“In spite of the fact that it was a wager over the dogs which brought about the whole situation?” remarked the coroner dryly.
Barbara flushed at his tone, then grew pale.
“I honestly forgot about the dogs,” she repeated. “Father sent them out to our country place Tuesday afternoon; they annoyed our—our guest, Mrs. Brewster.”
“In what way?”
“By barking—they are noisy dogs.”
“And yet they did not arouse the household when Mr. Turnbull broke into the house”—Coroner Penfield regarded her sternly. “How do you account for that?”
Barbara's right hand stole to the arm of her chair and clasped it with the same convulsive strength that she clung to the other chair arm. When she spoke her voice was barely audible.
“I can account for it in two ways,” she began. “If the dogs were accidentally locked in the cellar they could not possibly hear Mr. Turnbull moving about the house; if they were roaming about and scented him, they might not have barked because they would recognize him as a friend.”
“Were the dogs familiar with his step and voice?”
“Yes. Only last Sunday he played with them for an hour, and later in the afternoon took them for a walk in the country.”