CHAPTER II. THE GAME OF CONSEQUENCES

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.”