“Not a chance of the latter.” Mitchell spoke with absolute confidence. “I’ve examined every lock and bolt on the doors and windows; not one is broken or out of order, and both the butler and footman declare all windows and doors were locked on the ground floor yesterday morning as usual. Take it from me, doctor, no one broke into that house to murder Brainard. No one except the dinner guests and Mrs. Porter’s household knew Brainard was spending the night there. I tell you,” emphasizing his words by striking the table with his clenched fist, “it was an inside job.”
“It would seem so,” acknowledged Thorne, who had listened closely to Mitchell’s statement. “Were you at the Porters’ last night, Mitchell?”
“No, I had to go in to Washington, but I left Pope there, and I returned early this morning and sent Pope in to Alexandria to get some breakfast and bring me my share. He’s never appeared.” Mitchell smiled ruefully. “But for you, doctor, I’d have fared badly. I greatly appreciate your hot breakfast,” he added, as he rose somewhat awkwardly and pushed back his chair.
Thorne was slower in rising from the table than his guest.
“Make this house your headquarters, Mitchell, while investigating Brainard’s murder,” he suggested hospitably. “The nearest road-house is five miles away. Should you require a meal—a telephone—a quiet moment—come here.”
The detective looked gratified. “Mighty thoughtful of you, sir,” he said. “And I accept. The Porter house is out of the beaten track, and frankly—” He paused as they reached the large hall which did duty also as a living-room; at least such was the impression gained by Mitchell as he glanced inquiringly around, for the negro boy had taken him into the dining-room through a short passage leading from a side door, and he had not seen the front of the house before.
The staircase in the hall was partly concealed by the stone fireplace and huge chimney about which it was built; deep window seats, comfortable lounging-chairs, a few tables, tiger skins, and other fur rugs, added to the hall’s homelike, comfortable appearance, while guns, moose and deer heads and other hunting trophies hung on the walls.
Suddenly Mitchell became conscious of his prolonged silence and that Thorne was waiting courteously for him to continue his remark.
“Frankly,” he commenced again, “I think the mystery will be solved and the murderer apprehended within forty-eight hours. And in that case, doctor, I’ll not trespass long on your hospitality.”
“Come over whenever you care to,” exclaimed Thorne. “I’ll tell Cato to make you comfortable if I am not here.”