“Have the police found any motive for the crime, Kent?” asked Taylor.
“I believe not.”
Harding, who had been ruminating in silence, leaned forward, his expression alight with a sudden idea.
“Could it be that Turnbull found out that Rochester was passing forged checks, and Rochester insured his silence by poisoning him?” he asked.
Clymer and Kent exchanged glances, as Kent's thoughts reverted to the forged letter presented by Turnbull to the bank's treasurer, whereby he had been given McIntyre's valuable negotiable securities. Could it be that Rochester had written the letter, given it to his room-mate, Turnbull, and the latter, thinking it genuine, had secured the McIntyre securities and handed them over to Rochester? The idea took Kent's breath away; and yet, the more he contemplated it, the more feasible it appeared.
“What's the date on those checks?” demanded Kent.
“Tuesday of this week—the day Jimmie Turnbull died.” Clymer turned them over. “They are drawn payable to cash, and bear no endorsement, which shows Rochester must have presented them himself.”
Harding and Taylor glanced significantly at each other, but neither spoke. Suddenly Kent pushed back his chair and rose without ceremony.
“Don't go, Kent.” Clymer took up some papers. “There's a matter—”
“It will keep.” Kent's mouth was set and determined. “I give you my word of honor that all Rochester's honest debts will be paid by the firm if necessary; I will obligate myself to that extent,” he paused. “As for you fellows,” turning to Harding and Taylor who had also risen. “Give me twenty-four hours—”