Rochester did not appear to hear Dr. Stone's words. With eyes half starting from their sockets¹ he sat staring at the dead man, completely oblivious² of the others' presence. After watching him for a moment the physician turned briskly to the dazed deputy marshal.  
“Summon the coroner,” he directed. “We cannot move the body until he comes.”
 
His curt³ tone brought the official's wits back with a jump and he made for the exit, only to be stopped at the threshold by a sandy-haired man just entering the room.
 
At the word coroner, Rochester raised himself from his bent⁴ attitude and brushed his hand across his eyes.
 
“No need for a coroner to diagnose the case,” he objected. “Poor Turnbull always said he would go off like that.”
 
Stone moved nearer. “Like that?” he questioned, pointing to the still figure. “Explain yourself, Rochester. Did Turnbull expect to die here in this manner?”
 
“No—no—certainly not.” The lawyer moistened his dry lips. “But when a man has angina pectoris he knows the end may come at any moment and in any place. Turnbull made no secret of suffering from that disease.” Rochester turned toward Clymer. “You knew it.”
 
Benjamin Clymer, who had been gazing alternately at the dead man and vaguely⁵ about the room, looked startled at the abrupt⁶ question.
 
“I knew Turnbull had bad attacks of the heart; we all knew it at the bank,” he stated. “But I understood the disease had responded to treatment.”
 
“There is no cure for angina pectoris,” declared Rochester.
 
“No permanent cure,” amended⁷ Stone, and would have added more, but Rochester stopped him.
 
“Now that you know Turnbull died of angina pectoris there is no necessity of sending for the coroner,” Rochester spoke⁸ in haste, his words tumbling over each other. “I will go at once and communicate with an undertaker.” But before he could rise from his chair the sandy-haired man, who had conducted a whispered conversation with the deputy marshal, advanced toward the group.
 
“Just a moment, gentlemen,” he said, and turned back a lapel of his coat and displayed a metal badge. “I am Ferguson of the Central Office. Do you know the deceased?”
 
“He was my intimate friend,” announced Rochester before his companions could reply to the detective's question, which was addressed to all. “Mr. Clymer, here, can tell you that Jimmie Turnbull, cashier of his bank, was well known in financial and social Washington.”
 
“How came he here in this fix?” asked Ferguson with more force than grammatic clarity.
 
“A sudden heart attack—angina pectoris, you know,” replied Rochester glibly⁹, “with fatal results.”
 
“I wasn't alluding¹⁰ to what killed him,” Ferguson explained. “But why was the cashier of the Metropolis¹¹ Trust Company,” he looked questioningly at Clymer whom he knew quite well by sight, “and a social high-light, decked out in these clothes and a wig¹², too?” leaning down, the better to examine the clothing on the dead man.
 
“He had just been held for the Grand Jury on a charge of house-breaking,” volunteered the deputy marshal. “I reckon that brought on his heart-attack.”
 
“True, true,” agreed Rochester. “The excitement was too much for him.”
 
“House-breaking” ejaculated the detective. “Dangerous sport for a man suffering with angina pectoris, aside from anything else. Who preferred charges?”
 
“The Misses McIntyre,” answered the deputy marshal, to whom the question was addressed. “Like to interview them?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“No, no!” Rochester was on his feet instantly. “There is no necessity to bring the twins out here—it's too tragic¹³!”
 
“Tragic?” echoed Ferguson. “Why?”
 
“Why—why—Turnbull was arrested in their house,” Rochester was commencing to stutter. “He was their friend—”
 
“Caught burglarizing, heh?” Ferguson's eyes glowed; the case already whetted¹⁴ his remarkably¹⁵ keen inquisitorial instinct which had gained him place and certain fame in the Washington police force. “Are the Misses McIntyre still in the building?”
 
“They were in the court room just before we brought Turnbull's body here,” responded the deputy marshal. “I guess they are still waiting, eh, doctor?”
 
Stone, thus appealed to, nodded. “I agree with Mr. Rochester,” he said, and the gravity of his manner impressed Ferguson. “It is better for me to break the news of Mr. Turnbull's death to the young ladies before bringing them here. Therefore, with your permission, Ferguson”—He got no further.
 
Through the outer entrance of the room came Helen McIntyre and her sister Barbara, conducted by the same bowing patrolman who had ushered¹⁶ them into the court room an hour before.
 
“My God! Too late!” stammered¹⁷ Rochester under his breath, and he turned in desperation to Benjamin Clymer. The bank president's state of mind at the extraordinary masquerade and sudden death of his popular and trusted cashier bordered on shocked horror, which had made him a passive witness of the rapidly shifting scene. Rochester clutched his arm in his agitation¹⁹. “Get the twins out of here—do something, man! Don't you know that Turnbull was in love with—”
 
His fervid²⁰ whisper penetrated²¹ further than he realized and one of the McIntyre twins looked inquiringly in their direction. Clymer, more startled than his demeanor²² indicated, wondered if she had overheard Rochester's ejaculations, but whatever action the banker contemplated²³ in response to the lawyer's appeal was checked by a scream from the girl on his right. With

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