oom was locked on the inside; in
fact, all the apartment windows were securely fastened, he had found on
his tour of inspection; the only one not locked was the oval, swinging
window high up in the side wall of the bathroom; only a child could
squeeze through it, Kent decided. The window looked into a well formed
by the wings of the apartment house, and had a sheer drop of fifty feet
to the ground below.

But for his unfortunate luck in backing the man against the bedroom
door instead of the wall he would not have escaped, but how had the man
realized so instantly that he was against a door in the pitch darkness?
It certainly showed familiarity with his surroundings. Kent sat upright
as an idea flashed through his brain--was the man Philip Rochester?

Kent scouted the idea but it persisted. Suppose it had been Philip
Rochester awakened from a drunken slumber by his entrance in the dark;
if so, nothing more likely than that he had mistaken him, Kent, for a
burglar and sprung at him. But why had he disappeared without revealing
his identity to Kent? Surely the same reason worked both ways--the man
who had wrestled with him was as unaware of Kent's identity as Kent was
of his--they had fought in the dark and in silence.

Kent laughed aloud. The situation had its amusing side; then, as
recollection came of the scene in the bank that morning, his mirth
changed to grim seriousness. At his earnest solicitation and backed by
Benjamin Clymer's endorsement of his plan, Colonel McIntyre had agreed
to give him until Saturday night to locate the missing securities; if he
failed, then the colonel proposed placing the affair in the hands of the
authorities.

Kent's firm mouth settled into dogged lines at the thought; such a
procedure meant besmirching Jimmie Turnbull's name; let the public get
the slightest inkling that the bank cashier was suspected of forgery
and there would be the devil to pay. Kent was determined to protect the
honor of his dead friend, and to aid Helen McIntyre in her investigation
of his sudden death.

Jimmie Turnbull had been the soul of honor; that he had ever stooped
to forgery was unbelievable. There was some explanation favorable to
him--there must be. Kent's clenched fist struck the arm of his, chair
a vigorous blow and he leapt to his feet. Wasting no further time
on speculation, he commenced a systematic search of the apartment,
replacing each chair and table as well as the rugs which had been
over