“No, she had gone out some minutes before,” answered Murray, his voice slightly strained. “I went in to see Brainard just to talk things over with him. He was lying half asleep, and when Miss Millicent appeared I was waiting in one corner of the room. Brainard must have heard her entrance, for he looked at her, half terrified and half hypnotized. Finally, after staring at him, she dropped the razor on the bed and left the room. Then I crept over to the bed, and the sight of the razor put the devil into me. I knew Brainard would squeal on me as soon as he felt well enough to think things over; he would never believe that I had reformed, and my blood boiled at the prospect of arrest and losing the results of my work at the cabin and in Mrs. Porter’s town house. I got the razor—” He shuddered, and did not complete the sentence.
Mitchell stirred uneasily and eyed Murray askance. “When you found the cabin was in the hands of the Secret Service why didn’t you clear out instead of coming back here?” he demanded.
“Because it never dawned on me that Brainard’s murder could be traced to me,” admitted Murray; dejection as well as fear had crept into his manner. “I knew you would find no incriminating papers at the cabin, and old Cato is faithful—he would not have told on me. I could not bear to run away, in itself a confession of guilt, and leave my life work behind me.”
“So much for over-confidence,” commented Mitchell dryly. “Come along, Murray.”
Murray got to his feet slowly, and his bow to the company was not without a certain dignity. “Good-by, ma’am,” he said, addressing Mrs. Porter. “You’ve always treated me well during the seven years I’ve lived with you. Tell Mr. Craig I don’t bear him malice.” And he vanished through the door as Mrs. Porter, her overwrought feelings mastering her, fainted for the first time in her life.
An hour later Dorothy, speeding through the lower hall, was intercepted by Thorne.
“Will you please tell your sister that I would like to see her for a few minutes?” he said. “I will wait in the drawing-room.”
Without wasting words, Dorothy, a mischievous smile dimpling her cheeks, hurried upstairs. As she turned from delivering Thorne’s message to Vera she encountered Hugh Wyndham, who was waiting for her in his aunt’s boudoir.
“Dorothy”—Wyndham stood tall and straight before her—“Jacob served seven years for Rachel—the desire of his heart; how long must I serve for mine?”
Dorothy’s roguish smile, so long lost in the care and turmoil of her daily life, lit her charming face as she answered: