ster?" he asked.

"My father, Colonel McIntyre; our house guest, Mrs. Louis C. Brewster,
and five servants," she replied. "Grimes, the butler; Martha, our maid;
Jane, the chambermaid; Hope, our cook; and Thomas, our second man; the
chauffeur, Harris, the scullery maid, and the laundress do not stay at
night."

"Who were at home beside yourself on Monday night and early Tuesday
morning?"

"My father and Mrs. Brewster; I believe the servants were in also,
except Thomas, who had asked permission to spend the night in
Baltimore."

"Miss McIntyre?" Coroner Penfield put the next question in an impressive
manner. "On discovering the burglar why did you not call your father?"

"My first impulse was to do so," she answered promptly. "But on leaving
the library I passed the window, saw the policeman, and called him in."
She shot a keen look at the coroner, and added softly, "The policeman
was qualified to make an arrest; my father would have had to summon one
had he been there."

"Quite true," acknowledged Penfield courteously. "Now, Miss McIntyre,
why did the prisoner so obligingly walk straight into a closet on your
arrival in the library?"

"I presume he was looking for a way out of the room and blundered into
it," she explained. "There are seven doors opening from our library;
the prisoner may have heard me approaching, become confused, and walked
through the wrong door."

"That is quite plausible--with an ordinary bona-fide burglar," agreed
Penfield. "But was not Mr. Turnbull acquainted with the architectural
arrangements of your house?"

"He was a frequent caller and an intimate friend," she said, with
dignity. "As to his power of observation and his bump of locality I
cannot say. The library was but dimly lighted."

"Miss McIntyre," Penfield spoke slowly. "Were you aware of the real
identity of the burglar?"

"I had no suspicion that he was not what he appeared," she responded.
"He said or did nothing after his arrest to give me the slightest
inkling of his identity."

Penfield raised his eyebrows and shot a look at the deputy coroner
before going on with his examination.

"You knew Mr. Turnbull intimately, and yet you did not recognize him?"
he asked.

"He wore an admirable disguise." Helen touched her lips with the tip of
her tongue; inwardly she longed for the glass of ice water which she saw
standing on the reporters' table. "Mr. Turnbull's associates will tell
you that he excelled in amateur theatr