"We'll dine at the Club de Vingt.
Come along, McIntyre."
Sylvester stopped Kent on his way back to his office and handed
him the neatly typewritten copies of his brief, and with a word of
thanks the lawyer went over to his desk and, gathering such papers
as he required at the court house, he thrust them and the brief
into his leather bag, but instead of hurrying on his way, he stood
still to consider the events of the morning.
Helen McIntyre, during their interview, had not responded to his
appeal for her confidence, nor vouchsafed any reason for her belief
that Jimmie Turnbull had been the victim of foul play. And Colonel
McIntyre had given him only until Saturday night to solve the
problem! Kent's overwrought feelings found vent in an emphatic oath.
"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.
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