"I have not; it was an out-side call--" Stuart turned to his companion.

"Sorry I brought you here on an idiotic chase, Mr. Ferguson."

"That's all right," responded the detective good naturedly. "Would you like me to look through the apartment just to see if any one really is concealed on the premises, Mr. Kent?" he asked, and added quickly, seeing Kent hesitate, "I am from the central office; Mr. Stuart can vouch for me."

Kent's hesitation vanished. "I'd be obliged if you would, Ferguson." As he spoke he led the way to Rochester's bedroom. "Come with us, Stuart,"

as the clerk loitered behind.

"Guess not, sir; I'm needed down at the desk, we are short-handed to-night. Let me know how the hunt turns out," and he stepped into the vestibule. "Good night."

"Good night," called Kent, and he accompanied Ferguson as far as the bathroom door, then returned to his inspection of Rochester's table. He had just completed his task when the detective rejoined him.

"No trace of any one," the latter announced. "Some one put up a joke on Stuart, I imagine. Find what you wished, sir?"

Kent was distinctly annoyed by the question. "Yes," he replied shortly.

Ferguson ignored his curt tone. "Will you spare me a few minutes of your time, Mr. Kent?" he asked persuasively. "I won't detain you long."

"Certainly." Kent moved over to the chair in the window which he had occupied before and pointed to another, equally as comfortable.

"What can I do for you?" he asked as Ferguson dropped back and stretched himself in the soft depths of the big chair.

"Supply some information," answered the detective promptly. "Just a minute," as Kent started to interrupt. "You don't recall me, but I met you while working on the Chase case; you handled that trial in great shape," Ferguson looked admiringly at his companion. "Lots of the praise went to your partner, Mr. Rochester, but I know you did the work. Now, please let me finish," holding up a protesting hand. "I know you've carried Mr. Rochester in your firm; he's dead wood." Kent was silent.

What the detective said was only too true. Rochester, realizing the talent and industry which characterized his younger partner, had withdrawn more and more from active practice, and had devoted himself to the social life of the National Capital.

"This is rather a long-winded way of reaching my point," finished the detective. "But, Mr. Kent, I want your a.s.sistance in a puzzling case."

"Go on, I'm listening." As he spoke, Kent drew out his cigar case and handed it to Ferguson. "The matches are on the smoking stand at your elbow. Now, what is it, Ferguson?"

His companion did not reply at once; instead he puffed at his cigar.

"Did you read in the paper about Mr. Turnbull's death?" he asked when the cigar was drawing to his satisfaction, and as Kent nodded a silent affirmative in answer to his question, he asked another. "Did you know him well?"

"Yes."

"Did he have an enemy?"

"Not to my knowledge." Kent was watching the detective narrowly; what was he driving at? "On the contrary Turnbull was extremely popular."

"With Colonel McIntyre?" Ferguson had hoped to surprise Kent with the question, but his companion's expression did not alter.

"N-no, perhaps he was not over-popular with the colonel," he admitted slowly. "What prompts the question, Ferguson?"

The detective hitched his chair nearer. "I'm going to lay all my cards on the table," he announced. "I need advice and you are the man to give it to me. Listen, Mr. Kent, this Jimmie Turnbull masquerades as a burglar night before last at the McIntyre house, is arrested, a charge brought against him for house-breaking by Miss Helen McIntyre, and shortly after he dies--"

"From angina pectoris," finished Kent, as the detective paused.

"So Mr. Rochester contended," admitted Ferguson. "We'll let that go for a minute. Now, when Miss McIntyre saw Turnbull's body, she demanded an autopsy. Why?"

"To discover the cause of death," answered Kent quietly. "That is obvious, Ferguson."

"Sure. And why did she wish to discover it?" He waited a brief instant, then answered his own question. "Because Miss McIntyre did not agree with Rochester that Turnbull had died from angina pectoris--that is obvious, too. Now, what made her think that?"

"I am sure I don't know"--Kent's air of candor was unmistakable and Ferguson showed his disappointment.

"Hasn't Miss McIntyre been to see you?"

"No," was Kent's truthful answer; Barbara was the younger twin and her sister was therefore, "Miss McIntyre."

"You must recollect, Ferguson," he added, "that had Miss McIntyre called to see me about poor Turnbull, I would not have discussed the interview with any one, under any conditions."

"Certainly. I am not asking you to break any confidences; in fact,"

Ferguson smiled, "I must ask you to consider our conversation confidential. Now, Mr. Kent, does it not strike you as odd that apparently the only man in Washington who really disliked Turnbull was Colonel McIntyre, and it is his daughter who intimates that Turnbull's death was not due to natural causes?"

"Oh, pshaw!" Kent shrugged his shoulders. "You are taking an exaggerated view of the affair. Colonel McIntyre is an honorable upright American, and Turnbull was the same."

"People speak highly of both men," acknowledged the detective. "I saw Mr.

Clymer, president of Turnbull's bank this afternoon, and he paid a fine tribute to his dead cashier."

Kent drew an inward sigh of relief. Benjamin Clymer had proved true blue; he had not permitted Colonel McIntyre's desire for immediate publicity and belief in Turnbull's guilt to shake his faith in his friend.

"You see, Ferguson, there is no motive for such a crime as you suggest,"

he remarked.

"Oh, for the motive,"--Ferguson rubbed his hands nervously together as he shot a look at his questioner; the latter's clear-cut features and manly bearing inspired confidence. "We know of no motive," he corrected.

"And we know of no crime having been perpetrated," rapped out Kent.

"Come, man; don't hunt a mare's nest."

"Ah, but it isn't a mare's nest!" Ferguson remarked dryly.

Kent bent eagerly forward--"You have heard from the coroner--"

"Not yet," Ferguson jerked forward his chair until his knees touched Kent.

Had either man looked toward the window near which they were sitting, he would have seen a black shadow squatting ape-like on the window ledge.

As Kent leaned over to relight his cigar, the face at the window vanished, to cautiously reappear a second later.

"The case piqued my interest," continued the detective after a pause.

"And I made an investigation on my own hook. After the departure of the McIntyre twins and Coroner Penfield, I went back to the court room and poked around the prisoners' cage. There I found this." He took out of his pocket a small bundle and carefully unwrapped the oil-skin cover.

"A handkerchief?" questioned Kent as the detective did not unfold the white muslin, but held it with care.

"Yes. One of the prisoners in the cage told me Turnbull dropped it as Dr. Stone and the deputy marshal carried him into the ante-room. Smell anything?" holding up the handkerchief.

"Yes." Kent wrinkled his nose and sniffed several times. "Smells like fruit."

Ferguson nodded. "Good guess; I noticed the odor and went at once to Dr.

McLane. He told me the handkerchief was saturated with amyl nitrite."