Mrs. Porter, rising suddenly, intervened. “Stop, Mr. Mitchell; if you insult Miss Deane I shall have my servants eject you,” she said, and her slow, level tones warned the detective that he must not go too far in his heckling tactics. But before he could resume questioning Vera the library door, which she had left ajar on entering, was pushed open and Mrs. Hall came into the room.
“I couldn’t help overhearing what has just been said,” she began, ignoring Mrs. Porter’s indignant glare. “I was on my way to the pantry to get some bouillon for Miss Porter when I heard you talking.” She looked meaningly at Vera. “I’ve held my peace, Miss Deane, out of kindness to you; but now that Dr. Noyes is accused of killing Mr. Brainard it’s time for me to tell the detectives what I know about you.”
Vera gazed at her in amazement too deep for expression, while Mitchell, his eyes shining with excitement, stepped from behind the table.
“Go on, Mrs. Hall,” he said encouragingly. “Tell me everything.”
“I will.” Mrs. Hall paused dramatically. “On Tuesday morning about four o’clock I was awakened by hearing someone moving about in the dressing-room which connects our bedroom with Mr. Porter’s. I got up and looked through the partly open door and was surprised to see Miss Deane slipping on a fresh white skirt, while before her stretched over the stationary washstand was another skirt on which were bloodstains.” A low cry from Mrs. Porter interrupted her, and Mrs. Hall paused, to continue more rapidly as she met Vera’s indignant gaze.
“There was something secretive in Miss Deane’s air that stopped my impulse to ask her what she was about, and I went at once by way of the hall to Mr. Porter’s bedroom, thinking perhaps he might have had a hemorrhage; but I found him lying as usual, apparently asleep. I did not then know that Mr. Brainard was in the next bedroom. Thinking Miss Deane had had a nosebleed I went back to my room and to bed, as I had not been well the day before and needed rest. Some time later Miss Deane came in carrying a skirt in her hand. Hanging it up in the closet, she returned to Mr. Porter’s bedroom.”
“What happened after that?” prompted Mitchell as she stopped.
“I got out of bed and went over to the closet and examined the white skirt which Miss Deane had hung there a few minutes before. The bloodstains had been carefully removed with the aid of cornstarch, and a hot iron passed over the skirt. There is an electric iron and battery for our use in the dressing-room,” she supplemented. “The white skirt bore Miss Deane’s initials inside the belt.”
“Why have you not told all this before?” asked Mrs. Porter, staring at Mrs. Hall with intense dislike discernible.
“I waited, hoping that Miss Deane would voluntarily explain her connection with the murder of Mr. Brainard.” Mrs. Hall moved uneasily; she was not pleased with the rôle Fate had cast for her, but a growing jealousy, fostered by envy, kept her to her determination to tell all she surmised against Vera Deane. “As Miss Deane has not done so, and is sheltering herself behind the arrest of an innocent man—”