Kent needed no second bidding, but although he craned his head far outside the open window and gazed both up and down the street and along the path to the kitchen door, he failed to see any one. “Was it a man or woman?” he asked, turning back to the room.
“I—I couldn't tell; it was just a glimpse.” Barbara stood resting one hand on the table, her weight leaning upon it. Not for words would she have had Kent know that her knees were shaking under her.
“Did you see the face, Helen?” As he put the question Kent looked around at the silent girl in the corner; she had slipped back in her chair and, with closed eyes, lay white-lipped and limp. With a leap Kent gained her side and his hand sought her pulse.
“Ring for brandy and water,” he directed as Barbara came to his aid. “Helen has fainted.”
Twenty minutes later Kent hastened out of the McIntyre house and, turning into Connecticut Avenue, boarded a street car headed south. After carrying Helen to the twins' sitting room he had assisted Barbara in reviving her. He had wondered at the time why Barbara had not summoned the servants, then concluded that neither sister wished a scene. That Helen was worse than she would admit he appreciated, and advised Barbara to send for Dr. Stone. The well-meant suggestion had apparently fallen on deaf ears, for no physician had appeared during the time he was in the house, nor had Barbara used the telephone, almost at her elbow as she sat by her sister's couch, to summon Dr. Stone. Kent had only waited long enough to convince himself that Helen was out of danger, and then had departed.
It was nearly one o'clock when he finally stepped inside his office, and he found his clerk and a dressy female bending eagerly over a newspaper. They looked up at his approach and Sylvester came forward.
“This is my wife, sir,” he explained, and Kent bowed courteously to Mrs. Sylvester. “We were just reading this account of Mr. Rochester's disappearance; it's dreadful, sir, to think that the police believe him guilty of Mr. Turnbull's murder.”
“Dreadful, indeed,” agreed Kent; the news had been published even sooner than he had imagined. “What paper is that?”
“The noon edition of the Times.” Sylvester handed it to him.
“Thanks,” Kent flung down his hat and spread open the paper. “Who have been here to-day?”