“I had to,” Helen broke in. “I could not believe that Jimmie's death was due to natural causes,” her voice quivered. “He had been so loyal—so faithful—I could not be less true to him, even if, as I feared, my own dear father was guilty of the crime.”
Kent turned and faced Sylvester, who had made a few shuffling steps toward the door.
“You have done incalculable harm by your criminal acts,” he said sternly. “But for your lying and trickery Jimmie Turnbull would be alive to-day. I trust the Court will give you the maximum sentence.”
Sylvester eyed him insolently. “I've had a run for my money, and I stood to win large sums if things had only gone right,” he announced; then addressed Helen directly. “What did you do with the securities?”
“I put the envelope back in the open safe when I was here early this afternoon,” she explained.
An oath ripped from Sylvester. “I mistook you for your sister,” he snarled. “Had I known it was you, I'd have wrung the securities from you.”
Helen stared at his suddenly contorted face. “Ah, you are the man who looked in at the window of the reception room yesterday morning when I was talking to Mr. Kent,” she cried. “I recognize you now.”
He continued to glare at her. “I also sent you a note by your sister outside the Cafe St. Marks to secrete the letter 'B',” his voice rose almost into a shout in his ungovernable rage. “I heard Turnbull tell you to take the envelope to Rochester, and I banked on your bringing it here or to his apartment. D-mn you! You've thwarted me at every turn.”
Rochester's powerful hand was clapped across his mouth with such force that the clerk staggered against Ferguson.
“Here you, out you go.” The detective shoved the struggling man toward the door leading into the corridor and Clymer sprang to his assistance; a second later Rochester closed the door on their receding figures and found Helen standing by his elbow.