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

she wished most heartily that she had not been over-persuaded by her sister, and had remained at home. That her father had accepted her lame explanation and her presence in the party with unaffected pleasure had been plain. Mrs. Brewster, after a quiet inquiry regarding her health, had been less enthusiastic in her welcome. Barbara was just stifling a yawn when the limousine stopped at the entrance to the Caf St. Marks.

Inside the caf all was light and gaiety, and Barbara brightened perceptibly as the attentive head waiter ushered them to the table Colonel McIntyre had reserved earlier in the evening.

“It’s a novel idea turning the old church into a caf ,” Barbara remarked to Benjamin Clymer. “A sort of casting bread upon the waters of famished Washington. I wonder if they ever turn water into wine?”

“No such luck,” groaned Clymer dismally, looking with distaste at the sparkling grape juice being poured into the erstwhile champagne goblet by his plate. “The caf is crowded to-night,” and he gazed with interest about the room. Colonel McIntyre, who had loitered behind to speak to several friends at an adjacent table, took the unoccupied seat by Mrs. Brewster and was soon in animated conversation with the widow and Clymer; Barbara, her healthy appetite asserting itself, devoted her entire attention to the delicious delicacies placed before her. The arrival of the after-the-theater crowd awoke her from her abstraction, and she accepted Clymer’s invitation to dance with alacrity. When they returned to the table she discovered that Margaret Brewster and her father had also joined the dancers.

Barbara watched them while keeping up a disjointed conversation with Clymer, whose absentminded remarks finally drew Barbara’s attention, and she wondered what had come over the generally entertaining banker. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him the reason for his distrait manner when her thoughts were diverted by his next remark.

“Your father and Mrs. Brewster make a fine couple,” he said. “Colonel McIntyre is the most distinguished looking man in the caf and Mrs. Brewster is a regular beauty.”

Instead of replying Barbara turned in her seat and scanned her father as he and Mrs. Brewster passed them in the dance. Colonel McIntyre did not look his age of forty-seven years. His hair, prematurely gray, had a most attractive wave to it, and his erect and finely proportioned figure showed to advantage in his well-cut dress suit. Barbara’s heart swelled with pride - her dear and handsome father! Then she transferred her regard to Margaret Brewster; she had been such a satisfactory friend - why oh, why did she wish to become her step-mother? The twins, with the unerring instinct of womanhood, had decided ten days before that Weller’s warning to his son was timely - Mrs. Brewster was a most dangerous widow.

“How is your sister?” inquired Clymer, breaking the silence which had lasted nearly five minutes. He was never quite certain which twin he was talking to, and generally solved the problem by familiarizing himself with their mode of dress. The plan had not always worked as the twins had a bewildering habit of exchanging clothes, to the enjoyment of Barbara’s mischief loving soul, and the mystification of their numerous admirers.

“She is rather blue and depressed,” answered Barbara. “We are both feeling the reaction from the shock of Jimmie Turnbull’s tragic death. You must forgive me if I am a bore; I am not good company to-night.”

The arrival of the head waiter at their table interrupted Clymer’s reply.

“This gentleman desires to speak to you a moment, Miss McIntyre,” he said, and indicated a young man in a sack suit standing just back of him.

“I’m Parker of the Post,” the reporter introduced himself with a bow which included Clymer. “May I sit down?” laying his hand on the back of Mrs. Brewster’s vacant chair.

“Surely; and won’t you have an ice?” Barbara’s hospitable instincts were aroused. “Here, waiter -”

“No, thanks; I haven’t time,” protested Parker, slipping into the chair. “I just came from your house, Miss McIntyre; the butler said I might find you here, and as it was rather important, I took the liberty of introducing myself. We plan to run a story, featuring the dangers of masquerading in society, and of course it hinges on the death of Mr. Turnbull. I’m sorry” - he apologized as he saw Barbara wince. “I realize the topic is one to make you feel badly; but I promise to ask only few questions.” His smile was very engaging and Barbara’s resentment receded somewhat.

“What are they?” she asked.

“Did you recognize Mr. Turnbull in his burglar’s make-up when you confronted him in the police court?” Parker drew out copy paper and a pencil, and waited for her reply. There was a pause.

“I did not recognize Mr. Turnbull in court,” she stated finally. “His death was a frightful shock.”

“Sure. It was to everybody,” agreed Parker. “How about your sister, Miss Barbara; did she recognize him?”

“No.” faintly.

Parker showed his disappointment; he was not eliciting much information. Abruptly he turned to Clymer, whose prominent position in the financial world made him a familiar figure to all Washingtonians.

“Weren’t you present in the police court on Tuesday morning also?” Parker asked.

“Yes,” Clymer modified the curt monosyllable by adding, “I helped Dr. Stone carry Turnbull out of the prisoners’ cage and into the anteroom.”

“And did you recognize your cashier?” demanded Parker. At the question Barbara set down her goblet of water without care for its perishable quality and looked with quick intentness at the banker.

“I recognized Mr. Turnbull when his wig was removed,” answered Clymer, raising his head in time to catch Barbara’s eyes gazing steadfastly at him. With a faint flush she turned her attention to the reporter.

“Mr. Turnbull’s make-up must have been superfine,” Parker remarked. “Just one more question. Can you tell me if Mr. Philip Rochester recognized his roommate when he was defending him in court?”

“No, I cannot,” and observing Parker’s blank expression, she added, “why don’t you ask Mr. Rochester?”

“Because I can’t locate him; he seems to have vanished off the face of the globe.” The reporter rose. “You can’t tell me where’s he’s gone, I suppose?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” answered Barbara truthfully. “I was at his office this -” she stopped abruptly on finding that Mrs. Brewster was standing just behind her. Had the widow by chance overheard her remark? If so, her father would probably learn of her visit to the office of Rochester and Kent that morning.

“Do I understand that Philip Rochester is out of town?” inquired Mrs. Brewster. “Why, I had an appointment with him to-morrow.”

“He’s gone and left no address that I can find,” explained Parker. “Thank you, Miss McIntyre; good evening,” and the busy reporter hurried away.

There was a curious expression in Mrs. Brewster’s eyes, but she dropped her gaze on her finger bowl too quickly for Clymer to analyze its meaning.

“What can have taken Mr. Rochester out of town?” she asked. The question was not addressed to any one in particular, but Colonel McIntyre answered it, as he did most of the widow’s remarks.

“Dry Washington,” he explained. “It isn’t the first trip Philip has made to Baltimore since the ‘dry’ law has been in force, eh, Clymer?”

“No, and it won’t be his last,” was the banker’s response. “What’s the matter, Miss McIntyre?” as Barbara pushed back her chair.

“I feel a little faint,” she stammered. “The air here is - is stifling. If you don’t mind, father, I’ll take the car and drive home.”

“I’ll come with you,” announced Mrs. Brewster, rising hurriedly; and as she turned solicitously to aid Barbara she caught Colonel McIntyre’s admiring glance and his whispered thanks.

Outside the caf Clymer discovered that the McIntyre limousine was not to be found, and, cautioning Barbara and the widow to remain where they were, he went back into the caf in search of Colonel McIntyre, who had stayed behind to pay his bill.

A sudden exodus from the caf as other diners came out to get their cars, separated Barbara from Mrs. Brewster just as the former caught sight of her father’s limousine coming around McPherson Square. Not waiting to see what had become of her companion, Barbara started up the sidewalk intent on catching their chauffeur’s attention. As she stood by the curb, a figure brushed by her and a paper was deftly slipped inside her hand.

Barbara wheeled about abruptly. She stood alone, except for several elaborately dressed women and their companions some yards away who were indulging in noisy talk as they hurried along. At that moment the McIntyre limousine stopped at the curb and the chauffeur opened the door.

“Take me home, Harris,” she ordered. “And then come back for Mrs. Brewster and father. I don’t feel well - hurry.”

“Very good, miss,” and touching his cap the chauffeur swung his car up Fifteenth Street.

The limousine had turned into Massachusetts Avenue before Barbara switched on the electric lamp in the car and opened the note so mysteriously given to her. She read feverishly the few lines it contained

Dear Helen: The coroner will call an inquest. Secrete letter “B.”

The note was unsigned but it was in the handwriting of Philip Rochester.