“Give bond!” Wyndham started. “By Jove! I had better return home; Noyes will need me to go on his bond. See you later, Mitchell,” and he stepped back into the road, then hesitated, his glance traveling to Thorne who sat gazing straight ahead of him. He was leaving Thorne in possession of the embankment.
Mitchell was about to call to Wyndham to wait for him when he suddenly recollected a message intrusted to his care.
“Your old servant, Cato, is looking for you, Dr. Thorne; and he asked me to tell you if we met that Philadelphia wants you on the long-distance telephone.”
Thorne was on his feet instantly. “Why didn’t you tell me that at once?” he began heatedly, then forgetting all else he hurried back to Thornedale. A second later Mitchell was alone, for, not pausing to exchange further remarks, Wyndham was beating a quick retreat to the Porter mansion. Mitchell smiled grimly.
“There’s not much love lost between Thorne and Wyndham,” he muttered. “Therefore it’s surprising that they sat here in positions which would seem to indicate amicable conversation. And what were they striving to find in this neighborhood without the other’s knowledge?” Mitchell scratched his head in his perplexity. “And why did they leave me here?” He considered the question, then brightened. “It’s because I’m a stranger in this locality and they imagine I won’t know what to look for.”
Mitchell made certain that Thorne had really returned to his home, then facing about he saw Wyndham moving swiftly across fields toward the Porter mansion. Losing no further time he knelt down and felt about under the myrtle leaves near where Thorne and Wyndham had sat. But his search only produced dirty hands, and mumbling an uncomplimentary adjective about the two men, Mitchell moved a few steps down the road to where the roadside, skirting the embankment, widened and hollowed out. The creeping myrtle grew there in profusion, and Mitchell stooped down every other second, as he moved slowly along, to feel about the ground. At the last attempt his hand encountered cold iron, and he dropped down on his knees and, drawing aside the leaves and vines, saw an old cannon lying on its side in the hollow. It was small and of obsolete pattern. It had sunk partly into the ground and was not visible unless searched for, as the myrtle leaves made an effective screen. The detective studied the cannon for several minutes, then an idea occurred to him and he plunged his hand down its muzzle. His fingers closed on a bundle, and dragging it forth he unfolded a large silk handkerchief—a glittering array of razors confronted him.
Mitchell squatted down and examined his prize—it was a razor set of finest steel. He paused to count each razor.
“Only five here,” he said aloud. “Each razor bears the day of the week,” looking at the tiny lettering on the back of the blade. “‘Friday’ is missing and”—turning them over—“‘Monday.’”
Laying down the set of razors, Mitchell drew from his pocket the razor found on the bed near Brainard’s dead body. It bore the inscription “Monday,” and by its make and shape was the missing razor from the set. Mitchell looked at it as if hypnotized.
“Which one, Thorne or Wyndham, secreted these razors in the cannon?” he said. “They were both searching for something on this spot. Am I running with the hare as well as with the hounds?”