I saw Mr. Clymer, president of Turnbull's bank this afternoon, and
he paid a fine tribute to his dead cashier."
Kent drew an inward sigh of relief. Benjamin Clymer had proved
true blue; he had not permitted Colonel McIntyre's desire for
immediate publicity and belief in Turnbull's guilt to shake his
faith in his friend.
"You see, Ferguson, there is no motive for such a crime as you
suggest," he remarked.
"Oh, for the motive," - Ferguson rubbed his hands nervously together
as he shot a look at his questioner; the latter's clear-cut features
and manly bearing inspired confidence. "We know of no motive," he
corrected.
"And we know of no crime having been perpetrated," rapped out Kent.
"Come, man; don't hunt a mare's nest."
"Ah, but it isn't a mare's nest!" Ferguson remarked dryly.
Kent bent eagerly forward - "You have heard from the coroner -"
"Not yet," Ferguson jerked forward his chair until his knees
touched Kent.
Had either man looked toward the window near which they were sitting,
he would have seen a black shadow squatting ape-like on the window
ledge.
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