“That is what your son claims,” answered Murray.
“Why did you kill him? You had seen him at my house many times before?” Mrs. Porter sat down in the nearest chair; she was weak from nervous strain and its reaction.
“Why did I kill Bruce?” Murray cleared his throat. “We had worked together years ago at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, and he was the only man living who knew something of my subsequent career.” Murray’s handcuffs jingled as he moved uneasily. “But Brainard never penetrated my disguise until Monday night when I assisted him into the library. He had overheard Miss Millicent’s quarrel with Dr. Noyes, and it brought on some sort of an attack. I was in my shirt sleeves, and in helping him inside the library he tore my sleeve and saw a tattoo mark which he had made on my arm while we were working together. He knew my record up to ten years ago. I told him that I had reformed and was trying to live a different life; and he promised to give me a chance, but I could see by his manner that he was planning to give Mrs. Porter a tip as to my real character.”
“I hardly think I would have believed him,” affirmed Mrs. Porter faintly. “You have been a model servant all these years, Murray.”
Murray looked gratified. “I flatter myself I played my part well, and in my leisure hours I fitted up the cabin and perfected a wonderful counterfeit.”
“You did,” agreed the Secret Service agent, “but you slipped up when you lost Miss Deane’s bag in the street car.”
Murray shifted his position to look directly at Vera who stood somewhat behind Mrs. Porter and in the shadow of a high-back chair.
“It wasn’t Miss Deane’s bag,” he admitted. “It was one I gave Cato—” Thorne started and gazed blankly at the counterfeiter.—“Don’t blame Cato, Dr. Thorne; he’s a faithful old darky with a fondness for collecting money. He believed me an eccentric inventor, and I paid him well for doing errands for me, as well as pledging him a share in my ‘patent rights,’ and it was by his aid that I got my material to the cabin. By the way,” addressing Anthony, “the first shot you heard at the cabin today was fired by one of your sentries higher up the ridge at Cato, and I suspect the old man’s running yet. I was looking in that direction while you were staring at the cabin and I saw the whole thing.”
“How did my card come to be in the bag, Murray?” asked Vera.
“I found it among some old papers in Brainard’s overcoat. I burned the papers at the cabin, but your card was inadvertently slipped into the bag with the money Cato was taking to— That doesn’t interest you,” with a sidelong glance at the detective, “so I won’t mention names.”