Come along, McIntyre."

Sylvester stopped Kent on his way back to his office and handed
him the neatly typewritten copies of his brief, and with a word of
thanks the lawyer went over to his desk and, gathering such papers
as he required at the court house, he thrust them and the brief
into his leather bag, but instead of hurrying on his way, he stood
still to consider the events of the morning.

Helen McIntyre, during their interview, had not responded to his
appeal for her confidence, nor vouchsafed any reason for her belief
that Jimmie Turnbull had been the victim of foul play. And Colonel
McIntyre had given him only until Saturday night to solve the
problem! Kent's overwrought feelings found vent in an emphatic oath.

"Excuse me," exclaimed Sylvester mildly from the doorway. "I knocked
and understood you to say come in.

"Well, what is it?" Kent's nerves were getting a bit raw; a glance
at his watch showed him he had a slender margin only in which to
reach the court house in time for his appointment. Not even waiting
for the clerk's reply he snatched up his brief case and made for the
private door leading into the corridor. But he was destined not to
get away without another interruption.

As Sylvester was hastily explaining, "Two gentlemen to see you, Mr.
Kent," the clerk was thrust aside and Detective Ferguson entered,
accompanied by a deputy marshal.

"Sorry to detain you, Mr. Kent," exclaimed the detective. "I came