“Won't you hold an autopsy, Ferguson?” asked Clymer, breaking his long silence.
“No, sir, we never do when the cause of death is apparent,” the detective bowed to Coroner Penfield. “Isn't that so, Coroner?”
Penfield nodded. “Unless the condition of the body indicates foul play or the relatives specially request it, we do not perform autopsies,” he answered. “What has happened here?” and he gazed about with quickened interest.
“Mr. Turnbull, who masqueraded as a burglar on a wager with Miss McIntyre died suddenly from angina pectoris,” explained the deputy marshal.
“Just a case of death from natural causes,” broke in Rochester. “Please write out a permit for me to remove Turnbull's body, Dr. Penfield.”
Helen McIntyre took a step forward. Her eyes, twice their accustomed size, shone brightly, in contrast to her dead white face. Carefully avoiding her sister's glance she addressed the coroner.
“I must insist,” she began and stopped to control her voice. “As Mr. Turnbull's fiancee, I—” she faltered again. “I demand that an autopsy be held to determine the cause of his death.”
CHAPTER III. THE ROOM WITH THE SEVEN DOORS
Mrs. Brewster regarded her surroundings with inward satisfaction. It would have taken a far more captious critic than the pretty widow to find fault with the large, high-ceilinged room in which she sat. The handsome carved Venetian furniture, the rich hangings and valuable paintings on the walls gave evidence of Colonel McIntyre's artistic taste and appreciation of the beautiful. Mrs. Brewster had never failed, during her visit to the McIntyre twins, to examine the rare curios in the carved cabinets and the tapestries on the walls, but that afternoon, with one eye on the clock and the other on her embroidery, she sat waiting in growing impatience for the interruption she anticipated.