“Was Mr. Turnbull a frequent visitor at your house?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Was he engaged to your daughter Helen?”
“No.” McIntyre's denial was prompt and firmly spoken. Penfield and Kent, from his new seat nearer the platform, watched the colonel narrowly, but learned nothing from his expression.
“I have heard otherwise,” observed the coroner dryly.
“You have been misinformed,” McIntyre's manner was short. “I would suggest, Mr. Coroner, that you confine your questions and conjectures to matters pertinent to this inquiry.”
Penfield flushed as one of the jurors snickered, but he did not repeat his previous question, asking instead, “Was there good feeling between you and Mr. Turnbull?”
“I never quarreled with him,” replied McIntyre. “I really saw little of him as, whenever he called at the house, he came to see one or the other of my daughters, or both.”
“When did you last see Mr. Turnbull?” inquired Penfield.
“He was at the house on Sunday and I had quite a talk with him,” McIntyre leaned back in his chair and regarded the neat crease in his trousers with critical eyes. “I last saw Turnbull going out of the street door.”