“No.” Wyndham examined it with care and then held up the razor so that all could see it. “It evidently belongs to a set, one to be used every day in the week—this particular razor is marked Monday—”
“And today is Tuesday,” commented the foreman of the jury. The juror nearest him nudged him to be quiet, and the coroner resumed his examination.
“To your knowledge, Mr. Wyndham, does anyone in this household own a set of razors such as you describe?” he demanded.
“No.” Wyndham’s monosyllable rang out emphatically and his eyes met the coroner’s squarely. “Personally, I use an ordinary razor. Can I send for it?”
“Certainly,” and the coroner turned to McPherson, who rose.
“You will find my razor in the top drawer of my bureau; Murray, the footman, will show you my room,” explained Wyndham. “At the same time Murray can get the razor belonging to my cousin, Craig Porter. The footman shaves him,” he supplemented, “using a Gillett safety razor.”
“The footman is waiting in the hall,” added Coroner Black, and, barely waiting for the closing of the library door behind McPherson, he asked: “Was Mr. Brainard left-handed?”
“I don’t think so.” Wyndham considered the question. “No, I am sure that he was not. Once or twice I have played billiards with him, and I would certainly have observed any such peculiarity.”
A sudden movement on the part of Beverly Thorne brought the coroner’s attention to him.
“Do you care to question the witness, doctor?” he inquired and, as Thorne nodded, he explained hurriedly to Wyndham, whose brow had darkened ominously: “Dr. Thorne is a justice of the peace and is here to assist in this investigation at my request,” with quiet emphasis on the last words, and Wyndham thought better of hot-tempered objections. Thorne rose and approached the center table before speaking.