Mrs. Porter’s face was a study. “I shall never permit Dr. Thorne to treat my son,” she announced, in her excitement utterly forgetting that she had sent for Thorne the night before. “He is personally distasteful to me, and I have no confidence in his ability. I tell you, sheriff, by taking away Dr. Noyes you will be directly responsible for my son’s death.”
The sheriff moved uneasily. “Duty’s duty, ma’am,” he mumbled. “And,” suddenly suspicious, “I heard as how Mr. Craig was a great deal better.”
“He was”—Mrs. Porter wrung her hands, and the anguish in her eyes stirred a responsive chord in the sheriff’s breast; he had lost a son—“but Craig has had a relapse. Oh, my God! Why did Bruce Brainard ever come to this house!”
“Hush, aunt!” Wyndham shook her elbow slightly, and as she met his warning gaze she pulled herself together. “I will go bail for Dr. Noyes, sheriff; and he will stay with us until the next term of court.”
Sheriff Nichols looked dubious. “Well, come along with us to the court,” he directed. “I reckon perhaps the judge will accept your bond; but it’s sure to be a pretty stiff one.”
“I will sign the bond also,” put in Mrs. Porter swiftly. “I beg of you, sheriff, to hurry through the legal formalities and permit Dr. Noyes to return.”
“Sure I will, if the judge permits.” The sheriff backed toward the door. “Come along, doctor, and get your grip, we might as well tote it with us; save a return trip in case the judge decides against the bond.” He turned to bow to Mrs. Porter and walked into the hall.
Noyes led the way upstairs and paused outside his door. “Will you lend me your suitcase, Wyndham?” he asked. “I didn’t bring mine back with me yesterday.”
“Certainly.” And Wyndham hurried down the hall as Noyes and Sheriff Nichols entered the former’s bedroom. It was a large bright room, and as the surgeon moved backward and forward between his bureau and his bed carrying underclothes piece by piece the sheriff took in his surroundings in a comprehensive glance, then walked over to the bureau and pushed Noyes gently to one side.
“Sit over there, son,” he explained. “A man with one arm ain’t got no business trying to sort clothes.” And without losing further time, he smoothed out the garments and arranged them in a neat pile. In replacing several suits of pajamas, the sheriff disarranged the large sheet of white paper which covered the bottom of the drawer, and disclosed a photograph lying concealed under it. Nichols did not require a second glance to recognize Millicent Porter; he had seen her too often riding about the countryside, or motoring, to be mistaken. A flip of his finger, and the photograph lay face down, but no writing was on the reverse of the cardboard. The sheriff smoothed the white paper back into place, then rose and faced Noyes, who sat gazing drearily out of the window. His utter indifference upon the announcement of his arrest and his subsequent silence puzzled the sheriff; he was more accustomed to noisy protestations of innocence, or quarreling; a willing prisoner was a new sensation.