.

"No use," he announced. "The man is dead."

"Dead!" echoed the deputy marshal. "Well, I'll be--say, doctor," but
Stone had darted out of the room, and he turned open-mouthed to Clymer.
"If it wasn't Doctor Stone I would say he was crazy," he declared.

"Tut! Feel the man's heart and convince yourself," suggested Clymer
tartly, and the deputy marshal, dropping on one knee, did so. Detecting
no heart-beat, the officer passed his hand over the dead man's unshaven
chin and across his forehead, brushing back the unkempt hair. Under his
none too gentle touch the wig slipped back, revealing to his astonished
gaze a head of short cropped, red hair.

Clymer, who had followed the deputy marshal's movements with interest,
gave a shout which was echoed by Rochester and Dr. Stone, who returned
at that moment.

"Good God!" gasped Clymer, shaken out of his accustomed calm. "Jimmie
Turnbull!"

The deputy marshal eyed the startled men.

"You don't mean--" he stammered, and paused.

For answer Dr. Stone straightened the dead man and removed the wig.

"James Turnbull," he said gravely, and turning, addressed Rochester, who
had dropped down on the nearest chair. "Cashier of the Metropolis Trust
Company, Rochester, and your roommate, masquerading as a burglar."

CHAPTER II. THE GAME OF CONSEQUENCES

R. O. Chester 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 Clym