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 size, but fraught with dire possibilities if, as Ferguson hinted,
Turnbull had been put to death by an over-dose of the drug. "B "
- Barbara; Barbara - "B" - his mind rang the changes; pshaw! other
names than Barbara began with "B."

"Shall I transcribe your notes, Mr. Kent?" asked Sylvester, and Kent
awakened from his reverie, discovered that he had scrawled the name
Barbara and capital "Bs" on the writing pad. He tore off the sheet
and crumpled it into a small ball. "No, my notes are unimportant "
Kent unlocked his desk and took some manuscript from one of the
drawers. "Make four copies of this brief, then call up the printer
and ask how soon he will complete the work on hand. Has Mr. Clymer
telephoned?

"Not this morning." Sylvester rose, papers in hand. "There has been
a Mr. Parker of the Post who telephones regularly once an hour to ask
for Mr. Rochester's address and when he is expected at the office."
He paused and looked inquiringly at Kent. "What shall I say the next
time he calls?"

"Switch him on my phone," briefly. "That is all now, Sylvester.