“Did you attend the Grosvenor dance?” asked the coroner.
“No; the affair was only given for the debutantes of last fall and did not include married people,” she explained. “It was a warm night and Colonel McIntyre asked Mr. Benjamin Clymer, who was dining with him, and me, to go for a motor ride, leaving Barbara at the Grosvenors' en route. We did so, returning to the house about eleven o'clock, and sat talking until about midnight in the reception room, then Colonel McIntyre drove Mr. Clymer home, and I went to my room.”
“Were you awakened by any noises during the night?” inquired Penfield.
“No; I heard no noises.” Mrs. Brewster's charming smile was infectious.
“When did you first learn of the supposed burglary and the death of James Turnbull?”
“The McIntyre twins told me about the tragedy on their return from the police court,” answered Mrs. Brewster, and settled herself a little more comfortably in the witness chair.
“When you were in the reception room, Mrs. Brewster”—Penfield paused and studied his notes a second—“did you observe if the window was open or closed?”
“It was not open when we entered,” she responded. “But the air in the room was stuffy and at my request Mr. Clymer raised the window.”
“Did he close it later?”
She considered the question. “I really do not recall,” she admitted finally. Her eyes strayed toward the door through which she had entered, and Penfield answered her unspoken thought.