“I'm Parker of the Post,” the reporter introduced himself with a bow which included Clymer. “May I sit down?” laying his hand on the back of Mrs. Brewster's vacant chair.
“Surely; and won't you have an ice?” Barbara's hospitable instincts were aroused. “Here, waiter—”
“No, thanks; I haven't time,” protested Parker, slipping into the chair. “I just came from your house, Miss McIntyre; the butler said I might find you here, and as it was rather important, I took the liberty of introducing myself. We plan to run a story, featuring the dangers of masquerading in society, and of course it hinges on the death of Mr. Turnbull. I'm sorry”—he apologized as he saw Barbara wince. “I realize the topic is one to make you feel badly; but I promise to ask only few questions.” His smile was very engaging and Barbara's resentment receded somewhat.
“What are they?” she asked.
“Did you recognize Mr. Turnbull in his burglar's make-up when you confronted him in the police court?” Parker drew out copy paper and a pencil, and waited for her reply. There was a pause.
“I did not recognize Mr. Turnbull in court,” she stated finally. “His death was a frightful shock.”
“Sure. It was to everybody,” agreed Parker. “How about your sister, Miss Barbara; did she recognize him?”
“No.” faintly.
Parker showed his disappointment; he was not eliciting much information. Abruptly he turned to Clymer, whose prominent position in the financial world made him a familiar figure to all Washingtonians.
“Weren't you present in the police court on Tuesday morning also?” Parker asked.