"No permanent cure," amended Stone, and would have added more, but
Rochester stopped him.

"Now that you know Turnbull died of angina pectoris there is no
necessity of sending for the coroner," Rochester spoke in haste, his
words tumbling over each other. "I will go at once and communicate
with an undertaker." But before he could rise from his chair the
sandy-haired man, who had conducted a whispered conversation with
the deputy marshal, advanced toward the group.

"Just a moment, gentlemen," he said, and turned back a lapel of his
coat and displayed a metal badge. "I am Ferguson of the Central
Office. Do you know the deceased?"

"He was my intimate friend," announced Rochester before his
companions could reply to the detective's question, which was
addressed to all. "Mr. Clymer, here, can tell you that Jimmie
Turnbull, cashier of his bank, was well known in financial and
social Washington."

"How came he here in this fix?" asked Ferguson with more force than
grammatic clarity.

"A sudden heart attack - angina pectoris, you know," replied
Rochester glibly, "with fatal results."

"I wasn't alluding to what killed him," Ferguson explained. "But
why was the cashier of the Metropolis Trust Company," he looked
questioningly at Clymer whom he knew quite well by sight, "and a