g to lay all my cards
on the table," he announced. "I need advice and you are the man to
give it to me. Listen, Mr. Kent, this Jimmie Turnbull masquerades as a
burglar night before last at the McIntyre house, is arrested, a charge
brought against him for house-breaking by Miss Helen McIntyre, and
shortly after he dies--"

"From angina pectoris," finished Kent, as the detective paused.

"So Mr. Rochester contended," admitted Ferguson. "We'll let that go for
a minute. Now, when Miss McIntyre saw Turnbull's body, she demanded an
autopsy. Why?"

"To discover the cause of death," answered Kent quietly. "That is
obvious, Ferguson."

"Sure. And why did she wish to discover it?" He waited a brief instant,
then answered his own question. "Because Miss McIntyre did not agree
with Rochester that Turnbull had died from angina pectoris--that is
obvious, too. Now, what made her think that?"

"I am sure I don't know"--Kent's air of candor was unmistakable and
Ferguson showed his disappointment.

"Hasn't Miss McIntyre been to see you?"

"No," was Kent's truthful answer; Barbara was the younger twin and her
sister was therefore, "Miss McIntyre."

"You must recollect, Ferguson," he added, "that had Miss McIntyre called
to see me about poor Turnbull, I would not have discussed the interview
with any one, under any conditions."

"Certainly. I am not asking you to break any confidences; in fact,"
Ferguson smiled, "I must ask you to consider our conversation
confidential. Now, Mr. Kent, does it not strike you as odd that
apparently the only man in Washington who really disliked Turnbull was
Colonel McIntyre, and it is his daughter who intimates that Turnbull's
death was not due to natural causes?"

"Oh, pshaw!" Kent shrugged his shoulders. "You are taking an exaggerated
view of the affair. Colonel McIntyre is an honorable upright American,
and Turnbull was the same."

"People speak highly of both men," acknowledged the detective. "I saw Mr.
Clymer, president of Turnbull's bank this afternoon, and he paid a fine
tribute to his dead cashier."

Kent drew an inward sigh of relief. Benjamin Clymer had proved true
blue; he had not permitted Colonel McIntyre's desire for immediate
publicity and belief in Turnbull's guilt to shake his faith in his
friend.

"You see, Ferguson, there is no motive for such a crime as you suggest,"
he remarked.

"Oh, for the motive,"--Ferguson rubbed his hands nervously together as
he shot a look at