“Now that you know Turnbull died of angina pectoris there is no necessity of sending for the coroner,” Rochester spoke in haste, his words tumbling over each other. “I will go at once and communicate with an undertaker.” But before he could rise from his chair the sandy-haired man, who had conducted a whispered conversation with the deputy marshal, advanced toward the group.
“Just a moment, gentlemen,” he said, and turned back a lapel of his coat and displayed a metal badge. “I am Ferguson of the Central Office. Do you know the deceased?”
“He was my intimate friend,” announced Rochester before his companions could reply to the detective's question, which was addressed to all. “Mr. Clymer, here, can tell you that Jimmie Turnbull, cashier of his bank, was well known in financial and social Washington.”
“How came he here in this fix?” asked Ferguson with more force than grammatic clarity.
“A sudden heart attack—angina pectoris, you know,” replied Rochester glibly, “with fatal results.”
“I wasn't alluding to what killed him,” Ferguson explained. “But why was the cashier of the Metropolis Trust Company,” he looked questioningly at Clymer whom he knew quite well by sight, “and a social high-light, decked out in these clothes and a wig, too?” leaning down, the better to examine the clothing on the dead man.
“He had just been held for the Grand Jury on a charge of house-breaking,” volunteered the deputy marshal. “I reckon that brought on his heart-attack.”
“True, true,” agreed Rochester. “The excitement was too much for him.”
“House-breaking” ejaculated the detective. “Dangerous sport for a man suffering with angina pectoris, aside from anything else. Who preferred charges?”
“The Misses McIntyre,” answered the deputy marshal, to whom the question was addressed. “Like to interview them?”