stone to attend Grimes--"

"The butler! Too bad he is ill; Grimes is an inst.i.tution in the McIntyre household." Clymer spoke with sincere regret, and Mrs. Brewster eyed him approvingly; she liked good-looking men of his stamp. "Come in, McDonald," as the bank teller appeared. "You know Mrs. Brewster?"

"Mr. McDonald was one of my first acquaintances in Washington," and Mrs.

Brewster smiled as she held out her hand.

"About this check, McDonald," Clymer handed it to the teller as he spoke. "Who presented it?"

"Miss McIntyre."

"Which Miss McIntyre?" Mrs. Brewster put the question with swift intentness.

"I can't tell one twin from the other," confessed McDonald. "But, as you see, the check is made payable to Barbara McIntyre."

"The inference being that Barbara McIntyre presented the check for payment," commented Clymer, and McDonald bowed. "It would seem, therefore, that Barbara wrote your signature on the check, Mrs.

Brewster."

"No." The widow had whitened under her rouge, but her eyes did not falter in their direct gaze. "The signature is genuine. I drew the check."

The two men exchanged glances. The bank president was the first to break the short silence. "In that case there is nothing more to be said," he remarked, and picking up the check handed it to Mrs. Brewster. Without a glance at it, she folded the paper and placed it inside her gold mesh bag.

"I must not take up any more of your time," she said. "I thank you--both."

"Mrs. Brewster." Clymer spoke impulsively. "I'd like to shake hands with you."

Coloring warmly, the widow slipped her small hand inside his, and with a friendly bow to McDonald, she walked through the bank, keeping up with Clymer's long strides as best she could. As they crossed the sidewalk to the waiting limousine they ran almost into the arms of Harry Kent, whose rapid gait did not suit the congested condition of the "Wall Street"

of Washington. "I tried to reach you on the telephone this morning,"

exclaimed Mrs. Brewster, after greeting him.

"So my clerk informed me when I saw him a few minutes ago." Kent helped her inside the limousine. "Won't you come to my office now?"

"But that will be taking you from Mr. Clymer," remonstrated Mrs.

Brewster. "Weren't you on the way to the bank?"

"I was," admitted Kent. "But I can see Mr. Clymer later in the day."

"And I'll be less occupied then," added Clymer. "Go with Mrs. Brewster, Kent; good morning, madam," and with a courtly bow Clymer withdrew.