“Craig said a little time elapsed,” went on Dorothy, and her voice sounded strained and harsh in the tense stillness. “Then the night light in Brainard’s bedroom was augmented by a powerful flashlight standing on the bed-table, and Craig saw the bed and Bruce lying in it with distinctness; he also saw a figure crouching by the bed, one hand groping for the razor which lay near Brainard. The next instant there was a sharp struggle and the murderer, straightening up, turned as if to listen, and faced the mirror— Don’t try to escape, Murray.”
The footman, edging toward the door, before which stood the Secret Service operative, swallowed hard and sat down.
“The game’s up,” he acknowledged insolently. “Well, which is going to claim the honor of arresting ‘Gentleman Charlie’—the Secret Service or Detective Headquarters? Don’t all speak at once, gentlemen,” and his jeering laugh awoke the others from their stupor.
CHAPTER XXIII
OUT OF THE MAZE
WITH a bound Detective Mitchell was by the footman’s side; a click, and handcuffs dangled from his wrists. It seemed a useless precaution, as Murray evinced no desire to be troublesome but sat and regarded them with a sardonic grin.
“What’s the charge?” he demanded, ignoring Anthony’s presence at his other elbow.
“The murder of Bruce Brainard on Tuesday morning,” responded the detective. “I warn you that anything you say will be used against you.”
“Thanks.” Murray grinned again. “Between Miss Dorothy and Mr. Craig you’ve got evidence enough to convict me.”
Mrs. Porter, who had been gazing at the pseudo-footman in horrified amazement, found her voice.
“Do you mean to say that you killed my guest, Bruce Brainard?” she demanded.