Not even waiting
for the clerk's reply he snatched up his brief case and made for the
private door leading into the corridor. But he was destined not to
get away without another interruption.
As Sylvester was hastily explaining, "Two gentlemen to see you, Mr.
Kent," the clerk was thrust aside and Detective Ferguson entered,
accompanied by a deputy marshal.
"Sorry to detain you, Mr. Kent," exclaimed the detective. "I came
to tell you that Coroner Penfield has just called an inquest for
this afternoon to inquire into Jimmie Turnbull's death. Where's
your partner, Mr. Rochester?" looking around inquiringly.
"In Cleveland. Won't I do?" replied Kent, his appointment forgotten
in the news that Ferguson had just given him.
"No, we didn't come for legal advice," Ferguson smiled; then grew
serious. "What's Mr. Rochester's address?"
Kent walked over to his desk and picked up the telegram. "The City
Club, Cleveland," he stated.
"Thanks," Ferguson jotted down the address in his note-book.
"Jones, here," placing his hand on his companion, "came to serve
Mr.
Pages:
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120