“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.