“Sure. That old farmer, Montagu, told me of seeing Miss Porter drop something in the well yesterday; but I haven’t had time to examine the well today.”
Thorne rose and, walking over to the table in the window, pulled open its drawer. “Here’s the cut,” he announced, taking out a square piece of metal caked with mud. “Montagu also told me, and I searched the well this afternoon with his aid.”
Mitchell took the cut and gingerly turned it over. “So Dorothy Deane told the truth,” he muttered, “and got ‘fired’ for it.” And as Thorne glanced up in surprise he briefly recounted the scene in the newspaper office. At its conclusion he rose. “I’m glad to have had this talk with you, doctor.”
“Don’t go,” protested Thorne. “I can easily put you up for the night.”
“Thanks, but I must relieve Pope who is keeping his eye on the Porter house. Let me know if you see anyone up in the attic at the Porters’ tonight sending wireless messages.”
“All right, I will.” Thorne accompanied the detective into the living-room and assisted him into his overcoat. “Drop in tomorrow, Mitchell; I’m always glad to see you,” he said cordially.
“I’ll come, doctor; good night,” and Mitchell strode through the doorway and up the brick walk.
Thorne watched him out of sight, then closed the hall door and returned to the dining-room. He stopped to pull down the window shades, first taking an exhaustive look at the Porter mansion, whose dark windows showed indistinctly in the pale moonlight. Thorne next turned his attention to the neglected cut of Millicent Porter. Barely glancing at it, he flung it back in the drawer and walked over to the table and poured out another highball.
“To Vera!” he said aloud, holding up the glass, then lowered it without tasting its contents, while his eyes contracted with sudden pain. “Bah!” he ejaculated, and, replacing the glass on the tray, he stepped to the door and looked into the dark pantry.
“Cato,” he called, removing his coat, “Cato!”