matter, Miss McIntyre?" as Barbara pushed back her chair.

"I feel a little faint," she stammered. "The air here is--is stifling.
If you don't mind, father, I'll take the car and drive home."

"I'll come with you," announced Mrs. Brewster, rising hurriedly; and
as she turned solicitously to aid Barbara she caught Colonel McIntyre's
admiring glance and his whispered thanks.

Outside the caf Clymer discovered that the McIntyre limousine was not
to be found, and, cautioning Barbara and the widow to remain where they
were, he went back into the caf in search of Colonel McIntyre, who had
stayed behind to pay his bill.

A sudden exodus from the caf as other diners came out to get their cars,
separated Barbara from Mrs. Brewster just as the former caught sight of
her father's limousine coming around McPherson Square. Not waiting to
see what had become of her companion, Barbara started up the sidewalk
intent on catching their chauffeur's attention. As she stood by the
curb, a figure brushed by her and a paper was deftly slipped inside her
hand.

Barbara wheeled about abruptly. She stood alone, except for several
elaborately dressed women and their companions some yards away who
were indulging in noisy talk as they hurried along. At that moment the
McIntyre limousine stopped at the curb and the chauffeur opened the
door.

"Take me home, Harris," she ordered. "And then come back for Mrs.
Brewster and father. I don't feel well--hurry."

"Very good, miss," and touching his cap the chauffeur swung his car up
Fifteenth Street.

The limousine had turned into Massachusetts Avenue before Barbara
switched on the electric lamp in the car and opened the note so
mysteriously given to her. She read feverishly the few lines it
contained,

Dear Helen:
The coroner will call an inquest. Secrete letter "B."

The note was unsigned but it was in the handwriting of Philip Rochester.

CHAPTER VII. THE RED SEAL

The gloomy morning, with leaden skies and intermittent rain, reflected
Harry Kent's state of mind. He could not fix his attention on the
business letters which Sylvester placed before him; instead, his
thoughts reverted to the scene in Rochester's and Turnbull's apartment
the night before, the elusive visitor he had found there on his arrival,
his interview with Detective Ferguson, and above all the handkerchief,
saturated with amyl nitrite, and bearing the small embroidered
letter "B"--the initial, insignificant in si