y--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