“Washington is my legal residence,” the professor said a few minutes later after answering the coroner’s question as to his age, occupation, and length of residence in Washington. “I spend a few weeks of every year here, and own the house now leased to Mr. Walter Ogden.”
“Have you, or your other tenants, ever had a fire in your house?”
“Once, a number of years ago, a chimney caught fire, but since then I have had a new system of heating installed, and no more trouble has arisen.”
“Is your house covered by fire insurance, Professor?”
“It is.”
Penfield consulted the deputy coroner before asking another question, and Norcross spent his time inspecting the spectators who lounged about the court room. He wondered if they had come only to hear the evidence in the inquest on James Patterson, or if they were the habitués of the place. He had heard of the morbidly curious who haunted the scenes of crime and the Morgue, and the dress and deportment of the majority of the people in the room indicated they were from the poorer classes. A few women sat in one corner, and Norcross was surprised to find Lois McLane occupying a chair near them. She was evidently not to be called as a witness.
“Professor Norcross,” the coroner turned back to the witness chair. “Did you hear the closing of the folding doors to the dining room?”
Norcross smiled. “I did not hear them being shut, but they were closed by the butler at my direction shortly after we entered the dining room,” he said. “Madame Takasaki, wife of the Japanese attaché, complained of being cold, and as she sat in a direct draft with the opening and closing of the pantry door, I had the folding doors closed at once.”
“When did you last see Mr. James Patterson?”
“At the front door of the Ogden house as he stood talking with Miss Ethel Ogden.”