“Yes.” Vera’s gaze did not shift and her voice was steady. “Mr. Hugh Wyndham told me of the rumored engagement.”
“Hugh!” Mrs. Porter raised her hands to her temples in bewilderment. “Did Hugh know that Dorothy was the wife of Bruce Brainard?”
“Yes.” Vera’s cold hands closed convulsively over the chair back against which she was leaning. “Dorothy was honest with him, Mrs. Porter.”
“Poor Hugh!” exclaimed Mrs. Porter, her eyes filling with tears. “He loves her devotedly.”
Mitchell moved impatiently. “Miss Deane, I want your full attention,” he announced brusquely. “You have asserted that Bruce Brainard committed suicide. Where did he get the razor?”
Vera paused; should she speak of the razor which Millicent had dropped in her flight from the house the night before? After all, had Millicent dropped it? Was it fair to involve Millicent until she had first had an opportunity to explain?
Mitchell repeated his question with more emphasis: “Where did Brainard get the razor?”
“I don’t know.”
The detective moved closer. “Your theory is good, but it doesn’t hold water,” he declared. “You recognized Bruce Brainard as your sister’s husband; you knew of his despicable conduct to your sister; you had just heard that he considered himself engaged to Miss Millicent Porter, in spite of the fact that the law courts would hold him legally married to your sister.” Vera stirred uneasily. “You had Bruce Brainard here at your mercy—and Mrs. Hall saw you, nearly two hours before you admitted discovering the murder, removing bloodstains from your dress. Oh, come, you might as well confess—and claim the leniency of the court.”
“I will claim nothing but fair play,” cried Vera hotly. “I am innocent. I did not kill Bruce Brainard, much as I loathed and despised him.”