“Just one more question,” he said hurriedly. “Did you see the dogs on Monday night?”
“Yes. I heard them scratching at the door leading to the basement as I went upstairs, and so I turned around and went down and opened the door and let them run down into the cellar.”
Penfield snapped shut his notebook. “I am greatly obliged, Mrs. Brewster; we will not detain you longer.”
The morgue master stepped forward and helped the pretty widow down from the platform.
“Colonel McIntyre is here now,” he told the coroner.
“Ah, then bring him in,” and Penfield, while awaiting the arrival of the new witness, straightened the papers on his desk.
McIntyre looked straight ahead of him as he walked down the room and stood frowning heavily while the oath was being administered, but his manner, when the coroner addressed him, had regained all the suavity and polish which had first captivated Washington society.
“I have been a resident of Washington for about five years,” he said in answer to the coroner's question. “My daughters attended school here after their return from Paris, where they were in a convent for four years. They made their debut last November at our home in this city.”
“Were you aware of the wager between your daughter Barbara and James Turnbull?” asked Penfield.
“I heard of it Sunday afternoon but paid little attention,” admitted McIntyre. “My daughter Barbara's vagaries I seldom take seriously.”