“You take it to be murder?”
“No, no,” with unexpected vehemence, and Noyes eyed her sharply. “A man can nick himself with a razor on either side of his throat, and no one be able to tell whether the wound was self-inflicted or done by another with intent to kill.”
The twilight had deepened, and Noyes experienced difficulty in reading Vera’s expression.
“That does not seem to be the opinion of the deputy coroner, and he performed the autopsy,” Noyes said dryly. “He affirms that the wound could not have been self-inflicted.”
“But you are a surgeon,” broke in Vera impetuously. “What did you think when you saw the wound?”
Noyes regarded her with singular intentness. “You forget that I left this house before the discovery of Brainard’s death.”
“True, you were to sail on the St. Louis”—Vera never took her eyes from him. “The steamer has sailed, but you—are here.”
“A self-evident fact,” impatiently. “I missed the boat.”
“Oh!” The ejaculation was faint, but Noyes started and turned red.
“Enough of myself,” he commenced brusquely. “How is Craig Porter?”