“Stop!” Wyndham held up an imperative hand. “You must not reproach yourself. Bruce Brainard deserved what he got. I tell you he did—” noting her expression. “It was justifiable homicide.”
CHAPTER X
THE BLACK-EDGED CARD
THE hall clock was just striking three on Thursday afternoon when Murray stopped before the room occupied jointly by Mrs. Hall and Vera and rapped smartly on the closed door. It was opened by Vera.
“You are wanted at the telephone, miss,” the footman announced, and she stepped into the hall.
“Who wants me, Murray?”
“The party wouldn’t give his name.”
“Oh!” Vera’s footsteps lagged. “Did you recognize the voice?”
“No, miss. Shouldn’t wonder if it’s another ’tec,” he added gloomily. Two whole days had passed and Mrs. Porter had not inquired for his state of health, and even Vera had failed him as a confidante for his latest symptoms; truly his world was out of joint. “I asked him for his message and he said he had to speak to you personally.”
A second “Oh!” slipped from Vera, then she went downstairs in thoughtful silence and was proceeding toward the library when Murray, of whose presence she had grown oblivious, addressed her.
“I hopes, miss, you don’t hold yesterday’s doings in Mr. Brainard’s room against me,” he said earnestly. “I feel very badly about it—very.”