“Is your son improving?”
“Yes, thank God!” Mrs. Porter’s eyes shone with a softer light and her voice shook. “Dr. Noyes and time will work wonders in his condition. I”—she paused and steadied her voice—“I have every confidence in Dr. Noyes.”
Coroner Black bowed. “We will not keep you longer, madam; but before you leave kindly examine this razor and tell us if you can identify it.”
“I will look at it, certainly.” It took her a second or two to disentangle her lorgnette chain from a tassel on her gown, then raising her glasses she stared at the blood-stained article. “To the best of my knowledge I have not seen it before,” she announced, rising, and at a sign from the coroner retreated toward the hall door, hardly responding to the foreman’s curt nod.
Bidding her a courteous good afternoon, Coroner Black opened the door and waited for her to pass into the hall, then stepped after her in time to see her pause and draw back into an alcove as Dr. Beverly Thorne approached them. If Dr. Thorne observed the latent air of hostility and discourtesy in her bearing there was no indication of it in his unruffled manner as he greeted the coroner.
“Sorry to be late, Black,” he said. “But an important case—” as he spoke he removed his overcoat and handed it and his hat to the attentive footman. “Do you wish me to testify now?”
“No. I want you here in your capacity of ‘J. P.,’” responded the coroner. “In other words, look, listen and—note.” The last word was added as he held the library door ajar before throwing it wide open. “Murray, request Mr. Hugh Wyndham to come to the library.”
Thorne exchanged a low-toned word with McPherson and several of the jurors before slipping into a large wing chair which partly concealed his presence. Hugh Wyndham had evidently been awaiting the summons, for he followed hard upon the heels of the footman and stepped briskly into the library. The preliminaries were quickly gone through with, and Wyndham, while waiting for the coroner to question him, occupied his time in inspecting his companions, and his eyes contracted slightly at sight of Beverly Thorne, who sat gazing idly at the log fire which blazed in the stone fireplace, and added greatly to the picturesqueness and comfort of the well proportioned room.
“State your full name and occupation, Mr. Wyndham,” requested the coroner, resuming his seat.
“Hugh Wyndham, stock broker, just now not connected with any firm,” he added by way of explanation. “Since the failure in November of the banking house of Mullen Company with which I was connected I have been residing with my aunt, Mrs. Lawrence Porter.”