“Listen to me, Mr. Clymer,” he began. “My instinct tells me that Jimmie Turnbull never forged that letter or stole McIntyre's securities, but I admit that everything points to his guilt, even his death.”
“How so?”
“Because the theft of the securities supplies a motive for his suicide—fear of exposure and imprisonment,” argued Kent. “But there is no motive, so far as I can see, for Jimmie's murder. Men don't kill each other without a motive.”
“There is homicidal mania,” suggested Clymer.
“But not in this case,” retorted Kent. “We are sane men and it is up to us to find out if Jimmie died by his own hand or was killed by some unknown enemy.''
“Rest easy, Mr. Kent,” said a voice from the doorway and Kent, who had turned his back in that direction the better to talk to Clymer, whirled around and found Detective Ferguson regarding him just inside the threshold. “Mr. Turnbull's enemy is not unknown and will soon be under arrest.”
“Who is he?” demanded Clymer and Kent simultaneously.
“Philip Rochester.”
Clymer was the first to recover from his astonishment. “Oh, get out!” he exclaimed incredulously. “Why, Rochester was Turnbull's most intimate friend.”
“Until they fell in love with the same girl,” answered Ferguson succinctly, taking possession of the only other chair the porch boasted. “One quarrel led to another and then Rochester did for him. Oh, it dove-tails nicely; motive, jealous anger; opportunity, recognition in court of Turnbull disguised as a burglar, at the same time Rochester learns that Turnbull has been caught after midnight in the house of his sweetheart—”