scream from the girl on his right. With ashen face and trembling
finger she pointed to Turnbull's body which suddenly confronted her
as she walked forward.

"Who is it?" she gasped. "Babs, tell me!" And she held out her
hand imploringly.

Her sister stepped to her side and bent over Turnbull. When she
looked up her lips alone retained their color.

"Hush!" she implored, giving her sister a slight shake. "Hush!
It is Jimmie Turnbull. Can you not see for yourself, dear?"

It seemed doubtful if Helen heard her; with attention wholly
centered on the dead man she swayed on her feet, and Dr. Stone,
thinking she was about to fall, placed a supporting arm about
her.

"Do you not know Jimmie?" asked her sister. "Don't stare so,
dearest." Her tone was pleading.

"Perhaps the young lady has some difficulty in recognizing Mr.
Turnbull in his disguise," suggested Ferguson, who stood somewhat
in the background but closely observing the scene.

"Disguise!" Helen raised her eyes and Ferguson, hardened as he
had become to tragic scenes, felt a throb of pity as he caught
the pent-up agony in her mute appeal.

"Yes, Miss," he said awkwardly. "The burglar you caught in your