Chapter 2

Rochester did not appear to hear Dr. Stone's words. With eyes half
starting from their sockets he sat staring at the dead man, completely
oblivious of the others' presence. After watching him for a moment the
physician turned briskly to the dazed deputy marshal.

“Summon the coroner,” he directed. “We cannot move the body until he
comes.”

His curt tone brought the official's wits back with a jump and he made
for the exit, only to be stopped at the threshold by a sandy-haired man
just entering the room.

At the word coroner, Rochester raised himself from his bent attitude and
brushed his hand across his eyes.

“No need for a coroner to diagnose the case,” he objected. “Poor
Turnbull always said he would go off like that.”

Stone moved nearer. “Like that?” he questioned, pointing to the still
figure. “Explain yourself, Rochester. Did Turnbull expect to die here in
this manner?”

“No--no--certainly not.” The lawyer moistened his dry lips. “But when a
man has angina pectoris he knows the end may come at any moment and
in any place. Turnbull made no secret of suffering from that disease.”
Rochester turned toward Clymer. “You knew it.”

Benjamin Clymer, who had been gazing alternately at the dead man and
vaguely about the room, looked startled at the abrupt question.

“I knew Turnbull had bad attacks of the heart; we all knew it at
the bank,” he stated. “But I understood the disease had responded to
treatment.”

“There is no cure for angina pectoris,” declared Rochester.

“No permanent cure,” amended Stone, and would have added more, but
Rochester stopped him.

“Now that you know Turnbull died of angina pectoris there is no
necessity of sending for the coroner,” Rochester spoke in haste, his
words tumbling over each other. “I will go at once and communicate with
an undertaker.” But before he could rise from his chair the sandy-haired
man, who had conducted a whispered conversation with the deputy marshal,
advanced toward the group.

“Just a moment, gentlemen,” he said, and turned back a lapel of his coat
and displayed a metal badge. “I am Ferguson of the Central Office. Do
you know the deceased?”

“He was my intimate friend,” announced Rochester before his companions
could reply to the detective's question, which was addressed to all.
“Mr. Clymer, here, can tell you that Jimmie Turnbull, cashier of his
bank, was well known in financial and social Washington.”

“How came he here in this fix?” asked Ferguson with more force than
grammatic clarity.

“A sudden heart attack--angina pectoris, you know,” replied Rochester
glibly, “with fatal results.”

“I wasn't alluding to what killed him,” Ferguson explained. “But why was
the cashier of the Metropolis Trust Company,” he looked questioningly
at Clymer whom he knew quite well by sight, “and a social high-light,
decked out in these clothes and a wig, too?” leaning down, the better to
examine the clothing on the dead man.

“He had just been held for the Grand Jury on a charge of
house-breaking,” volunteered the deputy marshal. “I reckon that brought
on his heart-attack.”

“True, true,” agreed Rochester. “The excitement was too much for him.”

“House-breaking” ejaculated the detective. “Dangerous sport for a man
suffering with angina pectoris, aside from anything else. Who preferred
charges?”

“The Misses McIntyre,” answered the deputy marshal, to whom the question
was addressed. “Like to interview them?”

“Yes.”

“No, no!” Rochester was on his feet instantly. “There is no necessity to
bring the twins out here--it's too tragic!”

“Tragic?” echoed Ferguson. “Why?”

“Why--why--Turnbull was arrested in their house,” Rochester was
commencing to stutter. “He was their friend--”

“Caught burglarizing, heh?” Ferguson's eyes glowed; the case already
whetted his remarkably keen inquisitorial instinct which had gained him
place and certain fame in the Washington police force. “Are the Misses
McIntyre still in the building?”

“They were in the court room just before we brought Turnbull's body
here,” responded the deputy marshal. “I guess they are still waiting,
eh, doctor?”

Stone, thus appealed to, nodded. “I agree with Mr. Rochester,” he said,
and the gravity of his manner impressed Ferguson. “It is better for me
to break the news of Mr. Turnbull's death to the young ladies before
bringing them here. Therefore, with your permission, Ferguson”--He got no
further.

Through the outer entrance of the room came Helen McIntyre and her
sister Barbara, conducted by the same bowing patrolman who had ushered
them into the court room an hour before.

“My God! Too late!” stammered Rochester under his breath, and he turned
in desperation to Benjamin Clymer. The bank president's state of mind at
the extraordinary masquerade and sudden death of his popular and trusted
cashier bordered on shocked horror, which had made him a passive
witness of the rapidly shifting scene. Rochester clutched his arm in his
agitation. “Get the twins out of here--do something, man! Don't you know
that Turnbull was in love with--”

His fervid whisper penetrated further than he realized and one of the
McIntyre twins looked inquiringly in their direction. Clymer, more
startled than his demeanor indicated, wondered if she had overheard
Rochester's ejaculations, but whatever action the banker contemplated in
response to the lawyer's appeal was checked by a scream from the girl
on his right. With ashen face and trembling finger she pointed to
Turnbull's body which suddenly confronted her as she walked forward.

“Who is it?” she gasped. “Babs, tell me!” And she held out her hand
imploringly.

Her sister stepped to her side and bent over Turnbull. When she looked
up her lips alone retained their color.

“Hush!” she implored, giving her sister a slight shake. “Hush! It is
Jimmie Turnbull. Can you not see for yourself, dear?”

It seemed doubtful if Helen heard her; with attention wholly centered
on the dead man she swayed on her feet, and Dr. Stone, thinking she was
about to fall, placed a supporting arm about her.

“Do you not know Jimmie?” asked her sister. “Don't stare so, dearest.”
Her tone was pleading.

“Perhaps the young lady has some difficulty in recognizing Mr. Turnbull
in his disguise,” suggested Ferguson, who stood somewhat in the
background but closely observing the scene.

“Disguise!” Helen raised her eyes and Ferguson, hardened as he had
become to tragic scenes, felt a throb of pity as he caught the pent-up
agony in her mute appeal.

“Yes, Miss,” he said awkwardly. “The burglar you caught in your house
was Mr. Turnbull in disguise.”

Barbara McIntyre released her grasp of her sister's arm and collapsed on
a chair. Stone, still supporting Helen, felt her muscles grow taut and
an instant later she stepped back from his side and stood by her sister.
As the two girls faced the circle of men, the likeness between them was
extraordinary. Each had the same slight graceful figure, equal
height; and feature for feature, coloring matching coloring, they were
identical; their gowns, even, were cut on similar lines, only their hats
varied in shape and color.

“Do I understand, gentlemen,” Helen began, and her voice gained
steadiness as she proceeded, “that the burglar whom Officer O'Ryan and I
caught lurking in our house was James Turnbull?”

“He was,” answered Ferguson, and Stone, as the twins looked dumbly at
him, confirmed the detective's statement with a brief, “Yes.”

The silence that ensued was broken by Barbara rising to her feet.

“Jimmie won his wager,” she announced. Her gaze did not waver before
the concentrated regard of the men facing her. “He broke into our
house--but, oh, how can I pay my debt to him now that he is dead!”

“Hush!” Helen laid a cautioning hand on her sister's arm as the latter's
voice gained in shrillness, the shrillness of approaching hysteria.

“I am all right, Helen.” Barbara waved her away impatiently. “What
caused Jimmie's death?”

“Angina pectoris,” declared Rochester. “Too much excitement brought on
a fatal attack.” Barbara nodded dazedly. “I knew he had heart trouble,
but--” She stepped toward Turnbull and her voice quivered with feeling.
“Don't leave Jimmie lying there; take him to his room, doctor,” turning
entreatingly to Stone.

The physician looked at her compassionately. “I will, just as soon as
the coroner views the body,” he promised. “But come away now, Babs; this
is no place for you and Helen.” He signed to the deputy marshal to open
the door as he walked across the room, Barbara keeping step with him,
and her sister following in their wake. At the door Barbara paused and
looked back.

“Will there be an inquest?” she asked.

“That's for the coroner to decide,” responded Ferguson. “As long as Mr.
Turnbull entered your house on a wager and died from an attack of angina
pectoris the inquest is likely to be a mere formality. Ah, here is the
coroner now,” as a man paused in the doorway.

Helen McIntyre moved back from the door to make room for Coroner
Penfield. Having had occasion to attend court that morning, he was
passing the door when attracted by the group just inside the room.
Courteously acknowledging Helen's act, Penfield stepped briskly across
the threshold and stopped abruptly on catching sight of the lonely
figure on the floor.

“Won't you hold an autopsy, Ferguson?” asked Clymer, breaking his long
silence.

“No, sir, we never do when the cause of death is apparent,” the
detective bowed to Coroner Penfield. “Isn't that so, Coroner?”

Penfield nodded. “Unless the condition of the body indicates foul play
or the relatives specially request it, we do not perform autopsies,” he
answered. “What has happened here?” and he gazed about with quickened
interest.

“Mr. Turnbull, who masqueraded as a burglar on a wager with Miss
McIntyre died suddenly from angina pectoris,” explained the deputy
marshal.

“Just a case of death from natural causes,” broke in Rochester. “Please
write out a permit for me to remove Turnbull's body, Dr. Penfield.”

Helen McIntyre took a step forward. Her eyes, twice their accustomed
size, shone brightly, in contrast to her dead white face. Carefully
avoiding her sister's glance she addressed the coroner.

“I must insist,” she began and stopped to control her voice. “As Mr.
Turnbull's fiancee, I--” she faltered again. “I demand that an autopsy
be held to determine the cause of his death.”