“Why, how could Jimmie reveal his identity in court without involving us?” she asked. “Good afternoon, doctor,” recollecting her manners, and her attention thus diverted, she missed the sudden questioning look which Mrs. Brewster and her father exchanged. “No,” she continued, “Jimmie sacrificed himself for others.”
“By becoming a burglar.” McIntyre laughed shortly. “Don't talk arrant nonsense, Helen.”
The girl flushed at his tone, and Dr. Stone, an interested onlooker, marveled at the fleeting flash of disdain which lighted her dark eyes. Stone's interest grew. The McIntyre family had always been particularly congenial, and the devotion of Colonel McIntyre (left a widower when the twins were in short frocks) to his daughters had been commented on frequently by their wide circle of friends in Washington and by acquaintances made in their travels abroad.
Colonel McIntyre had married when quite a young man. Frugality and industry and a brilliant mind had reaped their reward, and, wiser than the majority of Americans, he retired early from business and devoted himself to a life of leisure and the education of his daughters. Their debut the previous autumn had been one of the social events of the Washington season, and the instant popularity the girls had attained proved a source of pride to Colonel McIntyre. His chief pleasure consisted in gratifying their every whim, and Dr. Stone, knowing the family as he did, wondered at the faintly discernible air of constraint in the girl's manner. Usually frank to a sometimes embarrassing degree, she appeared to some disadvantage as she sat gazing moodily at the tips of her patent-leather pumps. Dr. Stone's attention shifted to Colonel McIntyre and lastly to the pretty widow at his elbow. Had Dame Rumor spoken truly in the report, widely circulated, that the colonel had fallen a victim to the charms of Margaret Brewster, his daughters' guest? If so, it might account for the young girl's manner—however devoted McIntyre's daughters might be to Mrs. Brewster as a friend and companion, they might resent having so young a woman for their step-mother.
Not receiving any reply to his remarks, McIntyre was about to address his daughter again when she spoke.
“Jimmie will be justified,” she declared stoutly. “Has the coroner held the autopsy yet, Dr. Stone?”
“Autopsy!” McIntyre spoke with sharp abruptness. “I thought it was clearly established that Jimmie died from angina pectoris?”
“It is so believed,” responded Stone. His mystification was growing; had not Helen informed her father of the scene which had transpired at the police court, and of her request to the coroner? “I understand the post-mortem examination will be made this afternoon, Helen.”
A heavy paper knife, nicely balanced between McIntyre's well manicured fingers, dropped to the floor as a step sounded behind him and the butler, Grimes, stopped by his side.
“Mr. Rochester just telephoned that his partner, Mr. Harry Kent, is out of town, Miss”—bowing to the silent girl. Grimes always contented himself with addressing his “young ladies” by the simple prefix “Miss,” and never added their given names, because, as he expressed it, “them twins are alike as two peas, and which is which, I dunno.” Considering himself one of the family from his long service with Colonel McIntyre, he kept a watchful eye on the twins, but their pranks in childhood had often exasperated him into giving notice, which he generally found it convenient to forget when the first of a new month came around.