“Yes,” Clymer modified the curt monosyllable by adding, “I helped Dr. Stone carry Turnbull out of the prisoners' cage and into the anteroom.”
“And did you recognize your cashier?” demanded Parker. At the question Barbara set down her goblet of water without care for its perishable quality and looked with quick intentness at the banker.
“I recognized Mr. Turnbull when his wig was removed,” answered Clymer, raising his head in time to catch Barbara's eyes gazing steadfastly at him. With a faint flush she turned her attention to the reporter.
“Mr. Turnbull's make-up must have been superfine,” Parker remarked. “Just one more question. Can you tell me if Mr. Philip Rochester recognized his room-mate when he was defending him in court?”
“No, I cannot,” and observing Parker's blank expression, she added, “why don't you ask Mr. Rochester?”
“Because I can't locate him; he seems to have vanished off the face of the globe.” The reporter rose. “You can't tell me where's he's gone, I suppose?”
“I haven't the faintest idea,” answered Barbara truthfully. “I was at his office this—” she stopped abruptly on finding that Mrs. Brewster was standing just behind her. Had the widow by chance overheard her remark? If so, her father would probably learn of her visit to the office of Rochester and Kent that morning.
“Do I understand that Philip Rochester is out of town?” inquired Mrs. Brewster. “Why, I had an appointment with him to-morrow.”
“He's gone and left no address that I can find,” explained Parker. “Thank you, Miss McIntyre; good evening,” and the busy reporter hurried away.
There was a curious expression in Mrs. Brewster's eyes, but she dropped her gaze on her finger bowl too quickly for Clymer to analyze its meaning.