The Red Seal by Natalie Sumner Lincoln (ink book reader .TXT) 📖

critics termed her “frivolous conduct”) undivided attention.

“Can I look up the number for you?” the secretary asked as Mrs. Brewster took up the telephone book and fumbled for the gold chain of her lorgnette.

“Oh, thank you,” her smile showed each pretty dimple. “I wish to speak to Mr. Kent, of the firm of Rochester and Kent.”

“Harry Kent?” The young secretary dropped the book without looking at it, and gave a number to the operator, and then handed the instrument to Mrs. Brewster.

“Mr. Kent not in, did you say?” asked the widow. ” Who is speaking? Ah, Mr. Sylvester - has Mr. Rochester returned? - Both partners away” … she paused … “I’ll call later - Mrs. Brewster, good morning.”

Mrs. Brewster hung up the receiver and turned to the secretary.

“I don’t believe I can wait any longer,” she began, and paused, as Benjamin Clymer appeared in the doorway.

“So sorry to be late,” he exclaimed, shaking her hand warmly. “And I am sorry, also, to have called you here on such an errand.”

Mrs. Brewster waited until the young secretary had withdrawn out of earshot before replying; then taking the chair Clymer placed for her near his own, she opened her gold mesh bag and took out a canceled check and laid it on the desk in front of the bank president.

“Your bank honored this check?” she asked Yes.”

“Who presented it?”

Clymer pressed the buzzer and his secretary came at once.

“Ask Mr. McDonald to step here,” and as the man vanished on his errand, he addressed Mrs. Brewster. “How is Colonel McIntyre this morning?”

Mrs. Brewster’s eyes opened at the question. “Quite well,” she replied, and prompted by her curiosity added: “What made you think him ill?”

“I stopped at Dr. Stone’s office on the way down town, and his boy told me the doctor had been sent for by Colonel McIntyre,” Clymer explained. “I hope neither of the twins is ill.”

“No. Colonel McIntyre sent for Dr. Stone to attend Grimes -”

“The butler! Too bad he is ill; Grimes is an institution in the McIntyre household.” Clymer spoke with sincere regret, and Mrs. Brewster eyed him approvingly; she liked good-looking men of his stamp. “Come in, McDonald,” as the bank teller appeared. “You know Mrs. Brewster?”

“Mr. McDonald was one of my first acquaintances in Washington,” and Mrs. Brewster smiled as she held out her hand.

“About this check, McDonald,” Clymer handed it to the teller as he spoke. “Who presented it?”

“Miss McIntyre.”

“Which Miss McIntyre?” Mrs. Brewster put the question with swift intentness.

“I can’t tell one twin from the other,” confessed McDonald. “But, as you see, the check is made payable to Barbara McIntyre.”

“The inference being that Barbara McIntyre presented the check for payment,” commented Clymer, and McDonald bowed. “It would seem, therefore, that Barbara wrote your signature on the check, Mrs. Brewster.”

“No.” The widow had whitened under her rouge, but her eyes did not falter in their direct gaze. “The signature is genuine. I drew the check.”

The two men exchanged glances. The bank president was the first to break the short silence. “In that case there is nothing more to be said,” he remarked, and picking up the check handed it to Mrs. Brewster. Without a glance at it, she folded the paper and placed it inside her gold mesh bag.

“I must not take up any more of your time,” she said. “I thank you - both.”

“Mrs. Brewster.” Clymer spoke impulsively. “I’d like to shake hands with you.”

Coloring warmly, the widow slipped her small hand inside his, and with a friendly bow to McDonald, she walked through the bank, keeping up with Clymer’s long strides as best she could. As they crossed the sidewalk to the waiting limousine they ran almost into the arms of Harry Kent, whose rapid gait did not suit the congested condition of the “Wall Street” of Washington. “I tried to reach you on the telephone this morning,” exclaimed Mrs. Brewster, after greeting him.

“So my clerk informed me when I saw him a few minutes ago.” Kent helped her inside the limousine. “Won’t you come to my office now?”

“But that will be taking you from Mr. Clymer,” remonstrated Mrs. Brewster. “Weren’t you on the way to the bank?”

“I was,” admitted Kent. “But I can see Mr. Clymer later in the day.”

“And I’ll be less occupied then,” added Clymer. ” Go with Mrs. Brewster, Kent; good morning, madam,” and with a courtly bow Clymer withdrew.

Kent’s office was only around the corner, and as Mrs. Brewster kept up a running fire of impersonal gossip, Kent had no opportunity to satisfy his curiosity regarding her reasons for wanting to interview him. As the limousine drew up at the curb in front of his office, a man darting down the steps of the building, caught sight of Kent and hurried to the car window.

“I was just trying to catch you at the bank, Mr. Kent,” he explained, and looking around Kent recognized Sylvester. “There’s been three telephone calls for you in succession from Colonel McIntyre to hurry to his home.”

“Thanks, Sylvester.” Kent turned to Mrs. Brewster. “Would you mind driving me to the McIntyre? We can talk on the way there.”

Mrs. Brewster picked up the speaking tube. “Home, , Harris,” she directed, as the chauffeur listened for the order.

Neither spoke as the big car started up the street but as they swung past old St. John’s Church, Mrs. Brewster broke her silence.

“Mr. Kent,” she drew further back in her corner. “I claim a woman’s privilege - to change my mind. Forget that I ever expressed a wish to consult you professionally, and remember, I am always glad to meet you as a friend.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Brewster, as you wish.” Kent’s tone, expressing polite acquiescence, covered mixed feelings. What had caused the widow to change her mind so suddenly, and above all, what had she wished to consult him about? He faced her more directly. She was charmingly gowned, and in spite of his perplexities, he could not but admire her air of quiet elegance and the soft dark eyes regarding him in friendly good-fellowship. Suddenly realizing that his glance had become a fixed stare, he hastily averted his eyes from her face, catching sight, as he did so, of the gold mesh bag lying in her lap. The glint of sunlight brought into prominence the handsomely engraved letter “B” on its surface. An unexpected swerve of the limousine, as the chauffeur turned short to avoid a speeding army truck, caused both Kent and Mrs. Brewster to sway forward and the gold mesh bag slid to the floor, carrying with it the widow’s handkerchief and gold vanity box. Kent stooped over and picked up the articles as well as the contents of the mesh bag, which had opened in its descent and spilled her money and papers over the floor of the limousine.

“Oh, thank you,” exclaimed Mrs. Brewster, as he handed her the bag, box, and bank notes. “Don’t bother to look for that quarter; Harris will find it at the garage.”

Kent ignored her remark as he again searched the floor of the car; he was glad of the pretext to avoid looking at the widow. He wanted time to collect his thoughts for, in Picking up her belongings, her handkerchief had caught his attention - he had seen its mate in the possession of Detective Ferguson, and clinging to it the broken portions of the capsules of amyl nitrite which Jimmie Turnbull had inhaled just before his mysterious death.

Into Kent’s mind flashed Mrs. Sylvester’s statement that Mrs. Brewster was in the police court at the time of the tragedy, although in her testimony at the inquest she had sworn she had not heard of Jimmie’s death until the return of Helen and Barbara McIntyre. She had been in the police court, and Jimmie had used her handkerchief - a mate to the one she was then holding, the letter “B” with its peculiar twist was unmistakable - and “B” stood for Brewster as well as for Barbara! Kent drew in his breath sharply.

“My handkerchief, please,” the widow held out her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Kent gave it to her.

“Pardon me,” he apologized. “I was struck by the handkerchief’s appearance.”

Mrs. Brewster turned it over. “In what way is the handkerchief unique?” she asked, laughing.

“Because Jimmie Turnbull crushed amyl nitrite capsules in its mate just before he died,” explained Kent quietly. “Detective Ferguson claims that Jimmie unintentionally broke more than one capsule in the handkerchief, was overcome by the powerful fumes and died.”

“But the inquest proved that Jimmie was killed by a dose of aconitine poison,” she reminded him, as she tucked the handkerchief up her sleeve.

Kent did not reply immediately. “A man does not usually carry a woman’s handkerchief about with him,” he commented slowly. “Odd, is it not, that Jimmie should have used a handkerchief of yours in the police court just prior to his death, while you were sitting a few feet away?”

“I?” Mrs. Brewster turned and regarded him steadfastly. She was deadly white under her rouge. “Mr. Kent, are you crazy?”

“Yes, crazy to know why you kept your presence in the police court on Tuesday morning a secret,” replied Kent. In their earnestness neither noticed Kent’s absentminded clutch on a small folded paper which he had picked up from the floor of the limousine. “Mrs. Brewster, why did you laugh when Dr. Stone carried Jimmie Turnbull out of the court room?”

Mrs. Brewster sat still in her corner of the car; so still that Kent, observing her closely, feared that she had fainted. She had dropped her eyes, and her face, set like marble, gave him no key to her thoughts.

The door of the limousine was jerked open almost before the car came to a full stop in front of the McIntyre residence, and Colonel McIntyre offered his hand to help Mrs. Brewster out. On the step she turned to Kent, who had lifted his hat to McIntyre in silent greeting.

“Your forte lies as a romancer rather than a lawyer, Mr. Kent,” she said, and not giving him time for a reply, almost ran inside the house.

“Glad you could get here so soon, Kent,” remarked McIntyre, signing to his chauffeur to drive on before he led the way into the house. “Grimes has worked himself almost into a fever asking for you.”

“Grimes?”

“Yes. Grimes was attacked in our library early this morning by some unknown person, and is in bed with a bad wound on his temple and a tendency to hysteria,” McIntyre explained.

“Come upstairs.”

Kent handed his cane and hat to the footman and followed Colonel McIntyre, who stalked ahead without another word. As they mounted the stairs Kent glanced at the folded paper which he still held, and was surprised to see that it was a check. The signature showed him that he had unintentionally walked off with Mrs. Brewster’s property. His decision to hand it to Colonel McIntyre was checked by the Colonel disappearing inside a bedroom, with a muttered injunction to “wait there,” and Kent stuffed the check inside his vest pocket. It would serve as an excuse to interview Mrs. Brewster again before leaving the house. He was determined to have an answer to the question he had put to her in the limousine. Why had she gone to the police court, and why kept her presence there a secret?

When Colonel McIntyre reappeared in the hall he was accompanied by Detective Ferguson. “Sorry to keep you standing, Kent,” he said. “I have sent for you and Ferguson, first because Grimes insists on seeing you, and second, because I am determined that this midnight housebreaking shall be thoroughly investigated and put an end to. This