“Who is it?” she gasped. “Babs, tell me!” And she held out her hand imploringly.
Her sister stepped to her side and bent over Turnbull. When she looked up her lips alone retained their color.
“Hush!” she implored, giving her sister a slight shake. “Hush! It is Jimmie Turnbull. Can you not see for yourself, dear?”
It seemed doubtful if Helen heard her; with attention wholly centered on the dead man she swayed on her feet, and Dr. Stone, thinking she was about to fall, placed a supporting arm about her.
“Do you not know Jimmie?” asked her sister. “Don't stare so, dearest.” Her tone was pleading.
“Perhaps the young lady has some difficulty in recognizing Mr. Turnbull in his disguise,” suggested Ferguson, who stood somewhat in the background but closely observing the scene.
“Disguise!” Helen raised her eyes and Ferguson, hardened as he had become to tragic scenes, felt a throb of pity as he caught the pent-up agony in her mute appeal.
“Yes, Miss,” he said awkwardly. “The burglar you caught in your house was Mr. Turnbull in disguise.”
Barbara McIntyre released her grasp of her sister's arm and collapsed on a chair. Stone, still supporting Helen, felt her muscles grow taut and an instant later she stepped back from his side and stood by her sister. As the two girls faced the circle of men, the likeness between them was extraordinary. Each had the same slight graceful figure, equal height; and feature for feature, coloring matching coloring, they were identical; their gowns, even, were cut on similar lines, only their hats varied in shape and color.
“Do I understand, gentlemen,” Helen began, and her voice gained steadiness as she proceeded, “that the burglar whom Officer O'Ryan and I caught lurking in our house was James Turnbull?”