As the door closed Barbara turned to Kent. "Have you heard about
Jimmie Turnbull?"
Her voice was a bit breathless as she put the question, but Kent,
puzzling over his partner's eccentric conduct, hardly noted her
agitation.
"Yes. I saw the account just now in the morning paper," he answered.
"A shocking affair. Poor Turnbull! He was a good fellow."
"He was!" Barbara spoke with unaccustomed vehemence, and looking
at her Kent saw that her eyes were filled with tears. Impulsively
he threw his arm about her, holding her close.
"My heart's dearest," he murmured fondly. "If there is anything
- anything I can do -"
Barbara straightened up and winked away the tears. "There is," she
said tersely. "Investigate Jimmie's death."
Kent gazed at her in astonishment. "Please explain," he suggested.
"The morning paper states very plainly that the cause of death was an
attack of angina pectoris."
"Yes, I know, and that is what Philip Rochester contends also."
Barbara paused and glanced about the office; they had the room to
themselves.
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