The Red Seal, Natalie Sumner Lincoln [books for men to read .TXT] 📗

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.