“You did not know”—Ferguson looked at him in dawning comprehension. “You mean Rochester absconded with the funds?”
“Some one forged my name to checks drawn on the firm's account,” Kent continued. “I understood they were made payable to cash and presented by Rochester on the day of Turnbull's death.”
Ferguson whistled as a slight vent to his feelings. “So you suspect Rochester of being a forger?” Kent made no reply, and he added; after a moment's deliberation, “What bearing has this discovery on Turnbull's death, aside from Rochester's need of funds to make a clean disappearance?”
“If it is true that Rochester was financially embarrassed and forged checks on the Metropolis Trust Company, it establishes another motive for the killing of Turnbull,” argued Kent. “Turnbull was cashier of that bank.”
“I see; he may have discovered the forgeries—but hold on.” Ferguson checked his rapid speech. “When were these forged checks presented at the bank?”
“Tuesday afternoon.”
Ferguson's face fell. “Pshaw! man; that was after Turnbull's death—how could he detect the forgeries?”
Kent did not reply at once; instead, he glanced keenly about the living room. The detective had only switched on one of the reading lamps and the greater part was in shadow. It was a pleasant and home-like room, and Kent was conscious of a keener pang for the loss of Jimmie Turnbull and the disappearance of Philip Rochester, as he gazed around. The lawyer and the bank cashier had been, until that winter, congenial comrades, sharing their business success and their apartment in complete accord; and now a shadow as black as that enveloping the unlighted apartment hung over their good names, threatening one or the other with the charge of forgery and of murder. Kent sighed and turned back to the silent detective.
“I can best answer your question by telling you that the day after Jimmie Turnbull died Mr. Clymer sent for me,” he began. “I found Colonel McIntyre with him and was told that the Colonel had lost valuable securities left at the bank. These securities had been given by the treasurer of the bank to Jimmie Turnbull when he presented a letter from Colonel McIntyre instructing the bank to surrender the securities to Jimmie.”
“Well?” questioned Ferguson. “Go on, sir.”