“N-no, perhaps he was not over-popular with the colonel,” he admitted slowly. “What prompts the question, Ferguson?”
The detective hitched his chair nearer. “I'm going to lay all my cards on the table,” he announced. “I need advice and you are the man to give it to me. Listen, Mr. Kent, this Jimmie Turnbull masquerades as a burglar night before last at the McIntyre house, is arrested, a charge brought against him for house-breaking by Miss Helen McIntyre, and shortly after he dies—”
“From angina pectoris,” finished Kent, as the detective paused.
“So Mr. Rochester contended,” admitted Ferguson. “We'll let that go for a minute. Now, when Miss McIntyre saw Turnbull's body, she demanded an autopsy. Why?”
“To discover the cause of death,” answered Kent quietly. “That is obvious, Ferguson.”
“Sure. And why did she wish to discover it?” He waited a brief instant, then answered his own question. “Because Miss McIntyre did not agree with Rochester that Turnbull had died from angina pectoris—that is obvious, too. Now, what made her think that?”
“I am sure I don't know”—Kent's air of candor was unmistakable and Ferguson showed his disappointment.
“Hasn't Miss McIntyre been to see you?”
“No,” was Kent's truthful answer; Barbara was the younger twin and her sister was therefore, “Miss McIntyre.”
“You must recollect, Ferguson,” he added, “that had Miss McIntyre called to see me about poor Turnbull, I would not have discussed the interview with any one, under any conditions.”