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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Suddenly Kent’s voice echoed down the hall. “Come here quick, Ferguson!”
There was a note of urgency about his appeal, and Ferguson straining his muscles until the blood pounded in his temples, threw the struggling man into a tufted arm-chair which stood by the entrance to the small dining room, and drawing out his handcuffs, slipped them on securely. “Stay there,” Ferguson admonished his prisoner. “Or there will be worse coming to you,” and he thrust the muzzle of his revolver against the man’s heaving chest to illustrate his meaning; then as Kent called again, he sped down the hall and brought up breathless at the front door. The light was still burning in the corridor, though not very brightly, and he saw Kent hand the grinning messenger boy a shiny quarter. Touching his battered cap the boy went whistling away. “Tell the elevator boy to report that a fuse has burned out in Mr. Rochester’s apartment,” Ferguson called after him, and the lad waved his hand as he dashed into the elevator.
Paying no attention to the detective’s call, Kent showed him a white envelope which bore the simple address:
PHILIP ROCHESTER, ESQ. THE SARATOGA
“It’s the identical envelope I found in your safe,” declared Ferguson.
“And which disappeared last night at the Club de Vingt.” Kent turned over the envelope. “See, the red seal.”
For a minute the men contemplated the seal with the large distinctive letter “B” in the center.
“Open the letter, sir,” Ferguson urged and Kent, his fingers fairly trembling, jerked and tore at the linen incased envelope; the flap ripped away and he opened the envelope - it was empty.
Instinctively the two men glanced down at the parquetry flooring; nothing but a thin coating of dust lay there, and Kent looked up and down the corridor; it was deserted.
“Do you recognize the handwriting?” asked Ferguson.
“No.” Kent regarded the envelope in bewilderment. “What shall we do?”
“Do? Call up the Dime Messenger Service and see where the envelope came from; but first come and see my prisoner.
“Your prisoner?” in profound astonishment.
“Yes. I caught him chasing up the hall after you,” explained Ferguson as they hurriedly retraced their steps. “I put handcuffs on him and then went to you. Ah, here’s the light!”
“The light, yes; but where’s your prisoner?” and Kent, who was a trifle in advance of his companion in reaching the dining room, stood aside to let Ferguson pass him.
The detective halted abruptly. The chair into which he had thrust his prisoner was vacant. The man had disappeared.
With one accord Ferguson and Kent advanced close to the chair, and an oath broke from. the detective. On the cushion of the chair, still bearing the impress of a human body, lay a pair of shining new handcuffs.
Dazedly Ferguson stooped over and examined them. They were still securely locked. Wheeling around Kent dashed through the door to his right and Ferguson, collecting his wits, searched the rest of the apartment with minute care. Five minutes later he came face to face with Kent in the living room. “Not a trace of any kind,” declared Kent. “It’s the same as the other night; the man’s gone. It’s - it’s positively uncanny.”
Ferguson’s face was red from mortification and his exertions combined.
“The fellow must have slipped from the room by that other door and out through the living room as we came down the hail,” he said. “Did you shut the door of the apartment, Mr. Kent, before coming down here to look at the prisoner?”
“Yes.” Kent led the way back to the dining room. “Did you recognize the man, Ferguson?”
“No.” The detective swore softly as he stared about the room. “The lights went out just as I tackled him.”
“It was beastly luck that the fuse burned out at that second,” groaned Kent. “Fortune was with him in that; but how did the man get free of the handcuffs?” pointing to them still lying in the chair. “We can’t attribute that to luck, unless” - staring keenly at Ferguson -” unless you did not snap them on the man’s wrists, after all.”
“I did; I swear it,” declared Ferguson. “I’m no novice at that business. Here, don’t touch them, Mr. Kent,” as his companion bent toward the chair. “There may be finger marks on the steel; if so” - he drew out his handkerchief, and taking care not to handle the burnished metal, he folded the handcuffs carefully in it and put them in his coat pocket. “There’s no use lingering here, Mr. Kent; this apartment is vacant now except for us. I must get to Headquarters.”
“Hadn’t you better telephone for an operative and station him here?” suggested Kent.
“I did so while you were searching the back rooms,” replied Ferguson. “There,” as the gong sounded. “That’s Nelson, now.”
But the person who stood in the outer corridor when they opened the front door was not Nelson, the operative, but Dr. Stone.
“Can I see Mr. Rochester?” he asked, then catching sight of Kent standing just back of the detective, he added, “Hello, Kent; I thought I heard some one walking about in here from my apartment next door, and concluded Rochester had returned. Can I see him?”
“N-no,” Kent spoke slowly, with a side-glance at the silent detective. “Rochester has been here - and left.”
Barbara McIntyre made the round of the library for the fifth time, testing each of the seven doors opening into it to see that they ere closed behind their portieres, then she turned back to her sister, who sat cross-logged before a small safe.
“Any luck?” she asked
Instead of replying Helen removed the key from the lock of the steel door and regarded it attentively. The safe was of an obsolete pattern and in place of the customary combination lock, was opened by means of a key, unique in appearance.
“It is certainly the key which father mislaid six months ago,” she declared. “Grimes found it just after father had a new key made and gave it to me. And yet I can’t get the door open.”
“Let me try.” Barbara crouched down by her sister and inserted the key again in the lock, but her efforts met with no results, and after five minutes’ steady manipulation she gave up the attempt. “I am afraid it is impossible,” she admitted. “Seems to me I have heard that the lost key will not open a safe after a new key has been supplied.”
Helen rose slowly to her feet, stretching her cramped limbs carefully as she did so, and sank down in the nearest chair. Her attitude indicated dejection.
“Then we can’t find the envelope,” she muttered. “Hurry, Babs, and close the outer door; father may return at any moment.”
Barbara obeyed the injunction with such alacrity that the door, concealing the space in the wall where stood the safe, flew to with a bang and the twins jumped nervously.
“Take care!” exclaimed Helen sharply. “Do you wish to arouse the household?”
“No danger of that.” But Barbara glanced apprehensively about the library in spite of her reassuring statement. “The servants are either out or upstairs, and Margaret Brewster is writing letters in our sitting room.”
“Hadn’t you better go upstairs and join her?” Helen suggested. “Do, Babs,” as her sister hesitated. “I cannot feel sure that she will not interrupt us.”
“But my joining her won’t keep Margaret upstairs,” objected Barbara.
“No, but you can call and warn me if she is on her way down, and that will give me time to - to straighten father’s papers,” going over to a large carved table littered with magazines, letters, and silver ornaments. Her sister did not move, and she glanced at her with an irritated air, very foreign to her customary manner. “Go, Barbara.”
The curt command brought a stare from Barbara, but it did not accelerate her halting footsteps; instead she moved with even greater slowness toward the hall door; her active brain tormented with an unspoken and unanswered question. Why was Helen so anxious for her departure? She had accepted her offer of assistance in her search of the library with such marked reluctance that Barbara had marveled at the time, and now…
“Are you quite sure, Helen, that father had the envelope in his pocket this morning?” she asked for the third time since the search began.
“He had an envelope - I caught a glimpse of the red seal,” answered Helen. “Then, just before dinner he was putting some papers in the safe. Oh, if Grimes had only come in a moment sooner to announce dinner, I might have had a chance to look in the safe before father closed the door.”
Whatever reply Barbara intended making was checked by the rattling of the knob of the hall door; it turned slowly, the door opened and, pushing aside the portieres drawn across the entrance, Margaret Brewster glided in. “So glad to find you,” she cooed. “But why have you closed up the room and turned on all the lights?”
“To see better,” retorted Barbara promptly as the widow’s eyes roved around the large room, taking silent note of the drawn curtains and portieres, and the somewhat disarranged furniture. “Come inside, Margaret, and help us in our search.”
“For what?” The widow tried to keep her tone natural, but a certain shrill alertness crept into it and Barbara, who was watching her closely, was quick to detect the change. Helen’s color altered at the question, and she observed the widow’s entrance with veiled hostility.
“For my seal,” Barbara answered. “The one with the big letter ‘B.’ Have you seen it?”
“I? - No.” The widow took a chair uninvited near Helen. “You look tired, Helen dear; why don’t you go to bed?”
“I could not sleep if I did.” Helen passed a nervous finger across her eyes. “But don’t let me keep you and Babs up; it won’t take me long to arrange to-morrow’s market order for Grimes.”
Under pretense of searching for pencil and paper Helen contrived to see the address of every letter lying on the table, but the envelope she sought, with its red seal, was not among them. When she looked up again, pencil and paper in hand, she found Mrs. Brewster leaning lazily back and regarding her from under half-closed lids. “You are very like your father, Helen,” she commented softly.
The girl stiffened. “Am I? Babs and I are generally thought to resemble our mother.”
“In appearance, yes; but I mean mannerisms - for instance, the way of holding your pencil, your handwriting, even, closely resembles your father’s.” Mrs. Brewster pointed to the notes Helen was scribbling on the paper and to an open letter bearing Colonel McIntyre’s signature at the bottom of the sheet lying beside the pad to illustrate her meaning. “These are almost identical.”
“You are a close observer.” Helen completed her memorandum and laid it aside. “What became of
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