“It was no trouble,” replied Thorne brusquely; sensitive as he was to his neighbors’ dislike of him, he was quick to resent what he construed to be a touch of patronage in Wyndham’s manner.
An awkward pause followed as each man waited for the other to walk on. Wyndham was a poor hand at manufacturing small talk; he did not care to discuss with anyone whom Mrs. Porter disliked intensely the happenings of the week, yet Bruce Brainard’s murder and its attendant mystery were uppermost in his mind, and he could think of nothing else to speak about. Thorne, watching him closely, embarrassed him still further by remaining obstinately silent. They could not stand by the roadside contemplating each other for the remainder of the morning, but Wyndham was determined not to leave until Thorne did.
“Suppose we sit down,” suggested Thorne finally. “We might as well be comfortable while enjoying good cigarettes.” And he threw himself on the ground and lolled back against the embankment.
Wyndham reluctantly followed suit. He was in a fever of impatience to test out his theory; had Millicent really secreted the razors in the old place in which as a child she had hidden her toys? He could not start his investigations until it pleased Thorne to depart.
Three minutes, five minutes passed, and Wyndham regarded the wireless apparatus on the Porter house in glum silence, determined not to speak first, but a sudden rustling of the myrtle leaves by his side attracted his attention and he discovered Thorne running his riding crop in and out among the myrtle. Wyndham’s slight grip on self-control vanished utterly, and, disdaining subterfuge, he slipped his walking stick under the leaves and instantly the two pieces of wood knocked together and clung, almost like rapiers feeling the strength of opponents before making a deadly thrust. Suddenly the frail cane snapped and Wyndham withdrew the bit he still held.
“Sorry,” said Thorne coolly. “Let me look for the other end of your stick.”
“Don’t bother.” Wyndham’s utterance was husky with anger. “The loss of the stick is no matter, but—” He stopped short as Detective Mitchell came up to them; both he and Thorne had been too intent upon watching each other to notice his approach.
Mitchell’s sense of humor was highly entertained by the tableau before him; for Thorne and Wyndham both looked heated and displeased in spite of their efforts to maintain an attitude of calm indifference. The detective could understand their quarreling, but why they sat by the roadside, resting lazily back against an embankment at some distance from each other, and each presenting the appearance of having used physical exertion, was beyond him.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, looking from one to the other.
“Smoking,” responded Wyndham; he did not relish the detective’s presence. “Have one?” extending his depleted case, and Mitchell accepted a cigarette. He took his time lighting it, while covertly watching the two men, and his interest deepened as he saw Thorne’s hands moving apparently aimlessly through the myrtle leaves. A look at Wyndham showed him doing the same thing.