“Your full name?” inquired Coroner Penfield as Barclay seated himself in the witness chair.
“Julian Barclay.”
“Your occupation?”
Barclay’s fingers, which were beating a noiseless tattoo on the side of his chair, suddenly stiffened, but his voice was tranquil as he answered the coroner.
“I write,” he said. “And spend most of my time knocking about the world looking for material.”
“And your legal residence, Mr. Barclay?”
“I have none; I am not a voter,” smiled Barclay. “Sometimes I winter in Cairo, sometimes in China.”
“And your reasons for being in Washington this winter?”
“I came to visit my cousin, Mrs. Walter Ogden, and her husband. I have been with them nearly a month now.”
There was a momentary silence as Coroner Penfield sorted the papers on his desk, then he turned again to Barclay. “At the dinner last night, Mr. Barclay, were you sitting with your back to the drawing room doors?”