“Her object?” Wyndham’s thoughts turned reluctantly from Dorothy to what she was saying. “Oh, Millicent told me the house was stuffy and that she had a headache and needed air.”
“Is that all?” Dorothy’s relief was manifest. “She came into my room on her return and awoke me. When I questioned her as to where she had been her manner was so mysterious that I concluded she was hiding something.”
“Hiding something?” repeated Wyndham mechanically, as Mrs. Hall’s words recurred to him; Millicent in delirium stated that she had “hidden something”—could that something be the extra razors which the enterprising reporter in the morning newspaper hinted were secreted somewhere about the Porter homestead? The thought was startling.
In his preoccupation Wyndham hardly noticed that Dorothy had freed her hand and run up the staircase. He stared in front of him in deep thought for several minutes, then, his decision taken, he picked up his cane and hat and went outdoors.
Wyndham was totally unconscious of the beauty of the morning as he strode along, retracing the path by which he and Millicent had returned after their meeting at the foot of the embankment early that morning. Upon reaching the highway he kept to the public road, and as he approached the embankment he saw a man, at some distance beyond the point for which he was aiming, emerge from a break in the hedge separating Thornedale from the public road, and walk rapidly toward the embankment. Drawing closer to the newcomer Wyndham recognized Beverly Thorne and instinctively quickened his pace, and the two men arrived simultaneously at the embankment.
With a curt bob of his head and a mumbled “Good morning,” Wyndham made as if to continue his walk down the road, but turning his head quickly he saw Thorne had stopped and was carelessly swinging his riding crop up and down and thereby creating havoc in the creeping myrtle which covered the space between the road and the embankment.
Wyndham wheeled about and was by Thorne’s side in an instant. Suppose the surgeon inadvertently chanced upon Millicent’s hiding-place—for that his theory was right Wyndham had come to believe in his walk to the embankment. How Millicent had ever acquired possession of the razors could be investigated later; at the moment it was his business to prevent others, particularly Thorne, who must be familiar with that section of his land, from stumbling upon any evidence which might incriminate—
“Have a cigarette, Thorne,” he said, hastily producing his silver case. “Great day, isn’t it?”
Thorne eyed him in surprise, then, concealing a faint hesitancy, accepted a cigarette and also a proffered match. “Much obliged,” he said politely. “How is your cousin, Mr. Porter, this morning?”
“Better, much better.” Wyndham was watching his companion narrowly; he had only exchanged a few words with him on the few occasions they had met. “My aunt appreciated your coming so promptly in response to her message, and we were both sorry to put you to the trouble—”