“How’s that, doctor?”
“Oh, in my capacity of justice of the peace I’ve had to fine him for speeding,” responded Thorne. “I believe Noyes was with him on one of these occasions, but he stayed out in the motor car.”
“I wonder whose motor Noyes used to leave the Porters’ early yesterday morning,” mused Mitchell. “Pshaw! there’s little use in speculating along that line. We’ve proved his alibi was true.”
“Indeed? You mean—”
“That a cipher cablegram was telephoned out to him from New York yesterday morning between two and three, and if Mrs. Porter’s testimony is to be relied on—and I see no reason to doubt it now—Noyes must have made straight for New York and is aboard the S. S. St. Louis, of the American Line. She sailed for Liverpool, and I’ve wirelessed out, but haven’t received an answer from the ship.”
“So that clears Noyes,” commented Thorne.
“Yes, I suppose it does,” but Mitchell’s tone was doubtful. “It doesn’t explain Miss Millicent Porter’s curious behavior at the inquest. Judging by her manner and her testimony, she believes Noyes guilty.”
“Miss Porter was in a very hysterical state, hardly accountable for her actions.” Thorne paused and examined his nicotine-stained fingers with interest. “Have you unearthed any evidence against Hugh Wyndham?”
“Well”—Mitchell hesitated, and shot a sidelong glance at his host—“nothing tangible against him—but if we eliminate Noyes it’s got to be Wyndham.”
Before answering, Thorne refilled his coffee-cup. “Wyndham—or an outsider,” he said.