The Red Seal

The Assistant District Attorney glanced down at the papers in his hand and then up at the well-dressed, stockily built man occupying the witness stand. His manner was conciliatory. “According to your testimony, Mr. Clymer, the prisoner, John Sylvester, was honest and reliable, and faithfully performed his duties as confidential clerk,” he stated. “Just when was Sylvester in your employ?” “Sylvester was never in my employ,” corrected Benjamin Augustus Clymer. The president of the Metropolis Trust Company was noted for his precision of speech. “During the winter of 1918 I shared an apartment with Judge James Hildebrand, who employed Sylvester.” “Was Sylvester addicted to drink?” “No.” “Was he quarrelsome?” “No.” “Was Sylvester married at that date?” At the question a faint smile touched the corners of Clymer's clean shaven mouth and his eyes traveled involuntarily toward the over-dressed female whose charge of assault and battery against her husband had brought Clymer to the police court as a “character” witness in Sylvester's behalf. “Sylvester left Judge Hildebrand to get married,” he explained. “He was a model clerk; honest, sober, and industrious.” “That is all, Mr. Clymer.” The Assistant District Attorney spoke in some haste. “You may retire, sir,” and, as Clymer turned to vacate the witness box, he addressed the presiding judge. Clymer did not catch his remarks as, on stepping down, he was button-holed by a man whose entrance had occurred a few minutes before through the swing door which gave exit from the space reserved for witnesses and lawyers into the body of the court room. “Sit over here a second,” the newcomer said in an undertone, indicating the long bench under the window. “Has Miss McIntyre been here?” “Miss McIntyre—here?” Clymer stared in amazement at his questioner. “No, certainly not.” “Don't be so positive,” retorted the lawyer heatedly, his color rising at the other's incredulous tone. “Helen McIntyre telephoned me to meet her, and—by Jove, here she comes,” as a slight stir at the back of the court room caused him to glance in that direction. A gray-haired patrolman, cap in hand, was in the lead of the small procession which filed up the aisle, and Clymer gazed in astonishment at Helen McIntyre and her twin sister, Barbara. What had brought them at that hour to the police court? The court room was filled with men, both white and black, while a dozen or more slatternly negro women…