“I must go,” she said, turning back to look at her father and his bride.
“Wait a minute.” Kent held up an envelope with its fateful red seal. “This was delivered empty at Rochester's apartment last night—it is addressed to him. Who wrote it?”
“I did,” exclaimed Mrs. McIntyre. “I felt I must consult either you, Mr. Kent, or Mr. Rochester, so I sent the note to his apartment, but the messenger boy hurried me, and it was not until hours later that I found the note lying on the desk in the reception room and realized I had sent an empty envelope.”
“I see.” Kent held up another envelope, the red seal broken at the corner. “This is yours, Helen.”
Helen hesitated perceptibly before taking the envelope and tearing it open. She handed the securities to her father.
“Here is father's forged confession,” she said as she took the remaining paper from the envelope.
“It is a marvelous imitation of my handwriting,” declared McIntyre, looking at it carefully, then tearing it into tiny bits he flung them into the scrap-basket and pocketed the securities.
“And to think that I aided Sylvester's plot to gain the securities by engaging him as our clerk,” groaned Rochester.
“It was clever of him to seek employment here,” agreed Kent. “But like many crooks he over-reached himself through over-confidence. Must you go, Colonel McIntyre?”
“Yes.” McIntyre walked over to Helen.