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-turned in his recent tussle, after which he tried the
drawers of Jimmie's desk. They were unlocked. A careful search
brought nothing to light but receipted bills, some loose change, old
dinner cards, theater programs, tea invitations, and several packages
of cigarettes.

Turning from the desk Kent walked over to the table which he knew
was Philip Rochester's property; he recalled having once seen Jimmie
place some papers there by mistake; having done so once, the mistake
might have occurred again. Taking out his partner's bunch of keys,
he soon found one that fitted and opened the drawers. He had half