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

CHAPTER IV BARBARA ENGAGES COUNSEL

Bidding a hasty good morning to the elevator girl, Harry Kent, suit-case in hand, entered the cage and was carried up to the fourth floor of the Wilkins Building. Several business acquaintances stopped to chat with him as he walked down the corridor to his office, and it was fully fifteen minutes before he turned the knob of the door bearing the firm name - ROCHESTER AND KENT, ATTORNEYS - on its glass panel. As he stepped inside the anteroom which separated the two offices occupied respectively by him and his senior partner, Philip Rochester, a stranger rose from the clerk’s desk.

“Yes, sir?” he asked interrogatively.

Kent eyed him in surprise. “Mr. Rochester here? ” he inquired.

“No, sir. It am in charge of the office.”

“You are!” Kent’s surprise increased. “I happen to be Mr. Kent, junior partner in this firm.”

“I beg your pardon, sir.” The dapper clerk bowed and hurrying to his desk took up a letter. “Mr. Rochester left this for you, Mr. Kent, before his departure last night.”

“His departure!” Kent deposited his suit-case on one of the chairs and tore open the envelope. The note was a scrawl, which he had some difficulty in deciphering.

“Dear Kent,” it ran. “Am called out of town; will be back Saturday. Saunders gave me some of his cheek this afternoon, so I fired him. I engaged John Sylvester to fill his place, who comes highly recommended. He will report for work to-morrow. Ta-ta - PHIL.”

 

Kent thrust the note into his pocket and picked up his suit-case.

“Mr. Rochester states that he has engaged you,” he said. “Your references -?”

“Here, sir.” The clerk handed him a folded paper, and Kent ran his eyes down the sheet from the sentence: “To whom it may concern” to the signature, Clark Hildebrand. The statement spoke in high terms of John Sylvester, confidential clerk.

“I can refer you to my other employers, Mr. Kent,” Sylvester volunteered as the young lawyer stood regarding the paper. “If you, desire further information there is Mr. Clymer and -”

“No, Judge Hildebrand’S recommendation is sufficient.” And at Kent’s smile the clerk’s anxious expression vanished. “Did Mr. Rochester give you any outline of the work?”

“Yes, sir; he told me to file the papers in the Hitchcock case, and attend to the morning correspondence.”

“Very good. Has any one called this morning?”

“No, sir. These letters were addressed to you personally, and I have not opened them,” Sylvester handed a neatly arranged package to Kent. “These,” indicating several letters lying open on his desk, “are to the firm.”

“Bring them to me in half an hour,” and Kent walked into his private office, carefully closing the door behind him. Opening his suit-case he took out his brief bag and laid it on the desk in front of him together with the package of letters. Instead of opening the letters immediately, he tilted back in his chair and regarded the opposite wall in deep thought. Philip Rochester could not have selected a worse time to absent himself; three important cases were on the calendar for immediate trial and much depended on the firm’s successful handling of them. Kent swore softly under his breath; his last warning to Rochester, that he would dissolve their partnership if the older man continued to neglect his practice, had been given only a month before and upon Kent’s return from eight months’ service in the Judge Advocate General’s Department in France. Apparently his warning had fallen on deaf ears and Rochester was indulging in another periodic spree, for so Kent concluded, recalling the unsteady penmanship of the note handed to him by the new clerk, John Sylvester.

Kent was still frowning at the opposite wall when a faint knock sounded, and at his call Sylvester entered.

“Here are the letters received this morning, sir, and typewritten copies of the answers to yesterday’s correspondence which Mr. Rochester dictated before leaving,” Sylvester explained as he placed the papers on Kent’s desk. “If you will o.k. them, I will mail them at once.”

Kent went through the letters with care, and the new clerk rose in his estimation as he read the excellent dictation of the clearly typed answers.

“These will do admirably,” he announced. “Sit down and I will reply to the other letters.”

At the end of an hour Sylvester closed his stenographic note book and collected the correspondence, by that time scattered over Kent’s desk.

“I’ll have these notes ready for your signature before lunch,” he said as he picked up a newspaper from the floor where it had tumbled during Kent’s search for some particu1ar letter heads. “I brought in the morning paper, sir; thought perhaps you had not seen it.”

“Thanks.” Kent swung his chair nearer the window and opened the newspaper. He had purchased a copy when walking through Union Station on his arrival, but had left it in the cafeteria where he had snatched a cup of coffee and hot rolls before hurrying to his office.

He read a column devoted to international affairs, scanned an account of a senatorial wrangle, and was about to turn to the second page, whistling cheerily, when his attention was arrested by the headings:

BANK CASHIER DIES IN POLICE COURT JAMES TURNBULL, MISTAKEN FOR BURGLAR, SUFFERS FATAL ATTACK OF ANGINA PECTORIS

Kent’s whistle stopped abruptly, and clutching the paper in both hands, he devoured the short account printed under the scare heads:

“While masquerading as a burglar on a wager, James Turnbull, cashier of the Metropolis Trust Company, was arrested by Officer O’Ryan at an early hour yesterday morning in the residence of Colonel Charles McIntyre.

“Officer O’Ryan conducted his prisoner to the 8th Precinct Police Station, and later he was arraigned in the police court. The Misses McIntyre appeared in person to prefer the charges against the supposed burglar, who, on being sworn, gave the name of John Smith.

“Philip Rochester, the well known criminal lawyer, was assigned by the court to defend the prisoner. Upon the evidence submitted Judge Mackall held the prisoner for trial by the grand jury.

“It was just after the Judge’s announcement that ‘John Smith,’ then sitting in the prisoners cage, was seized with the attack of angina pectoris which ended so fatally a few minutes later. It was not until after he had expired that those rendering him medical assistance became aware that he was James Turnbull in disguise.

“James Turnbull was a native of Washington, his father, the late Hon Josiah Turnbull of Connecticut, having made this city his permanent home in the early ’90s. Mr. Turnbull was looked upon as one of the rising young men in banking circles; he was also prominent socially, was a member of the Alibi, Metropolitan, and Country Clubs, and until recently was active in all forms of athletics, when his ill-health precluded active exercise.

“Officer O’Ryan, who was greatly shocked by the fatal termination to Mr. Turnbull’s rash wager, stated to the representatives of the press that Mr. Turnbull gave no hint of his identity while being interrogated at the 8th Precinct Station. Friends attribute Mr. Turnbull’s disinclination to reveal himself to the court, to his enjoyment of a practical joke, not realizing that the resultant excitement of the scene would react on his weak heart.

“Mr. Turnbull is survived by a great aunt; he had no nearer relatives living. It is a singular coincidence that the lawyer appointed by the court to defend Turnbull was his intimate friend, Philip Rochester, who made his home with the deceased.”

Kent read the column over and over, then, letting the paper slip to the floor, sat back in his chair, too dumbfounded for words. Jimmie Turnbull arrested as a burglar in the home of the girl he loved on charges preferred by her, and defended in court by his intimate friend, both of whom were unaware of his identity! Kent rumpled his fair hair until it stood upright. And Jimmie’s death had followed almost immediately as the result of over-excitement!

Kent’s eyes grew moist; he had been very fond of the eccentric, lovable bank cashier, whose knack of performing many a kindly act, unsolicited, had endeared him to friends and acquaintances alike. Kent had seen much of him after his return from France, for Jimmie’s attention to Helen McIntyre had been only second to Kent’s devotion to the latter’s sister, Barbara. The two men had one bond in common. Colonel McIntyre disliked them and discouraged their calling, to the secret fury of both, but love had found a way - Kent’s eyes kindled at the recollection of Barbara’s half-shy, wholly tender reception of his ardent pleading.

Turnbull’s courtship had met with a set-back where he had least expected it - Philip Rochester had fallen deeply in love with Helen and, encouraged by her father, had pressed his suit with ardor. Frequent quarrels between the two close friends had been the outcome, and Jimmie had confided to Kent, before the latter left on the business trip to Chicago from which he had returned that morning, that the situation had become intolerable and he had notified Rochester that he would no longer share his apartment with him, and to look for other quarters as quickly as possible.

So buried was Kent in his thoughts that he never heard Sylvester’s knock, and it was not until the clerk stood at his elbow that he awoke from his absorption.

“A lady to see you, Mr. Kent,” he announced. “Shall I show her in?”

“Certainly - her name?”

“She gave none.” Sylvester paused on his way back to the door. “It is one of the Misses McIntyre.”

“Good Lord!” Kent was on his feet, straightening his tie and brushing his rumpled hair. “Here, wait a minute “- clutching a whisk broom in a frantic endeavor to remove some of the signs of travel which still clung to him. But he had only opportunity for one dab at his left shoulder before Barbara entered the office. All else forgotten, Kent tossed down the whisk broom and the next instant he had clasped her hand in both of his, his eyes telling more eloquently than his stumbling words, his joy at seeing her again.

“This is a business call,” she stated demurely, on you and Mr. Rochester.” Her lovely eyes held a glint of mischief as she mentioned Kent’s partner, then her expression grew serious. “I want legal advice.”

“I am afraid you will have to put up with me,” Kent moved his chair closer to the one she had selected by the desk. “Rochester is out of town.”

“What!” Barbara sat bolt upright. “Where - where’s he gone?”

“I don’t know “- Kent pulled Rochester’s letter out of his pocket and re-read it. “He did not mention where he was going.”

Barbara stared at him; she had paled.

“When did Philip leave?”

“Last night, I presume.” Kent tipped back his chair and pressed a buzzer; a second later Sylvester appeared in the doorway.

“Did Mr. Rochester tell you where he was going?” he asked the clerk.

“No, sir. Mr. Rochester stated that you had his address.

“I?” Kent concealed his growing surprise. “Did he leave any message for me, other than the letter?”

“No, sir.

“At what hour did he leave the office?”

“I can’t say, sir; he was still here when I went away at five o’clock. He gave me a key to the office so that I could get in this morning.” Kent remained silent, and he added, “Is that all, sir?”

“Yes, thanks,” and the clerk retired.

As the door closed Barbara turned to Kent. “Have you heard about Jimmie Turnbull?”

Her voice was a bit breathless