The Red Seal
chauffeur, Harris, the scullery maid, and the laundress do not stay at
night.”
“Who were at home beside yourself on Monday night and early Tuesday
morning?”
“My father and Mrs. Brewster; I believe the servants were in also,
except Thomas, who had asked permission to spend the night in
Baltimore.”
“Miss McIntyre?” Coroner Penfield put the next question in an impressive
manner. “On discovering the burglar why did you not call your father?”
“My first impulse was to do so,” she answered promptly. “But on leaving
the library I passed the window, saw the policeman, and called him in.”
She shot a keen look at the coroner, and added softly, “The policeman
was qualified to make an arrest; my father would have had to summon one
had he been there.”
“Quite true,” acknowledged Penfield courteously. “Now, Miss McIntyre,
why did the prisoner so obligingly walk straight into a closet on your
arrival in the library?”
“I presume he was looking for a way out of the room and blundered into
it,” she explained. “There are seven doors opening from our library;
the prisoner may have heard me approaching, become confused, and walked
through the wrong door.”
“That is quite plausible--with an ordinary bona-fide burglar,” agreed
Penfield. “But was not Mr. Turnbull acquainted with the architectural
arrangements of your house?”
“He was a frequent caller and an intimate friend,” she said, with
dignity. “As to his power of observation and his bump of locality I
cannot say. The library was but dimly lighted.”
“Miss McIntyre,” Penfield spoke slowly. “Were you aware of the real
identity of the burglar?”
“I had no suspicion that he was not what he appeared,” she responded.
“He said or did nothing after his arrest to give me the slightest
inkling of his identity.”
Penfield raised his eyebrows and shot a look at the deputy coroner
before going on with his examination.
“You knew Mr. Turnbull intimately, and yet you did not recognize him?”
he asked.
“He wore an admirable disguise.” Helen touched her lips with the tip of
her tongue; inwardly she longed for the glass of ice water which she saw
standing on the reporters' table. “Mr. Turnbull's associates will tell
you that he excelled in amateur theatricals.”
Penfield looked at her critically for a moment before continuing his
questions. She bore his scrutiny with composure.
“Officer O'Ryan has testified that you informed him you examined the
windows of your house,” he said, after a brief wait. “Did you find any
unlocked?”
“Yes; one was open in the little reception room off the front door.”
“What floor is the room on?”
“The ground floor.”
“Would it have been easy for any one to gain admittance through the
window without attracting attention in the street?” was Penfield's next
question.
“Yes.”
“Miss McIntyre,” Penfield rose, “I have only a few more questions to put
to you. Why did Mr. Turnbull come to your house--a house where he was a
welcome visitor--in the middle of the night disguised as a burglar?”
The reporters as well as the spectators bent forward to catch her reply.
“Mr. Turnbull had a wager with my sister, Barbara,” she explained.
“She bet him that he could not break into the house without being
discovered.”
Penfield considered her answer before addressing her again.
“Why didn't Mr. Turnbull tell you who he was when you had him arrested?”
he asked.
Helen shrugged her shoulders. “I cannot answer that question, for I do
not know his reason. If he had only confided in me”--her voice
shook--“he might have been alive to-day.”
“How so?” Penfield shot the question at her.
“Because then he would have been spared the additional excitement of his
trip to the police station and the scene in court, which brought on his
attack of angina pectoris.”
Penfield regarded her for a moment in silence.
“I have no further questions, Miss McIntyre,” he said, and turned to
the morgue master. “Ask Miss Barbara McIntyre to come to the platform.”
Turning back to his table and the papers thereon he failed to see the
twins pass each other in the aisle. They were identically attired and
when Coroner Penfield looked again at the witness chair, he stared in
surprise at its occupant.
“I beg pardon, Miss McIntyre, I desire your sister to testify,” he
remarked.
“I am Barbara McIntyre.” A haunting quality in her voice caught Kent's
attention, and he leaned eagerly forward, his eyes following each
movement of her nervous fingers, busily twisting her gloves inside and
out.
“I beg your pardon,” exclaimed the coroner, recovering from his
surprise. He had seen the twins at the police court on Tuesday morning
for a second only, and then his attention had been entirely centered
on Helen. He had heard, but had not realized until that moment, how
striking was the resemblance between the sisters.
“Miss McIntyre,” the coroner cleared his throat and commenced his
examination. “Where were you on Monday night?”
“At a dance given by Mr. and Mrs. Charles Grosvenor.”
“At what hour did you return?”
“I think it was half past five or a few minutes earlier.”
“Who let you in?”
“My sister.”
“Did you see the burglar?”
“He had left,” she answered. “My sister told me of her adventure as we
went upstairs to our rooms.”
“Miss McIntyre,” Penfield picked up a page of the deputy coroner's
closely written notes, and ran his eyes down it. “Your sister has
testified that James Turnbull went to your house disguised as a burglar
on a wager with you. What were the terms of that wager?”
“I bet him that he could not enter the house after midnight without
his presence being detected by our new police dogs,” exclaimed Barbara
slowly. She had stopped twirling her gloves about, and one hand was
firmly clenched over the arm of her chair.
“Did the dogs discover his presence in the house?”
“Apparently not, or they would have aroused the household,” she said. “I
cannot answer that question, though, because I was not at home.”
“Where are the dogs kept?”
“In the garage in the daytime.”
“And at night?” he persisted.
“They roam about our house,” she admitted, “or sleep in the boudoir,
which is between my sister's bedroom and mine.
“Were the dogs in the house on Monday night?”
“I did not see them on my return from the dance.”
“That is not an answer to my question, Miss McIntyre,” the coroner
pointed out. “Were the dogs in the house?”
There was a distinct pause before she spoke. “I recall hearing our
butler, Grimes, say that he found the dogs in the cellar. Mr. Turnbull's
shocking death put all else out of my mind; I never once thought of the
dogs.”
“In spite of the fact that it was a wager over the dogs which brought
about the whole situation?” remarked the coroner dryly.
Barbara flushed at his tone, then grew pale.
“I honestly forgot about the dogs,” she repeated. “Father sent them out
to our country place Tuesday afternoon; they annoyed our--our guest,
Mrs. Brewster.”
“In what way?”
“By barking--they are noisy dogs.”
“And yet they did not arouse the household when Mr. Turnbull broke into
the house”--Coroner Penfield regarded her sternly. “How do you account
for that?”
Barbara's right hand stole to the arm of her chair and clasped it with
the same convulsive strength that she clung to the other chair arm. When
she spoke her voice was barely audible.
“I can account for it in two ways,” she began. “If the dogs were
accidentally locked in the cellar they could not possibly hear Mr.
Turnbull moving about the house; if they were roaming about and scented
him, they might not have barked because they would recognize him as a
friend.”
“Were the dogs familiar with his step and voice?”
“Yes. Only last Sunday he played with them for an hour, and later in the
afternoon took them for a walk in the country.”
“I see.” Penfield stroked his chin reflectively. “When your sister told
you of finding the burglar and his arrest, did you not, in the light of
your wager, suspect that he might be Mr. Turnbull?”
“No.” Barbara's eyes did not falter before his direct gaze. “I supposed
that Mr. Turnbull meant to try and enter the house in his own proper
person; it never dawned on me that he would resort to disguise.
Besides,” as the coroner started to make a remark, “we have had numerous
robberies in our neighborhood, and the apartment house two blocks from
us has had a regular epidemic of sneak thieves.”
The coroner waited until Dr. Mayo, who had been writing with feverish
haste, had picked up a fresh sheet of paper before resuming his
examination.
“You accompanied your sister to the police court,” he said. “Did you see
the burglar there?”
“Yes.”
“Did you realize his identity in the court room?”
“No. I only awoke to--to the situation when I saw him lying dead with
his wig removed. The shock was frightful”--she closed her eyes for a
second, for the room and the rows of faces confronting her were mixed in
a maddening maze and she raised her hand to her swimming head. When she
looked up she found Coroner Penfield by her side.
“That is all,” he said kindly. “Please remain in the witness room, I may
call you again,” and he helped her down the step with careful attention.
Back in his corner Kent watched her departure. He was white to the lips.
“Heat too much for you?” asked a kindly-faced stranger, and Kent gave a
mumbled “No,” as he strove to pull himself together.
What deviltry was afoot? How dared the twins take such risks--to bear
false witness was a grave criminal offense. He, alone, among all the
spectators, had realized that in testifying before the inquest, the
twins had swapped identities.
CHAPTER IX. “B-B-B”
The return of the morgue master to the platform caused Coroner Penfield
to break off his whispered conversation with Dr. Mayo.
“Colonel McIntyre just telephoned that his car had a blow-out on the way
here,” explained the morgue master. “He will arrive shortly.”
Penfield consulted a list of names. “Call Grimes, the McIntyre butler,”
he said. “We will hear him while waiting for the Colonel.”
Grimes, small and thin, with the stolid countenance of the well-trained
servant, was exceedingly short in his replies to the coroner's
questions. Yes, he had lived with the McIntyre during their residence
in Washington, something like five years, he couldn't quite remember the
exact dates. No, there was never any quarreling, upstairs or down; it
was a well-ordered household until this.
“Exactly,” remarked the coroner dryly. “What about Monday night? Tell
us, Grimes, what occurred in that house between midnight Monday and five
o'clock Tuesday morning.”
“Haven't much to tell,” was the grumpy response. “I went upstairs about
half-past eleven and got down the next morning at the usual hour, seven
o'clock.”
“And you heard no disturbing sounds in the night?”
“No; sir. We wouldn't be likely to; the servants' rooms are all at the
top of the house and the staircase leading to them has a brick wall on
either side, like stairs leading to an ordinary attic, and there's a
door at the bottom which shuts off all sound from below.” It was the
longest sentence the butler had indulged in and he paused for breath.
“Who closes the house at night. Grimes?”
“I do, sir.
“Why did you leave the window in the reception room open?”
“I didn't, sir,” was the prompt denial. “I had just locked it when Mrs.
Brewster came in, along with Colonel McIntyre and Mr. Clymer, and they
sat down to talk. When I left the room the window was locked fast, and
so was every door and window in the place,” he declared aggressively.
“I'll take my dying oath to it, sir.” Penfield looked at Grimes; that he
was telling the truth was unmistakable.
“Who sits up to let in the young ladies when they go to balls?” he
asked.