of the praise went to your partner, Mr. Rochester, but I know you
did the work. Now, please let me finish," holding up a protesting
hand. "I know you've carried Mr. Rochester in your firm; he's dead
wood." Kent was silent. What the detective said was only too true.
Rochester, realizing the talent and industry which characterized
his younger partner, had withdrawn more and more from active
practice, and had devoted himself to the social life of the National
Capital.

"This is rather a long-winded way of reaching my point," finished
the detective. "But, Mr. Kent, I want your assistance in a puzzling
case."

"Go on, I'm listening." As he spoke, Kent drew out his cigar case
and handed it to Ferguson. "The matches are on the smoking stand
at your elbow. Now, what is it, Ferguson?"

His companion did not reply at once; instead he puffed at his cigar.

"Did you read in the paper about Mr. Turnbull's death?" he asked
when the cigar was drawing to his satisfaction, and as Kent nodded
a silent affirmative in answer to his question, he asked another.
"Did you know him well?"

"Yes."

"Did he have an enemy?"

"Not to my knowledge." Kent was watching the detective narrowly;
what was he driving at? "On the contrary Turnbull was extremely