“Excuse me,” exclaimed Sylvester mildly from the doorway. “I knocked and understood you to say come in.
“Well, what is it?” Kent's nerves were getting a bit raw; a glance at his watch showed him he had a slender margin only in which to reach the court house in time for his appointment. Not even waiting for the clerk's reply he snatched up his brief case and made for the private door leading into the corridor. But he was destined not to get away without another interruption.
As Sylvester was hastily explaining, “Two gentlemen to see you, Mr. Kent,” the clerk was thrust aside and Detective Ferguson entered, accompanied by a deputy marshal.
“Sorry to detain you, Mr. Kent,” exclaimed the detective. “I came to tell you that Coroner Penfield has just called an inquest for this afternoon to inquire into Jimmie Turnbull's death. Where's your partner, Mr. Rochester?” looking around inquiringly.
“In Cleveland. Won't I do?” replied Kent, his appointment forgotten in the news that Ferguson had just given him.
“No, we didn't come for legal advice,” Ferguson smiled; then grew serious. “What's Mr. Rochester's address?”
Kent walked over to his desk and picked up the telegram. “The City Club, Cleveland,” he stated.
“Thanks,” Ferguson jotted down the address in his note-book. “Jones, here,” placing his hand on his companion, “came to serve Mr. Rochester with a subpoena; he's wanted at the Turnbull inquest as a material witness.”