"Mr. Turnbull is survived by a great aunt; he had no nearer relatives living. It is a singular coincidence that the lawyer appointed by the court to defend Turnbull was his intimate friend, Philip Rochester, who made his home with the deceased."

Kent read the column over and over, then, letting the paper slip to the floor, sat back in his chair, too dumb-founded for words. Jimmie Turnbull arrested as a burglar in the home of the girl he loved on charges preferred by her, and defended in court by his intimate friend, both of whom were unaware of his ident.i.ty! Kent rumpled his fair hair until it stood upright. And Jimmie's death had followed almost immediately as the result of over-excitement!

Kent's eyes grew moist; he had been very fond of the eccentric, lovable bank cashier, whose knack of performing many a kindly act, unsolicited, had endeared him to friends and acquaintances alike. Kent had seen much of him after his return from France, for Jimmie's attention to Helen McIntyre had been only second to Kent's devotion to the latter's sister, Barbara. The two men had one bond in common. Colonel McIntyre disliked them and discouraged their calling, to the secret fury of both, but love had found a way--Kent's eyes kindled at the recollection of Barbara's half-shy, wholly tender reception of his ardent pleading.

Turnbull's courtship had met with a set-back where he had least expected it--Philip Rochester had fallen deeply in love with Helen and, encouraged by her father, had pressed his suit with ardor. Frequent quarrels between the two close friends had been the outcome, and Jimmie had confided to Kent, before the latter left on the business trip to Chicago from which he had returned that morning, that the situation had become intolerable and he had notified Rochester that he would no longer share his apartment with him, and to look for other quarters as quickly as possible.

So buried was Kent in his thoughts that he never heard Sylvester's knock, and it was not until the clerk stood at his elbow that he awoke from his absorption.

"A lady to see you, Mr. Kent," he announced. "Shall I show her in?"

"Certainly--her name?"

"She gave none." Sylvester paused on his way back to the door. "It is one of the Misses McIntyre."

"Good Lord!" Kent was on his feet, straightening his tie and brushing his rumpled hair. "Here, wait a minute"--clutching a whisk broom in a frantic endeavor to remove some of the signs of travel which still clung to him. But he had only opportunity for one dab at his left shoulder before Barbara entered the office. All else forgotten, Kent tossed down the whisk broom and the next instant he had clasped her hand in both of his, his eyes telling more eloquently than his stumbling words, his joy at seeing her again.

"This is a business call," she stated demurely, "on you and Mr.

Rochester." Her lovely eyes held a glint of mischief as she mentioned Kent's partner, then her expression grew serious. "I want legal advice."

"I am afraid you will have to put up with me," Kent moved his chair closer to the one she had selected by the desk. "Rochester is out of town."

"What!" Barbara sat bolt upright. "Where--where's he gone?"

"I don't know"--Kent pulled Rochester's letter out of his pocket and re-read it. "He did not mention where he was going."

Barbara stared at him; she had paled.

"When did Philip leave?"

"Last night, I presume." Kent tipped back his chair and pressed a buzzer; a second later Sylvester appeared in the doorway.

"Did Mr. Rochester tell you where he was going?" he asked the clerk.

"No, sir. Mr. Rochester stated that you had his address.

"I?" Kent concealed his growing surprise. "Did he leave any message for me, other than the letter?"

"No, sir.

"At what hour did he leave the office?"

"I can't say, sir; he was still here when I went away at five o'clock.

He gave me a key to the office so that I could get in this morning."

Kent remained silent, and he added, "Is that all, sir?"

"Yes, thanks," and the clerk retired.

As the door closed Barbara turned to Kent. "Have you heard about Jimmie Turnbull?"

Her voice was a bit breathless as she put the question, but Kent, puzzling over his partner's eccentric conduct, hardly noted her agitation.

"Yes. I saw the account just now in the morning paper," he answered. "A shocking affair. Poor Turnbull! He was a good fellow."

"He was!" Barbara spoke with unaccustomed vehemence, and looking at her Kent saw that her eyes were filled with tears. Impulsively he threw his arm about her, holding her close.

"My heart's dearest," he murmured fondly. "If there is anything--anything I can do--"

Barbara straightened up and winked away the tears. "There is," she said tersely. "Investigate Jimmie's death."

Kent gazed at her in astonishment. "Please explain," he suggested. "The morning paper states very plainly that the cause of death was an attack of angina pectoris."

"Yes, I know, and that is what Philip Rochester contends also." Barbara paused and glanced about the office; they had the room to themselves.

"B-but Helen believes otherwise."

Kent drew back. "What do you mean, Babs?" he demanded.

"Just that," Barbara spoke wearily, and Kent, giving her close attention, grew aware of dark shadows under her eyes which told plainly of a sleepless night. "I want to engage you as our counsel to help Helen find out about Jimmie's death."

"Find out what?" asked Kent, his bewilderment increasing. "Do you mean that Jimmie's death was not the result of a dangerous heart disease, but of foul play?"

Barbara nodded her head vigorously. "Yes."

Kent sat back in his chair and regarded her in silence for a second.

"How could that be, Babs, in an open police court with dozens of spectators all about?" he asked. "The slightest attempt to kill him would have been frustrated by the police officials; remember, a prisoner especially, is hedged in and guarded."

"Well, he wasn't so very hedged in," retorted Barbara. "I was there and saw how closely people approached Jimmie."

"Did you observe any one hand him anything?"

"N-no," Barbara drawled the word as she strove to visualize the scene in the court room; then catching Kent's look of doubt she added with unmistakable emphasis. "Helen and I do not believe that Jimmie died from natural causes; we think the tragedy should be investigated." Her soft voice deepened. "I must know the truth, Harry, dear; for I feel that perhaps I am responsible for Jimmie's death."

"You!" Kent's voice rose in indignant protest. "Absurd!"

"No, it isn't If it had not been for my wager with Jimmie, he never would have entered our house disguised as a burglar."

"What brought about the wager?"

"Last Sunday Helen was boasting of her two new police dogs which Philip Rochester recently gave her, and said how safe she felt. We've had several burglaries in our neighborhood," Barbara explained, "and when Jimmie scoffed at the dogs, I bet him that he could not break into the house without the dogs arousing the household. I never once thought about Jimmie's heart trouble," she confessed, and her lips quivered. "I feel so guilty."

"You are inconsistent, Babs," chided Kent gently. "One moment you reproach yourself for being the cause of bringing on Jimmie's heart attack, and the next you declare you believe he died through foul play.

You," looking at her tenderly, while a whimsical smile softened his stern mouth, "don't go so far as to claim you murdered him, do you?"

"Of course I didn't!" Barbara spoke with indignant emphasis, and her fingers snapped in uncontrollable nervousness. "Jimmie was very dear"--she hesitated--"to us. Neither Helen nor I can leave a stone unturned until we know without a shadow of a doubt what killed him."

"That is easily proven," declared Kent. "An autopsy--"

"Helen asked the coroner to hold one."