urnbull's sudden and tragic
death?"

"Yes."

"As you know, he was cashier of this bank." Clymer spoke with
deliberation. "Soon after word reached here of his death, the
vice-president and treasurer of the bank had a careful examination made
of his books and accounts." Clymer paused to clear his throat; he was
troubled with an irritating cough. "Turnbull's accounts were found in
first class order."

"I am sure they would be, Mr. Clymer," exclaimed Kent warmly. "Any one
who knew Jimmie would never doubt his honesty."

McIntyre turned in his chair and regarded the speaker with no friendly
eye, but aside from that, took no part in the conversation. Clymer did
not at once resume speaking.

"To-day," he commenced finally, "Colonel McIntyre called at the bank
and asked the treasurer, Mr. Gilmore, for certain valuable negotiable
securities which he left in the bank's care a month ago. Mr. Gilmore
told Colonel McIntyre that these securities had been given to Jimmie
Turnbull last Saturday on his presentation of a letter from McIntyre
requesting that they be turned over to the bank's cashier. McIntyre
expressed his surprise and asked to see the letter "--Clymer paused and
took a paper from his desk. "Here is the letter."

Kent took the paper and examined it closely.

"This is perfectly in order," he said. "A clear statement in Colonel
McIntyre's handwriting and on his stationery."

For the first time Colonel McIntyre addressed him.

"The letter is in order," he acknowledged, "and written on my
stationery, but it was not written by me. The letter is a clever
forgery."

CHAPTER V. THE VANISHING MAN

It still lacked twenty minutes of nine o'clock that night when Harry
Kent turned into the Saratoga apartment hotel, and not waiting to take
one of the elevators, ran up the staircase to the apartment which had
been occupied jointly by Jimmie Turnbull and Philip Rochester. Kent
had already selected the right key from among those on the bunch he
had found in Rochester's desk at the office, and slipping it into the
key-hole of the outer door, he turned the lock and walked noiselessly
inside the dark apartment.

The soft click of the outer door as it swung to was hardly noticeable,
and Kent, pausing only long enough to get his breath from his run up
the staircase, stepped into the living room and reached for the electric
light switch. Instead of encountering the cold metal of the switch his
groping fingers closed over wa