“I am seeking information to clear up the mystery surrounding Brainard’s death,” he said roughly. “If it involves you, so much the worse—for you.”
“Tut! No threats are necessary,” broke in Thorne. “You go too far, Mitchell,” meeting the detective’s stony glare with composure. Then he turned courteously to Noyes. “You and Miss Deane are the only ones known to have been up and about this house on Monday night, between midnight and early morning; and we are seeking to learn from every source the identity of the third person who was also up and about—”
“A third person?” Noyes looked at him, startled. “What third person do you refer to?”
“The murderer,” dryly. “The quest sifts down to you and Miss Deane, doctor; Miss Deane has cleared herself of suspicion”—with emphasis—“while you—”
“Have not.” Noyes eyed his inquisitors with sharp intentness. “Kindly state your reasons for intimating that I killed a man whom I only met for the first time on Monday evening—barely ten hours before he was found murdered in his bed.”
“It’s a bit unusual to give reasons,” said Mitchell dubiously, but a nod from Thorne reassured him, and he continued, more quickly: “You admit you were up all night Monday, doctor; you disappeared early Tuesday morning without leaving word how or where you were going; you won’t tell us where you spent the past few days; and you haven’t told us what brings you back to this house today.”
“Surely, the fact of my voluntary return clears me of all suspicion,” argued Noyes heatedly.
“Not necessarily,” retorted Thorne. “Your actions lead us to suppose one of two motives inspired you to disappear so promptly Tuesday morning before the discovery of Brainard’s murder. Don’t interrupt,” as Noyes moved restlessly. “Either you were guilty or you were seeking to protect the guilty party.” Noyes sat rigidly in his chair, his expression blank as Thorne paused and scanned him narrowly. “Now, doctor, which is it?”
Thorne’s question did not receive an immediate response, and the detective assumed a self-congratulatory air as he waited for Noyes to speak, but Thorne, never taking his eyes from the Englishman, waited with concealed anxiety for his next words. They were slow in coming; apparently Noyes was feeling his way.
“Sifted down to bed-rock, you have nothing against me except an unavoidable absence of body at the time Brainard’s murder was discovered. My so-called ‘disappearance’ was but a coincidence,” said Noyes finally, and he looked at Thorne. “I understand you are a surgeon.”