The Red Seal, Natalie Sumner Lincoln [books for men to read .TXT] 📗

There was absolute stillness in the room; then a babble of exclamations broke out as Sylvester, his expression of dumb surprise giving place to one of fury, struggled to free himself from the detective’s firm grip.

“You cannot escape, Sylvester,” declared Kent, observing his efforts. “Your carelessness in using your peculiar gift of penmanship in copying Barbara McIntyre’s signature in this memorandum of her visit here” - Kent held up a sheet torn from his pad, “gave me the first clew. These, the second,” he showed several pieces of blotting paper freshly used. “See, in the mirror here is reflected the impression from your clever imitations of the handwritings of Barbara, Colonel McIntyre, and Mrs. Brewster.”

They crowded about Kent, all but Ferguson and his prisoner, who had subsided in his chair with what the detective concluded was dangerous quietude.

“My next step, now that suspicion was directed against Sylvester, was to make personal inquiries regarding him,” went on Kent. “Judge Hildebrand, who had just returned to Washington, said that he first met Sylvester at a circus sideshow where he gave exhibitions as a contortionist. One of his special stunts was to slip out of handcuffs and ropes.”

“So that explains last night,” Ferguson grinned. “You’ll not do it again, Sylvester,” and he shook an admonitory finger at the erstwhile clerk.

“Judge Hildebrand became interested in Sylvester, found he was handy with his pen and tired of the show business, and gave him an opening by engaging him as confidential clerk,” continued Kent. “You will recall, Colonel McIntyre, that you sent business papers in your handwriting and that of your daughters to Judge Hildebrand’s office to be typed by his staff. That is how Sylvester became so well acquainted with your writing and was able to forge a letter to the bank treasurer directing him to turn over your negotiable securities to Jimmie Turnbull.”

“But how in the world did Sylvester induce Jimmie to present the forged letter?” asked Colonel McIntyre.

Kent turned to the sullen prisoner. “Answer that question, Sylvester,” he commanded, and the man roused himself from his dejected attitude.

“Anything in it for me if I do?” he asked with a cunning leer.

“That’s for the courts to decide,” declared Kent.

The man thought a minute. “I’ll take a chance,” he said finally. “But that I waited for an opportunity to get my swag out of this safe, I wouldn’t have been caught - curse you!” and he scowled at Kent.

“Cut that out,” admonished Ferguson with a none too gentle dig in the ribs, and Sylvester continued his statement.

“I overheard Colonel McIntyre tell Judge Hildebrand about his securities and their present value, and the next day he came to consult the judge about engaging a secretary. I fixed up credentials and went to Mr. Turnbull; he believed my story that I was the colonel’s new secretary and got the securities.” Sylvester paused. “If I’d rested content with that success I’d been all right,” he added. “But I was in too great a hurry and forged Mr. Clymer’s signature to a check for five thousand dollars and presented it at the Metropolis Trust Company. As luck would have it Mr. Turnbull cashed it for me himself.”

“But didn’t he suspect you?” exclaimed Clymer. He had gradually recovered from the shock of Rochester’s charges on his arrival, and was listening with keen attention to Sylvester’s confession.

“No. I made the check payable to Colonel McIntyre and forged his endorsement,” Sylvester spoke with an air of pride, and he smiled in malicious enjoyment as, catching his eye, Barbara shrank back and sheltered herself behind Kent. “Mr. Turnbull accepted the check; later something must have aroused his suspicions, and I found when he questioned me that he believed Colonel McIntyre had forged the check.”

“Good heavens! You let him think that?” gasped McIntyre; then wrath gained the mastery. “You scoundrel!”

“Oh, I encouraged him to think it,” Sylvester grinned again. “You must have handed Mr. Turnbull a raw deal; he was so ready to think evil of you.”

“That is a lie!” exclaimed Helen hotly. “When I went downstairs to investigate the noise I heard in the library, father, Jimmie told me who he was to quiet my fright. He showed me a letter, which he had just found on your desk in the library, confessing that you had forged Mr. Clymer’s name on the check, and begging Jimmie to conceal your crime and save Barbara and me from the shame of having you exposed as a forger and a thief.”

“I never wrote such a letter!” shouted McIntyre, deeply incensed.

“No, it was a clever plan,” acknowledged Sylvester. “On one of my trips to your house, Colonel McIntyre, I secured wax impressions of your front door lock. I went to your house Monday night and put the letter among your papers just before Turnbull was admitted by your fool of a butler.”

“And you gave Jimmie Turnbull a dose of poison - charged Kent, but Sylvester, his lips gone dry, raised his manacled hands in protest.

“I did not poison him,” he cried. “I waited just to see if Turnbull got the letter and to find out what he’d do with the securities, which he had refused to turn over to me. After he had read the forged letter Mr. Turnbull acted sort of faint and went out in the hall. I could just see him put down a box on the hall table and lean against the wall. Then he went into the dining room and came back a second later carrying a glass of water, and I saw him take up and open a small box and toss some white pills into his mouth; then he took a good drink, and, picking up a handkerchief lying on the table, he went back into the library.”

There was silence as Sylvester’s callous recital of the tragedy ended. Helen, her eyes tearless and dark with suffering, sank slowly back in her chair and rested her head against Barbara’s sympathetic shoulder.

“So Turnbull’s death was accidental after all,” exclaimed Ferguson. “Or was it suicide?”

“Accident,” answered Kent. “I found some nitroglycerine pills in the umbrella stand by the hall table.” Colonel McIntyre nodded. “Evidently Turnbull put down his pill box before getting a glass of water, and in his attack of giddiness accidentally opened your box of aconitine pills, Mrs. Brewster, instead of his own, and swallowed a fatal dose, thinking they were nitroglycerine.”

Mrs. Brewster bowed her head in agreement. That must have been it,” she said. “However, I saw Colonel McIntyre tear off the paper wrapping and open my package of pills just before dinner, and when I heard that Jimmie had died from aconitine I - I -” she stammered and stopped short.

“You suspected I had murdered him?” asked McIntyre softly.

“Yes,” she looked appealingly at him. “Forgive me, I should never have suspected you, but the pills, box and all, were missing the next morning from the hall table.”

“Turnbull must have thrown the box into the umbrella stand,” explained Kent. “That was where I found it. Did you get the securities, Sylvester?” turning to the prisoner.

“No,” sullenly. “She did,” and a jerk of his thumb indicated Helen McIntyre.

Helen raised her head and addressed them slowly.

“Jimmie and I expected Barbara to come in at any moment, and he started to leave when we saw you coming downstairs,” she turned to Mrs. Brewster. “Jimmie declared that if we were found together I might be compromised. He couldn’t explain his presence without exposing father - we both thought you a forger, father,” she interpolated, as McIntyre took her hand and pressed it understandingly. “So he insisted that I should treat him like an ordinary burglar - we had both forgotten Barbara’s silly wager in our horror about father. Jimmie didn’t dare take the securities and father’s confession with him for fear he’d be searched at the police station, and the scandal would have come out then.”

“True,” agreed McIntyre. “Go on, Helen.”

“So Jimmie thrust the securities and father’s confession into an envelope and sealed it with red wax, using Barbara’s seal,” explained Helen. “He hadn’t time to write an address or message on it, but he told me to return the envelope to him later in the day or give it to Philip Rochester and ask his aid. I brought it here on Wednesday morning and with Harry’s permission put the envelope in the safe.”

“I tried to get it from there,” volunteered Sylvester, “for I overheard Turnbull’s plan, before I left by the reception room window.”

“So it was you and not Mr. Rochester whom I saw steal out of the window,” exclaimed Mrs. Brewster.

“It’s not the first time I’ve been mistaken for him,” exclaimed Sylvester calmly.

Kent started and, gazing at Rochester and the clerk, saw there was a general resemblance in coloring and physique.

“Did you present the checks to McDonald at the Metropolis Trust Company bearing Rochester’s and my forged signatures?” he asked.

“I did,” acknowledged Sylvester. “Mr. Rochester’s wardrobe came in very handy for deceiving the casual glance. You know, ‘clothes make the man, and want of it the fellow.’”

Kent looked up quickly, struck by an idea.

“Sylvester, did you steal the envelope containing the securities from me at the Club de Vingt?” he asked.

Sylvester shook his head. “No, but she did,” pointing to Mrs. Brewster. “It’s no lie,” as McIntyre uttered an indignant denial. “When Ferguson left here carrying off the securities from under my nose almost - I had spent the whole day trying to learn the safe’s combination; I trailed him to the Club de Vingt, and heard the head waiter tell him you, Mr. Kent, were sitting in the small smoking porch, so I climbed up the trumpet vine; oh, it was strong and no climb for one who has done the feats I have in the circus. I reached the porch just in time to see Mrs. Brewster drop her fan, and when the men bent to pick it up she ‘lifted’ the envelope and concealed it under her scarf.”

“Don’t,” Mrs. Brewster laid a detaining hand on McIntyre as he stepped forward. “The man is telling the truth. I thought it was the envelope you gave me earlier in the evening - it was unaddressed and the red seal was the same.”

“Just a moment,” interrupted Kent. “What did you do with the envelope?”

“When I returned home I dropped it inside one of the Venetian caskets,” Mrs. Brewster replied. “No one ever went near them, and I thought it would be safe there. You see, I was puzzled to know how it had disappeared from the desk in the reception room, where I had left it in one of the pigeon holes, intending to take it later to my room.”

“I took the envelope - your envelope - out of the desk,” confessed McIntyre. “I would have spoken of it, Margaret, but was hurt that you had left our marriage certificate lying around so carelessly.”

“Your what?” Barbara sprang up, astounded.

“Our marriage certificate,” repeated McIntyre firmly. “Margaret and I were married last week in Baltimore. We would have told you, Helen, but your peculiar conduct and Barbara’s, so angered me that I forbade Margaret to take you into our confidence.”

“Father!” Barbara got no further, for Helen had risen. She spoke with quiet dignity.

“You forget, father, that since Monday night we have thought you a forger and, worse, a murderer,” her voice faltered. “In our effort to guard you we have become estranged. Margaret”- she held out her hand with an affectionate gesture and with a sob her step-mother kissed her.

“How did this envelope get back inside our