There was absolute stillness in the room; then a babble of exclamations broke out as Sylvester, his expression of dumb surprise giving place to one of fury, struggled to free himself from the detective's firm grip.

“You cannot escape, Sylvester,” declared Kent, observing his efforts. “Your carelessness in using your peculiar gift of penmanship in copying Barbara McIntyre's signature in this memorandum of her visit here”—Kent held up a sheet torn from his pad, “gave me the first clew. These, the second,” he showed several pieces of blotting paper freshly used. “See, in the mirror here is reflected the impression from your clever imitations of the handwritings of Barbara, Colonel McIntyre, and Mrs. Brewster.”

They crowded about Kent, all but Ferguson and his prisoner, who had subsided in his chair with what the detective concluded was dangerous quietude.

“My next step, now that suspicion was directed against Sylvester, was to make personal inquiries regarding him,” went on Kent. “Judge Hildebrand, who had just returned to Washington, said that he first met Sylvester at a circus sideshow where he gave exhibitions as a contortionist. One of his special stunts was to slip out of handcuffs and ropes.”

“So that explains last night,” Ferguson grinned. “You'll not do it again, Sylvester,” and he shook an admonitory finger at the erstwhile clerk.

“Judge Hildebrand became interested in Sylvester, found he was handy with his pen and tired of the show business, and gave him an opening by engaging him as confidential clerk,” continued Kent. “You will recall, Colonel McIntyre, that you sent business papers in your handwriting and that of your daughters to Judge Hildebrand's office to be typed by his staff. That is how Sylvester became so well acquainted with your writing and was able to forge a letter to the bank treasurer directing him to turn over your negotiable securities to Jimmie Turnbull.”

“But how in the world did Sylvester induce Jimmie to present the forged letter?” asked Colonel McIntyre.

Kent turned to the sullen prisoner. “Answer that question, Sylvester,” he commanded, and the man roused himself from his dejected attitude.

“Anything in it for me if I do?” he asked with a cunning leer.

“That's for the courts to decide,” declared Kent.

The man thought a minute. “I'll take a chance,” he said finally. “But that I waited for an opportunity to get my swag out of this safe, I wouldn't have been caught—curse you!” and he scowled at Kent.

“Cut that out,” admonished Ferguson with a none too gentle dig in the ribs, and Sylvester continued his statement.

“I overheard Colonel McIntyre tell Judge Hildebrand about his securities and their present value, and the next day he came to consult the judge about engaging a secretary. I fixed up credentials and went to Mr. Turnbull; he believed my story that I was the colonel's new secretary and got the securities.” Sylvester paused. “If I'd rested content with that success I'd been all right,” he added. “But I was in too great a hurry and forged Mr. Clymer's signature to a check for five thousand dollars and presented it at the Metropolis Trust Company. As luck would have it Mr. Turnbull cashed it for me himself.”

“But didn't he suspect you?” exclaimed Clymer. He had gradually recovered from the shock of Rochester's charges on his arrival, and was listening with keen attention to Sylvester's confession.

“No. I made the check payable to Colonel McIntyre and forged his endorsement,” Sylvester spoke with an air of pride, and he smiled in malicious enjoyment as, catching his eye, Barbara shrank back and sheltered herself behind Kent. “Mr. Turnbull accepted the check; later something must have aroused his suspicions, and I found when he questioned me that he believed Colonel McIntyre had forged the check.”

“Good heavens! You let him think that?” gasped McIntyre; then wrath gained the mastery. “You scoundrel!”

“Oh, I encouraged him to think it,” Sylvester grinned again. “You must have handed Mr. Turnbull a raw deal; he was so ready to think evil of you.”

“That is a lie!” exclaimed Helen hotly. “When I went downstairs to investigate the noise I heard in the library, father, Jimmie told me who he was to quiet my fright. He showed me a letter, which he had just found on your desk in the library, confessing that you had forged Mr. Clymer's name on the check, and begging Jimmie to conceal your crime and save Barbara and me from the shame of having you exposed as a forger and a thief.”

“I never wrote such a letter!” shouted McIntyre, deeply incensed.

“No, it was a clever plan,” acknowledged Sylvester. “On one of my trips to your house, Colonel McIntyre, I secured wax impressions of your front door lock. I went to your house Monday night and put the letter among your papers just before Turnbull was admitted by your fool of a butler.”

“And you gave Jimmie Turnbull a dose of poison—” charged Kent, but Sylvester, his lips gone dry, raised his manacled hands in protest.

“I did not poison him,” he cried. “I waited just to see if Turnbull got the letter and to find out what he'd do with the securities, which he had refused to turn over to me. After he had read the forged letter Mr. Turnbull acted sort of faint and went out in the hall. I could just see him put down a box on the hall table and lean against the wall. Then he went into the dining room and came back a second later carrying a glass of water, and I saw him take up and open a small box and toss some white pills into his mouth; then he took a good drink, and, picking up a handkerchief lying on the table, he went back into the library.”

There was silence as Sylvester's callous recital of the tragedy ended. Helen, her eyes tearless and dark with suffering, sank slowly back in her chair and rested her head against Barbara's sympathetic shoulder.

“So Turnbull's death was accidental after all,” exclaimed Ferguson. “Or was it suicide?”

“Accident,” answered Kent. “I found some nitro-glycerine pills in the umbrella stand by the hall table.” Colonel McIntyre nodded. “Evidently Turnbull put down his pill box before getting a glass of water, and in his attack of giddiness accidentally opened your box of aconitine pills, Mrs. Brewster, instead of his own, and swallowed a fatal dose, thinking they were nitroglycerine.”

Mrs. Brewster bowed her head in agreement. “That must have been it,” she said. “However, I saw Colonel McIntyre tear off the paper wrapping and open my package of pills just before dinner, and when I heard that Jimmie had died from aconitine I—I—” she stammered and stopped short.

“You suspected I had murdered him?” asked McIntyre softly.

“Yes,” she looked appealingly at him. “Forgive me, I should never have suspected you, but the pills, box and all, were missing the next morning from the hall table.”

“Turnbull must have thrown the box into the umbrella stand,” explained Kent. “That was where I found it. Did you get the securities, Sylvester?” turning to the prisoner.

“No,” sullenly. “She did,” and a jerk of his thumb indicated Helen McIntyre.

Helen raised her head and addressed them slowly.

“Jimmie and I expected Barbara to come in at any moment, and he started to leave when we saw you coming downstairs,” she turned to Mrs. Brewster. “Jimmie declared that if we were found together I might be compromised. He couldn't explain his presence without exposing father—we both thought you a forger, father,” she interpolated, as McIntyre took her hand and pressed it understandingly. “So he insisted that I should treat him like an ordinary burglar—we had both forgotten Barbara's silly wager in our horror about father. Jimmie didn't dare take the securities and father's confession with him for fear he'd be searched at the police station, and the scandal would have come out then.”

“True,” agreed McIntyre. “Go on, Helen.”

“So Jimmie thrust the securities and father's confession into an envelope and sealed it with red wax, using Barbara's seal,” explained Helen. “He hadn't time to write an address or message on it, but he told me to return the envelope to him later in the day or give it to Philip Rochester and ask his aid. I brought it here on Wednesday morning and with Harry's permission put the envelope in the safe.”

“I tried to get it from there,” volunteered Sylvester, “for I overheard Turnbull's plan, before I left by the reception room window.”

“So it was you and not Mr. Rochester whom I saw steal out of the window,” exclaimed Mrs. Brewster.

“It's not the first time I've been mistaken for him,” exclaimed Sylvester calmly.

Kent started and, gazing at Rochester and the clerk, saw there was a general resemblance in coloring and physique.

“Did you present the checks to McDonald at the Metropolis Trust Company bearing Rochester's and my forged signatures?” he asked.

“I did,” acknowledged Sylvester. “Mr. Rochester's wardrobe came in very handy for deceiving the casual glance. You know, 'clothes make the man, and want of it the fellow.'”

Kent looked up quickly, struck by an idea.

“Sylvester, did you steal the envelope containing the securities from me at the Club de Vingt?” he asked.

Sylvester shook his head. “No, but she did,” pointing to Mrs. Brewster. “It's no lie,” as McIntyre uttered an indignant denial. “When Ferguson left here carrying off the securities from under my nose almost—I had spent the whole day trying to learn the safe's combination; I trailed him to the Club de Vingt, and heard the head waiter tell him you, Mr. Kent, were sitting in the small smoking porch, so I climbed up the trumpet vine; oh, it was strong and no climb for one who has done the feats I have in the circus. I reached the porch just in time to see Mrs. Brewster drop her fan, and when the men bent to pick it up she 'lifted' the envelope and concealed it under her scarf.”

“Don't,” Mrs. Brewster laid a detaining hand on McIntyre as he stepped forward. “The man is telling the truth. I thought it was the envelope you gave me earlier in the evening—it was unaddressed and the red seal was the same.”

“Just a moment,” interrupted Kent. “What did you do with the envelope?”

“When I returned home I dropped it inside one of the Venetian caskets,” Mrs. Brewster replied. “No one ever went near them, and I thought it would be safe there. You see, I was puzzled to know how it had disappeared from the desk in the reception room, where I had left it in one of the pigeon holes, intending to take it later to my room.”

“I took the envelope—your envelope—out of the desk,” confessed McIntyre. “I would have spoken of it, Margaret, but was hurt that you had left our marriage certificate lying around so carelessly.”

“Your what?” Barbara sprang up, astounded.

“Our marriage certificate,” repeated McIntyre firmly. “Margaret and I were married last week in Baltimore. We would have told you, Helen, but your peculiar conduct and Barbara's, so angered me that I forbade Margaret to take you into our confidence.”

“Father!” Barbara got no further, for Helen had risen. She spoke with quiet dignity.

“You forget, father, that since Monday night we have thought you a forger and, worse, a murderer,” her voice faltered. “In our effort to guard you we have become estranged. Margaret”—she held out her hand with an affectionate gesture and with a sob her step-mother kissed her.

“How did this envelope get back inside our safe?” asked Kent a moment later, picking it up and displaying the red seal, intact save for the broken corner.

“I went downstairs about midnight or a little later and into the library,” confessed Helen. “What was my surprise and terror to see Grimes holding the envelope. To me it meant father's exposure as a forger. I had a revolver in my hand and struck before I thought. Then I must temporarily have lost my reason. It was only my thought to save father that lent me courage and strength to thrust Grimes inside the casket where Babs and I used to hide. I then returned to my room, and was just coming downstairs again after secreting the envelope, to release Grimes and get medical assistance if need be, when Margaret's screams aroused the household.”

McIntyre interrupted his daughter with a hasty gesture, and addressed his wife. “When Detective Ferguson questioned me as to your reason for being in the library, Margaret, I stated you had gone down to get a book left lying on the Venetian casket,” he said. “I waited for you to volunteer an explanation of your presence there, but you never made any.”

“I went down to get our marriage certificate.” Margaret forgot the presence of others and spoke only to him, the love-light in her eyes pleading against the censure she dreaded, as she made her brief confession. “Mr. Clymer sent me a note, inclosing a canceled check, stating the bank officials had decided my signature was a forgery. The check was drawn to Barbara, and on examining it I noticed the peculiar formation of the letter 'B'; it is characteristic of your handwriting and Helen's.” She paused, and added:

“I was at a loss what to think. I knew you and Helen wrote alike; Helen's extraordinary behavior to me led me to believe that perhaps she had been short of funds, and forged my name to a check in desperation. Then I remembered seeing you, Charles, open the box containing my aconitine pills, the box's disappearance, and Jimmie's death from that poison”—she raised her hands in an expressive gesture. “Although my reason told me that you might be guilty, my loyalty and love refuted the accusation.”

“Margaret!” McIntyre's voice shook with emotion; then controlling himself he turned to Sylvester. “I presume this check was some more of your deviltry?”

Helen answered for the clerk. Removing a soiled paper from her bag she laid it on Kent's desk. “This note was handed to me by Grimes,” she explained. “It reads: 'Helen, please cash this check and give money to Mrs. Brewster's dressmaker. Father.' I followed the instructions.”

“And gave the money to my sister,” Sylvester chuckled at their surprise. “My sister was taught in a French convent, and she is an excellent seamstress, when she isn't drunk, as Mrs. McIntyre knows.”

“See here, Sylvester,” Clymer broke his long silence. “You were in the police court on a charge of assault and battery brought by your wife on Tuesday morning, and you were in the prisoner's cage at the moment Turnbull died. How then was it possible for you to be at the McIntyre's at midnight on Monday?”

“I was out on bail and appeared in the courtroom just in time for my trial,” Sylvester explained. “I did not have to sit in the cage, but recognizing Turnbull I went there to be with him.”

Kent placed the forged check bearing Margaret Brewster's signature on the desk. “I take it this check is your work, Sylvester,” he said. “You reaped the benefit by having the money paid to your sister. Did you also have the fake telegram delivered to me stating Mr. Rochester was in Cleveland?”

“I faked that,” broke in Rochester, before the clerk could make a disclaimer. “I thought it best to disappear for a few days down in Virginia, where I could think things over in peace.”

“So it was you, Sylvester, and not Mr. Rochester whom I encountered in his apartment,” exclaimed Kent. “How did you get in the apartment?”

“From the fire-escape and along the window ledge to the bathroom window.” Sylvester hitched his shoulders. “It was nothing for a man of my agility.”

Ferguson eyed him with doubtful respect.

“You have courage,” he admitted grudgingly. “Come, we must get to Headquarters,” and he aided Sylvester to his feet, but once standing, Sylvester refused to move. Instead he turned to Helen.

“What was that you passed to Mr. Rochester in the police court and he later gave to Mr. Turnbull?” he asked. “Oh, don't deny it, I saw you palm a note, Mr. Rochester, from the young lady.”

“There is nothing now to conceal,” declared Helen. “After O'Ryan and Jimmie left the house for the police station I grew fearful that Jimmie might over-tax his strength in carrying out the farce of his arrest. So as soon as I could I telephoned to Philip to meet me at the police court and to bring some amyl nitrite capsules with him.”

“And the note, Sylvester, which you saw Miss McIntyre give me in court,” concluded Rochester, as Helen paused, “told me to hand the capsules to the burglar and to defend him in court. I did both, although badly puzzled by the request.” Rochester hesitated. “I carried out your wishes, Helen, without question; but when the burglar's identity was revealed, I jumped to the conclusion that you had used me as an instrument to kill him, for I knew something of the effects of amyl nitrite.”

“Great Heavens!” exclaimed Helen, aghast.

Rochester looked at her and bit his lip; he knew of her affection for Jimmie and her attachment to his memory, but he could not kill the hope that when Time had healed the loss, his devotion might some day win her for his own.

“I did you great injustice,” he admitted humbly. “But I was fearfully shocked by the scene. I strove to divert suspicion by insisting that Jimmie died from angina pectoris, and then you came, Helen, and demanded an autopsy.”

“I had to,” Helen broke in. “I could not believe that Jimmie's death was due to natural causes,” her voice quivered. “He had been so loyal—so faithful—I could not be less true to him, even if, as I feared, my own dear father was guilty of the crime.”

Kent turned and faced Sylvester, who had made a few shuffling steps toward the door.

“You have done incalculable harm by your criminal acts,” he said sternly. “But for your lying and trickery Jimmie Turnbull would be alive to-day. I trust the Court will give you the maximum sentence.”

Sylvester eyed him insolently. “I've had a run for my money, and I stood to win large sums if things had only gone right,” he announced; then addressed Helen directly. “What did you do with the securities?”

“I put the envelope back in the open safe when I was here early this afternoon,” she explained.

An oath ripped from Sylvester. “I mistook you for your sister,” he snarled. “Had I known it was you, I'd have wrung the securities from you.”

Helen stared at his suddenly contorted face. “Ah, you are the man who looked in at the window of the reception room yesterday morning when I was talking to Mr. Kent,” she cried. “I recognize you now.”

He continued to glare at her. “I also sent you a note by your sister outside the Cafe St. Marks to secrete the letter 'B',” his voice rose almost into a shout in his ungovernable rage. “I heard Turnbull tell you to take the envelope to Rochester, and I banked on your bringing it here or to his apartment. D-mn you! You've thwarted me at every turn.”

Rochester's powerful hand was clapped across his mouth with such force that the clerk staggered against Ferguson.

“Here you, out you go.” The detective shoved the struggling man toward the door leading into the corridor and Clymer sprang to his assistance; a second later Rochester closed the door on their receding figures and found Helen standing by his elbow.

“I must go,” she said, turning back to look at her father and his bride.

“Wait a minute.” Kent held up an envelope with its fateful red seal. “This was delivered empty at Rochester's apartment last night—it is addressed to him. Who wrote it?”

“I did,” exclaimed Mrs. McIntyre. “I felt I must consult either you, Mr. Kent, or Mr. Rochester, so I sent the note to his apartment, but the messenger boy hurried me, and it was not until hours later that I found the note lying on the desk in the reception room and realized I had sent an empty envelope.”

“I see.” Kent held up another envelope, the red seal broken at the corner. “This is yours, Helen.”

Helen hesitated perceptibly before taking the envelope and tearing it open. She handed the securities to her father.

“Here is father's forged confession,” she said as she took the remaining paper from the envelope.

“It is a marvelous imitation of my handwriting,” declared McIntyre, looking at it carefully, then tearing it into tiny bits he flung them into the scrap-basket and pocketed the securities.

“And to think that I aided Sylvester's plot to gain the securities by engaging him as our clerk,” groaned Rochester.

“It was clever of him to seek employment here,” agreed Kent. “But like many crooks he over-reached himself through over-confidence. Must you go, Colonel McIntyre?”

“Yes.” McIntyre walked over to Helen.

“My dear little girl,” he began and his voice was husky with feeling. “How can I show my appreciation of your loyalty to me?”

“By being kind to Harry and Barbara.” Helen smiled bravely, although her lips were trembling and for a moment she could not trust herself to speak. “My romance is over; Barbara's is just beginning. And, father, will you and Margaret come home with me—I am so lonely;” then turning blindly away she fairly ran out of the office.

“Go with her,” said Rochester, a trifle unsteadily. “It has been a terrible ordeal; God help her to forget!” His voice failed and he swept his hand across his eyes as he held open the door into the corridor and followed McIntyre and his wife outside.

Kent turned impulsively to Barbara, and his arms closed around her as she raised her eyes to meet his, for she knew that the promise they spoke would be loyally fulfilled, and that her haven of love and happiness was reached at last.