THE RED SEAL(红印)

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THE RED SEAL

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

THE RED SEAL

CHAPTER I

IN THE POLICE COURT

Te Assistant District Attorney glanced down at the papers in his hand

and then up at the well-dressed, stockily built man occupying the witness

stand. His manner was conciliatory.

"According to your testimony, Mr. Clymer, the prisoner, John

Sylvester, was honest and reliable, and faithfully performed his duties as

confidential clerk," he stated. "Just when was Sylvester in your

employ?"

"Sylvester was never in my employ," corrected Benjamin Augustus

Clymer. The president of the Metropolis Trust Company was noted for

his precision of speech. "During the winter of 1918 I shared an

apartment with Judge James Hildebrand, who employed Sylvester."

"Was Sylvester addicted to drink?" "No."

"Was he quarrelsome?"

"No."

"Was Sylvester married at that date?"

At the question a faint smile touched the corners of Clymer's clean

shaven mouth and his eyes traveled involuntarily toward the over-dressed

female whose charge of assault and battery against her husband had

brought Clymer to the police court as a "character" witness in Sylvester's

behalf.

"Sylvester left Judge Hildebrand to get married," he explained. "He

was a model clerk; honest, sober, and industrious."

"That is all, Mr. Clymer." The Assistant District Attorney spoke in

some haste. "You may retire, sir," and, as Clymer turned to vacate the

witness box, he addressed the presiding judge.

Clymer did not catch his remarks as, on stepping down, he was button-

holed by a man whose entrance had occurred a few minutes before

through the swing door which gave exit from the space reserved for

witnesses and lawyers into the body of the court room.

"Sit over here a second," the newcomer said in an undertone,

indicating the long bench under the window. "Has Miss McIntyre been

THE RED SEAL

here?"

"Miss McIntyre - here?" Clymer stared in amazement at his questioner.

"No, certainly not."

"Don't be so positive," retorted the lawyer heatedly, his color rising at

the other's incredulous tone. "Helen McIntyre telephoned me to meet her,

and - by Jove, here she comes," as a slight stir at the back of the court

room caused him to glance in that direction.

A gray-haired patrolman, cap in hand, was in the lead of the small

procession which filed up the aisle, and Clymer gazed in astonishment at

Helen McIntyre and her twin sister, Barbara. What had brought them at

that hour to the police court?

The court room was filled with men, both white and black, while a

dozen or more slatternly negro women were seated here and there. The

Assistant District Attorney's plea for a postponement of the Sylvester case

on the ground of the absence of an important witness and the granting of

his plea was entirely lost on the majority of those in the court room, their

attention being wholly centered on Helen McIntyre and Barbara, whose

bearing and clothes spoke of a fashionable and prosperous world to which

nearly all present were utterly foreign.

Barbara, sensitive to the concentrated regard which their entrance had

attracted, drew closer to Dr. Amos Stone, their family physician, who had

accompanied them at her particular request. Except for Mrs. Sylvester,

she and her sister were the only white women in the room.

Before they could take the seats to which they had been ushered, the

clerk's stentorian tones sent the girls' names echoing down the court room

and Barbara, much perturbed, found herself standing with Helen before

the clerk's desk. There was a moment's wait and the deputy marshal,

who had motioned to one of the prisoners sitting in the "cage" to step

outside, emphasized his order with a muttered imprecation to hurry. A

slouching figure finally shambled past him and stopped some little

distance from the group in front of the Judge's bench.

"House-breaking," announced the clerk. "Charge brought by -" He

looked up at the two girls.

"Miss Helen McIntyre," answered one of the twins composedly.

THE RED SEAL

"Daughter of Colonel Charles McIntyre of this city."

"Charge brought by Miss Helen McIntyre," continued the clerk,

"against -" and his pointed finger indicated the seedy looking man

slouching before them.

"Smith," said the latter, and his husky voice was barely audible.

"Smith," repeated the clerk. "First name -?"

"John," was the answer, given after a slight pause.

"John Smith, you are charged by Miss Helen McIntyre with house-

breaking. What say you - guilty or not guilty?"

The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other and shot an

uneasy look about him.

"Not guilty," he responded.

At that instant Helen caught sight of Benjamin Clymer and his

companion, Philip Rochester, and her pale cheeks flushed faintly at the

lawyer's approach. He had time but for a hasty handshake before the

clerk administered the oath to the prisoner and the witnesses in the case.

Rochester walked back and resumed his seat by Clymer. Propping

himself in the corner made by the bench and the cage, inside of which sat

the prisoners, he opened his right hand and unfolded a small paper. He

read the brief penciled message it contained not once but a dozen times.

Folding the paper into minute dimensions he tucked it carefully inside his

vest pocket and glanced sideways at Clymer. The banker hardly noticed

his uneasy movements as he sat regarding Helen McIntyre standing in the

witness box. Although paler than usual, the girl's manner was quiet, but

Clymer, a close student of human nature, decided she was keeping her

composure by will power alone, and his interest grew.

The Judge, from the Bench, was also regarding the handsome witness

and the burglar with close attention. Colonel Charles McIntyre, a

wealthy manufacturer, had, upon his retirement from active business,

made the National Capital his home, and his name had become a

household word for philanthropy, while his twin daughters were both

popular in Washington's gay younger set. Several reporters of local

papers, attracted by the mention of the McIntyre name, as well as by the

twins' appearance, watched the scene with keen expectancy, eager for

THE RED SEAL

early morning "copy."

As the Assistant District Attorney rose to question Helen McIntyre, the

Judge addressed him.

"Is the prisoner represented by counsel?" he asked.

For reply the burglar shook his head. Rising slowly to his feet, Philip

Rochester advanced to the man's side.

"If it please the court," he began, "I will take the case for the prisoner."

His offer received a quick acceptance from the Bench, but the scowl

with which the burglar favored him was not pleasant. Hitching at his

frayed flannel collar, the man partly turned his back on the lawyer and

listened with a heavy frown to Helen's quick answers to the questions put

to her.

"While waiting for my sister to return from a dance early this

morning," she stated, "I went downstairs into the library, and as I entered it

I saw a man slip across the room and into a coat closet. I retained

enough presence of mind to steal across to the closet and turn the key in

the door; then I ran to the window and fortunately saw Officer O'Ryan

standing under the arc light across the street. I called him and he arrested

the prisoner."

Her simple statement evoked a nod of approval from the Assistant

District Attorney, and Rochester frowned as he waived his right to cross-

examine her. The next witness was Officer O'Ryan, and his testimony

confirmed Helen's.

"The prisoner was standing back among the coats in the closet," he

said. "My automatic against his ribs brought him out."

"Did you search your prisoner?" asked Rochester, as he took the

witness.

"Yes, sir.

"Find any concealed weapons?"

"No, sir."

"A burglar's kit?"

"No, sir."

"Did the prisoner make a statement after his arrest?"

"No, sir; he came along peaceably enough, hardly a word out of him,"

THE RED SEAL

acknowledged O'Ryan regretfully. He enjoyed a reputation on the force

as a "scrapper," and a willing prisoner was a disappointment to his

naturally pugnacious disposition.

"Did you search the house?"

"Sure, and haven't I been telling you I did?" answered O'Ryan; his

pride in his achievement in arresting a burglar in so fashionable a

neighborhood as Sheridan Circle was giving place to resentment at

Rochester's manner of addressing him. At a sign from the lawyer, he left

the witness stand, and Rochester addressed the Judge.

"I ask the indulgence of the court for more time," he commenced, "that

I may consult my client and find if he desires to call witnesses."

"The court finds," responded the Judge, "that a clear case of house-

breaking has been proven against the prisoner by reputable witnesses.

He will have to stand trial."

For the first time the prisoner raised his eyes from contemplation of

the floor.

"I demand trial by jury," he announced.

"It is your right," acknowledged the Judge, and turned to consult his

calendar.

Stepping forward, the deputy marshal laid his hand on the burglar's

shoulder.

"Go inside," he directed and held open the cage door, which

immediately swung back into place, and Rochester, following closely at

the prisoner's heels, halted abruptly. A fit of coughing shook the burglar

and he paused by the iron railing, gasping for breath.

"Water," he pleaded, and a court attendant handed a cup to Rochester,

standing just outside the cage, and he passed it over the iron railing to the

burglar. Then turning on his heel the lawyer rejoined Clymer, his

discontent plainly discernible.

"A clear case against your client," remarked Clymer, reading his

thoughts. "Don't take the affair to heart, man; you did your best under

difficulties."

Rochester shook his head gloomily. "I might have - Jove! why

didn't I ask for bail?"

THE RED SEAL

"Bail!" The banker suppressed a chuckle as he eyed the threadbare

suit and tattered appearance of the burglar, who had resumed his seat in

the prisoner's cage. "Who would have stood surety for that scarecrow?"

"I would have." Rochester spoke with some vehemence, but his

words were partly drowned by the violent fit of coughing which again

shook the burglar, and before he could finish his sentence, Helen McIntyre

stood at his elbow. She bowed gravely to Clymer who rose at her

approach, and laid a persuasive hand on Rochester's sleeve.

"Will you come with us?" she asked. "Barbara and Dr. Stone are

ready to leave. The doctor wishes to -" As she spoke she looked across

at Stone, who stood opposite her in the little group. He failed to catch

both her word and her eye, his gaze, passing over her shoulder, was

riveted on the burglar.

"Something is wrong," he announced and pushed past Barbara. "Let

me inside the cage," he directed as the deputy marshal kept the gate closed

at his approach. "Your prisoner appears ill."

One glance at the burglar proved the truth of the physician's statement

and the gate was hastily opened. Stone bent over the man, whose

spasmodic breathing could be heard distinctly through the court room,

then his gaze shifted to the other occupants of the cage.

"The man must have air," he declared. "Your aid here." Looking up

his eyes met Clymer's, and the latter came swiftly into the cage, followed

by Rochester, and the deputy marshal slammed the door shut behind them.

"Step out this way," he said, as Clymer aided the physician in lifting

the burglar, and he led them into the ante-room whence prisoners were

taken into the cage.

Stretching his burden on the floor, Stone tore open the man's shirt and

felt his heart, while Clymer, spying a water cooler, sped across the room

and returned immediately with a brimming glass.

"Here's water," he said, but Stone refused the proffered glass.

"No use," he announced. "The man is dead."

"Dead!" echoed the deputy marshal. "Well, I'll be - say, doctor," but

Stone had darted out of the room, and he turned open-mouthed to Clymer.

"If it wasn't Doctor Stone I would say he was crazy," he declared.

THE RED SEAL

"Tut! Feel the man's heart and convince yourself," suggested Clymer

tartly, and the deputy marshal, dropping on one knee, did so. Detecting no

heart-beat, the officer passed his hand over the dead man's unshaven chin

and across his forehead, brushing back the unkempt hair. Under his none

too gentle touch the wig slipped back, revealing to his astonished gaze a

head of short cropped, red hair.

Clymer, who had followed the deputy marshal's movements with

interest, gave a shout which was echoed by Rochester and Dr. Stone, who

returned at that moment.

"Good God!" gasped Clymer, shaken out of his accustomed calm.

"Jimmie Turnbull!"

The deputy marshal eyed the startled men.

"You don't mean -" he stammered, and paused.

For answer Dr. Stone straightened the dead man and removed the wig.

"James Turnbull," he said gravely, and turning, addressed Rochester,

who had dropped down on the nearest chair. "Cashier of the Metropolis

Trust Company, Rochester, and your roommate, masquerading as a

burglar."

THE RED SEAL

CHAPTER II

THE GAME OF CONSEQUENCES

R 0 Chester did not appear to hear Dr. Stone's words. With eyes half

starting from their sockets he sat staring at the dead man, completely

oblivious of the others' presence. After watching him for a moment the

physician turned briskly to the dazed deputy marshal.

"Summon the coroner," he directed. "We cannot move the body until

he comes."

His curt tone brought the official's wits back with a jump and he made

for the exit, only to be stopped at the threshold by a sandy-haired man just

entering the room.

At the word coroner, Rochester raised himself from his bent attitude

and brushed his hand across his eyes.

"No need for a coroner to diagnose the case," he objected. "Poor

Turnbull always said he would go off like that."

Stone moved nearer. "Like that?" he questioned, pointing to the still

figure. "Explain yourself, Rochester. Did Turnbull expect to die here in

this manner?"

"No - no - certainly not." The lawyer moistened his dry lips. "But

when a man has angina pectoris he knows the end may come at any

moment and in any place. Turnbull made no secret of suffering from that

disease." Rochester turned toward Clymer. "You knew it."

Benjamin Clymer, who had been gazing alternately at the dead man

and vaguely about the room, looked startled at the abrupt question.

"I knew Turnbull had bad attacks of the heart; we all knew it at the

bank," he stated. "But I understood the disease had responded to

treatment."

"There is no cure for angina pectoris," declared Rochester. "No

permanent cure," amended Stone, and would have added more, but

Rochester stopped him.

"Now that you know Turnbull died of angina pectoris there is no

necessity of sending for the coroner," Rochester spoke in haste, his words

tumbling over each other. "I will go at once and communicate with an

THE RED SEAL

undertaker." But before he could rise from his chair the sandy-haired

man, who had conducted a whispered conversation with the deputy

marshal, advanced toward the group.

"Just a moment, gentlemen," he said, and turned back a lapel of his

coat and displayed a metal badge. "I am Ferguson of the Central Office.

Do you know the deceased?"

"He was my intimate friend," announced Rochester before his

companions could reply to the detective's question, which was addressed

to all. "Mr. Clymer, here, can tell you that Jimmie Turnbull, cashier of

his bank, was well known in financial and social Washington."

"How came he here in this fix?" asked Ferguson with more force than

grammatic clarity.

"A sudden heart attack - angina pectoris, you know," replied Rochester

glibly, "with fatal results."

"I wasn't alluding to what killed him," Ferguson explained. "But why

was the cashier of the Metropolis Trust Company," he looked

questioningly at Clymer whom he knew quite well by sight, "and a social

high-light, decked out in these clothes and a wig, too?" leaning down, the

better to examine the clothing on the dead man.

"He had just been held for the Grand Jury on a charge of house-

breaking," volunteered the deputy marshal. "I reckon that brought on his

heart-attack."

"True, true," agreed Rochester. "The excitement was too much for

him."

"House-breaking" ejaculated the detective. "Dangerous sport for a

man suffering with angina pectoris, aside from anything else. Who

preferred charges?"

"The Misses McIntyre," answered the deputy marshal, to whom the

question was addressed. "Like to interview them?"

"Yes."

"No, no!" Rochester was on his feet instantly. "There is no

necessity to bring the twins out here - it's too tragic!"

"Tragic?" echoed Ferguson. "Why?"

"Why - why - Turnbull was arrested in their house," Rochester was

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