“No one in the Porter household admits having seen that razor before,” was Thorne’s only comment.
“Sure, they ain’t going to give each other away.”
Thorne straightened up and looked at the detective. “Do you mean to imply a conspiracy?”
“No, not a conspiracy to kill Brainard,” Mitchell hastened to explain. “Only an endeavor on the part of Mrs. Porter and her daughter, Millicent, to shield the guilty man.”
Thorne reached over and rang the small silver bell, then replaced it on the table. “More coffee, Cato,” he directed, and turned again to Mitchell as the servant disappeared with the pot. “And who is the guilty man?”
“Frankly, I’m not quite sure,” admitted Mitchell, grinning. “But as there are only two men in the house, not counting the butler, footman, chauffeur, and two gardeners, I hardly anticipate difficulty in narrowing the hunt down to one.”
“And the two men are—”
“Dr. Alan Noyes and Hugh Wyndham.”
Thorne opened his cigar-case and offered it to Mitchell, then helped himself and placed a box of matches on an ash-tray conveniently before his guest.
“Dr. Alan Noyes and Hugh Wyndham,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Mitchell, you have overlooked a member of the family in your list.”