“Yes. I saw the account just now in the morning paper,” he answered. “A shocking affair. Poor Turnbull! He was a good fellow.”
“He was!” Barbara spoke with unaccustomed vehemence, and looking at her Kent saw that her eyes were filled with tears. Impulsively he threw his arm about her, holding her close.
“My heart's dearest,” he murmured fondly. “If there is anything—anything I can do—”
Barbara straightened up and winked away the tears. “There is,” she said tersely. “Investigate Jimmie's death.”
Kent gazed at her in astonishment. “Please explain,” he suggested. “The morning paper states very plainly that the cause of death was an attack of angina pectoris.”
“Yes, I know, and that is what Philip Rochester contends also.” Barbara paused and glanced about the office; they had the room to themselves. “B-but Helen believes otherwise.”
Kent drew back. “What do you mean, Babs?” he demanded.
“Just that,” Barbara spoke wearily, and Kent, giving her close attention, grew aware of dark shadows under her eyes which told plainly of a sleepless night. “I want to engage you as our counsel to help Helen find out about Jimmie's death.”
“Find out what?” asked Kent, his bewilderment increasing. “Do you mean that Jimmie's death was not the result of a dangerous heart disease, but of foul play?”
Barbara nodded her head vigorously. “Yes.”