However, all readers - sooner or later - find for themselves a literary genre that is fundamentally different from all others. The Red Seal by Natalie Sumner Lincoln (ink book reader .TXT) 📖
- Author: Natalie Sumner Lincoln
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Kent read the curt message on the card without comment and tore the paste-board into tiny bits.
“Any one else been in this morning?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” Sylvester consulted a written memorandum. “Mr. Black called, also Colonel Thorne, Senator Harris, and Mrs. Brewster.”
“Mrs. Brewster!” The newspaper slipped from Kent’s fingers in his astonishment. “What did she want here?”
“To see you, sir, so she said, but she first asked for Mr. Rochester,” explained Sylvester, stooping over to pick up the inside sheet of the Times which had separated from the others. “I told her that Mr. Rochester was unavoidably detained in Cleveland; then she said she would consult you and I let her wait in your office for the good part of an hour.”
Kent thought a moment then walked toward his door; on its threshold he paused, struck by a sudden idea.
“Did Colonel McIntyre come with Mrs. Brewster?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Kent; he came in while she was here.”
“And they went off together,” volunteered Mrs. Sylvester, who had been a silent listener to their conversation. Kent started; he had forgotten the woman. “Excuse me, Mr. Kent,” she continued, and stepped toward him. “I presume, likely, that you are very interested in this charge of murder against your partner, Mr. Rochester.”
“I am,” affirmed Kent, as Mrs. Sylvester paused.
“I am too, sir,” she confided to him. “Cause you see I was in the court room when Mr. Turnbull died and I’m naturally interested.”
“Naturally,” agreed Kent with a commiserating glance at his clerk; the latter’s wife threatened to be loquacious, and he judged from her looks that it was a habit which had grown with the years. As a general rule he abhorred talkative women, but - “And what took you to the police court on Tuesday morning?”
“Why, me and Mr. Sylvester have our little differences like other married couples,” she explained. “And sometimes we ask the Court to settle them.” She caught Kent’s look of impatience and hurried her speech. “The burglar case came on just after ours was remanded, and seeing the McIntyre twins, whom I’ve often read about, I just thought I’d stay. Let me have that paper a minute.”
“Certainly,” Kent gave her the newspaper and she ran her finger down the columns devoted to the Turnbull case with a slowness that set his already excited nerves on edge.
“Here’s what I’m looking for,” she exclaimed triumphantly, a minute later, and pointed to the paragraph:
“Mrs. Margaret Perry Brewster, the fascinating widow, added nothing material to the case in her testimony, and she was quickly excused, after stating that she was told about the tragedy by the McIntyre twins upon their return from the Police Court.”
“Well what of it?” asked Kent.
“Only this, Mr. Kent;” Mrs. Sylvester enjoyed nothing so much as talking to a good looking man, especially in the presence of her husband, and she could not refrain from a triumphant look at him as she went on with her remarks. “There was a female sitting on the bench next to me in Court; in fact, she and I were the only women on that side, and I kinder noticed her on that account, and then I saw she was all done up in veils - I couldn’t see her face.
“I caught her peering this way and that during the burglar’s hearing; I don’t reckon she could see well through all the veils. Now, don’t get impatient, Mr. Kent; I’m getting to my point - that woman sitting next to me in the police court was the widow Brewster.”
“What!” Kent laughed unbelievingly. “Oh, come, you are mistaken.”
“I am not, sir.” Mrs. Sylvester spoke with conviction. “Now, why does Mrs. Brewster declare at the coroner’s inquest that she only heard of the Turnbull tragedy from the McIntyre twins on their return home?”
“You must be mistaken,” argued Kent.
“Why, you admit yourself that the woman was so swathed in veils that you could not see her face.”
“No, but I heard her laugh in court,” Mrs. Sylvester spoke in deep earnestness and Kent placed faith in her statement in spite of his outward skepticism. “And I heard her laugh in this corridor this morning and I placed her as the same woman. I asked Mr. Sylvester who she was, and he told me. I’d been reading this account of the Turnbull inquest, and I recollected seeing Mrs. Brewster’s name, and my husband and I were just reading the account over when you came in.”
Kent gazed in perplexity at Mrs. Sylvester. “Why did Mrs. Brewster laugh in the police court?” he asked.
“When Dr. Stone exclaimed to the deputy marshal - ‘Your prisoner appears ill!’” declared Mrs. Sylvester; she enjoyed the dramatic, and that Kent was hanging on her words she was fully aware, in spite of his expressionless face. “Dr. Stone lifted the burglar in his arms and then Mrs. Brewster laughed as she laughed in the corridor to-day - a soft gurgling laugh.”
It was the rush hour at the Metropolis Trust Company and the busy paying teller counted out silver and gold and treasury notes of varying denominations with the mechanical precision and exactness which experience gives. Suddenly his hand stopped midway toward the money drawer, his attention arrested by the signature on a check. A swift glance upward showed him a girl’s face at the grille of the window. There was an instant’s pause, then she addressed him.
“Do hurry, Mr. McDonald; father is waiting for me.”
“Pardon me, Miss McIntyre.” He stamped the check and laid it to one side. “how do you want the money?”
“Oh, I forgot.” She glanced at a memorandum on the back of an envelope. “Mrs. Brewster wishes ten tens, five twenties, and ten ones.
Thank you, good afternoon,” and counting over the money she thrust it inside her bag and hurried away.
She had been gone a bare five minutes when Kent reached the window and pushed several checks toward the teller.
“Is Mr. Clymer in his office, McDonald?” he asked, placing the bank notes given, him in his wallet.
“I’m not sure.” The teller glanced around at the clock; the hands stood at ten minutes of three. “It’s pretty near closing time, Kent; still, he may be there.”
“I’ll go and see,” and with a nod of farewell Kent turned on his heel and walked off in the direction of the office of the bank president. On reaching there he saw, through the glass partition of the door, Clymer seated in earnest conclave with two men.
Happening to glance up Clymer recognized Kent and beckoned to him to come inside. “You know Taylor,” he said by way of introduction. “And this is Mr. Harding of New York - Mr. Kent,” he turned around in his swivel chair to face the three men. “Draw up a chair, Kent; we were just going over to see you.
“Yes?” Kent looked inquiringly at the bank president, the gravity of his manner betokened serious tidings. ” What is it, Mr. Clymer?”
Clymer did not reply at once. “It’s this,” he said finally, with blunt directness. “Your partner, Philip Rochester, appears to be a bankrupt. Harding and Taylor came in here to attach his private bank account to cover indebtedness to their business firms.”
An exclamation broke from Kent. “Impossible!” he gasped.
“I would have said the same this morning,” declared Clymer. “But on investigation I find that Rochester has over-drawn his account here for a large amount and borrowed heavily. The further I look into his financial affairs the more involved I find them.”
“But” - Kent was white-lipped. “I know for an absolute fact that Rochester was paid some exceedingly large fees last week, totaling over fifty thousand dollars.”
“He has never deposited such a sum, or anywhere like that amount in this bank either last week or this,” stated Clymer, running his eyes down a bank statement which, with several pass books, lay on his desk.
“Does he carry accounts at other banks?” inquired Harding.
“Not that I can discover,” responded Taylor. “I have been to every national and private banking house in Washington, but all deny having him as a depositor. Did Rochester ever bank out of town, Kent?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Kent drew out a bank book. “Here is the firm’s balance, Mr. Clymer; we bank here, you know.”
“Yes.” Clymer’s look of anxiety deepened.
“Did you see McDonald as you came in?”
“Yes, he cashed some checks for me.”
“Your personal checks?”
“Yes.” Kent looked questioningly at Clymer. What do you mean?”
“Only this; that all moneys deposited here in the firm name of Rochester and Kent have been drawn out.”
“That’s not possible!” Kent started up.
“Checks on that account must bear both Rochester’s signature and mine.”
“Checks bearing both signatures have been presented for the total sum deposited to your credit,” stated Clymer and he picked up four canceled checks. “See for yourself.”
Kent stared at the checks in dumbfounded silence; then carrying them to the light he examined them with minute care before bringing them back to the bank president.
“This is the first I have heard of these transactions,” he said.
“You mean -”
“That the signatures are clever forgeries.” His statement was heard with gravity. Taylor exchanged a meaning look with the New Yorker.
“You mean your signature is a forgery,” he suggested. “Rochester had a peculiar gift of penmanship.”
Kent sprang up. “Do you accuse Philip Rochester of signing these checks and inserting my name to them?”
“I do,” calmly. “I am not familiar with your signature, Kent, but that Rochester wrote the body of those four checks and put his own signature at the bottom I will swear to in any court of law. To make them valid he had to add your name.”
“But, d-mn it, man!” Kent stared in bewilderment at his three companions. “Rochester was honorable and straight-forward -”
“And addicted to drink,” put in Harding. “But not a forger,” retorted Kent firmly. Harding’s only rejoinder was a skeptical smile as he turned to address Clymer.
“So Rochester not only has taken his own money, but withdrawn that belonging to the firm of Rochester and Kent without the knowledge of his junior partner; it looks black, Mr. Clymer,” he remarked. “Especially when taken in consideration with his other involved financial transactions.”
“Where will we find Rochester, Kent?” asked Taylor, before the bank president could answer the New Yorker.
Kent paused in indecision. What reply could he make without further involving Rochester in trouble? He had not the faintest idea where Rochester was, but to state that he was missing could not but add to the belief that he had made away with all the money he could lay his hands on. The noon edition of the Times had hinted at Rochester’s disappearance but had stated they could not get the statement confirmed from Police Headquarters; obviously Harding and Taylor had not seen the newspaper.
Was it just to the men before him to keep them in the dark? If their claims were true, and Kent never doubted that they were, they had already lost money through Rochester’s extraordinary behavior. Kent turned sick at the thought of his own loss - his savings swept away. Would Barbara wait for him - was it fair to ask her?
Taylor broke the prolonged silence.
“I met Detective Ferguson on my way here,” he stated. “He told me that the police were looking for Rochester.”
“What?” Harding looked up, startled. “Why didn’t you inform me of that?”
“Well, I thought we’d better hear from Mr. Clymer the true state of Rochester’s finances,” responded Taylor. “I never anticipated such facts as he has given us.”
“But if you knew the police
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