There was silence while the waiter with deft fingers arranged the coffee
and cigars on a wicker table; then receiving Clymer's generous tip with
a word of thanks, the man departed.

Kent wheeled his chair around so as to face his companion and still have
a side view of the dining room, where tables were being rapidly removed
for the dance which followed dinners on Thursday nights. Clymer selected
a cigar with care and, leaning back in his chair until the wicker
creaked under his weight, he waited patiently for Kent to speak. It was
fully five minutes before Kent addressed him.

"So James Turnbull was poisoned after all," he commented. "A week ago I
would have sworn that Jimmie hadn't an enemy in the world."

"Ah, but he had; and a very bitter vindictive enemy, if the evidence
given at the coroner's inquest this afternoon is to be believed,"
replied Clymer seriously. "The case is remarkably puzzling."

"It is." Kent bit savagely at his cigar as a slight vent to his
feelings. "'Killed by a dose of aconitine by a person or persons
unknown,' was the jury's verdict, and a nice tangle they have left me to
ferret out.''

"You?"

"Yes. I'm going to solve this mystery if it is a possible thing." Kent's
tone was grim. "And Colonel McIntyre only gave me until Saturday night
to work in."

Clymer eyed him in surprise. "McIntyre desires to get back his lost
securities; judging from his comments after the inquest, he is not
particularly interested in who killed Turnbull."

"But I am," exclaimed Kent. "The more I think of it, the more convinced
I am that the forged letter, with the subsequent disappearance of
McIntyre's securities has some connection with Jimmie's untimely death,
be it murder or suicide."

"Suicide?" Clymer's raised eyebrows indicated his surprise.

"Yes," shortly. "Aconitine would have killed just as surely if swallowed
with suicidal intent as if administered with murderous design."

A pause followed which neither man seemed anxious to break, then Kent
turned to the banker, and the latter noticed the haggard lines in his
face.

"Listen to me, Mr. Clymer," he began. "My instinct tells me that Jimmie
Turnbull never forged that letter or stole McIntyre's securities, but I
admit that everything points to his guilt, even his death."

"How so?"

"Because the theft of the securities supplies a motive for his
suicide--fear of exposure and imprisonment," argued Kent. "But there is
no motive, so far as I can