CHAPTER XXI. THE RIDDLE ANSWERED

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 nitro-glycerine 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 safe?” asked Kent a moment

later, picking it up and displaying the red seal, intact save for the

broken corner.

“I went downstairs about midnight or a little later and into the

library,” confessed Helen. “What was my surprise and terror to see

Grimes holding the envelope. To me it meant father's exposure as a

forger. I had a revolver in my hand and struck before I thought. Then

I must temporarily have lost my reason. It was only my thought to save

father that lent me courage and strength to thrust Grimes inside the

casket where Babs and I used to hide. I then returned to my room,

and was just coming downstairs again after secreting the envelope, to

release Grimes and get medical assistance if need be, when Margaret's

screams aroused the household.”

McIntyre interrupted his daughter with a hasty gesture, and addressed

his wife. “When Detective Ferguson questioned me as to your reason for

being in the library, Margaret, I stated you had gone down to get a