Kent's office was only around the corner, and as Mrs. Brewster kept up a running fire of impersonal gossip, Kent had no opportunity to satisfy his curiosity regarding her reasons for wanting to interview him. As the limousine drew up at the curb in front of his office, a man darting down the steps of the building, caught sight of Kent and hurried to the car window.

"I was just trying to catch you at the bank, Mr. Kent," he explained, and looking around Kent recognized Sylvester. "There's been three telephone calls for you in succession from Colonel McIntyre to hurry to his home."

"Thanks, Sylvester." Kent turned to Mrs. Brewster. "Would you mind driving me to the McIntyre? We can talk on the way there."

Mrs. Brewster picked up the speaking tube. "Home, Harris," she directed, as the chauffeur listened for the order.

Neither spoke as the big car started up the street but as they swung past old St. John's Church, Mrs. Brewster broke her silence.

"Mr. Kent," she drew further back in her corner. "I claim a woman's privilege--to change my mind. Forget that I ever expressed a wish to consult you professionally, and remember, I am always glad to meet you as a friend."

"Certainly, Mrs. Brewster, as you wish." Kent's tone, expressing polite acquiescence, covered mixed feelings. What had caused the widow to change her mind so suddenly, and above all, what had she wished to consult him about? He faced her more directly. She was charmingly gowned, and in spite of his perplexities, he could not but admire her air of quiet elegance and the soft dark eyes regarding him in friendly good-fellowship. Suddenly realizing that his glance had become a fixed stare, he hastily averted his eyes from her face, catching sight, as he did so, of the gold mesh bag lying in her lap. The glint of sunlight brought into prominence the handsomely engraved letter "B" on its surface. An unexpected swerve of the limousine, as the chauffeur turned short to avoid a speeding army truck, caused both Kent and Mrs. Brewster to sway forward and the gold mesh bag slid to the floor, carrying with it the widow's handkerchief and gold vanity box. Kent stooped over and picked up the articles as well as the contents of the mesh bag, which had opened in its descent and spilled her money and papers over the floor of the limousine.

"Oh, thank you," exclaimed Mrs. Brewster, as he handed her the bag, box, and bank notes. "Don't bother to look for that quarter; Harris will find it at the garage."

Kent ignored her remark as he again searched the floor of the car; he was glad of the pretext to avoid looking at the widow. He wanted time to collect his thoughts for, in Picking up her belongings, her handkerchief had caught his attention--he had seen its mate in the possession of Detective Ferguson, and clinging to it the broken portions of the capsules of amyl nitrite which Jimmie Turnbull had inhaled just before his mysterious death.

Into Kent's mind flashed Mrs. Sylvester's statement that Mrs. Brewster was in the police court at the time of the tragedy, although in her testimony at the inquest she had sworn she had not heard of Jimmie's death until the return of Helen and Barbara McIntyre. She had been in the police court, and Jimmie had used her handkerchief--a mate to the one she was then holding, the letter "B" with its peculiar twist was unmistakable--and "B" stood for Brewster as well as for Barbara! Kent drew in his breath sharply.

"My handkerchief, please," the widow held out her hand, and after a moment's hesitation, Kent gave it to her.

"Pardon me," he apologized. "I was struck by the handkerchief's appearance."

Mrs. Brewster turned it over. "In what way is the handkerchief unique?"

she asked, laughing.

"Because Jimmie Turnbull crushed amyl nitrite capsules in its mate just before he died," explained Kent quietly. "Detective Ferguson claims that Jimmie unintentionally broke more than one capsule in the handkerchief, was overcome by the powerful fumes and died."

"But the inquest proved that Jimmie was killed by a dose of aconitine poison," she reminded him, as she tucked the handkerchief up her sleeve.

Kent did not reply immediately. "A man does not usually carry a woman's handkerchief about with him," he commented slowly. "Odd, is it not, that Jimmie should have used a handkerchief of yours in the police court just prior to his death, while you were sitting a few feet away?"

"I?" Mrs. Brewster turned and regarded him steadfastly. She was deadly white under her rouge. "Mr. Kent, are you crazy?"

"Yes, crazy to know why you kept your presence in the police court on Tuesday morning a secret," replied Kent. In their earnestness neither noticed Kent's absent-minded clutch on a small folded paper which he had picked up from the floor of the limousine. "Mrs. Brewster, why did you laugh when Dr. Stone carried Jimmie Turnbull out of the court room?"

Mrs. Brewster sat still in her corner of the car; so still that Kent, observing her closely, feared that she had fainted. She had dropped her eyes, and her face, set like marble, gave him no key to her thoughts.

The door of the limousine was jerked open almost before the car came to a full stop in front of the McIntyre residence, and Colonel McIntyre offered his hand to help Mrs. Brewster out. On the step she turned to Kent, who had lifted his hat to McIntyre in silent greeting.

"Your forte lies as a romancer rather than a lawyer, Mr. Kent," she said, and not giving him time for a reply, almost ran inside the house.

"Glad you could get here so soon, Kent," remarked McIntyre, signing to his chauffeur to drive on before he led the way into the house. "Grimes has worked himself almost into a fever asking for you."

"Grimes?"

"Yes. Grimes was attacked in our library early this morning by some unknown person, and is in bed with a bad wound on his temple and a tendency to hysteria," McIntyre explained.

"Come upstairs."

Kent handed his cane and hat to the footman and followed Colonel McIntyre, who stalked ahead without another word. As they mounted the stairs Kent glanced at the folded paper which he still held, and was surprised to see that it was a check. The signature showed him that he had unintentionally walked off with Mrs. Brewster's property. His decision to hand it to Colonel McIntyre was checked by the Colonel disappearing inside a bedroom, with a muttered injunction to "wait there," and Kent stuffed the check inside his vest pocket. It would serve as an excuse to interview Mrs. Brewster again before leaving the house. He was determined to have an answer to the question he had put to her in the limousine. Why had she gone to the police court, and why kept her presence there a secret?

When Colonel McIntyre reappeared in the hall he was accompanied by Detective Ferguson. "Sorry to keep you standing, Kent," he said. "I have sent for you and Ferguson, first because Grimes insists on seeing you, and second, because I am determined that this midnight house-breaking shall be thoroughly investigated and put an end to. This way," and he led them into a large airy bedroom on the third floor, to which Grimes had been carried unconscious that morning, instead of to his own bedroom in the servants' quarters.

Grimes, with his head swathed in bandages, was a woe-begone object. He greeted Colonel McIntyre and the detective with a sullen glare, but his eyes brightened at sight of Kent, and he moved a feeble hand in welcome.

"Sit down, sirs," he mumbled. "There's chairs for all."

"Don't worry about us," remarked McIntyre cheerily. "Just tell us how you got that nasty knock on the head."

"I dunno, sir; it came like a clap o' thunder," Grimes tried to lift his head, but gave over the attempt as excruciating pain followed the effort.

"What hour of the morning was it?" asked Ferguson.

"About one o'clock, as near as I can tell, sir."

"And what were you doing in the library at that hour, Grimes?" demanded McIntyre.

"Trying to find out what your household was up to, sir," was Grimes'

unexpected answer, and McIntyre started.

"Explain your meaning, Grimes," he commanded sternly.

"You can do it better than I can, sir," retorted Grimes. "You know the reason every one's searching the room with the seven doors."

"The room with the seven doors!" echoed Ferguson. "Which is that?"

"Grimes means the library." McIntyre's tone was short. "I have no idea, Grimes, what your allegations mean. Be more explicit."

The butler eyed him in no friendly fashion. "Wasn't Mr. Turnbull arrested in that very room?" he demanded. "And what was he looking for?"

"Mr. Turnbull's presence has been explained," replied McIntyre. "He came here disguised as a burglar on a wager with my daughter, Miss Barbara."

"Ah, did he now?" Grimes' rising inflection indicated nervous tension.

"Did a man with a bad heart come here in the dead of night for nothing but that foolishness?" Grimes glared at his three visitors. "You bet he didn't."

Ferguson, who had followed the dialogue between McIntyre and his servant with deep attention, addressed the excited man.

"Why did Mr. Turnbull enter Colonel McIntyre's library on Monday night disguised as a burglar?" he asked.

Grimes, by a twist of his head, managed to regard the detective out of the corner of his eye.

"Aye, why did he?" he repeated. "That's what I went to the library last night to find out."

"Did you discover anything?" The question shot from McIntyre, and both Ferguson and Kent watched him as they waited for Grimes' reply. The butler took his time.

"No, sir."

McIntyre threw himself back in his chair and his eyebrows rose in interrogation as he touched his forehead significantly and glanced at Grimes. That the butler caught his meaning was evident from his expression, but he said nothing. The detective was the first to speak.