“When was Mr. Brainard taken ill?”
“During dinner last night. Dr. Noyes said it would be unwise for him to return to Washington, so Mrs. Porter suggested that he stay here all night, and I loaned him a pair of pajamas,” Wyndham, talking in short, jerky sentences, felt Thorne’s eyes boring into him.
“I should like to see Dr. Noyes,” began Thorne. “Where—”
“I’ll get him,” Wyndham broke in, hastening to the door; he disappeared out of the room just as Thorne picked up the razor and holding it between thumb and forefinger examined it with deep interest.
However, Wyndham was destined to forget his errand for, as he sped down the hall, a door opened and his aunt confronted him.
“Wait, Hugh.” Mrs. Porter held up an imperative hand. “Millicent has told me of poor Bruce’s tragic death, and Murray,” indicating the footman standing behind her, “informs me that Dr. Beverly Thorne has had the effrontery to force his way into this house—and at such a time.”
She spoke louder than customary under the stress of indignation, and her words reached Beverly Thorne as he appeared in the hall. He never paused in his rapid stride until he joined the little group, and his eyes did not fall before the angry woman’s gaze.
“It is only at such a time as this that I would think of intruding,” he said. “Kindly remember, madam, that I am here in my official capacity only. Before I sign a death certificate, an inquest must decide whether your guest, Bruce Brainard, committed suicide—or was murdered.”
CHAPTER III
TESTIMONY
THE day nurse, Mrs. Christine Hall, the severe lines of her face showing more plainly in the strong afternoon light and her forehead puckered in a frown, watched from the bedroom window the parking of automobiles on the lawn before “Dewdrop Inn,” with an ear attentively cocked to catch any sound from the bed where Craig Porter lay looking at the opposite wall with expressionless eyes. The mud-incrusted automobiles were little varied in shape or make, and the men who climbed out of them were mostly of middle age, and the seriousness of their manner as they greeted each other, or stood in groups chatting with late comers, impressed Nurse Hall. As the last one disappeared up the steps of the portico and out of her line of vision, she left the window and hurried to a closed door, but before she could turn the knob the door opened and Vera Deane stepped into the bedroom.