“But which one is the question. Frankly, to find the answer, I must know the contents of the envelope, Helen.”
“Why?”
“Because then I will have some idea who would be enough interested in the envelope to steal it.”
Helen considered him long and thoughtfully. “I cannot answer your question,” she announced finally. She saw his face harden, and hastened to explain. “Not through any lack of confidence in you, Harry, b-b-but,” she stumbled in her speech. “I—I do not know what the envelope contains.”
Kent stared at her open-mouthed. “Then who requested you to lock the envelope in Rochester's safe?” he demanded, and receiving no reply, asked suddenly: “Was it Rochester?”
“I am not at liberty to tell you,” she responded; her mouth set in obstinate lines and before he could press his request a second time, she asked: “Philip Rochester defended Jimmie in court when every one thought him a burglar; why then, should Philip have picked him out to attack—he is not a homicidal maniac?”
“No, but the police contend that Rochester recognized Jimmie in his make-up and decided to kill him; hoping his death would be attributed to angina pectoris, and no post-mortem held,” wound up Kent.
“I don’t quite understand”—Helen raised her handkerchief to her forehead and removed a drop of moisture. “How did Philip kill Jimmie there in court before us all?”
“Ferguson believes that he put the dose of aconitine in the glass of water which Jimmie asked for,” explained Kent, and would have continued his remarks, but a scream from Barbara startled him.
“There, look at the window,” she cried. “I saw a face peering in. Look quick, Harry, look!”