The
MOVING FINGER

By NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN

D. APPLETON & COMPANY, NEW YORK

“Object—matrimony,” he retorted.

[Page [168]]

The
MOVING FINGER

BY
NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN
AUTHOR OF “THE NAMELESS MAN,” “I SPY,” “C. O. D.,”
“THE LOST DESPATCH,” “THE TREVOR CASE,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY
CHARLES L. WRENN

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON
1918

Copyright, 1918, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Copyright, 1918, by The Frank A. Munsey Company
Printed in the United States of America

TO
MR. AND MRS. THOMAS E. NEWBOLD
THIS YARN IS SPUN WITH INFINITE AFFECTION

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE MOVING FINGER

CHAPTER I
VISIONS

THE swish of starched skirts caused the man in the bed to roll slowly over, and for the first time patient and nurse regarded each other. The silence grew protracted.

“Well?” The man’s tone was husky and the short interrogation was almost lost among the pillows. He made a second attempt, and this time his voice carried across the room. “What—what do you want?”

The nurse’s eyes, pupils dilated, shifted from his white face to the glass in her outstretched hand, and the familiar sight of the medicine and her starched uniform drove away her temporary loss of composure.

“Here is your medicine,” she announced, and at the sound of her low, traînante voice the patient clutched the bedclothes spasmodically. He made no effort to take the glass.

“Put it on the table,” he directed and, reading correctly the look that crept into her eyes, his voice rose again harshly. “Put it down, I say—”

A rap at the closed hall door partly drowned his words, and without replying Nurse Deane placed the glass on the table by the bed, and a second later was looking out into the hall. She drew back at sight of a tall man standing somewhat away from the entrance to the room, then thinking better of her hesitancy she stepped into the hall and drew the door shut behind her.

“What is it, Mr. Wyndham?” she inquired.

“I came up to ask if there is anything I can do for you?” Hugh Wyndham moved over to her side, and Nurse Deane’s preoccupation prevented her becoming conscious of his scrutiny. “I think Noyes exceeded matters when he asked you to undertake the care of another patient.”

Vera Deane’s face lighted with one of her rare smiles. “Oh, no,” she protested. “We nurses are always glad to assist in emergencies. Dr. Noyes came in to see Mr. Porter and he explained that one of your aunt’s dinner guests had been taken ill, and requested me to make him comfortable for the night.”

“Still, with all you have to do for poor Craig it’s putting too much on you,” objected Wyndham. “Let me telephone into Washington for another night nurse, or, better still, call Nurse Hall.”

Vera laid a detaining hand on his arm. “Mrs. Hall was ill herself when she went off duty; she needs her night’s rest,” she said earnestly. “I assure you that I am quite capable of taking care of two patients.”

“It wasn’t that,” Hugh paused and reddened uncomfortably, started to speak, then, thinking better of his first impulse, added lamely, “I never doubted your ability, but—but—you’ve been under such a strain with Craig—”

“Mr. Porter is improving,” interrupted Vera swiftly. “And as my new patient is not seriously ill—”

“True,” Wyndham agreed, slightly relieved. “Just an attack of vertigo—Noyes and I got him to bed without calling you.” He did not think it necessary to add that he had stopped the surgeon sending for her. “Noyes said you need only look in once or twice during the night and see that he is all right.” A thought occurred to him, and he added hastily: “Perhaps I can sit up with him—”

“That will hardly be necessary.” Vera’s tone of decision was unmistakable. “I thank you for the offer,” raising grave eyes to his. Wyndham bowed somewhat stiffly and moved away. “Just a moment, Mr. Wyndham; what is the name of my new patient?”

Wyndham’s glance was a mixture of doubt and admiration.

“He is Bruce Brainard, a well-known civil engineer,” he said slowly, halting by the head of the winding staircase. He looked thoughtfully over the banisters before again addressing her. “Brainard is just back from South America. I had no idea my aunt and Millicent knew him so well, why”—in a sudden burst of confidence—“Brainard gave me to understand before dinner that he and Millicent were engaged. Let me know if I can assist you, Miss Deane. Good night,” and barely waiting to hear her mumbled reply he plunged down the stairs.

Vera Deane’s return to the sick room was noiseless. She found her patient lying on his side, apparently asleep, one arm shielding his face and leaving exposed his tousled iron-gray hair. Vera glanced at the empty medicine glass on the table by the bed, and a relieved sigh escaped her; evidently Bruce Brainard had obeyed Dr. Noyes’ instructions and swallowed the dose prepared for him.

Making no unnecessary sound Vera arranged the room for the night, screening the window so that a draught would not blow directly on Brainard; lighted a night light and, placing a small silver bell on the bed-table within easy reach of the patient, she turned out the acetylene gas jet and glided from the room.

Entering the bedroom next to that occupied by Bruce Brainard Vera smoothed the sheets for Craig Porter, lying motionless on his back, and made the paralytic comfortable with fresh, cool pillows; then taking a chair somewhat removed from the bed, she shaded her eyes from the feeble rays of the night light and was soon buried in her own thoughts. Dr. Noyes had made a professional call on Craig Porter earlier in the evening, and he had forbidden Mrs. Porter or her daughter going to the sick room after six o’clock.

As the night wore on sounds reached Vera of the departure of guests, and first light then heavy footsteps passing back and forth in the hall indicated that Mrs. Porter and her household were retiring for the night. At last all noise ceased, and Vera, lost in memories of the past, forgot the flight of time.

“Tick-tock, tick-tock”—Bruce Brainard’s dulled wits tried to count the strokes, but unavailingly; he had lost all track of time. He was only conscious of eyes glaring down at him. He dared not look up, and for long minutes lay in agony, bathed in profuse perspiration. His eyelids seemed weighed down with lead, but he could not keep his cramped position much longer, and in desperation his eyes flew open as he writhed nearer the bed-table. His breath came in easier gasps as he became aware that the large bedroom was empty, and he passed a feverish, shaking hand across his wet forehead. Pshaw! his imagination was running away with him. But was it?

Again he glimpsed eyes gazing at him from a corner of the room—eyes moving steadily nearer and nearer until even the surrounding darkness failed to hide their expression. A sob broke from Brainard, and his hand groped for the bell, only to fall palsied by his side.

Dawn was breaking and the faint, fresh breeze of early morning parted the curtains before a window and disclosed to an inquisitive snow robin a figure bending over a stationary washstand. Quickly the skilled fingers made a paste of raw starch and, spreading it gently over the stained linen, let it stand for a moment, then rinsed it in cold water. With great patience the operation was repeated until at last the linen, once more spotless, was laid across an improvised ironing-board, and an electric iron soon smoothed out each crease and wrinkle. Leaving every article in its accustomed place, the worker paused for an instant, then stole from the bathroom and through the silent house.

CHAPTER II
TRAGEDY

“RAT-A-TAT! Rat-a-tat-tat!”

The imperative summons on his bedroom door roused Hugh Wyndham. It seemed but a moment since he had fallen asleep, and he listened in uncomprehending surprise to the repeated drummings, which grew in volume and rapidity. His hesitancy was but momentary, however, and springing out of bed he seized a bathrobe, unlocked the door and jerked it open with such precipitancy that Vera Deane’s clenched fist expended its force on empty air instead of on the wooden panel. Her livid face changed the words on Wyndham’s lips.

“What’s happened?” he demanded. “Craig isn’t—?”

“No—no—not Mr. Porter”—in spite of every effort to remain calm Vera was on the point of fainting. Totally unconscious of her action she laid her hand in Wyndham’s, and his firm clasp brought a touch of comfort. “It’s B—Mr. Brainard. Come!” And turning, she sped down the hall, her rubber-heeled slippers making no more sound on the thick carpet than Wyndham’s bare feet. She paused before a partly opened door and, resting against the wall, her strength deserting her, she signed to her companion to enter the bedroom.

Without wasting words Wyndham dashed by the nurse and reached the foot of the bed; but there he stopped, and a horrified exclamation broke from him. Bruce Brainard lay on the once spotless white linen in a pool of blood which had flowed from a frightful gash across his throat.

Wyndham passed a shaking hand before his eyes and turned blindly toward the door and collided with Vera.

“Don’t come in,” he muttered hoarsely. “It’s no spectacle for a woman.” And as she drew back into the hall again he burst out almost violently: “God! Brainard can’t be dead, really dead?” He glared at her. “Why didn’t you go for Noyes instead of me? He’d know what to do.”

Vera shook her head. “Mr. Brainard was lifeless when I found him”—her voice gained steadiness as her years of training in city hospitals and still grimmer experiences in the American Hospital Corps abroad came to her aid, and she grew the more composed of the two. “I went first to summon Dr. Noyes—but his room was empty.”

“Empty!” echoed Wyndham dazedly. “At this hour?” and his glance roved about the hall, taking in the still burning acetylene gas jet at the far end of the hall, its artificial rays hardly showing in the increasing daylight. How could the household remain asleep with that ghastly tragedy so close at hand? He shuddered and turned half appealingly to Vera. “What’s to be done?”

“The coroner—”

“To be sure, the coroner”—Wyndham snatched at the suggestion. “Do you know his name?”

“No,” Vera shook her head, “but I can ask ‘Central.’ I presume the coroner lives in Alexandria.”

“Yes, yes.” Wyndham was in a fever of unrest, chafing one hand over the other. “Then will you call him? I’ll wait here until you return.”

Vera did not at once move down the hall. “Had I not better awaken Mrs. Porter?” she asked.

“No, no,” Wyndham spoke with more show of authority. “I will break the news to my aunt when you get back. The telephone is in the library. Go there.”

He was doubtful if she heard his parting injunction for, hurrying to the stairway, she paused and moved as if to enter Mrs. Porter’s boudoir, the door of which stood ajar; then apparently thinking better of her evident intention, she went noiselessly downstairs and Wyndham, listening intently, detected the faint sound made by the closing of a door on the floor below. Not until then did he relax his tense attitude.

Stepping back into Brainard’s bedroom he closed the door softly and stood contemplating his surroundings, his eyes darting here and there until each detail of the large handsomely furnished bedroom was indelibly fixed in his mind.

There was no sign of a struggle having taken place; the two high-backed chairs and the lounge stood in their accustomed places; the quaint Colonial dresser near the window, the highboy against the farther wall, and the bed-table were undisturbed. Only the bed with its motionless burden was tossed and tumbled.

Wyndham hastily averted his eyes, but not before he had seen the opened razor lying on the sheet to the left of Brainard and just beyond the grasp of the stiffened fingers. Drawing in his breath with a hissing noise, Wyndham retreated to his post outside the door and waited with ever increasing impatience for the return of Vera Deane.

The noise of the opening and shutting of a door which had reached Wyndham, contrary to his deductions, had been made not by the one giving into the library, but by the front door. Vera Deane all but staggered out on the portico and leaned against one of the columns. The cold bracing air was a tonic in itself, and she drank it down in deep gulps, while her gaze strayed over the sloping lawn and the hills in the background, then across to where the Potomac River wound its slow way between the Virginia and Maryland shores. The day promised to be fair, and through the clear atmosphere she could dimly distinguish the distant Washington Monument and the spires of the National Capital snugly ensconced among the rolling uplands of Maryland.

The quaint atmosphere of a bygone age which enveloped the old Virginia homestead had appealed to Vera from the first moment of her arrival, and she had grown to love the large rambling country house whose hospitality, like its name, “Dewdrop Inn,” had descended from generation to generation. Mrs. Lawrence Porter had elected to spend the winter there instead of opening her Washington residence.

Three months had passed since Vera had been engaged to attend Craig Porter; three months of peace and tranquillity, except for the duties of the sick room; three months in which she had regained physical strength and mental rest, and now—

Abruptly turning her back upon the view Vera re-entered the front hall and made her way down its spacious length until she came to the door she sought. A draught of cold air blew upon her as she stepped over the threshold, and with a slight exclamation of surprise she crossed the library to one of the long French windows which stood partly open. It gave upon a side portico and, stepping outside, she looked up and down the pathway which circled the house. No one was in sight, and slightly perplexed she drew back, closed the window, and walked over to the telephone instrument which stood on a small table near by. Her feeling of wonderment grew as she touched the receiver—it was still warm from the pressure of a moist hand.

Vera paused in the act of lifting the receiver from its hook and glanced keenly about the library; apparently she was alone in the room, but which member of the household had preceded her at the telephone?

The old “grandfather” clock in one corner of the library was just chiming a quarter of six when a sleepy “Central” answered her call. It took several minutes to make the operator understand that she wished to speak to the coroner at Alexandria, and there was still further delay before the “Central” announced: “There’s your party.”

Coroner Black stopped Vera’s explanations with an ejaculation, and his excited intonation betrayed the interest her statement aroused.

“I can’t get over for an hour or two,” he called. “You say you have no physician—let me see! Ah, yes! Send for Beverly Thorne; he’s a justice of the peace as well as a physician. Tell him to take charge until I come;” and click went his receiver on the hook.

Vera looked dubiously at the telephone as she hung up the receiver. Pshaw! It was no time for indecision—what if an ancient feud did exist between the Thornes and the Porters, as testified by the “spite wall” erected by a dead and gone Porter to obstruct the river view from “Thornedale”! In the presence of sudden death State laws had to be obeyed, and such things as the conventions, aye, and feuds, must be brushed aside. Only two days before, when motoring with Mrs. Porter, that stately dame had indicated the entrance to “Thornedale” with a solemn inclination of her head and the statement that its present owner, Dr. Beverly Thorne, would never be received at her house. But Coroner Black desired his immediate presence there that morning! In spite of all she had been through, a ghost of a smile touched Vera’s lovely eyes as she laid aside the telephone directory and again called “Central.”

Five seconds, ten seconds passed before the operator, more awake, reported that there was no response to her repeated rings.

“Keep it up,” directed Vera, and waited in ever growing irritation.

“Well?” came a masculine voice over the wires. “What is it?”

“I wish to speak to Dr. Beverly Thorne.”

“This is Dr. Thorne at the telephone—speak louder, please.”

Vera leaned nearer the instrument. “Mr. Bruce Brainard has died suddenly while visiting Mrs. Lawrence Porter. Kindly come at once to Dewdrop Inn.”

No response; and Vera, with rising color, was about to repeat her request more peremptorily when Thorne spoke.

“Did Mr. Brainard die without medical attendance?” he asked.

It was Vera’s turn to hesitate. “I found him dead with his throat cut,” she stated, and the huskiness of her voice blurred the words so that she had to repeat them. This time she was not kept waiting for a reply.

“I will be right over,” shouted Thorne.

“Yes, I heard,” Millicent could hardly articulate.

As Vera rose from the telephone stand a sound to her left caused her to wheel in that direction. Leaning for support against a revolving bookcase stood Millicent Porter, and her waxen pallor brought a startled cry to Vera’s lips.

“Yes, I heard.” Millicent could hardly articulate, and her glance strayed hopelessly about the room. “I—I must go to mother.”

“Surely.” Vera laid a soothing hand on her shoulder. “But first take a sip of this,” and she poured out a glass of cognac from the decanter left in the room after the dinner the night before. She had almost to force the stimulant down the girl’s throat, then, placing her arm about her waist, she half supported her out of the room and up the staircase.

As they came into view Hugh Wyndham left his post by Brainard’s door and darted toward them. Millicent waved him back and shrank from his proffered hand.

“Not now, dear Hugh,” she stammered, reading the compassion in his fine dark eyes. “I must see mother—and alone.” With the false strength induced by the cognac she freed herself gently from Vera’s encircling arm and, entering her mother’s bedroom, closed the door behind her.

Wyndham and Vera regarded each other in silence. “Better so,” he muttered. “I confess I dreaded breaking the news to Aunt Margaret.” The gong in the front hall rang loudly and he started. “Who’s coming here at this hour?” he questioned, turning to descend the stairs.

“It is probably Dr. Thorne, the justice of the peace,” volunteered Vera, taking a reluctant step toward Brainard’s bedroom. “He said he would run right over.”

“Run over!” echoed Wyndham blankly. “Thorne? You surely don’t mean Beverly Thorne?”

“Yes.”

Wyndham missed a step and recovered his balance with difficulty just as a sleepy, half-dressed footman appeared in the hall below hastening to the front door. Wyndham continued to gaze at Vera as if not crediting the evidence of his ears. From below came the murmur of voices, then a man stepped past the bewildered servant and approached the staircase. Then only did Wyndham recover his customary poise.

“This way, Dr. Thorne,” he called softly, and waited while the newcomer handed his overcoat and hat to the footman and joined him on the stairs. Vera, an interested spectator, watched the two men greet each other stiffly, then turning she led the way into Brainard’s bedroom.

Neither man guessed the effort it cost Vera to keep her eyes turned on the dead man as with a tremor now and then in her voice she recounted how she had entered the bedroom to see her patient and had made the ghastly discovery.

“I then notified Mr. Wyndham,” she concluded.

“Did you visit your patient during the night?” questioned Thorne, never taking his eyes from the beautiful woman facing him.

“Yes, doctor, at half past one o’clock. Mr. Brainard was fast asleep.”

“And the remainder of the night—”

“I spent with my other patient, Mr. Craig Porter.” Vera moved restlessly. “If you do not require my assistance, doctor, I will return to Mr. Porter,” and barely waiting for Thorne’s affirmative nod, she slipped away, and resumed her seat in the adjoining bedroom halfway between the window and Craig Porter’s bedside.

From that vantage point she had an unobstructed view of the shapely head and broad shoulders of the young athlete whose prowess in college sports had gained a name for him even before his valor in the aviation corps of the French army had heralded him far and near. He had been taken from under his shattered aëroplane six months before in a supposedly dying condition, but modern science had wrought its miracle and snatched him from the grave to bring him back to his native land a hopeless paralytic, unable to move hand or foot.

As she listened to Craig Porter’s regular breathing Vera permitted her thoughts to turn to Beverly Thorne; his quiet, self-possessed manner, his finely molded mouth and chin and expressive gray eyes, had all impressed her favorably, but how account for his lack of interest in Bruce Brainard—he had never once glanced toward the bed while she was recounting her discovery of the tragedy. Why had he looked only at her so persistently?

Had Vera been able to see through lath and plaster, her views would have undergone a change. Working with a skill and deftness that aroused Wyndham’s reluctant admiration, Beverly Thorne made a thorough examination of the body and the bed, taking care not to disarrange anything. Each piece of furniture and the articles on tables, dresser, and mantel received his attention, even the curtains before the window were scrutinized.

“Has anyone besides you and Miss Deane been in this room since the discovery of the tragedy?” asked Thorne, breaking his long silence.

“No.”

“When was Mr. Brainard taken ill?”

“During dinner last night. Dr. Noyes said it would be unwise for him to return to Washington, so Mrs. Porter suggested that he stay here all night, and I loaned him a pair of pajamas,” Wyndham, talking in short, jerky sentences, felt Thorne’s eyes boring into him.

“I should like to see Dr. Noyes,” began Thorne. “Where—”

“I’ll get him,” Wyndham broke in, hastening to the door; he disappeared out of the room just as Thorne picked up the razor and holding it between thumb and forefinger examined it with deep interest.

However, Wyndham was destined to forget his errand for, as he sped down the hall, a door opened and his aunt confronted him.

“Wait, Hugh.” Mrs. Porter held up an imperative hand. “Millicent has told me of poor Bruce’s tragic death, and Murray,” indicating the footman standing behind her, “informs me that Dr. Beverly Thorne has had the effrontery to force his way into this house—and at such a time.”

She spoke louder than customary under the stress of indignation, and her words reached Beverly Thorne as he appeared in the hall. He never paused in his rapid stride until he joined the little group, and his eyes did not fall before the angry woman’s gaze.

“It is only at such a time as this that I would think of intruding,” he said. “Kindly remember, madam, that I am here in my official capacity only. Before I sign a death certificate, an inquest must decide whether your guest, Bruce Brainard, committed suicide—or was murdered.”

CHAPTER III
TESTIMONY

THE day nurse, Mrs. Christine Hall, the severe lines of her face showing more plainly in the strong afternoon light and her forehead puckered in a frown, watched from the bedroom window the parking of automobiles on the lawn before “Dewdrop Inn,” with an ear attentively cocked to catch any sound from the bed where Craig Porter lay looking at the opposite wall with expressionless eyes. The mud-incrusted automobiles were little varied in shape or make, and the men who climbed out of them were mostly of middle age, and the seriousness of their manner as they greeted each other, or stood in groups chatting with late comers, impressed Nurse Hall. As the last one disappeared up the steps of the portico and out of her line of vision, she left the window and hurried to a closed door, but before she could turn the knob the door opened and Vera Deane stepped into the bedroom.

“I was just going to call you,” exclaimed Nurse Hall. “The men seem all to have arrived.”

Vera consulted her wrist watch. “The inquest was called for two o’clock; they are prompt.”

“To the minute,” agreed her companion. “Are you going downstairs immediately?”

“No, not until sent for.” Vera turned and wandered restlessly about the room, taking care, however, that her footfall made no sound which might disturb Craig Porter. She stopped in the shadow of a large wing chair and regarded the motionless figure on the bed long and intently. When she looked away she found Nurse Hall at her side.

“Does he always stare straight before him?” she asked, almost below her breath.

“Yes.” Nurse Hall shuddered. “Always that same fixed stare. You can bless your stars that you have him at night when he is generally asleep. Sometimes he gives me the creeps.”

“Does he never speak?”

“No, never, and I don’t believe he ever will; the muscles of his throat are paralyzed. But you need not whisper”—raising her voice. “He doesn’t understand a word we say.”

“But our talking may annoy him.” The older woman colored; she was sensitive about her voice, never having been able to conquer its shrill quality, and she did not take kindly to any criticism of her conduct of a sick room, especially from a younger and more inexperienced nurse. Vera laid a quiet hand on her arm. “Forgive the suggestion, but I cannot rid myself of the belief that often those we think unconscious hear and understand more than we imagine.”

“Tut, my dear, not in this case. Mr. Porter understands nothing said to him, even by his mother; and it’s been that way from the first,” Nurse Hall added, seating herself in the armchair. “I was here when they brought him back from Europe, and I must say that Dr. Noyes has worked wonders—”

Vera was not listening—voices in the hall and the sound of advancing footsteps came to them through the half-open door.

“Have you been notified to attend the inquest?” she asked. Her question passed unheeded until Nurse Hall, raising a very red face from the exertion of stooping, had tied her shoestring.

“No, I don’t have to go down,” she answered, puffing slightly. “I slept soundly all last night. It is too bad your rest has to be disturbed this afternoon; if you wish”—a sidelong glance accompanied the words—“I will continue on duty until midnight and give you an opportunity to make up lost sleep.”

“I don’t believe I could sleep now, thanks all the same. You forget I found the—the body,” and a shudder which she could not suppress shook Vera. “I see it whenever I close my eyes.”

“You poor thing!” Her companion patted her arm sympathetically. “We’ll sleep better and feel differently after the inquest and they remove the body. Someone is stopping at the door.”

Not waiting for the low rap that sounded a second later, Vera had sped to open the door, and she found Murray, the footman, standing in the hall.

“You are wanted, miss, in the library,” he said, and without a backward glance Vera closed the bedroom door and followed the servant down the staircase.

Two men, strangers to her, were lounging in the square entrance hall near the front door, and at her approach they turned and watched her until the portières, which divided the hall, hid her tall, graceful figure from their sight. Vera paused an instant before opening the library door, then, taking a deep breath, she stepped inside the room.

Grouped about the long center table were six men, while an elderly man occupied a chair near at hand, and the eighth man in the room sat before a side table taking notes. The elderly man, whose authoritative air rightly led Vera to conclude that he was Coroner Black, was on his feet instantly on catching sight of the new witness, and pulled forward a chair for her.

“Miss Deane?” he questioned, and she bowed a silent response. “Then sit here, madam, after McPherson administers the oath,” and at his words the man at the small table stepped forward, Bible in hand.

The homelike appearance of the library and the comfortably seated men, some with up-tilted chairs and sprawling legs, robbed the inquest of its legal atmosphere, but as Vera repeated the oath “to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God!” she became conscious of the concentrated regard of her companions, and her back stiffened as she seated herself bolt upright in the chair evidently set aside for the witnesses. She faced the windows, and the afternoon sunshine, like kindly fingers, touched her quaint snow-white cap, and gave a tint of red to her waving, curly hair, as her hazel eyes were calmly lifted to encounter the coroner’s penetrating gaze.

“Are you a native of Washington City, Miss Deane?” he asked, first giving Deputy Coroner McPherson time to resume his seat and prepare to take notes.

“I was born in Washington twenty-six years ago,” was the quiet reply.

“Have you resided continuously in Washington?”

“No, sir, not after the death of my parents,” replied Vera. “I went West, then later studied to be a trained nurse at the University of Pennsylvania, graduating from there four years ago.”

“How long have you been attending Mr. Craig Porter?”

“A little over three months.”

“And what do your duties comprise?”

“I am night nurse.” Her concise reply won an approving nod from one of the jurors.

“Were you summoned to nurse Mr. Bruce Brainard when he became ill last night?”

“I was, sir.”

“Then did you spend the night by his bedside?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

The question shot from the coroner, and Vera’s fingers tightened their grip on the arm of her chair, but her voice was not raised or ruffled as she answered slowly:

“Mr. Brainard’s condition was so improved after taking the medicine prescribed by Dr. Noyes that he did not require my attendance, and I therefore returned to my customary duties in Mr. Porter’s bedroom.”

“Do the bedrooms occupied by Mr. Porter and Mr. Brainard adjoin each other?” inquired Coroner Black.

“They do, sir, but there is no communicating door between them.”

“Ah! Then to enter Mr. Brainard’s bedroom from Mr. Porter’s you had to go into the main hall and from there into Mr. Brainard’s bedroom?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then while with Mr. Porter you were cut off by a solid wall from all communication with your other patient?” questioned the coroner, intently studying a rough sketch of the interior of the house which he held in his hand.

“Not entirely,” explained Vera quickly. “There is a transom between the two rooms which remains open, and I would have heard instantly if Mr. Brainard had called me.”

“Did he call you?” asked the coroner eagerly, and his face fell at her monosyllabic “No.”

“Did you hear any noise in Mr. Brainard’s bedroom during the night?” he began, after a pause.

“Not a sound, sir.”

“Did you go in to see how he was during the night?”

“Yes, once, about half past one. Judging from his regular breathing that Mr. Brainard was sleeping I tiptoed out of the room without approaching his bed, and resumed my watch in the next room.”

“Was there any light in Mr. Brainard’s room?”

“Yes, I placed a night light on the bed-stand.”

“Did the candle give sufficient light for you to see Mr. Brainard’s position in bed?” questioned Coroner Black.

“Yes, sir; he lay on his left side with his face turned toward the door,” answered Vera. “His face was somewhat in shadow as his back was turned to the bed-table on which the night light stood, but I could see that his eyes were closed.”

“Was he lying in the same position when you found him dead the next morning?”

“No.” Vera whitened as the scene of the tragedy flashed before her mental vision. “Mr. B-Brainard then lay on his back staring straight up at the ceiling, his head twisted to one side. Oh!” and one hand flew upward covering her eyes. “I can never forget the expression of his face—the look of fear—of agony. Gentlemen”—her hand dropping to her side, while she steadied herself with determined effort—“he must have suffered horribly—before he died.”

“And you, awake in the next room, heard no sound?” Coroner Black repeated his former question with quiet persistence.

“I heard no sound,” responded Vera mechanically. “Absolutely no sound.”

A pause followed as Coroner Black fumbled among the papers lying on the table. When he removed his hand his fingers clutched a razor.

“Have you seen this razor before?” he inquired, offering it to her.

Vera shrank back. “I saw a razor lying on the bed beside Mr. Brainard. I did not pick it up or examine it closely.”

“You mean that you cannot identify this as the razor which you saw lying on Mr. Brainard’s bed this morning?”

“Yes,” and there was a change in her tone, too subtle to be detected by the coroner. She hurried on before he could ask another question: “On discovering Mr. Brainard’s condition this morning I went for Dr. Noyes, and as he was not in his room, I hastened to get Mr. Hugh Wyndham.”

“How do you know that Dr. Noyes was not in his room?” demanded Coroner Black.

Vera looked at him in surprise. “When I received no response to my repeated raps, I turned the handle of the door and entered his bedroom—it was empty.”

“Did you meet anyone in the hall on your way to summon Dr. Noyes and Mr. Wyndham?”

“No, sir, no one.”

Coroner Black rose. “I think that is all, Miss Deane; no, stay, there is one other point—were you sent for when Mr. Brainard was taken ill at the dinner table?”

“No. I was not aware of his illness until Dr. Noyes informed me that he and Mr. Wyndham had assisted a guest, who was suffering from vertigo, into the spare bedroom, and directed me to administer a dose of aromatic spirits of ammonia, and to make him comfortable for the night, and then to return to Mr. Porter.”

Coroner Black referred to his notes before again addressing her.

“Did you observe where Mr. Brainard’s clothes had been placed?” he asked.

Vera wrinkled her pretty forehead in thought. “I believe they were lying on the sofa, but I cannot swear to it,” she replied.

“Do you recall seeing the clothes this morning?”

“I do not, sir,” was her prompt reply. “My whole attention was absorbed by the—the figure on the bed. I was too—too terrified to observe anything else in the room.”

Coroner Black stared at her intently; her repose of manner and air of efficiency were at variance with her words. Judging from appearances she seemed the last person to lose her head in an emergency.

“That is all,” he announced, and covered his abruptness with an old-fashioned bow as he preceded her to the door. “I thank you, Miss Deane.”

With a slight inclination of her head to the jurors Vera slipped out of the room and made haste toward the staircase, but not before she heard Coroner Black’s low-toned command to the footman to enter the library.

The well-trained servant stood while the oath was being administered to him, then subsided into the seat indicated and waited patiently for the coroner to address him.

“State your full name and occupation,” directed the latter, examining the footman’s intelligent face, somber livery, and general air of respectability.

“Murray, sir, John Murray,” and the Scotch burr was unmistakable. “I’ve been second man to Mrs. Porter, sir, for going on seven years.”

“Did you admit Mr. Brainard when he arrived here last night?”

“I did, sir.”

“Did he have a bag or suitcase with him?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you assist Dr. Noyes and Mr. Wyndham in conducting Mr. Brainard to his bedroom after his attack of illness in the dining-room?”

“No, sir; he could walk with the assistance of the other gentlemen.”

There was silence as Coroner Black referred to his notebook, and his manner grew stern when he turned back to the witness.

“The butler, Selby, has testified you mentioned to the servants that you went to the assistance of Mr. Brainard when he was taken ill. Did you make such a statement?”

“I did, sir; and it is true—I assisted Mr. Brainard when he had his first attack, sir.”

“Ah, when was that?” and the coroner looked at him with quickened interest.

“Just after him and Miss Millicent had had words in the garden beyond,” indicating the windows and the portico. “I was in here arranging the liqueurs and cigars, sir, when I heard a scream through the partly open window, and I ran out and found Miss Millicent cowering against one of the big pillars and saying: ‘No, no!’ between her sobs.” He stopped abruptly. “I beg your pardon for talking so much.”

“Go on,” commanded Black. “Tell us everything.” The jurors and the deputy coroner were hanging on the footman’s words.

“Miss Millicent bolted by me into the house, and I was just turning to follow her when Mr. Brainard appeared out of the darkness—Miss Millicent had been standing where the light from the library fell on her,” he explained. “Mr. Brainard staggered toward me, and before I could reach him, he fell.” Murray cleared his throat and eyed each one of his expectant hearers; he enjoyed the sensation his testimony was producing.

“Well, what then?” prompted Coroner Black.

“I picked up Mr. Brainard; no easy matter, sir, for he was a dead weight”—the footman was not to be hurried—“and I carried him in here, sir, plumped him down in that chair and gave him a drink of cognac.”

“What appeared to be the matter with him?”

“He said he was dizzy like, and that everything swam before him,” explained Murray, with careful attention to detail. “He was very red in the face and shook all over; but the cognac brought him around after a bit, and, asking me to say nothing of his little upset, he went on into the drawing-room.”

“Was he in evening clothes?” The foreman of the jury spoke for the first time and looked somewhat alarmed at the sound of his own voice.

“Surely, sir; it was shortly before dinner was announced. Mr. Brainard motored out and reached here about half past six.”

“When was dinner served?” inquired Black.

“Eight o’clock, sir.”

“Humph!” The coroner jotted down the figures in his notebook. “Was Mr. Brainard a frequent caller here?”

“He was, sir, last year, but not recently, sir.” The footman paused thoughtfully, and then added: “Not since Dr. Noyes has been here.”

Coroner Black wheeled on him sharply. “What do you mean by that remark?”

“Nothing, sir.” Murray’s eyes opened in astonishment. “I was only trying to place the last time I’d seen Mr. Brainard here. My master, Mr. Craig Porter, and Dr. Noyes reached home early in October; yes, sir, Mr. Brainard hasn’t been here since then, I’m sure.”

The coroner considered the footman in silence for several seconds.

“When did you last see Dr. Noyes?” he asked finally.

“About midnight, sir. I went up to his room to ask if I could do anything for him. Part of my duties is valeting for Mr. Hugh and Mr. Craig, and the gentlemen staying in the house,” he added, reading the unspoken question on the coroner’s lips.

“How did Dr. Noyes appear?” inquired Black.

“Appear?” Murray reflected for a moment. “I can’t answer that, sir, for I didn’t really see him; the door was opened only a little way, and I just caught a glimpse of him as he stood before his chiffonier stropping his razor.”

The coroner and Dr. McPherson exchanged glances.

“Wasn’t that an unusual hour for such an occupation?” asked the former.

“Quite so, sir; but it was this way, sir”—Murray’s words tumbled over each other in his haste—“the doctor had shaved just before dinner, and I hadn’t had time to put away his things, and last night when I apologized for leaving his chiffonier in such disorder, sir, and offered to come in and straighten up, he told me it was midnight and to go to bed, that he had already cleaned the razor and put the mug away.”

Coroner Black reached forward and picked up the razor he had shown Vera Deane.

“Does this razor belong to Dr. Noyes?” he asked.

A dead silence prevailed as Murray took the razor and examined the open blade with its reddish stains. He shook his head.

“No, sir, it is not Dr. Noyes’ razor.”

CHAPTER IV
MORE TESTIMONY

CORONER BLACK took the razor from the footman and laid it carefully back on the table.

“You are excused,” he announced, and, as Murray rose with alacrity, he added, “Inform Mrs. Porter that we will be obliged by her presence here.”

“Yes, sir; certainly, sir,” and Murray backed from the room, but before going upstairs to find Mrs. Porter he bolted into the pantry and mopped his white face which was damp with perspiration, then, refreshing himself with a glass of port, he went on his belated errand.

Inside the library the jurors whispered to one another, and at a muttered request the foreman picked up the razor, passed it to his neighbor, and each man at the table in turn examined the stained blade and handle with absorbed interest, while the coroner and McPherson compared notes in an undertone. The opening of the hall door brought them all to attention, and Mrs. Porter’s entrance was greeted by a lengthened silence.

Hardly deigning to listen to Coroner Black’s explanation of the formalities to be gone through, she laid a bejeweled hand on the Bible presented to her by McPherson, and repeated the oath in an expressionless monotone.

“Pray be seated, madam,” and Coroner Black pointed to the chair by which she was standing. “We will not detain you long,” and in rapid succession he asked her her full name and length of residence in that vicinity.

“I have spent the summer months here ever since inheriting the property from my husband’s uncle,” she said, in answer to the latter question. “This is the first winter that we have kept the house open, but Dr. Noyes deemed it inadvisable to move my son again, and so—” An expressive gesture completed the sentence.

“How long has Dr. Noyes been in attendance upon your son?” asked Black.

“He accompanied Craig home from the hospital in France.” Real feeling betrayed itself in Mrs. Porter’s metallic tones. “My son owes his life to his skill and his untiring attention. We shall miss him now that he has returned to England.”

“Ah, then you think Dr. Noyes is on his way back to the front again?” Black was watching her closely as he toyed with his pencil.

“Certainly. Where else would he go?” glancing disdainfully at him. “No Englishman nowadays lingers behind when his leave of absence is over.”

“But my dear madam, would Dr. Noyes depart so abruptly—without bidding you good-by; without the formality of notifying even the nurses in charge of your son that he would not be back?” asked Black incredulously.

“Dr. Noyes had been expecting a summons home for over ten days,” explained Mrs. Porter, in a tone sometimes used to quiet a petulant child, and Black colored. “He had arranged to have the cable telephoned out to him; his bag stood packed, and whatever good-bys he had to say were said to my daughter and myself yesterday.”

“At what hour did this cable reach Dr. Noyes?” demanded Black.

“I presume during the night. He said that he would remain in the library on the chance of a telephone message coming for him,” was her glib reply.

Black eyed her sharply. “Who is to attend your son in Dr. Noyes’ absence?” he asked, but if he hoped to trap Mrs. Porter he was disappointed. Her answer was prompt.

“Dr. Washburn of Alexandria. Dr. Noyes called him in consultation, and all arrangements were made last week to take over the case.”

Coroner Black considered a moment before again addressing her, and Mrs. Porter permitted her gaze to wander about, noting inwardly the disarrangement of the usually orderly room, and she turned back to the jurors with a distinct air of disapproval. Coroner Black’s next question caused her to catch her breath sharply.

“Were your daughter and Mr. Bruce Brainard engaged to be married?” he asked.

“I question your right to ask that,” she retorted. “My family affairs had nothing to do with Mr. Brainard’s shocking suicide.”

“We are the best judges of that, madam,” replied Black quietly. “It is our duty to expedite this inquiry, and to do so we must know whether or not Mr. Brainard was on friendly terms with each member of this household on the night of his death—”

“He was, sir, otherwise he would not have been my guest,” broke in Mrs. Porter.

“Did you invite him to spend the night, or only to dine with you?”

“I simply asked him to dinner.” She paused, then added: “He was taken ill at the dinner table, and my nephew, Mr. Wyndham, and Dr. Noyes helped him upstairs and put him to bed in one of the spare bedrooms. Dr. Noyes said that Mr. Brainard was in no condition to motor in to Washington last night.”

“When did you last see Mr. Brainard?”

“When he left the dining-room.”

Black looked at her attentively and noted the flush which had mounted to her pale cheeks during their colloquy.

“I must remind you, madam,” he commenced, and his manner was serious, “that you have not answered my question regarding the relationship existing between your daughter and Mr. Brainard.”

“They were friends,” curtly.

“Nothing more?” persisted the coroner.

Mrs. Porter regarded him with no friendly eye, then apparently thinking better of her brusqueness, answered more courteously:

“Mr. Brainard admired my daughter greatly, and paid her the compliment of asking my consent to their marriage.”

“Did you give your consent?” prompted Black as she stopped.

“He was to have had my answer this morning.”

“Oh!” The coroner gazed blankly at Mrs. Porter, failing utterly to appreciate her stately beauty and quietly gowned, modish figure. She was a remarkably well preserved woman, on whose face time had left few wrinkles, and she looked much younger than she was. Several seconds elapsed before Black again addressed her.

“Did your daughter reciprocate Mr. Brainard’s affection?”

“My daughter would not have accepted his attention had she not liked and admired him,” she responded evasively, and Black lost all patience.

“Kindly give a direct answer to my question,” he exclaimed harshly. “Were your daughter and Mr. Brainard engaged?”

“I believe there was an understanding to that effect,” she admitted sullenly. “But until I gave my consent”—a shrug completed the sentence, and Black instantly asked:

“Why did you withhold your consent, madam?”

“You are laboring under a mistaken idea,” replied Mrs. Porter coldly. “My consent was only asked yesterday, and I very properly told Mr. Brainard that I needed a night in which to think it over.”

The coroner stroked his chin as he contemplated Mrs. Porter, then observing the jurors’ air of interest, asked more briskly: “When did you make Mr. Brainard’s acquaintance?”

“About a year ago, and until he went to South America he was a frequent visitor at my house.” Mrs. Porter glanced involuntarily at the clock as it chimed the hour, and the coroner rose.

“Please give me the names of your dinner guests,” he said, picking up a pencil and drawing a pad toward him.

“Captain and Mrs. Mark Willert, Miss Margaret Spencer, my daughter Millicent, my nephew, Mr. Hugh Wyndham, Dr. Noyes, Mr. Brainard—let me see, that makes eight,” checking them off on her finger. “I have a few intimate friends in to dinner every week on Millicent’s account. I do not want her brother’s distressing illness to cast too great a shadow on my daughter’s young life.”

“Is your son improving?”

“Yes, thank God!” Mrs. Porter’s eyes shone with a softer light and her voice shook. “Dr. Noyes and time will work wonders in his condition. I”—she paused and steadied her voice—“I have every confidence in Dr. Noyes.”

Coroner Black bowed. “We will not keep you longer, madam; but before you leave kindly examine this razor and tell us if you can identify it.”

“I will look at it, certainly.” It took her a second or two to disentangle her lorgnette chain from a tassel on her gown, then raising her glasses she stared at the blood-stained article. “To the best of my knowledge I have not seen it before,” she announced, rising, and at a sign from the coroner retreated toward the hall door, hardly responding to the foreman’s curt nod.

Bidding her a courteous good afternoon, Coroner Black opened the door and waited for her to pass into the hall, then stepped after her in time to see her pause and draw back into an alcove as Dr. Beverly Thorne approached them. If Dr. Thorne observed the latent air of hostility and discourtesy in her bearing there was no indication of it in his unruffled manner as he greeted the coroner.

“Sorry to be late, Black,” he said. “But an important case—” as he spoke he removed his overcoat and handed it and his hat to the attentive footman. “Do you wish me to testify now?”

“No. I want you here in your capacity of ‘J. P.,’” responded the coroner. “In other words, look, listen and—note.” The last word was added as he held the library door ajar before throwing it wide open. “Murray, request Mr. Hugh Wyndham to come to the library.”

Thorne exchanged a low-toned word with McPherson and several of the jurors before slipping into a large wing chair which partly concealed his presence. Hugh Wyndham had evidently been awaiting the summons, for he followed hard upon the heels of the footman and stepped briskly into the library. The preliminaries were quickly gone through with, and Wyndham, while waiting for the coroner to question him, occupied his time in inspecting his companions, and his eyes contracted slightly at sight of Beverly Thorne, who sat gazing idly at the log fire which blazed in the stone fireplace, and added greatly to the picturesqueness and comfort of the well proportioned room.

“State your full name and occupation, Mr. Wyndham,” requested the coroner, resuming his seat.

“Hugh Wyndham, stock broker, just now not connected with any firm,” he added by way of explanation. “Since the failure in November of the banking house of Mullen Company with which I was connected I have been residing with my aunt, Mrs. Lawrence Porter.”

“Were you and Mr. Brainard old friends, Mr. Wyndham?”

“We have known each other for over a year, but were acquaintances rather than friends,” replied Wyndham, flicking a white thread from his coat sleeve.

Black shot a questioning look at him. “Do I understand that you were not friends?” he asked.

“Oh, we were friendly enough on the few occasions that we met, but our professions gave us very few opportunities to become better acquainted.”

“What was Mr. Brainard’s occupation?”

“He was a mining engineer.”

The coroner leaned over and consulted Dr. McPherson’s notes, then, sitting back in his chair, asked: “Did Mr. Brainard complain of feeling ill before dinner last night?”

“No, except to tell Captain Willert and myself that the climate in South America had played the devil with him.”

“Were you present at the dinner table when he was taken ill last night?”

“Yes. Dr. Noyes said that he was suffering from vertigo, and Mrs. Porter suggested that we take him upstairs and put him to bed.”

Again Coroner Black referred to McPherson’s notes before asking another question.

“Did Mr. Brainard have any suitcase or luggage with him?” he inquired.

“No. I loaned him a pair of my pyjamas.”

“When did you last see Mr. Brainard alive?”

“I left him in bed, apparently better, and followed Dr. Noyes downstairs.”

“Leaving no one with the sick man?” asked Black swiftly.

“Yes, Miss Deane,” responded Wyndham. “Dr. Noyes sent her to look after Brainard. Miss Deane said that she would be within call if he needed assistance during the night.” He hesitated, and then added, “I volunteered to sit up with Brainard, but she said that it was not necessary.”

“Were you disturbed by noises during the night?”

“No.” Wyndham shifted his position, and one foot tapped the floor incessantly. “I am a heavy sleeper and my room is some distance from that occupied by Brainard.”

“You were asleep when Miss Deane rapped at your door this morning?”

“Yes.”

“You accompanied her to Mr. Brainard’s bedroom?”

“I did.”

“Describe the condition in which you found Mr. Brainard and his bedroom,” directed Black, polishing his eyeglasses, and replacing them to scrutinize the witness more closely.

“I found Brainard lying on his back on the right side of his bed.” Wyndham stopped and moistened his lips. “His throat was cut and the wound had bled profusely.”

“Did you find any weapon in the room?”

“An open blood-stained razor was lying on the bed beside Brainard.”

“Did you touch it?”

“No.”

“Mr. Wyndham,” Coroner Black spoke slowly, evidently weighing his words, “did you loan a razor as well as a pair of pyjamas to Mr. Brainard?”

“I did not,” came the instant and emphatic denial.

“Then, if you did not give him the razor, how did Mr. Brainard secure possession of the razor which you saw on his bed?” asked Black. “You, and other witnesses, have testified that Mr. Brainard brought no luggage with him and did not come prepared to spend the night.”

“I have puzzled over his possessing a razor,” agreed Wyndham. “Then it occurred to me that perhaps he brought it with him from town intending to commit suicide on the way home.”

“An ingenious theory,” acknowledged Black. “But why should Mr. Brainard plan to commit suicide when his engagement to a beautiful and wealthy girl was about to be announced?”

“Mr. Brainard’s ill health may have unbalanced his mind.”

“Did Mr. Brainard show symptoms of insanity last night?” asked Black quietly.

“N-no.” Wyndham thought a minute, then glanced at the coroner. “The attack of vertigo”—he began and stopped as Coroner Black smiled and shook his head.

“Mr. Wyndham”—Black turned abruptly and produced the razor—“have you seen this before?”

Wyndham took it from him gingerly. “It resembles the one I saw lying on the bed close by Brainard’s left hand,” he said at last.

“It is the same one,” announced Black shortly. “Had you ever seen this razor before finding it on Brainard’s bed this morning?”

“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.

“Mr. Wyndham,” he began, “did you telephone into town that Mr. Brainard was ill and would spend the night in this house?”

“No,” answered Wyndham, and his tone was of the curtest.

“To your knowledge did anyone else in this house telephone Brainard’s condition to friends in Washington?”

“I did not hear of it if they did.”

“Then no one, outside this household, knew that Brainard was spending the night here?”

Wyndham moved impatiently. “You forget Mrs. Porter had other dinner guests last night,” he said stiffly. “They knew of his illness and his presence here.”

“True,” broke in the coroner. “Mrs. Porter has already furnished me with their names, and—” But before he could add more Thorne interposed with a question.

“How about Brainard’s chauffeur?”

“He had none, but drove his own car,” responded Wyndham.

“Is that still here?”

“I believe so. Sims, Mrs. Porter’s chauffeur, reported it was in the garage this morning.”

At that moment the door opened to admit McPherson, who advanced somewhat short of breath from hurrying, and laid an ordinary razor and a Gillett “safety” on the center table.

“The first razor I found in Mr. Wyndham’s bureau,” he announced. “The second was handed to me by Miss Deane.” He stopped to resume his seat, then continued more slowly: “The nurse showed me where Mr. Porter’s shaving things are kept in the bathroom between his bedroom and that occupied by the nurses.”

“Thanks, McPherson.” Coroner Black replaced the blood-stained razor on the table beside the others. “You are excused, Mr. Wyndham.”

Wyndham bowed and stepped past Thorne; at the door he hesitated, but, catching Thorne’s eyes, he turned and left the room without speaking.

“McPherson, will you take the stand?” directed Black, and the deputy coroner sat down in the chair reserved for the witnesses, after first having the oath administered to him. “You performed the autopsy on Mr. Brainard?” asked Black a few seconds later.

“I did.” McPherson displayed an anatomical chart, and used his pencil as an indicator while he continued: “I found an incipient tumor of the brain. Brainard’s attacks of vertigo were due to that.” The deputy coroner raised his voice as his pencil traveled down the chart and rested on the throat. “The wound was on the lower part of Brainard’s neck and the carotid artery was severed. He bled to death.”

“Was the wound self-inflicted, doctor?” questioned Thorne, taking the chart and examining it closely before passing it over to the juror nearest him.

McPherson shook his head at Thorne’s question. “I do not believe the wound was self-inflicted,” he said, “for the wound commences under the right ear and extends toward the left; whereas, in the case of suicide the cut would have been made just the reverse.”

McPherson’s words were listened to with deep attention, and in the silence that followed Thorne grew conscious of the loud ticking of the clock.

“Then in your opinion, McPherson,” commented Coroner Black, “Bruce Brainard was murdered?”

“Yes,” answered the deputy coroner. “The nature of the wound proves conclusively that it could not have been suicide.”

“Unless,” broke in Thorne, “unless Brainard was left-handed.”

“That point can be easily settled,” snapped the coroner. “That’s all, McPherson, thank you;” and as the doctor left the witness chair he added, “Kindly ask Detective Mitchell to step here.”

It was growing darker in the room and Thorne walked over to the windows and pushed back the long curtains and pulled up the Holland shades. The sunshine had almost totally disappeared, and the gray of late afternoon alone lighted the room. Thorne moved over to one of the lamps which were dotted about, and was busy lighting it when Detective Mitchell followed McPherson back into the room.

“Have you discovered which servants own razors in this house, Mitchell?” asked the coroner, after the new witness had answered other questions.

“Yes, sir.” Mitchell took two razors from his pocket. “I have them each ticketed; this one belongs to the footman, Murray, and this to the butler, Selby.”

The coroner accepted the two razors and compared them with the blood-stained one on the table, then he passed all three to the jurors.

“They are not in the least alike,” he said thoughtfully. “Did you examine Dr. Noyes’ bedroom, Mitchell?”

“I did,” answered the detective. “The bed had evidently been slept in, as the sheets and blankets were tumbled about, but all the doctor’s clothes were packed in his steamer trunk.”

“Was his trunk locked?”

“No, sir.” Mitchell paused. “I examined its contents, but I could not find any razor or strop.”

“Were his overcoat and hat in his closet?”

“No, nor downstairs in the coat closet,” was Mitchell’s prompt response. “I questioned all the servants and Mrs. Porter, and they say that Dr. Noyes owned a large grip with his initials—it is missing, and I conclude that he has taken it with him, for Murray declares that some underclothes and one suit of clothes are missing.”

“I see.” Coroner Black frowned, then glanced toward Thorne, and the latter addressed the detective.

“Have you found any trace of burglars breaking into the house last night, Mitchell?”

“No. And I examined the ground about this house very thoroughly, as well as every window catch and keyhole; none have been tampered with. The servants declare they were securely locked last night, and found in the same condition this morning.”

Thorne laid aside the pencil he had been twisting about in his fingers and pointed to the blood-stained razor.

“Did you find finger marks on this razor?”

“No, none.” Mitchell looked glum. “We tested every article in Mr. Brainard’s bedroom and could not find a trace of finger prints.”

Thorne turned back to Coroner Black. “I have no further questions to ask the witness,” and the coroner dismissed Mitchell.

“As you go out, Mitchell,” he added, “please send word to Miss Millicent Porter that I would like to see her here.”

By the time the hall door again opened every lamp the room boasted was lit, and Millicent Porter paused just within the library to accustom herself to the sudden glare. Thorne and the jurors noted the lines of care on her white face and the dark circles under her eyes, and as Thorne approached her he muttered under his breath, in subdued admiration, “What an exquisite child!” She seemed little more in her simple dark dress, and her beauty was of the ethereal type.

“We won’t keep you here very long, Miss Porter.” Coroner Black bustled forward and, snatching up a cushion from the sofa, placed it in the witness chair. “You will be more comfortable so.” She smiled her thanks, looking up at him timidly. “Now, if you will rise for a second Dr. McPherson will—there,” soothingly, observing her startled expression. “Just repeat the oath after McPherson and place your hand on the Bible—so. Now sit right here. Kindly tell the jurors your full name—”

“Millicent Porter.”

“And how long have you known Mr. Brainard, Miss Porter?”

“A little over a year.” She spoke with an effort and several of the jurors hitched their chairs nearer so as not to miss a word she said.

“And when did you become engaged to him?” inquired Coroner Black.

Millicent flushed scarlet. “I—I—” she stumbled badly. “We were—it was—” Then in an indignant rush, “My private affairs do not concern you; I decline to answer impertinent questions.”

Coroner Black bowed and adjusted his eyeglasses, and to the disappointment of a number of the jurors he did not press the point.

“Why did you and Mr. Brainard quarrel last night?” he asked.

“Quarrel?” Millicent stared at him, then laughed a bit unsteadily. “Mr. Brainard and I quarrel—what nonsense! Who put such an idea in your head, sir?”

“Your footman, Murray, has testified that he overheard you exclaim, ‘No! No!’ on the portico there,” pointing to the long windows. “And after you had dashed by him into the house Murray found Mr. Brainard lying overcome on the ground.”

Millicent never removed her eyes from the coroner; she seemed drinking in his words, half unable to believe them.

“Murray saw us?” she stammered, half to herself. “I had no idea others were about.” Abruptly she checked her hasty speech, and her determined chin set in obstinate lines. “Apparently you know everything that transpired last night. Then why question me?” she demanded.

“We do not know everything,” replied Coroner Black patiently. “For instance, we do not know who murdered Bruce Brainard.”

His words struck home. She reeled in her seat, and but for Thorne’s supporting arm would have fallen to the floor.

“Murdered!” she gasped. “Murdered? You must be mistaken.”

“Unfortunately, Miss Porter, the medical evidence proves conclusively that it was murder and not suicide. Now,” continued Black, eying her watchfully, “we want your aid in tracking the murderer—”

“I know nothing—nothing!” she burst in passionately. “I never saw Mr. Brainard again after he went upstairs; I slept soundly all last night, and heard nothing.”

“Even if you know nothing about the happenings last night, perhaps you can still tell us something which may prove a clue,” began Black, and his manner grew more earnest. “Did Mr. Brainard ever tell you that he had enemies?”

“No.”

“Did he ever mention that his life had been threatened?” persisted Black.

“No.” Millicent was white to the lips, and she held out her hands pleadingly. “Indeed, gentlemen, I cannot help you—why ask me questions that I cannot answer?”

The big, raw-boned foreman of the jury met her eyes and moved awkwardly, but before he could think what to say Coroner Black again addressed her.

“There are certain formalities to be gone through, Miss Porter.” As he spoke he walked over to the center table and picked up the blood-stained razor, holding it directly under the rays of the nearest lamp. “Kindly look at this razor and tell us if you know to whom it belongs.”

If the razor had been Medusa’s head it could have held no more deadly fascination for Millicent. She sat as if carved from stone. Coroner Black repeated his question once, and then again—still no response.

Beverly Thorne broke the tense stillness.

“Did Dr. Noyes bid you good-by before departing, Miss Porter?” he asked.

Galvanized into action, Millicent sprang from her seat, and, before anyone guessed her intention or any hand could stay her, she dashed from the library.

Coroner Black made a hasty step toward the door, but Thorne detained him.

“Suppose you sum up the case to the jury,” he suggested, and resumed his seat.

CHAPTER V
DOROTHY DEANE, “SOCIETY EDITOR”

“GOOD AFTERNOON, Mr. Williams.” The managing editor of the Washington Tribune twisted about in his revolving-chair, and his frown changed into a smile of welcome at sight of his society editor standing in the doorway, a roll of soiled copy clutched in one hand, while a much blue-penciled daily newspaper dangled from the other.

“Come in, Miss Deane,” he said, pointing toward a chair by his desk. “How are you feeling today after last night’s gayety at the White House?”

“Rather wintry, thank you.” A twinkle in Dorothy Deane’s eyes belied her serious expression. “Your compositors spoiled my beauty sleep.”

“What’s their latest offense?”

“This—” She spread the morning newspaper before him, and pointed to a paragraph in the middle of the second column, beneath the sub-heading: “Beauty at the White House.” The sentence read: “Mrs. Anson Smith, wife of Senator-elect Smith, wore a handsome string of pearls.”

“Beauty unadorned,” quoted the managing editor dryly. “Your description would fit nine out of ten women of the ultra-smart set of today.”

“But it is not my description,” retorted Dorothy hotly. “Here’s my copy, perfectly legible,” displaying it. “The compositors simply did not set up the remainder of the sentence. If you could have heard Mr. Smith’s language to me on the telephone this morning—”

“The irate husband, eh!” Williams laughed unsympathetically. “Mrs. Smith must have had a gown made especially for the occasion—”

“She did, and sent me a full description of it yesterday—”

“And it did not get published—ah, take it from me, Miss Deane, that’s where the shoe pinched.”

“Possibly; but that doesn’t excuse the blunder in the composing-room or the stupidity of the men on the copy desk,” declared Dorothy. “I have to stand for their mistakes.”

Williams frowned, then smiled. “They will read your copy more carefully in the future, I promise you,” he said. “I never saw you angry before, Miss Deane; now you look like the picture I have of you.”

“Picture?” Dorothy’s blue eyes opened to their widest extent. “You have a picture of me?”

“Your emphasis is not very flattering,” responded Williams, chuckling. “Our staff photographer snapped you and your sister one day last autumn, and I found the boys were going to run the picture in a Sunday supplement to surprise you. I didn’t think you’d like it, so took it away from them.” As he spoke he opened a drawer of his desk and, tumbling its contents about, finally pulled out a photograph. “I meant to have given it to you before.”

“Thanks,” and Dorothy glanced at the photograph with interest as she took it.

“What were you two squabbling about?” demanded Williams, staring at the photograph. “Your sister looks a veritable Lady Macbeth.”

“Oh, she doesn’t approve of my spendthrift ways,” answered Dorothy lightly. “Vera says I never will learn by experience,” and an involuntary sigh escaped her.

“It’s a shame she lectured you in public,” grumbled Williams, whose friendly interest in Dorothy’s career had already smoothed many rough places.

“Oh, I don’t know—couldn’t find a more convenient place than the steps of the Emergency Hospital to receive the coup de grâce,” laughed Dorothy. “And Vera doesn’t mean half she says.”

“By the way, didn’t you once tell me that your sister was nursing Craig Porter at their country place in Virginia?”

“Yes, she is.”

Williams gazed at her with quickened interest. “Seen the afternoon papers?” he asked.

“No, I haven’t had time.” The imperative ring of the telephone interrupted her, and Williams, waving an impatient hand in farewell, jerked the desk telephone toward him.

Still holding her photograph, but leaving her copy and the morning paper behind on the desk, Dorothy closed the door of the private office, made her way through the city room, borrowed an afternoon newspaper from several lying on the city editor’s desk, and disappeared into the small room set aside for her exclusive use. She was some minutes placing her hat, coat, and handbag on their accustomed peg, then ensconcing herself before her desk she sorted her mail; that done, she picked up the photograph given her by the managing editor and studied it more closely.

The photograph was, like many an unposed snapshot, a good likeness; too good, she thought, noting her sister’s determined expression and her own rebellious countenance. For all her jesting with the managing editor, the conversation she and Vera had had that autumn afternoon lingered in her memory with a bitter flavor; remarks had been made which neither could forget.

Dorothy turned over the photograph and read with a wry smile the “legend” pasted there:

Two members of famous family adopt professions—Left to right, Miss Vera and Miss Dorothy Deane, daughters of the late distinguished jurist, Stephen Deane, Chief Justice of the District Court of Appeals, desert the ballroom and pink teas for professional life. Miss Vera Deane is a graduate trained nurse, while her younger sister has found her métier as a journalist, and ably conducts the society section of the Morning Tribune.

Tossing aside the photograph, Dorothy picked up the afternoon newspaper and was about to turn to the society page when she stopped, her attention arrested by a display heading:

BRUCE BRAINARD A SUICIDE

Kills Himself at Porter Homestead

The lines beneath were meager as to details, but Dorothy absorbed the printed words a dozen times before their whole meaning dawned upon her. At the end she drew a long, long breath. Bruce Brainard! His very name conjured up scenes she had prayed to forget; and now he was dead, a suicide. She raised her hands to her throbbing temples and burst into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. Truly the Fates had a perverted sense of humor—to bring Bruce Brainard, Vera, and Hugh Wyndham together for a final meeting! Suddenly her laughter changed to tears, and noiseless sobs shook and racked her slender body until she sank back in her chair exhausted with emotion. She was regaining some hold on her customary composure when the insistent clamor of her desk telephone effectually aroused her.

“Hello! Yes,” she called into the instrument, steadying her voice. “Society editor, yes; no, we don’t take engagements over the ’phone— No, we can’t break the rule; sorry, but you will have to send it in signed, or bring the news in person. Good-by,” and she rang off.

Her right hand instinctively sought her assignment book; the telephone message had brought her back to the everyday routine; she could not permit her thoughts to wander afield; but first there was one thing she must do, and she again turned to the telephone. It was some minutes before she got the toll station, and there she met disappointment—the telephone at the Porter homestead had been temporarily disconnected; she could not talk to her sister.

But why had not Vera telephoned her? The question worried her as she turned the pages of her book, searching for the entries falling on that date. Then she recalled that, after her talk with the indignant Mr. Anson Smith that morning, she had covered her ears with the bedclothes and gone comfortably to sleep, letting the telephone ring itself out. The fact that she had been up all night “covering” the White House entertainment and had crawled into bed at twenty minutes past five in the morning did not, at the moment, seem an adequate excuse for having neglected the telephone—she had deliberately but unintentionally cut herself off from communication with Vera, and bitter tears came to her eyes at the thought. Vera might be needing her at that very moment! The thought was not quieting, and she had reached for her hat when again the telephone broke the silence.

“What is it?” she demanded, and her voice sounded shrill even in her own ears.

“Society editor,” came a woman’s voice over the wire. “Please look in the Congressional Directory and tell me if Mr. John Graham is still a representative.”

“What state is he from?” questioned Dorothy.

“I don’t recollect,” was the reply, and with a subdued, “Wait a moment,” Dorothy set down the receiver and feverishly turned the pages of the Congressional Directory until she reached the index and ran down the list of names. “There’s no John Graham in the book,” she shouted into the telephone a second later.

“Sure you have the last edition? Thanks.”

Dorothy put back the receiver with a relieved sigh. A glance at her wrist watch showed her that it was already a quarter of five—and the foreman was waiting for early copy. There was no time to hunt up Vera, and with her nerves on edge she turned to her list of assignments and telephoned to first one hostess and then another, getting dinner and lunch lists until she had a formidable number before her. But one hostess remained uncalled, and with renewed zeal she resorted to the telephone again.

“This is Miss Deane, society editor, Morning Tribune,” she explained. “I will be greatly obliged if you will give the names of your dinner guests tonight for tomorrow’s paper.”

“I give dinners to my friends, not for the newspapers,” came the frigid reply, and Dorothy heard the bang of the telephone receiver at the other end of the wire.

“Waugh!” she exclaimed aloud, turning back to her typewriter. “So Mrs. Purse thinks she has arrived—and last year she was sending in her own dinner lists to the newspapers, as well as the names of guests at entertainments to which she was invited.”

Dorothy’s skilled fingers flew over the typewriter as her active brain put in fitting phrases the information she had secured over the telephone, and later, in some instances, she rewrote the important social events chronicled in the evening newspapers. She had almost completed her task when the door opened and the office boy ushered in a much-talked-about divorcée whose career had provided entertainment for staid Washingtonians.

Dorothy was a favorite of hers and she greeted her warmly. “No, I can’t sit and gossip,” she announced, standing by the partly open door. “I only came to bring you this data about our dramatic club,” laying a folded manuscript on the desk perilously near the paste pot. “Dress it up in your own style, Dorothy. I congratulate you on your society column; it’s the best in town.”

“Indeed,” and Dorothy flushed with pleasure. “I did not think you would ever bother to read it.”

“I always read the social news to keep track of the entertainments to which I am not bidden given by women who owe me invitations.” A faint hardness crept into her voice, and was gone instantly as she bade Dorothy a cordial good-by and departed.

Rewriting the dramatic club article proved more of a task than Dorothy had bargained for; thoughts of Vera, of Bruce Brainard, and last—of Hugh Wyndham, projected themselves before the typed words, and in desperation she seized the scissors and, shortening the manuscript, she pasted the remainder on her copy paper. She was busy marking her copy when the telephone bell called her back to the instrument.

“Good evening, Miss Deane,” said a soft, purring voice, which Dorothy instantly recognized as belonging to a well-known society belle, who had seen more seasons than she was willing to admit. “For particular reasons I am anxious to attend the breakfast tomorrow which the Japanese Ambassador is giving. Can’t you use your influence to get me an invitation?”

“But I have no influence in that quarter,” protested Dorothy. “The invitations are strictly limited to members of the Cabinet and their wives.”

“Oh! Don’t you know any way by which I can procure an invitation?”

“I see no way for you to be eligible for an invitation unless you can marry the Attorney General, the only bachelor in the Cabinet circle, before ten o’clock,” retorted Dorothy, her sense of fun getting the better of discretion. A faint “Oh!” preceded the hanging up of the opposite receiver, and Dorothy went back to her work. But she was again doomed to interruption, and this time she answered the telephone with a wrathful, “Well, what is it?”

“Mrs. Marvin, Dorothy,” sounded a cheerful voice. “I want you to take down this list of patronesses for our charity ball. Get your pencil—there are one hundred names.”

“Oh, Mrs. Marvin!” gasped Dorothy. “Can’t you send them into the office? I’ll pay the messenger.”

“I haven’t time to write them out,” declared Mrs. Marvin firmly, and Dorothy jabbed her pencil with vicious force into the pad as she started to take down the names. “Hello, don’t ring off,” called Mrs. Marvin at the end of five minutes. “Remember, Dorothy, those names must appear in tomorrow’s paper, and be sure and give us an excellent send-off; it’s for charity, you know.”

“Yes, yes, good-by,” and, dropping the receiver, Dorothy rubbed her aching ear and stiff arm.

“Taking one consideration with another, with another,

A policeman’s life is not a happy one—”

chanted a voice from the door, and, glancing up, Dorothy saw one of the reporters watching her. “Cheer up, Miss Deane,” he said, advancing farther into the room. “You haven’t been standing on the ‘sacred soil’ of Virginia for hours in a biting east wind, watching a front door for news. I’m frozen inside and out,” blowing on his hands as he spoke. “But, oh, it’s a big story—”

At the mention of Virginia, Dorothy had glanced at him eagerly, but the question burning her lips was checked by the telephone’s loud call.

“Do answer it for me,” she begged, sitting down at her typewriter. “Say I’m busy,” in frenzied desperation; “say I’m dead!” And paying no further attention to her companion she commenced her story about the charity ball. Tom Seaton’s voice interrupted her.

“The lady wants to know if she can give a dance on January 20th without butting in on a dozen parties that night,” he explained, hugging the receiver against his chest.

Dorothy hunted up the date in her assignment book, and slammed it shut with vigor.

“Tell her there are only seven dinners scheduled so far for that night,” she directed, and in the moment’s respite she copied off the names of the charity ball patronesses. She had completed her task when Seaton replaced the telephone, and straddled the only other chair in the room.

Usually Dorothy did not encourage loiterers, and had sometimes given offense by her abrupt refusal to stand around and gossip; but she was never too busy to listen to a hard-luck story, and her ready sympathy for human frailty had gained her a warm place in the regard of her happy-go-lucky co-workers on the paper.

“Have you been out to the Porter homestead?” she inquired, handing her mass of corrected copy to a begrimed messenger from the composing-room who appeared at that instant.

“I have; and I can’t speak highly of the hospitable instincts of the owners of Dewdrop Inn,” answered Seaton. “This little ‘dewdrop’ was positively congealed while waiting for the inquest to adjourn.”

“An inquest!” echoed Dorothy. “Did they hold it so soon?”

“They did, and never had the decency to let us in. Every paper was represented, and we had to cool our heels until the coroner came out and announced—”

“Miss Deane”—the office boy poked his head inside the door—“the ‘boss’ wants ye.”

“In a minute.” Dorothy rose and turned breathlessly to Seaton. “What did the coroner announce?”

“He said that evidence, brought out at the inquest, proved conclusively that Bruce Brainard was murdered, and—”

Murdered! Dorothy stared at him aghast. Dimly she realized that he was still speaking, but his words were meaningless. Bruce Brainard murdered—and under the same roof with her sister, Vera—and Hugh Wyndham! Something snapped inside her brain; she felt herself going, and threw out her hands hopelessly—

“Hully gee! Help, boys!” roared Seaton, bending over her. “She’s fainted.”

CHAPTER VI
THE WALL BETWEEN

VERA DEANE scanned the handsomely appointed dinner table and its vacant places with mixed feelings, and Murray, hovering solicitously behind her chair, answered her unspoken thought.

“Mrs. Porter and Miss Millicent are taking dinner in their boudoir,” he explained. “Selby is serving them, and Mrs. Porter gave most particular orders that you should have a good dinner, Miss Deane.”

“I don’t believe I can eat,” protested Vera, declining bread and butter. “I have no appetite tonight.”

“Just try this soup, miss,” coaxed Murray. “It’s one of cook’s specialties. And you know, miss,” added Murray artfully, setting the plate with its smoking contents before her, “what with one thing and another, they’ve given you no rest today, and Dr. Noyes always said humans must eat to keep their machinery going.”

“Quite true,” smiled Vera. Murray was a favorite of hers, and his extreme loquaciousness often amused her. The footman was too well trained to overstep the gulf lying between their positions; he had been told off to wait upon the nurses and assist them in their care of Craig Porter on the latter’s arrival from France, and, having a natural aptitude for caring for the sick, they found him extremely useful.

Vera had not been slow in discovering Murray’s one hobby, a hobby which, seven years before, had almost cost him his place, Mrs. Porter not having taken kindly to his lugubrious countenance and depressed manner when waiting upon the table. She expressed her feelings to his former employer, a friend of long standing, who responded impressively: “My dear, Murray’s an excellent servant, with one little weakness—his health. The more certain he is that he suffers from a mortal disease, the more enjoyment he gets out of life. Just ask him now and then, ‘Murray, how are you feeling?’ and he will be your slave.”

Mrs. Porter had promptly followed the advice, and whenever she found the footman looking preternaturally solemn had cheered him immensely by inquiring for his health. Both Nurse Hall and Vera Deane had quickly discovered his hobby, and the younger nurse had advanced in his esteem by listening patiently to descriptions of every new symptom his fancy conjured up. The fact that he failed lamentably in the proper use of medical and anatomical terms never disturbed him—his last confidence to Dr. Noyes having been that he was suffering from inflammation of the semicolon.

Vera found Murray’s opinion of the excellence of the soup justified, and ate the remainder of the dinner with more zest than she had imagined possible an hour before. The relief of being alone was an additional fillip to her jaded nerves. Upon being excused from the inquest that afternoon she had gone at once to the branch telephone in Mrs. Porter’s boudoir, only to find that the instrument had been disconnected and that she could not communicate with her sister Dorothy. She had then returned to Craig Porter’s bedroom, and in trying to satisfy Mrs. Hall’s insatiable curiosity as to what had transpired at the inquest she had had no time to herself before dinner was announced.

“No coffee tonight, Murray,” she said, pushing back her chair. “I am going upstairs to Mr. Porter, so that Mrs. Hall can have her dinner immediately.”

“Mrs. Hall had tea earlier in the afternoon,” was Murray’s unexpected response. “She told me that Mrs. Porter had given her permission to spend the night in Washington.”

“Oh!” Vera’s expression was blank. “Is Mrs. Porter sending her into town?”

“No, miss; Mr. Hugh took the car just after the inquest adjourned and hasn’t returned yet. I hear tell”—Murray paused, dessert dish in hand—“that Mrs. Hall arranged with one of the ’tecs to have a taxi sent out from the city for her.” And without more ado he disappeared into the pantry.

Vera was a trifle out of breath when she entered Craig Porter’s bedroom. Mrs. Hall, chart in hand, was standing by the mahogany desk, and her face cleared at sight of Vera.

“Why didn’t you let me know you wished to go off duty a little earlier?” asked Vera reproachfully. “I would have hurried back—”

“Because I knew it would rest you to have your dinner in peace and quiet. I have arranged Mr. Porter for the night and given him his nourishment. All you have to do is to follow the doctor’s directions; they are pinned to the chart.”

“Of course I will follow the doctor’s orders,” responded Vera, much offended by her companion’s manner as well as her words, “I will obey instructions as I have done heretofore.”

Mrs. Hall looked at her oddly, a look which Vera missed as she crossed the room to arrange the window blinds.

“Are you nervous about staying up alone next to that—?” asked Mrs. Hall, and a turn of her head indicated the room occupied by Bruce Brainard the night before.

“Not in the least,” answered Vera; she was having some difficulty in closing the heavy outside blinds and her voice was somewhat muffled. She jerked her head inside the room again and closed the window. “There is a motor car coming up the drive—it looks like a taxi.”

“It’s probably for me.” And Mrs. Hall disappeared into the dressing-room which connected Craig Porter’s bedroom and the room which she and Vera shared.

Left to herself Vera went thoughtfully over to the desk. She was still writing when Mrs. Hall reappeared, bag in hand.

“Will you please mail this letter for me in the city?” asked Vera. “I won’t be a moment finishing it.”

“You’ll find blotting-paper in the lower desk drawer,” announced Mrs. Hall, stopping to button her heavy coat up about her throat. “It wastes time blowing on the ink.” Vera reddened. “If it is only a note to your sister, why not give me a verbal message?”

Vera’s color deepened. “I prefer to write,” she answered stiffly.

“As you wish; I only made the suggestion to save time,” and Mrs. Hall glanced significantly at the clock.

Vera’s hot temper got the upper hand. “On second thought, I’ll not detain you longer,” she said, and her long, slender fingers made mince-meat of the letter she had been writing. With a mumbled “good night,” Mrs. Hall left the room, and, turning, Vera stared contemplatively at the door. What had come over her companion? It was not like Mrs. Hall to be so cantankerous.

Vera spent the next hour in performing her accustomed duties, and when she finally took her seat near the shaded night light she was conscious of utter weariness, a weariness more akin to mental exhaustion than she had known in many months—the day’s horrors were telling upon her, and her mental state was reacting upon her physical strength. A footstep outside the partly open hall door caused her to hasten across the room as Murray appeared, tray in hand.

“Cook sent some broth tonight as well as the sandwiches,” he said, lowering his voice as he tiptoed into the room and placed the tray on a side table. “She thought you would like to have something hot in the early morning, and I put the broth in the thermos bottle.”

“That was very kind and thoughtful of you both,” exclaimed Vera gratefully. “Please thank cook for me.”

“Yes, miss.” Murray tiptoed over to the bed and looked at Craig Porter, who lay with his eyes closed, his face matching the sheets in whiteness. The almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest was the only indication that life still lingered in the palsied body. Shaking his head, Murray retreated to the hall door.

“I’m thinking the young master’s health will have a setback, now Dr. Noyes has gone,” he said sorrowfully. “And he was improving so finely.”

“We are keeping up the same treatment,” replied Vera. “Good night, Murray, and thank you.”

Pausing only long enough to see if her patient required attention, Vera returned to her chair, and in its comfortable, upholstered depths her tired muscles relaxed, and she half lay, half sat at ease and surveyed her surroundings. The room and its furnishings were well worth a second look, but an attraction which Vera was powerless to conquer drew her eyes to the transom in the wall separating the room she sat in and the one which had harbored the grim tragedy of the night before.

In her excited state of mind she half expected to see the same faint light appear through the transom which had shone there twenty-odd hours before, but the darkness in the next room was unrelieved. However, even the patch of darkness gave full play to her morbid fancies, and with a shudder she turned her head away—to find Mrs. Porter standing by her side. Too startled to move she gazed in amazement at her employer.

“I slipped in through your bedroom so as not to disturb Craig,” explained Mrs. Porter, in a subdued tone. “The other door lets in so much light from the hall when opened. I have something to say to you—”

“Yes, Mrs. Porter.” Vera was on her feet. “Will you sit here, or shall we—”

“Is Craig asleep?”

Vera moved over to the bed and bent over her patient, then returned.

“Yes, he is still slumbering,” she announced.

“Then I will sit here.” Mrs. Porter pulled forward a companion chair to the one Vera had vacated. “If we speak low our voices cannot disturb Craig in this large room. How is he tonight?”

Vera hesitated, and Mrs. Porter, her eyes sharpened by love, saw it even in the dim night light, and one hand went to her heart.

“I really think Mr. Porter is the same,” answered Vera hastily. “I see—no change.”

A heavy sigh broke from Mrs. Porter. “Why couldn’t Alan Noyes have stayed?” she moaned. “Why such mad haste? I would have paid him any price—done anything, in and out of reason, to insure my boy having his skilled medical attendance. And now—”

Never before had Vera seen Mrs. Porter’s composure shaken, and as she looked at her grief-stricken face a compassion and understanding of the woman she had deemed all-worldly moved her. Impulsively she extended her hands in ready sympathy, and Mrs. Porter clasped them eagerly.

“Don’t borrow trouble, dear Mrs. Porter,” she entreated. “Dr. Washburn stands very high in the profession—”

“But he can’t come.” Mrs. Porter dashed tears from her eyes. “He has just sent word that he is ill with pleurisy, and recommends that I send for Dr. Beverly Thorne.”

“What?” Vera studied her intently. “Will you follow Dr. Washburn’s advice?”

“And send for Beverly Thorne?” with bitter emphasis. “I wouldn’t have that man attend a sick cat! Oh, why didn’t I close this house and go back to the city?”

Vera was discreetly silent. Mrs. Porter had carried her point of wintering in the country against the, at first, outspoken indignation of Millicent and the veiled opposition of Hugh Wyndham; but that was hardly the moment to remind Mrs. Porter that by having her own way she had herself to thank for their isolated position. Mrs. Porter continued her remarks, heedless of Vera’s silence. “And poor Millicent is cut off from young companionship just at the moment when she needs her friends. By the way”—bending eagerly forward—“can’t your sister come and stay with Millicent?”

“Dorothy—stay here?” Vera half rose, her eyes dilating.

“Why not?” demanded Mrs. Porter. “The two girls were chums at boarding-school, even if they haven’t seen much of each other for several years, and I imagine you know Hugh’s opinion of Dorothy—” Vera nodded dumbly. “I’ve always been very fond of Dorothy, and I can’t understand, Vera, why you permitted her to go into newspaper work,” in reproachful accents.

“Dorothy is old enough now to judge for herself,” said Vera wearily. “She selected newspaper work for various reasons, and I must say,” with quick pride, “Dorothy has done well in that profession.”

“I know she has, and I admire her for it.” Mrs. Porter spoke warmly, and Vera colored with pleasure. “Do put your clever wits to work, Vera, and arrange it so that Dorothy can get leave from her office and spend a week here at the least. Her cheerful society will do Millicent good. I wish, my dear, that I could see more of you,” and Mrs. Porter impulsively kissed her. “But you sleep all day and work all night, and I sleep all night.” She rose abruptly. “I must go back to Millicent; the child is grieving her heart out.” She made a hesitating step toward the door leading into Vera’s bedroom. “Did you mention in your testimony at the inquest this afternoon that you saw Millicent down in the library when you went to telephone to the coroner?”

“No.” Vera caught the look of relief which lighted Mrs. Porter’s eyes for a brief instant, then the older woman continued on her way to the door, but she stopped again on its threshold.

“Do you know what became of the key to the next room after they removed Mr. Brainard’s body to the morgue in Alexandria?” she asked.

“No, I was asleep at that hour.” Vera came nearer. “Is the bedroom locked?”

“Yes. I suppose the police—” Mrs. Porter’s voice trailed off, then she added, “Good night,” and was gone.

Vera went thoughtfully over to the bedside and, seeing that Craig Porter still slept, she moved over to the desk and, picking up a pad and pencil, tried to reduce her ideas to writing. The words repeated to her by Mrs. Hall, who had been told the jury’s verdict by the coroner, recurred to her:

“We find that Bruce Brainard came to his death while spending the night at the residence of Mrs. Lawrence Porter, between the hours of two and five in the morning of January 8th, from the severing of the carotid artery in his throat, and from the nature of the wound and other evidence produced here we find that he was foully murdered by a party or parties unknown.”

“By a party unknown,” Vera murmured, dashing her pencil through the words she had scrawled on her pad. “But how long will the ‘party’ remain ‘unknown’— Merciful God! If there was only someone I could turn to!” and she wrung her hands as she gazed despairingly at the desk calendar.

A low tap at the hall door aroused her and, hastening across the room, she looked into the hall. Murray was standing by the door.

“Your sister is out on the portico, miss,” he announced in a low voice.

“Dorothy—here—at this hour?” Vera looked at the footman in amazement.

“It isn’t so very late, miss, not yet eleven,” explained Murray. “I asked Miss Dorothy in, but she said she didn’t wish to disturb anyone; only wanted a word with you.”

Vera viewed the footman in silence, then came to a sudden decision. “Very well, I will go downstairs. You remain with Mr. Porter, Murray, until I return.”

“Yes, miss.” And Murray, waiting respectfully for her to step into the hall, entered the bedroom and closed the door.

On reaching the front hall Vera paused long enough to slip on Millicent Porter’s sport coat which was hanging from the hat stand, and, putting up the latch, she walked out on the portico, and stopped abruptly on finding herself alone. A low hail from a taxi standing a slight distance down the driveway caused her to look in that direction, and she saw Dorothy’s face at its window. A second more and she stood by the taxi door, held invitingly open by Dorothy.

“Are you mad, Dorothy?” she demanded, keeping her voice lowered in spite of her anger. “To come out here at this hour of the night!”

“It’s perfectly all right,” retorted Dorothy. “William, our old coachman, brought me out in his taxi,” pointing to a man in chauffeur’s livery who stood some little distance away. “Did you think I could stay away, Vera, when I heard—”

“What have you heard?” The question shot from Vera.

“That you found Bruce with his throat cut—” Dorothy drew in her breath sharply. “I never dreamed he would kill himself—”

“The coroner’s jury called it murder,” said Vera dully.

“Whom do they suspect?” gasped Dorothy.

“I imagine Dr. Noyes.”

“Dr. Noyes!” in profound astonishment. “Why?”

“Chiefly because of his sudden departure without bidding anyone good-by.”

“But—but—the motive? Heavens! Did he know Bruce?” And Vera leaned forward from the taxi, so that the moonlight fell full on her face.

“He met him last night,” with dry emphasis, and Dorothy moved restlessly. “Listen, Dorothy, I can stay but a moment longer. If you should be questioned, remember that at the inquest I did not mention that I had ever seen Bruce Brainard before last night, and that I have not confided to anyone in the Porter house that I ever heard of him before.”

“But—but—Hugh knows.”

“Hugh Wyndham!” Vera clutched the door of the car for support. “Did you tell him tonight?”

“No, I haven’t seen him for over a week. I—” But Vera did not give her time to finish her sentence.

“Dorothy, were you so foolish—my God! you didn’t mention names to Hugh?”

Her sister nodded dumbly.

From one of the leafless trees far down the lawn an owl hooted derisively as a light footstep crunched the gravel just behind Vera, and she swung quickly about. The front door of the house was wide open and a stream of light illuminated the portico.

Millicent Porter, approaching nearer, recognized Vera and her sister, and darted to the side of the car with a glad cry of welcome.

“Dorothy, you’ve come!” she exclaimed, seizing her hands. “I told Hugh not to return without you.”

Dorothy glanced in speechless surprise from Vera to Millicent, then back, almost pleadingly, to her sister. Vera’s face was set and stern.

“Yes, Millicent,” she said quietly. “Dorothy has come to spend the ni—” she stumbled in her speech—“several days,” she amended.

CHAPTER VII
AT THORNEDALE LODGE

A ROW of beautiful trees ran the length of Thornedale Lodge, facing the entrance on the south. They had been planted generations before, and, no allowance made for their increase in height and circumference, towering above the old house, they were landmarks for miles around. Their branches touched the galleries and windows, and in summer their foliage shut out much light and sunshine, but Beverly Thorne scoffed at the idea of dampness and refused to cut down the trees, as his father had refused before him. The stars in their constellation were not more fixed than the customs which had obtained in the old Virginia home.

Beverly Thorne crossed the lawn and entered his house, and an anxious-faced negro butler, grown gray in service, came forward to meet him.

“Yo’ breakfas’ am served, sah,” he announced, and his soft drawling voice contained a note of reproach. “I done looked ober de whole house fo’ yo’, an’ de things am gettin’ cold.”

“Sorry, Cato.” Thorne preceded the old servant into the dining-room, but instead of approaching the table he stopped before a window overlooking the sloping ground and a distant view of the Porter homestead, Dewdrop Inn. “See that man, Cato, loitering near the lodge gate?” he asked, and Cato peered over his shoulder. “Send Julius to him. Wait,” as Cato moved away. “Tell Julius to say that Dr. Thorne presents his compliments and asks Detective Mitchell to come here and have a cup of coffee with him.”

“Yessir.” And Cato went to execute the errand, while Thorne waited until he saw the small negro boy who assisted Cato in tending the grounds cross the back lawn, then turned away from the window.

Walking over to the table he picked up a folded newspaper by his plate and used it as a shield as he drew a photograph from his inside coat pocket. The picture was irregular in shape and small in size, and had evidently been cut from a group photograph, for the two figures on either side of Vera Deane had been partly decapitated by scissors. Vera and her companions were in their nurses’ costume and carried diplomas. It was an excellent likeness of Vera, her pose was natural and her fresh young beauty and fearless eyes claimed the attention of the most casual. Thorne knew every light and shade in the photograph.

“To think she threw away her happiness, her career, for—” he muttered, and his hand clenched in impotent wrath, then, becoming aware of the negro butler’s return, he replaced the photograph in his pocket, and soon became absorbed in the newspaper. Cato, considerably annoyed by the prospect of further delay in serving breakfast, arranged another place at the table with more alacrity than his rheumatic joints usually permitted. He had no more than finished when Detective Mitchell appeared in the side door, ushered in by the grinning boy. Throwing down his paper, Thorne greeted the detective heartily.

“Very good of you to share my breakfast,” he said, pouring out a steaming cup of coffee as Mitchell took possession of the chair pulled out for him by Cato.

“You are the good Samaritan, doctor,” declared Mitchell, rubbing his chilled hands. “The Porter place gets the full force of the wind; you are more sheltered here,” glancing out of the diamond-paned windows, and then back again at his host and the cosy dining-room with its blazing logs in the large stone fireplace at the farther end.

The somewhat shabby old furniture, the wide sideboard on which stood quaint glass candelabra and heavy cut-glass decanters and dishes of the generous proportions of former decades, a table in the window littered with magazines and books, and near at hand a mahogany stand equipped with a smoking outfit, all seemed to blend with the low time-stained oak beams and wainscoted walls. No curtains hung in the windows, and the winter sunshine streamed in, betraying here and there in cracks and crannies small accumulations of dust which Cato’s old eyes had passed unseen.

Thorne observed which way his guest’s attention was straying and smiled, well pleased; he was proud of the historic old house. “This is one of the pleasantest rooms,” he said, pushing the toast rack near the detective. “Try some toast; it’s hot.”

“Thanks.” Mitchell enjoyed his breakfast for a few minutes in silence. “Is this house older than the Porter mansion?”

“Same age; in fact my great-great-grandfather built them both,” answered Thorne. “But this was only a hunting lodge, while the Porter homestead was a mansion house, and is pure Georgian in architecture.”

“It’s the best-looking house in this country,” affirmed Mitchell enthusiastically. “Pity to have a gruesome crime committed inside its old walls.”

“You are sure it was a crime?” asked Thorne, stirring his coffee and then sipping it gingerly. “A murder?”

Mitchell stared at him in surprise. “Of course I’m sure that it was a murder. Didn’t the medical evidence prove that the wound could not have been self-inflicted?”

“The deputy coroner gave that as his belief, with one reservation—the wound could have been self-inflicted if Bruce Brainard was left-handed.”

“Which he wasn’t,” declared Mitchell positively. “I have questioned all who knew Brainard, and they swear he was right-handed. So there you are, doctor, with a case of proven murder.”

Thorne laid down a fresh piece of toast untasted on his plate. “I take exception to Deputy Coroner McPherson’s theory that the wound from its appearance could not have been self-inflicted,” he announced slowly. “Any surgeon will tell you that it is next to impossible to tell with any degree of accuracy at exactly which point the razor first entered the flesh. Brainard might have gashed himself by holding the razor in his right hand with the full intention of committing suicide, and opened the carotid artery. In that way he could have inflicted just such a wound as killed him.”

Mitchell moved impatiently. “Why didn’t you mention that at the inquest?” he grumbled.

“Because I was not called as a witness.”

The detective ruminated silently for some moments, casting frequent glances at his host.

“Well, perhaps an expert can tear the medical evidence to pieces at the trial, but there’s one point you overlook, doctor,” he argued. “But if it was suicide, where did Brainard get the razor? Everyone admits, including Mrs. Porter, that he had not expected to spend the night, and he did not bring a pair of pyjamas; only had the clothes on his back, a dress suit. Mr. Wyndham admitted in the presence of the coroner yesterday that Mr. Brainard did not see his overcoat after he was taken ill, and Murray, the footman, states that it hung in the coat closet until I took it down to examine it.” Mitchell paused and added impressively: “I’ll stake my reputation that Brainard had no razor when he was put to bed, therefore he could not have committed suicide. He was murdered by someone inside the house.”

“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.”

“You mean—?” The detective looked puzzled.

“Craig Porter.”

Mitchell laughed outright. “Have you seen him?”

“No.”

“Why, doctor, he’s paralyzed, can’t move hand or foot.” Mitchell puffed contentedly at his cigar. “I was in his bedroom yesterday afternoon and got a good look at him while I was chatting with Mrs. Hall, the other nurse. I don’t think Porter will live very long, poor devil,” he added. “Fine-looking chap; must have been some athlete, from all accounts.”

“Yes,” agreed Thorne, moving his plate aside to make room for the fresh pot of coffee which Cato brought in at that moment. “Let me give you a hot cup, Mitchell; there, that’s better. What were you going to ask me?” observing that his companion hesitated.

“Can you give me any pointers about this Dr. Alan Noyes and Hugh Wyndham?” asked Mitchell. “They are your next-door neighbors, so to speak.”

“And I never crossed their threshold until yesterday,” responded Thorne dryly. “A family feud of long standing, Mitchell, and if I were the devil with horns, Mrs. Porter couldn’t regard me with more horror.” A boyish smile touched his stern lips and his gray eyes twinkled.

Mitchell glanced at him speculatively. There was little of the student in Thorne’s appearance; his bronzed cheeks and throat spoke of out-of-doors, and his well-cut riding-clothes showed his tall, wiry figure to advantage. The faint crow’s feet under his eyes and the slight graying of his black hair at the temples gave an impression of a not too easy path in life, and Mitchell decided in his own mind that his host was between thirty-six and thirty-eight years of age.

“While I never talked to Mrs. Porter until yesterday, Mitchell,” continued Thorne, laying down the stub of his cigar, “I’ve had a slight acquaintance with Wyndham, and one not calculated to make me popular with him.”

“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.

“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.”

“Thanks.” Mitchell turned up the collar of his overcoat as Thorne opened the front door, and stood hesitating on the threshold. “Say, doctor,” he suddenly burst out, “you were the first outside the Porter family to see Brainard yesterday morning—what struck you most forcibly about the affair?”

Thorne considered the question. “The composure of Nurse Deane,” he said finally. “The young woman who said she was the first to discover the crime.”

Mitchell stared at him open-mouthed. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

“It is an unheard of thing for a first-class trained nurse to sleep at her post.” Thorne spoke slowly, carefully. “And the transom between the two bedrooms was open.”

“But it is over Craig Porter’s bed,” objected Mitchell. “And Nurse Deane couldn’t have looked through the transom without climbing up on his bed.”

“I grant you she could not have looked through the transom,” answered Thorne. “But she could hear. The slightest sound becomes ‘noise’ at dead of night.”

Mitchell’s eyes grew bigger and bigger. “Then you think—”

“That Nurse Deane both heard the murder committed and investigated it long before she went to summon Hugh Wyndham—and in that interval she had time to partially recover from shock and exert her self-control which, for a girl of her years, appears little short of marvelous.”

There was a brief silence which Mitchell broke.

“You’ve given me a new viewpoint,” he said. “So you think Nurse Deane is an accessory after the fact?”

“Possibly—through sympathy.”

Mitchell whistled. “Not to say affection, eh, doctor?” But Thorne was looking through the open door and failed to catch Mitchell’s suggestive wink. Mitchell moved briskly across the paved walk which led from the front door to the box-hedged garden in front of the house. “I’ll let you know what the third degree brings forth, doctor,” he called over his shoulder and hurried up the walk.

CHAPTER VIII
MANY INVENTIONS

DOROTHY DEANE laid aside the muffler she had been pretending to knit and stared intently at Millicent who lay stretched out on the lounge in Mrs. Porter’s pretty boudoir. Millicent was certainly asleep at last, but Dorothy waited several more minutes before rising cautiously and stretching her stiff muscles. It seemed hours since she had breakfasted. Taking care not to awaken the sleeper, Dorothy left the room and, after debating her future actions, she finally went in search of Murray. She found the footman polishing the silver service in the pantry.

“Miss Millicent wishes to know, Murray, if Mr. Wyndham has returned,” she said, letting the swing door close behind her.

“No, Miss Dorothy, not yet.” Murray dropped his chamois and straightened to an upright position, and a sudden sharp crick in his back resulting caused an involuntary groan to burst from him. Dorothy looked at him sympathetically.

“Why not use Sloane’s liniment?” she asked.

Murray shook his head and eyed her dismally. “I’ll just have to endure it, miss—if it isn’t rheumatism it’s something else.”

“Try a liver pill,” suggested Dorothy. She was aware of Murray’s peculiarities, and, if discussing medicine and illness would put him in a good humor, she was willing to go any length; Murray alone could supply her with certain information. Her suggestion, however, was unfortunate.

Murray favored her with a withering glance. “It’s not my liver that gives me an ache in every bone, it’s grippe,” he announced. “I’m wishing I had one of them ante-bellum cartridges.”

“Had what?” Dorothy looked at him in honest amazement.

“Ante-bellum cartridges,” he repeated. “The same as Dr. Noyes gave you, Miss Dorothy, when you came down with cold and fever in Christmas week.”

“Oh!” Dorothy’s piquant face dimpled into a smile, hastily suppressed; discretion prevailed in spite of her love of fun. It was wiser not to tell Murray that he should have said “antifebrin capsules”; she was there to wheedle, not to instruct. “Oh, Murray, I do hope you haven’t grippe—it’s so contagious.”

“Yes, miss.” But Murray did not look downcast at the idea. “We’d be a whole hospital then, a regular hospital.” His face lengthened. “But we’ve no doctor in the house, now Dr. Noyes has gone.”

“Oh, well, there’s one in the neighborhood; in fact, just across the fields—Dr. Thorne.”

Murray shook his head dubiously. “I’m thinking I wouldn’t like him,” he said thoughtfully. “They say he’s over-hasty at cutting people up.”

Dorothy laughed, then became serious. “I believe he has made a specialty of surgery.” She turned as if to go. “By the way, Murray, did Mr. Wyndham mention when he would be back?”

“No, miss, he didn’t.” Murray, turning about to replace a dish on the shelf, smiled discreetly. “I’m thinking, miss, that Mr. Hugh intended to tell Mrs. Porter when he would be back when that ’tec, Mr. Mitchell, stepped out of the door I was holding open for Mrs. Porter, and Mr. Hugh called to her to expect him when she saw him, and the car started off with a rush. He was here this morning.”

“Who—Mr. Hugh?” Dorothy turned like a flash.

“No, no, miss, the ’tec, Mitchell. I hear tell as how he’s the man in charge here; tall, light-haired, looks as if he didn’t belong anywhere, ’cause he’s so busy concealing he’s looking everywhere.”

“I know the man you mean.” Dorothy laid her hand on the swing door. “Miss Millicent and I watched him pacing up and down the carriage drive before breakfast, and saw him go toward Dr. Thorne’s house. Has he been here since? Oh!” She stepped back, startled, as a face appeared at the pantry window, and a second later a finger tapped gently on the pane.

“Speaking of the devil”—muttered Murray, walking past Dorothy and throwing open the window. “What do you want to scare the lady for?” he demanded wrathfully.

“I beg your pardon.” Mitchell lifted his hat and regarded Dorothy solemnly. “I was under the impression she had seen me standing here a moment ago. Please tell Nurse Deane, Murray, that I wish to see her.”

Dorothy, who had drawn back until she stood partly hidden by the wall of the pantry from Mitchell’s penetrating gaze, grew paler as she heard the detective’s request, and the quick droop of her eyelids hid a look of sudden terror. Before the footman could reply she stepped forward to the window.

“My sister is off duty this morning,” she said. “She is still asleep in her bedroom. Can I take your message to her?”

Mitchell considered rapidly before replying. “May I have a few words with you?”

“Surely. Will you not come into the house? It is rather chilly standing by an open window.”

“Walk around to the front door, sir, and I’ll show you into the drawing-room,” directed Murray, removing his apron and closing the window. “Mrs. Porter is in the library,” he added, and hastened to open the swing door.

With a word of thanks Dorothy walked slowly through the dining-room and down the hall, permitting the footman to reach the front door and usher Detective Mitchell into the drawing-room before she entered. She bowed courteously to Mitchell and signed to him to take a chair near the sofa on which she deposited herself with careful regard to having her back turned to the windows and the detective facing the light. She waited for him to open the conversation.

“You came here last night, Miss Deane.” It seemed more a simple statement of fact than a question, and Dorothy treated it as such and made no reply. Mitchell moved his chair nearer the sofa before asking, “Did I understand you to say that your sister was resting this morning—or ill?”

Dorothy started; ill, why should the detective imagine Vera was ill?

“She is resting,” she responded. “Your ignorance of nurses’ hours of duty proves a clean bill of health, Mr. Mitchell. Night nurses must sleep in the daytime, especially when the day nurse is late in reporting for duty.”

“But Mrs. Hall has been back for some time,” persisted Mitchell. “And it is now nearly one o’clock. Are you quite sure that your sister is still asleep? I am under the impression that I saw her in the upper hall talking to Miss Porter fifteen minutes ago.”

Dorothy considered the detective in silence. What had aroused his sudden interest in Vera?

“If you will give me your message,” she said, “I will go upstairs and see if my sister is awake.”

“Thank you,” replied Mitchell. “But I must see your sister—”

“When?”

“Now.” Hearing a step behind him, Mitchell spun around as Murray stopped by the back of his chair.

“Mrs. Porter desires you to step into the library, sir,” he announced. “You also, Miss Dorothy,” and, wondering why her presence was required, Dorothy followed the detective into the library.

A disorderly pile of newspapers lay on the center table in front of Mrs. Porter, whose air of displeasure and heightened color Dorothy rightly attributed to the display type which heralded the news accounts of the mysterious death of Bruce Brainard.

“Upon my word,” Mrs. Porter’s gold lorgnette performed an incessant tattoo on the table. “The unbridled license of the press of today! And your paper, Dorothy, is most sensational,” addressing her directly. “How could you permit it?”

“But, dear Mrs. Porter, I’m only society editor—I have no authority except over my particular section of the paper,” protested Dorothy. “I am deeply sorry if—if the article offends you.”

“It not only offends—it’s offensive!” fumed Mrs. Porter. “I spoke hastily, Dorothy; I admit you are in no way to blame, but I’ll place the matter in my lawyer’s hands, and the owners of the paper shall smart for hinting that we are a band of murderers.”

“Surely it does not go as far as that?” ejaculated Mitchell.

“It implies it.” Mrs. Porter favored him with an angry look. “I see the article gives you, Mr. Mitchell, as authority for the statement that Dr. Noyes is being sought by the police. How dare you insinuate that he may be guilty? I gave his reason for his abrupt departure at the inquest; the jurors did not hold him in any way responsible for the crime or bring a verdict against him.”

“You must not believe everything you read in the newspapers,” remarked Mitchell, meeting her irate glare with unruffled good nature. “My precise statement to the newspaper men implied nothing against Dr. Noyes. The reporters simply picked him as the first possible ‘suspect.’”

“Kindly disabuse their minds of any such idea. Dr. Noyes, besides his professional ability, is a man of high character and proven courage. He would not stoop to murder,” declared Mrs. Porter hotly. “Besides, there is no possible motive for his killing Bruce Brainard—they never even met before Monday night.” Mitchell remained discreetly silent, and, after watching him in growing resentment, Mrs. Porter announced vehemently: “Mr. Brainard committed suicide. In ascribing his death to murder, the police err.”

“What leads you to believe he committed suicide?” demanded Mitchell.

“His morbid tendencies, his—” She stopped abruptly. “He must have been suffering from mental aberration.”

“All suicides are temporarily insane,” agreed Mitchell. “Otherwise they would not kill themselves; but, Mrs. Porter, in Brainard’s case the medical evidence went to prove that the wound in his throat could not have been self-inflicted.”

“Fiddle-de-dee! I don’t place any reliance on that deputy coroner’s testimony.” Mrs. Porter indulged in a most undignified sniff. “Was Dr. Beverly Thorne present at the autopsy?”

“No.” Mitchell moved nearer the center table. Mrs. Porter’s altered manner at the mention of Beverly Thorne’s name had not escaped the detective’s attention. Apparently Mrs. Porter was far from loving her neighbor like herself. The family feud, whatever it was about originally, would not be permitted to die out in her day and generation. Mitchell dropped his voice to a confidential pitch: “Come, Mrs. Porter, if you will tell me what you have in mind—” Mrs. Porter’s frigid smile stopped him.

“I can hardly do that and remain impersonal—and polite,” she remarked, and Dorothy, watching them both, smothered a keen desire to laugh. “It is my unalterable opinion that Bruce Brainard, in a fit of temporary insanity, killed himself,” added Mrs. Porter.

“Ah, indeed! And where did he procure the razor?”

“That is for you to find out.” Mrs. Porter rose. “Do that and you will—”

“Identify the murderer,” substituted Mitchell, with a provoking smile; in the heat of argument she might let slip whatever she hoped to conceal.

“No, prove my theory correct,” Mrs. Porter retorted, rising and walking toward the door. She desired the interview closed. “Have you the key to Mr. Brainard’s bedroom?”

“Yes, Mrs. Porter.”

“Then kindly return it to me.” And she extended her hand. “The room must be cleaned and put in order.”

“Not yet,” retorted Mitchell. “It was to prevent anything being touched in the room that I locked the door. After the mystery is solved, Mrs. Porter, I shall be most happy to return the key.”

Mrs. Porter elevated her eyebrows as she looked at Dorothy and murmured in an audible aside, “Clothed in a little brief authority;” then, addressing Mitchell, who was following them to the door, “Mr. Mitchell, in the absence of my nephew, Mr. Wyndham, I must remind you that I cannot permit you or your assistants to intrude upon the privacy of my family.”

“Except in the line of duty, madam.” Mitchell’s tone matched hers. “This case must be thoroughly investigated, no matter who is involved. Miss Deane, kindly inform your sister that I must see her at the earliest possible moment.”

“She will see you when she is disengaged, and not before,” retorted Mrs. Porter, wrath getting the better of her judgment, and laying an imperious hand on Dorothy’s arm she conducted her from the room.

Mitchell turned back and paced up and down the library for over five minutes, then paused in front of the telephone stand. “So the old lady is hostile,” he muttered, turning the leaves of the telephone directory. “And Pope isn’t back yet—” He ran his finger down the list of names and at last found the one he sought. Hitching the telephone nearer he repeated a number into the mouthpiece, and a second later was talking with Beverly Thorne.

“What, doctor, you don’t wish to come here again!” ejaculated the detective, as Thorne refused his first request. “Now, don’t let that fool feud interfere with your helping me, doctor. I assure you you can be of the greatest assistance, and as justice of the peace I think there is no other course open to you. Yes, I want you right away—you’ll come? I shan’t forget it, doctor. I’ll meet you at the door.” And with a satisfied smile the detective hung up the receiver and went in search of Murray.

Mitchell, twenty minutes later, stood twirling his thumbs in the front hall; his growing impatience was finally rewarded by the ringing of the front bell, and before the butler could get down the hall he had opened the door and was welcoming Thorne.

“We’ll go upstairs, doctor,” said Mitchell, after Thorne had surrendered his hat and overcoat to Selby, and stood waiting the detective’s pleasure. “Selby, ask Miss Vera Deane to join us at once—”

“I am here,” cut in a voice from the stair landing, and Vera stepped into view. Her eyes traveled past the detective and rested on Beverly Thorne with an intentness which held his own gaze. Totally oblivious of Mitchell and the butler they continued to stare at each other. Suddenly the carmine crept up Vera’s white cheeks, and she turned to Mitchell, almost with an air of relief. “What is it you wish?”

“A few minutes’ chat with you,” answered the detective, mounting the stairs. “Suppose we go into Mr. Brainard’s bedroom. Will you lead the way?” waiting courteously on the landing, but there was an appreciable pause before Vera complied with his request, and it was a silent procession of three which the butler saw disappear upstairs.

Mitchell was the first to speak as they gathered about the bedroom door. “Nice dainty little watch charm to carry about with me,” he said, holding up a massive brass key which measured at least six inches in length, with a ward in proportion. “Did you lock Mr. Brainard’s door, Miss Deane, on Monday night when you returned to your other patient?”

“No, I left the door unlocked, but closed.” Vera spoke with an effort. “As you see, Mr. Mitchell, the old lock turns with difficulty, and I feared the noise it makes”—a protesting squeak from the interior of the lock as Mitchell turned the key illustrated her meaning—“would disturb Mr. Brainard.”

“It needs oiling, that’s a fact.” Mitchell flung open the unlocked door. “Come right in,” he said, and stalked ahead of them.

Vera paused on the threshold and half turned as if to go back, but Thorne’s figure blocked the doorway. Slowly, with marked reluctance, she advanced into the bedroom, and at a sign from Mitchell, who was watching her every movement, Thorne closed the door, his expression inscrutable.

“Look about, Miss Deane,” directed Mitchell, sitting down and drawing out his notebook. “I want you to study each article in the room and tell us if it is just where it stood at the time you discovered Brainard had been murdered. Sit down, if you wish,” indicating a chair near him.

“Thanks, I prefer to stand.” Vera eyed the two men, then did as she was bidden, but as she looked about the bedroom she was considering the motive underlying the detective’s request. What did he hope to learn from her? How dared he make her a stalking horse, and in the presence of Beverly Thorne! The thought bred hot resentment, but the red blood flaming her cheeks receded as quickly as it had come at sight of a figure stretched out in the bed under the blood-stained sheets and blankets. A slight scream escaped her and she recoiled.

“It is only a dummy,” explained Mitchell hastily, laying a soothing hand on her arm. She shrank from his touch.

“I realize it now,” said Vera, moistening her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “I had not expected to find it there.”

“Do you see any changes in the room, Miss Deane?” asked Mitchell, as she lapsed into silence.

Vera, who had been gazing at the figure in the bed as if hypnotized, turned mechanically about and inspected the bedroom. The window curtains had been drawn back and the shades raised, and the room was flooded with light. Catching a glimpse of herself in the huge antique mirror above the mantelpiece as she turned her back to the bed, Vera was startled to see how white and drawn her reflection appeared in its clear depths, and surreptitiously rubbed her cheeks to restore their color.

“I see nothing changed on the mantel,” she said, and the sound of her calm voice reassured her; she had not lost her grip, no matter what the mirror told her. “But”—she wrinkled her brow in thought as her eyes fell on a chair on which were flung a suit of clothes and some underclothing—“Mr. Brainard’s dress suit was laid neatly on the sofa over there, and his underclothes there also.”

“Did you place them there?” asked Mitchell, jotting down her remarks.

“No, they were there when I came into the bedroom Monday night.”

“Did they appear mussed or rumpled the next morning, Miss Deane, as if Brainard had risen in the night and searched the pockets?” inquired Thorne, breaking his long silence. He had followed the detective’s questions and Vera’s replies with the closest attention, while his eyes never left her. It seemed almost as if he could not look elsewhere, and but for Vera’s absorption she could not have failed to note his intent regard.

Vera hesitated before answering his question. “I think the clothes had not been touched,” she said. “My impression is that they lay exactly where Mr. Brainard placed them before retiring.”

“Do you think Mr. Brainard, a sick man, placed the clothes on the sofa, and not Wyndham or Noyes?”

“You must get that information from either of those men,” replied Vera wearily. “I was not present when Mr. Brainard was put to bed.”

“But you can inform us, Miss Deane, if Dr. Noyes ordered an opiate administered to Brainard,” broke in Mitchell, and Thorne looked sharply at him. What was he driving at?

“No, Dr. Noyes did not order an opiate.” Vera moved restlessly. “I gave Mr. Brainard a dose of aromatic spirits of ammonia as directed, and that was all.”

Mitchell rose and stepped into the center of the bedroom and pointed to the transom. It was an oblong opening in the thick wall, forming the top, apparently, of what had formerly been a door jamb; the communicating doorway, judging from appearances, having been bricked up years before. The glass partition of the transom, secured at the bottom to the woodwork by hinges, hung down into the bedroom occupied by Craig Porter from chains fastened to the upper woodwork of the transom, and was barely visible from where Vera and Thorne stood in Brainard’s bedroom. The glass partition, when closed, was held in place by a catch lock at the top.

“Look at that, Miss Deane,” exclaimed Mitchell harshly. “The transom is almost entirely open. Do you still maintain that you heard no sound during the night in this bedroom?”

“I heard no sound which indicated murder was being committed in this room,” Vera protested vehemently. “I tell you I heard nothing,” observing Mitchell’s air of skepticism. “To prove to you that all sound does not carry into the next bedroom, one of you go in there, and I will steal from the hall into this room and over to the bed, and the one who remains can tell what takes place in this room.”

“A good idea.” Mitchell walked briskly toward the door. “You watch, doctor,” and he stood aside for Vera to step past him into the hall, then followed her outside and closed the door securely behind him.

Barely waiting for their departure, Thorne moved over to the chair on which lay Brainard’s clothes, and hurriedly searched the few pockets of the dress suit, only to find them empty. Evidently the police had taken charge of whatever had been in them. He was just turning away when the door opened without a sound and Vera, her white linen skirt slightly drawn up, slipped into the room and with stealthy tread crept toward the bed.

Thorne watched her, fascinated by her unconscious grace and her air of grim determination. He instinctively realized that the test she had suggested was repugnant to her high-strung, sensitive nature, and only his strong will conquered his intense desire to end the scene. As close as he was to her he heard no sound; but for the evidence of his eyes he could have sworn that he was alone in the room. He saw her turn to approach the head of the bed, falter, and draw back, and was by her side instantly. She looked at him half dazed, and but for his steadying hand would have measured her length on the ground. He read the agony in her eyes and responded to the unconscious appeal.

“Come back, Mitchell,” he called, and while he pitched his voice as low as possible its carrying qualities reached the detective in Craig Porter’s bedroom, and he hurried into the next room in time to see Thorne offer Vera his silver flask.

“No, I don’t need it,” she insisted, pushing his hand away. “It was but a momentary weakness. I have had very little sleep for the past forty-eight hours, and am unstrung. If you have no further questions to ask me, Mr. Mitchell, I will return to my room.”

Before replying Mitchell looked at Thorne. “Did she do as she said she would?” he asked. “I heard nothing in the next room until you called me.”

“Yes. Frankly, had I not seen Miss Deane open the door and enter this room I would have thought myself alone,” responded Thorne.

“The carpet is thick.” Mitchell leaned down and passed his hand over it. “It would deaden any sound of footsteps. You are sure that you heard no talking in here Monday night, Miss Deane?”

“I have already said that I did not,” retorted Vera, and she made no attempt to keep the bitterness she was feeling out of her voice. “It seems very hard to convince you, Mr. Mitchell, that I am not a liar.”

Thorne, who had been staring at the bed-table, looked up quickly.

“Did you see a razor lying on this table when you arranged the night light for Brainard, Miss Deane?” he asked.

“No.” Vera sighed; would they never cease questioning her? “That brass bell, the glass night light, empty medicine glass, and water caraffe were the only articles on the table.”

Mitchell went over to the foot of the bed. “Just whereabouts on the bed did you see the razor yesterday morning?” he asked.

Vera, who stood with her back almost touching the bed, turned reluctantly around. It was a high four-post bedstead and required a short flight of steps to mount into it, but some vandal had shortened the four beautifully carved posts to half their height and the canopy had also been removed.

The figure lay huddled face down, for which Vera was deeply grateful. Even in its dark hair she visualized the tortured features of Bruce Brainard, and she turned with a shudder to point to a spot on the bed just below the sleeve of the pyjamas which clothed the figure.

“The razor lay there,” she announced positively.

“Thanks.” Mitchell closed and pocketed his notebook. “Now, one more question, Miss Deane, and then we will let you off. At what time yesterday morning did you go to summon Dr. Noyes?”

“To be exact, at twenty minutes of six.”

“And what hour was it when you first discovered the murder?”

Vera stared at him dazedly, then her trembling hand clutched the bedclothes for support, but as her fingers closed over the sleeve of the pyjamas they encountered bone and muscle. With senses reeling she half collapsed in Thorne’s arms as the figure rolled over and disclosed Murray’s agitated countenance.

“H-he m-made m-me do it, miss,” the footman stuttered, pointing an accusing finger at Mitchell. “Said he wanted to play a trick on Dr. Thorne; but if I’d dreamed he wanted to scare you, miss, I’d never have agreed, never. And I’ve been lying here in agony, miss, afraid to speak because I might scare you to death, and hoping you’d leave the room without knowing about me. If Mrs. Porter ever hears!” Murray gazed despairingly at them. “She wouldn’t have minded me making a fool of Dr. Thorne. Oh, Miss Deane, don’t look at me like that!” and his voice shook with feeling.

“It’s all right,” gasped Vera, standing shakily erect; Murray’s jumbled explanation had given her time to recover her poise. She turned to Detective Mitchell, her eyes blazing with indignation. “The farce is ended, sir, and my answer to your last question is the same—I found Mr. Brainard lying here with his throat cut at twenty minutes of six. Good afternoon.” And she left the three men contemplating each other.

CHAPTER IX
IN THE ATTIC

THE high wind sweeping around the Porter mansion in ever increasing volume found an echo under the eaves, and the attic in consequence resounded with dismal noises. Much of the space under the sloping roof had been given up to the storage of trunks and old furniture, but on the side facing the Potomac River wooden partitions divided that part of the attic into rooms for servants.

The south wall of the attic was lined with pine book shelves which ran up to the wooden rafters. There old Judge Erastus Porter had stored his extensive law library, and there his great-niece, little Millicent Porter, had made her playhouse when she visited him. The nook used in childhood had retained its affection in Millicent’s maturer years and, the trunks forming an effectual barricade, she had converted it into a cozy corner, placed pretty curtains in the dormer window, a rug on the bare boards, wheeled an easy-chair, a highboy, and a flat-top desk into their respective places, and, last but not least, a large barrel stood near at hand filled with out-of-print books and a paper edition of Scott’s novels. Mrs. Porter on her first tour of inspection of the attic had remonstrated against the barrel, stating that it spoiled the really handsome pieces of furniture which Millicent had converted to her own use, but her daughter insisted that the barrel added a touch of picturesqueness, and that she still enjoyed munching an apple and reading “Ivanhoe,” a statement that drew the strictured comment from Mrs. Porter that Millicent had inherited all her father’s peculiarities, after which she was left in peace and possession.

Bundled up in a sweater, Millicent sat cross-legged before a small brass-bound, hair-covered trunk, another companion of her childhood, for she had first learned to print by copying the initials of her great-great-grandfather outlined in brass tacks on the trunk lid. The trunk still held a number of childish treasures, as well as cotillion favors, invitations, photographs, and a bundle of manuscripts. But contrary to custom, Millicent made no attempt to look at the neatly typewritten sheets; instead she sat contemplating the open trunk, her head cocked on one side as if listening.

Finally convinced that all she heard was the moaning of the wind under the eaves, she lifted out the tray, and, pushing aside some silks and laces, removed the false bottom of the trunk and took from it a ledger. Propping the book against the side of the trunk she turned its pages until she came to an entry which made her pause:

Dined with Mrs. Seymour. Bruce Brainard took me out to dinner. He was very agreeable.

And apparently from the frequency with which his name appeared in her “memory book,” Bruce Brainard continued to be “agreeable.” Millicent turned page after page, and for the first time read between the lines of her stylish penmanship what her mother, with the far-sighted eyes of experience, had interpreted plainly. Flattered by the attentions of a polished man of the world, years older than herself, Millicent had mistaken admiration for interest and liking for love. Brainard’s courtship of the debutante had been ardent, and what she termed an engagement and her mother “an understanding” had followed. Brainard had pleaded for an early wedding, but business had called him away to Brazil, and on Millicent’s advice, who knew her mother’s whims and fancies, he had postponed asking Mrs. Porter’s consent to their engagement until his return.

Millicent read on and on in her ledger; accounts of parties gave place to comments about her brother, Craig, then he absorbed the entire space allotted to each day, and the progress of his trip home was duly recorded, and the items:

October 5th—Thank God, Craig is home again, but, oh, what a wreck! It’s agony to see him lying in bed unable to move hand or foot, unable to speak, unable to recognize us. But he’s home, not lying in an unknown grave somewhere in Europe. I’ve just met Dr. Alan Noyes, who accompanied Craig to this country, and to whose skill Craig owes his slender hold on life. The doctor is painfully shy.

October 7th—Saw more of Dr. Noyes today; he improves on acquaintance. Mother says he is not shy, only reticent.

Millicent did not linger over the next few entries, but paused and scanned the words:

October 15th—Vera Deane has replaced the night nurse for Craig. She reminds me so of Dorothy, yet they are not a bit alike. Persuaded Dr. Noyes to talk about his experiences in the field hospitals abroad. Must write Bruce tonight without fail.

Millicent skipped several pages, then came the entry:

December 15th—I had no idea Alan Noyes had such a temper; we quarreled most awfully. He announced his creed is never to forget a friend and never to forgive an enemy. Well, I can be stubborn, too.

Millicent sighed drearily and jumped to the date:

December 24th—Alan Noyes has been exceptionally nice today. Our quarrel has blown over. I wish I had told him about Bruce when we first met.

A tear rolled down Millicent’s white cheek and splashed upon the paper, then suddenly she bowed her head and gave way to the grief consuming her. The minutes lengthened, and at last she sat up and dried her eyes. The outburst had brought physical relief, for during the past twenty-four hours she had fought off every inclination to allow her feelings sway, had suppressed all sign of emotion, and had refused to discuss Bruce Brainard’s mysterious death, even with her mother.

“Who’s there?” she called, as heavy steps approached.

Mrs. Porter had hoped that Millicent’s unnatural calm would give way when unburdening herself to her old chum, Dorothy Deane, and she had made opportunities to leave the girls together. But she was not aware that Dorothy had shown an equal desire to avoid the topic of the tragedy, and Millicent found to her secret relief that she was not urged to confidences which she might later bitterly regret. But that afternoon she had felt the need of being by herself, and had fled upstairs, hoping her mother would not think of looking for her in the attic.

Millicent pulled a chair close to her side and was on the point of rising from her cramped position before the trunk when she heard someone coming up the uncarpeted stairs. She slammed the ledger shut and thrust it among the silks and laces in the trunk, and, pulling out a vanity box, commenced powdering her nose and removing all traces of recent tears.

“Who’s there?” she called, as heavy steps approached.

“Me, Miss Millicent.”

“Oh, Murray!” Her tone spoke her relief. “Have you brought the coffee and sandwiches I told Selby to order for me?”

“Yes, miss.” And the footman emerged from behind the highboy which, with a Japanese screen, partly blocked the view of the cozy corner from the rest of the attic.

“Just put the tray on my desk,” directed Millicent. “Has mother gone out?”

“Yes, miss; she took Miss Dorothy in to Washington.” Murray moved several of the desk ornaments to make room for the tray. “These ladies called just now, Miss Millicent, but I said you were out.” And he handed her a number of visiting-cards.

She barely glanced at the names before tossing the cards aside. “I am thankful you did, Murray; make my excuses to callers for the next week. I can see no one.”

“Very good, miss.” But Murray lingered, a troubled look in his eyes. “The ’tec, Mitchell, left word that he’d be back this evening, miss, and that he’s got to see you.”

“Oh, he has?” Millicent’s eyes sparkled with anger. “Inform Mr. Mitchell that I decline to see him.”

“Yes, miss,” and Murray smiled broadly. “Shall I throw him out, miss?”

“Heavens, no!” exclaimed Millicent. “You might get in serious trouble with the law. He has, I suppose,” bitterly, “the right to hang about the scene of a crime—detectives are sanctioned human vultures.”

“He is, miss; a regular troublesome, meddlesome busybody, getting innocent people into trouble,” responded Murray feelingly. “He thinks he’s so bright with his ideas—I’ll idea him.” And the footman, forgetting his customary respectful attitude in his indignation, doubled up his fists suggestively. “How is Miss Deane feeling, miss?”

“Who, Miss Vera? She is at last getting some rest; be sure, Murray, and tell mother and Miss Dorothy not to disturb her when they return.”

“Certainly, miss.” The footman turned to leave. “Anything else I can get you, miss?”

“Not a thing, thank you.” But as Murray stepped around the highboy she asked: “Any telegrams or telephones?”

“No telegrams, miss; but the telephone is going every instant, ’most all of them are reporters.”

“Don’t give out any information, Murray,” she cautioned.

“Certainly not, miss.” And he hurried away.

Millicent waited until she heard the door at the foot of the attic stairs close, then bent over the trunk and again took out the ledger and carefully tore out a handful of pages. Before replacing the ledger in its hiding-place she felt about under the false bottom until convinced that the article she sought was still there, after which she put back the ledger and the false bottom, rearranged the silks and laces, put in the tray, and locked the trunk.

“If you are not going to drink your coffee, I will,” announced a voice to her left, and a man stepped out from behind the Japanese screen. A low cry escaped Millicent, and her hands closed spasmodically over the pages torn from her ledger.

“Hugh!” she gasped. “Where—where have you been?”

“In town.” Wyndham stopped by the tray and, picking up the plate of sandwiches, handed it to Millicent. She shook her head. “No?” he queried; “then I’ll eat your share.” He poured out a cup of coffee and drank it clear, almost at a gulp. “That’s delicious,” he declared. “I had no idea I was so cold and hungry. Can’t I help you get up?”

But Millicent declined his proffered assistance, and rose somewhat clumsily, both hands engaged in pressing the torn sheets into the smallest possible compass.

“Where have you been, Hugh?” she asked again.

“Sitting on a trunk behind that screen waiting for Murray to go downstairs,” he responded, refilling his cup.

“Then you came up to the attic just after he did?”

“In his wake, so to speak.” He shot a questioning look at her. “Everyone appears to be out this afternoon.”

“Yes.” Millicent carefully turned her back to the dormer window and sat down on the arm of her easy-chair. “You haven’t answered my question, Hugh—where have you been ever since the inquest?”

“At the club.” Wyndham helped himself to another sandwich. “Awfully sorry I couldn’t get in touch with Dorothy Deane and deliver your message. I was sorry to disappoint you.”

“But I wasn’t disappointed. She received the message in time and came last night.”

Wyndham seemed to have some difficulty swallowing his coffee.

“Is she still here?” he inquired as soon as he could speak.

“Yes. Mother insisted that she could run her social column from here as well as from her boarding-house. Most of the social news is gathered over the telephone,” explained Millicent vaguely. “And mother promised to motor in to the office every afternoon and bring her out again in the evening.”

Wyndham set his coffee-cup back on its saucer with small regard for its perishable qualities.

“I might have known that she would come,” he said, half to himself; then louder: “Intimate friends don’t have to be told when they are needed.”

“Dorothy has so much tact—”

“Discussing me?” And Dorothy Deane appeared at Wyndham’s elbow. There was a distinct pause as she recognized Millicent’s companion, and her cheeks, rosy from her long motor ride in the wind, paled. “Oh!” she ejaculated, with an attempt at lightness which deceived but one of her hearers. “The wanderer has returned.”

“Yes—returned to you,” was Wyndham’s quiet rejoinder, and his eyes never left her. “It was very careless of you, Dorothy, not to leave word at the office that you were coming out here last night.”

“If I had mentioned it the managing editor would have insisted that I cover”—she stopped and colored painfully—“new developments for the paper.”

Wyndham transferred his attention to his cousin. “New developments,” he repeated. “Have there been any since I left last night?”

His question did not receive an immediate reply, for Millicent had not paid strict attention to their conversation, being absorbed in secreting the sheets torn from her diary inside her gown.

“Nothing new,” she responded dully. “The detectives are still looking for clues, and under that pretense poking their noses into everyone’s concerns.”

“Let them. Who cares?” But Wyndham did not look so care-free as his words implied. “Brainard’s death is a seven days’ wonder in Washington, Millicent; so be prepared for all sorts of sensational stories. Our friends will talk themselves to a standstill after a time.”

“I suppose sensational stories are to be expected,” admitted Millicent, and she moved restlessly away from her chair. “But what are Bruce’s friends doing?”

Wyndham looked at her quickly. “I don’t understand you—”

“I mean what steps are Bruce’s friends taking to trace the—the murderer?”

Wyndham took a newspaper from his pocket and unfolded it.

“Brainard’s brother has offered a reward of five thousand dollars for the arrest of the criminal,” he stated, pointing to an article in the paper.

Dorothy broke the silence with an impatient stamp of her foot. “The fool!” she exclaimed. “He’d better have waited until it’s proven beyond doubt that it was a murder and not a suicide.”

The newspaper crinkled in Millicent’s hand as she took it, and Wyndham, his eyes roving about the cozy corner, stated quietly:

“The police have found that Brainard never shaved himself, but went every morning to a barber shop just below his apartment house. Apparently he never owned a razor, and the police seem to think that evidence precludes all possibility of suicide.”

“I don’t see why,” protested Millicent, looking up from the paper. “If Bruce contemplated suicide he could have purchased a razor.”

“True, but investigation proves that he did not buy a razor at any of the dealers handling them in Washington, or at a pawnshop. I must admit the police have been very thorough in their search,” acknowledged Wyndham. “It’s all in the evening papers.” He stopped for a moment, then added steadily, “I think, no matter how terrible we find the idea, that we must accept the theory that Brainard was murdered.”

Millicent caught her breath. “I don’t agree with you,” she retorted obstinately. “Are we meekly to consider ourselves murderers just because Bruce never, apparently, owned a razor?”

“You are right,” declared Dorothy, but her manner, to Wyndham’s watchful eyes, indicated that she was clutching at a straw rather than announcing her convictions. “Some friend might have loaned him a razor— Heavens! what’s that?”

A loud hail sounded up the staircase. “Millicent! Millicent!” and they recognized Mrs. Porter’s angry accents. “Why in the world are you staying in that cold attic? Come down at once.”

“Yes, mother.” Millicent started for the staircase, casting an appealing look at Dorothy as she passed her, and in mute response the latter turned to follow, but at the top of the stairs Wyndham laid a detaining hand on her shoulder.

“Wait,” he entreated, and as he met her wistful, frightened glance he repressed with difficulty the emotion that threatened to master him. “Dorothy, never forget I have your interests at heart to the exclusion of all else.”

“Hush!” She raised a trembling hand to his lips, and seizing it he pressed it against his cheeks.

“Dear, how cold you are!” he murmured fondly, caressing her hand.

“Hush!” she reiterated. “Hugh, you must not—this is not the time—”

“It is,” with obstinate fervor. “You cannot have forgotten—”

“Forgotten?” Dorothy started as if stung. “Would to heaven I could!”

“Then you understand?” She looked at him dumbly. “You are sure you understand?”

Through a mist of tears Dorothy studied him, and as she met his imploring gaze a wave of tenderness sent her other hand to meet his eager clasp; then horror of herself, of her thoughts, checked her wild longing to throw herself into his arms, and she drew back.

“It is because I understand,” she said, steadying her voice with an effort, “that I shall never cease to reproach myself—”

“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.”

“I realize that you were not to blame,” answered Vera. “But the others—” Her small hand clenched. “I’d rather forget the scene, Murray; some day, perhaps, I’ll get square with those men for the fright they gave me.”

“I hope you will, miss.” Murray threw open the library door. “I’m wishing Mrs. Porter would give orders not to admit them. Me and Selby are waiting our chance.” And he smiled significantly.

“Perhaps she will.” And Vera glanced earnestly at the footman. “You are not looking very well today, Murray; have you tried that tonic Dr. Noyes advised?”

The footman brightened. “I have, miss, but it don’t agree with me, and the neuralgia’s getting worse.”

“That’s too bad. Come upstairs later and I will give you a tube of Baume Analgésique Bengué.” As the French name tripped off her tongue Murray regarded her with respectful admiration.

“It sounds great, miss; I’d like to use it, thank you.” And he departed for his pantry, his manner almost cheerful.

Left to herself Vera closed the library door and approached the telephone with some hesitancy; she could think of no friend who would have a reason for not giving his name to the footman and concluded Murray was right in imagining the “party” to be a detective. Her interview with Mitchell the day before was still fresh in her mind and she resented the idea of further impertinence. It occurred to her, as she toyed with the receiver, that it was a simple matter to ring off if she found it was Mitchell at the other end of the wire; then a thought stayed her—suppose it was Dr. Beverly Thorne waiting to speak to her? Her expression hardened, and her voice sounded clear and cold as she called into the mouthpiece:

“Well?”

An unknown voice replied: “Is this Nurse Vera Deane?”

Vera’s expression altered. “Yes, what is it?”

“This is Police Headquarters,” went on the voice crisply, and Vera started. “Inspector North speaking. Have you lost anything, Miss Deane?”

“I? No.”

“Are you sure you have not lost your handbag?”

“My handbag!” Vera’s raised accents testified to her astonishment. “No, certainly not.”

“Quite sure, Miss Deane?” insisted the inspector.

“Yes; but as a matter of form I’ll run upstairs and look. Hold the telephone, please.” And Vera dashed up to her room and unlocked her trunk; there lay her handbag, and pulling it open she found its contents intact.

She was out of breath when she again reached the telephone, and had to pause a second before speaking to the inspector.

“My handbag is upstairs, safe and sound,” she called.

“Thank you.” The inspector cleared his voice. “I called you up, Miss Deane, because we found a handbag in a Mt. Pleasant car yesterday afternoon containing your visiting-card, and we located you through the Central Directory for Graduate Nurses.”

“My visiting-card?” echoed Vera, astonished. “Are you sure it was mine?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Deane, your name is engraved in full on a black-edged card. Good afternoon.” And he rang off.

A black-edged visiting-card? Vera sat clinging to the telephone receiver in bewilderment—it had been fully five years since she had had a black-edged visiting-card! Suddenly her ear detected the click of a receiver being hung up, and the faintness of the sound aroused her. Who had been listening in on the branch telephone in Mrs. Porter’s boudoir?

Vera went straight to the boudoir, but before she reached it Millicent walking down the hall paused in the act of entering her own room and called her name softly.

“Mother is lying down,” she said as Vera drew nearer. “Dorothy and I have just left the boudoir. Come and join us in my room.” And she held out her hand with a little affectionate gesture which was characteristic of her. Vera smiled, and under sudden impulse kissed her; there was something very winsome about Millicent, mere child as she was.

“Thanks, Millicent, I’ll come and sit with you later; but first I must take my ‘constitutional’—I haven’t had a walk for several days, and I need the fresh air.”

Millicent stroked her cheek with tender fingers. “Perhaps the wind will put color there,” she said. “You are not getting proper rest, Vera; for your pallor and heavy eyes tell the story.”

Vera shook her head in dissent. “I only need fresh air; don’t let that foolish sister of mine put ideas into your head.” She stopped abruptly as Hugh Wyndham stepped out of his aunt’s bedroom and joined them.

“Good afternoon, Miss Deane,” he commenced cordially, but she returned his greeting so perfunctorily that Millicent’s eyes opened wide in surprise, and, reddening, Wyndham turned to his cousin. “Are you going to motor in to Washington with us, Millicent? Better come; you don’t have to leave the car or talk to anyone,” guessing the cause of her hesitancy.

“True—” but still Millicent paused.

“I think you had better go,” put in Vera quietly, and barely glancing at Wyndham she went to her own room.

Wyndham smiled reassuringly as he caught Millicent’s puzzled frown. “Vera’s nerves are on edge,” he said. “I quite understand her seeming rudeness.”

“Well, I don’t,” confessed Millicent. “Dorothy has a much sweeter disposition than her sister, and on her account I overlook Vera’s occasional tempers. Go and get the limousine, Hugh; Dorothy and I will be ready in ten minutes.”

However, it was less than the prescribed ten minutes when Millicent and Dorothy stood waiting in the lower hall for the arrival of the car, and the latter, going into the library to collect some notes she had left there, encountered her sister on her way out of the side entrance to Dewdrop Inn.

“I wish you were going with us, Vera,” she exclaimed impulsively. “Do come, there’s plenty of room in the limousine.”

“Not today, dear.” And Vera tempered the refusal with a kiss. She glanced at the yellow copy paper Dorothy was busy stuffing inside her muff. “Did you use the telephone in Mrs. Porter’s boudoir about fifteen minutes ago?”

Dorothy shook her head. “No, but Mrs. Porter and then Hugh tried to get Central.” Her sister’s reference to the boudoir recalled a recent conversation, and she added briskly: “Vera, why are you so stand-offish with the Porters? They are fond of you, yet you never spend any time with them, and I think they feel it.”

Vera drew back from Dorothy’s detaining clasp. “I am here in my professional capacity, Dorothy, and I don’t wish to intrude upon them,” she said gently. “Better that they think me ‘stand-offish’ than say I take advantage of ‘auld lang syne’ and push myself forward.”

“What nonsense! I declare, Vera, you are downright provoking, not to say morbid,” protested Dorothy. “It’s the result of never getting away from the atmosphere of the sick room. I don’t see how you stand it; the mere sight of suffering drives me wild, and to think of poor Craig Porter, whom I used to dance with, lying there inert—I just could not go to his room today when Mrs. Porter asked me to do so,” she wound up. “His changed appearance would break me down completely. How can you watch him night after night?”

“You and Craig were great friends, whereas I never knew him in those days.” Vera lowered her voice. “Let me see, did you first meet him when we were in mourning?”

“No, before that, when Millicent and I were at Catonsville together. We were great chums.” And she smiled, then winked away a sudden rush of tears. “Poor Craig!”

“Don’t call him ‘poor’—he is rich in accomplishment,” rapped out Vera. “Think what he has done for the Allies; get Mrs. Porter to tell you of the honors paid Craig by the gallant Frenchmen, and never call him poor again.”

“I wasn’t alluding to his past, but his present,” explained Dorothy, somewhat startled by the gleam in her sister’s eyes. “I understand he can’t utter a sound or move a muscle.”

“He can’t.” She paused as Millicent’s voice echoed down the hall. “Go, dear, they are calling you.”

But Dorothy lingered. “Have you any errands I can attend to for you in town?”

“N-no—wait.” Vera spoke hurriedly as steps approached. “See if you can find my package of visiting-cards—”

“I told you months ago, Vera, that you hadn’t any left,” interrupted Dorothy.

“Perhaps you can find an old one, even if it’s black-edged, in my desk—”

Dorothy shook her head violently. “I can’t; I looked there at Christmas and could not find any kind of a card. Coming right away, Murray,” as the footman appeared. “Do you wish me to order some cards struck off?”

“Yes,” called Vera. “Pay for it with the money I gave you yesterday.” And Dorothy disappeared with Murray in attendance.

Vera waited until convinced that the limousine must have driven off, then, tossing the blue cape with its small picturesque red cross about her shoulders, she opened the side door and, skirting the back of the house, walked swiftly past the garage. Passing down a lane she crossed a field and went up a path leading to the “side hill,” as that part of the Porter plantation was called.

The cold and wind of the preceding day had abated, and Vera took deep breaths of the delicious, invigorating air, as, deserting the path, she made her way among the trees and dead underbrush to a clearing high up on the hillside, which, except from above, was invisible from the path she had quitted some moments before. A huge mica rock, known locally as Diamond Rock, occupied most of the clearing, and Vera exclaimed with pleasure as she caught the rainbow effects produced by the winter sunshine on its surface. Stepping in clefts in the rock she slowly mounted to the top and made herself comfortable. Once settled on her perch, she turned her attention to the panoramic view of the Potomac River far below her and the surrounding countryside.

But she barely saw the landscape, her thoughts being concentrated upon the Porter limousine and its occupants. Too late she regretted that she had not accompanied Millicent and Dorothy to Washington. But when her sister had asked her, a feeling of abhorrence had swept over her at the prospect of being inclosed in a small space and listening to their chatter. Her desire to be out in the open and by herself had gained the mastery; for an hour at least she could wrestle with her problems and decide on the future. She resolutely determined to put all thought of the past out of her mind, but it was a greater task than she had imagined—the past would not bury its dead!

Great drops of perspiration beaded her forehead as incidents of the past three days rose before her: her first glimpse of Bruce Brainard in bed Monday night—the tragedy—the inquest—the detectives— Vera plucked at her handkerchief and pressed it against her forehead and her cheeks, rubbing the latter vigorously. She must not think of the past; the future concerned her more intimately.

She must decide on a course of action before Detective Mitchell devised other methods to trap her, and remembrance of the scene in Brainard’s bedroom twenty-four hours before brought a hot flush of resentment in its train. She would square accounts with the detective before many days had passed, and her pretty teeth met with a determined snap. What troubled her was Beverly Thorne. She wished that she might dismiss him from her mind; then shivered involuntarily as she grudgingly admitted to herself that she feared his quick intelligence, his ever-searching eyes and cynical smile. It was an evil fate that had thrown him across her path. As the thought crossed her mind, she saw someone moving in and out among the trees to her right. The newcomer was making his way down the hillside, and she watched him idly.

The man kept a zigzag course and she was unable to get a good look at his face as, with cap pulled down over his forehead and the collar of his Norfolk jacket turned up, he seemed intently scanning the ground, pausing now and then to watch a switch which he carried loosely before him in both hands. Suddenly he stopped and, facing in her direction looked up long and earnestly into the bare branches of a tall tree. Vera’s breath forsook her as she recognized Beverly Thorne. Had she conjured him to appear?

After testing a lower branch of the tree with his weight Thorne transferred his attention to the cleft stick in his hand and strode onward. He was within a few yards of Vera before he discovered her presence. There followed a momentary hesitation on his part, then he advanced to the rock and bowed gravely.

“You have caught me trespassing,” he began. “What is the forfeit?”

Vera pointed in the direction he had come where a wire fence could be seen in the distance; she knew that placards placed at intervals announced: “No trespassing under penalty of the law.”

“As a ‘J. P.’ you must be aware of the penalty exacted for trespass,” she answered, preparing to rise.

He noticed her movement, and raised his hand. “Don’t let me drive you away,” he begged, appreciating to the full the charming picture she made perched on the rainbow-hued rock, her blue cape and its red cross in striking contrast to the dull colors of the woods. “I am going.”

His announcement, however, while it had the effect of inducing Vera to remain where she was, proved a mere figure of speech, as he did not move from his place by the rock. At the end of a long silence Vera could not restrain her impatience, and he caught the antagonism she strove but faintly to conceal.

“Miss Deane”—Thorne skirted the rock and came closer to her—“I am afraid you harbor resentment against me. I assure you that I had no hand in the trick played on you by Detective Mitchell yesterday.”

“Your presence with the detective in the spare bedroom leads me to think otherwise,” she replied coldly.

“I can explain,” he began, but her raised hand stayed him.

“Why attempt an explanation, doctor?” she asked, and her disdain showed so plainly that he colored with indignation.

“Because I desire to set myself right in your eyes,” he answered.

“With what object?”

His eyes did not fall before the challenge in hers, while a warm, sunny smile lightened the severe lines of his stubborn chin and determined mouth.

“Object—matrimony,” he retorted, and she detected the twinkle in his eyes and the faint mockery discernible in his voice. Her resolve was instantly taken; she would meet him on the ground he had chosen—woman’s wit against man’s intelligence was a game old when Methuselah was young. She rose and dropped Thorne a half courtesy, balancing herself on the rock with graceful ease.

“On so short an acquaintance your jest is flattering, but ill-timed.” She paused, then added, “I thank you—and decline.”

“Wait.” He laid down the switch of witch-hazel and drew nearer. “Our acquaintance is not so short; it commenced six years ago in New York.”

Vera stared at him intently. “I fail to recollect,” she began, and paused uncertainly.

Instead of answering verbally he took out his leather wallet and, searching among its contents, finally produced a black-edged visiting-card. On the reverse side were traced the words:

February 14—In grateful remembrance.

CHAPTER XI
MRS. PORTER GROWS INQUISITIVE

A SILENCE followed, so heavy as to be felt, then Vera took the black-edged card and, reversing it, read the engraved name. A rush of memories obliterated the bleak countryside. In its place she saw a busy city street, a swaying figure, a cry for help, the later clang of the emergency ambulance—and the last agonizing parting from her beloved mother. She had been conscious of the aid rendered by the skilful hospital interne, but her mother had focused her attention to the exclusion of all else. After the funeral she had sent a present with her card “In grateful remembrance” to the city hospital authorities, asking them to see that it reached the surgeon who had attended her mother.

A sudden rush of tears almost blinded Vera, and the card fluttered to the rock unheeded.

“Dr. Thorne”—her voice was not fully under control and a quiver crept into it—“I did not know—I had no idea—” She stammered and broke down.

“Don’t.” Thorne swung himself up on the rock beside her and gazed at her with contrition. “Please don’t cry.”

But the injunction was hardly needed, for Vera pulled herself together, and except for a few tears which she winked violently away, she had herself in hand again as she faced him.

“The card—” she commenced, but he did not allow her to finish the sentence.

“The card,” he echoed, stooping to pick it up, “would never have been shown you except that I knew of no other way to break down your unfriendly attitude to me. Please,” coloring warmly under his tan, “never allude to it again.”

Vera looked at him long and steadily. She saw a well-set-up figure with the unmistakable air of good breeding; her eyes traveled slowly up to his face, and paused there, meeting the steady gaze of the somewhat quizzical gray eyes. His hair, slightly silvered at the temples, had a wave in it which suggested that under due provocation it might curl rather attractively, without altering the somewhat grave air of the professional man. Vera held out her hand. “Let me have the card?” she asked.

But instead of complying with her request he slipped the card into his vest pocket. “I’ve carried it so long,” he said softly, drawing closer. “Don’t deprive me of the card.” And as Vera caught the wistful appeal in his eyes a hitherto unknown shyness overpowered her, and she stood tongue-tied. Thorne’s next words, however, brought her back to her surroundings with a jump. “Good heavens, Miss Deane!” he exclaimed as he caught a full view of her face and noted the dark shadows under her eyes and her hectic flush. “You must take care of yourself or you will be ill in bed.”

“All I need is sleep,” protested Vera, but Thorne shook his head in dissent.

“Consult your physician,” he advised, a trifle sternly. “With your training you should know better than to trifle with your health. You are on the point of a nervous breakdown.”

Vera smiled. “You exaggerate,” she said, with an attempt to speak lightly. “I do not need medical attendance. The fresh air this afternoon has done me good, and now,” moving forward to the edge of the rock, “I must return and catch a few hours’ sleep before going on duty.”

Without a word, but with his jaw set at an obstinate angle, Thorne scrambled down the rock, then turned back to assist Vera, only to find her at his elbow. She smiled up at him, slightly breathless from her exertions. Her face was dangerously close, and as Thorne looked deep into her lovely eyes his pulse lost a beat, then raced on. Hardly conscious of his action he clasped her hand in his.

“Vera—Miss Deane,” he stammered, and his voice shook with feeling. “What madness led you to become so entangled in Bruce Brainard’s murder?”

Vera drew back as if struck, and jerked her hand free. “You are mad!” she retorted vehemently. “I am in no way concerned in the tragedy.”

There was an instant’s pause, then Thorne picked up his witch-hazel stick and stood aside, balancing it in his fingers. With a slight inclination of her head Vera turned to leave him, but she had gone but a few steps when he overtook her.

“I seem always to give offense,” he said despairingly. “I’m an unlucky devil; never could express myself properly where I feel the most. Just now, Miss Deane, I only meant—” A pause followed as he sought the word he wanted. Vera’s sidelong glance convinced her that he appeared as perturbed as his speech implied. “I only meant to offer my services.”

“As a physician?”

He flushed at her tone. “Yes, should you require medical attendance.”

“Thank you.” Vera stole another look at him under lowered lids, but his air of detached, friendly interest baffled her. What motive had inspired his burst of passion a scant five minutes before? Vera’s eyes closed as if in pain, and there danced before her mental vision the words: “February 14—In grateful remembrance.” Was Thorne sincere in his proffer of friendship or was he still antagonistic to her and trading upon a woman’s sentiment to mask his true feelings? Pshaw! It was only fair to suspend judgment. It was the least that she could do in view of Thorne’s past kindness—but why had he pocketed the card so hastily? Vera opened her eyes to find Thorne anxiously regarding her. With perceptible hesitancy she took up the conversation where she had left off. “Perhaps when you call to see Mr. Porter I will get you to prescribe for me.”

“I am at your service.” Thorne bowed courteously. “May I accompany you as far as the lane?”

“Certainly.” And keeping step as much as the trees permitted they finally reached the path and walked briskly down it. Vera, who had been thinking intently, was the first to break the silence. “Have you studied law as well as medicine, doctor?” she asked. “And is that why they made you justice of the peace?”

“Not entirely,” he responded, as he opened the gate of the lane. “I have a smattering of the law, and a passion for criminal investigation.”

“Indeed?” Vera was unable to repress a start, and she quickly covered her agitation by pointing to the cleft switch which Thorne still carried balanced lightly in both hands. The switch, apparently of its own volition, had assumed a perpendicular position. “Why are you carrying that twig?”

“Looking for water; I want to sink an artesian well, and this little wand points the way in my investigation.”

“Oh! But you cannot hope to build the well on Mrs. Porter’s property.”

Thorne laughed heartily. “Hardly; Mrs. Porter would never give me permission to do so.”

“Then why waste time trespassing on her property?”

Again Thorne laughed, but a shadow lurked in his eyes as he glanced keenly at his questioner. “Frankly, I have two investigations under way,” he acknowledged. “One to locate a spring, and the other to discover who murdered Bruce Brainard.”

Vera’s back was toward the setting sun, and her face was in shadow. “If you spend your time looking for wells you will not solve the mystery of Mr. Brainard’s death,” she said with slow emphasis.

“I’m not so sure of that.” Thorne spun the cleft stick about in his fingers. “Are we not told that truth lies at the bottom of a well? Good-by.” And lifting his cap he vaulted the fence which separated his property from the Porter estate and disappeared behind some barns.

Vera did not at once resume her walk to the house, and when she did so her usually light footstep was dragging and her expression more troubled.

“Has Miss Millicent returned, Murray?” she asked on entering the butler’s pantry a few minutes later.

“No, miss.” And Vera went wearily into the deserted library.

The rooms, with shades and curtains partly drawn and the fire on the hearth reduced to smoldering embers, was not conducive to cheerfulness, and Vera shivered as she threw herself down on the wide leather couch and pillowed her head on one of its numerous cushions.

“I wish I’d gone to Washington with Dorothy,” she muttered, snuggling down under the warm folds of a carriage robe she had brought from the coat closet. “I could have stood their chatter better than—” Her thoughts supplied the name her lips did not utter, and Mrs. Porter, gliding noiselessly into the library, never dreamed that Beverly Thorne’s domineering personality was keeping her beautiful nurse from peaceful slumber.

Mrs. Porter, her hands full of papers, went directly to the fireplace. Poking the embers into a feeble blaze, she squatted down on a footstool and placed the letters she carried one by one into the flames. Vera, lying with eyes closed, and buried in her own thoughts, did not become aware of her presence until the clang of a fire iron which Mrs. Porter inadvertently let slip aroused her. A certain furtiveness in Mrs. Porter’s movements checked Vera’s impulse to address her, and she watched her employer in a growing quandary. Should she let Mrs. Porter know that she was not alone in the room, or was she already aware of her, Vera’s, presence? It was highly probable that the latter was the case, as Mrs. Porter had to pass near the lounge to get to the fireplace, and Vera resolutely closed her eyes and did her best to drop off to sleep.

Mrs. Porter, with painstaking care, opened each letter and scanned it intently before depositing it in the fire. Her features looked pinched and worn in the ruddy glow from the burning paper. She faltered as her busy fingers came at last to a handful of twisted papers, and it took her some moments to smooth out the torn sheets and place each separately on the red-hot embers. The last sheet followed its predecessor before the first had been quite consumed, and Mrs. Porter shuddered as the sheet, like some tortured body, twisted about, then stiffened, and the words it bore showed in bold relief:

Tuesday morning—Saw Alan. God help us both.

A flame shot upward across the sheet, and the scorching trail left no record in the ashes on the hearth.

Mrs. Porter poked among the embers until convinced that each scrap of paper had been burned, then rising stiffly she gazed uneasily about the library, letting her eyes finally rest on Vera. She studied the girl’s perfect profile with appraising keenness before seating herself in front of the center table and picking up her pen. But the words she sought to put on paper would not come, and she threw down her pen with a pettish exclamation; the continued silence in the room was getting on her nerves.

“Vera!” she called shrilly. “Wake up.”

Even before she had finished speaking Vera was on her feet, and a second more was standing by the older woman’s side, laying a soothing hand on her trembling fingers.

“What is it, Mrs. Porter?” she asked. “What can I do for you?”

“Talk to me.” Mrs. Porter patted the chair next to hers and Vera sank into it. “I must have some diversion or I shall go mad!” And the gleam in her eyes lent color to her words. “Gossip with me.”

“About what—politics?” mentioning the topic farthest from her thoughts; she was too nervously inclined to discuss personal matters.

“Politics?” repeated Mrs. Porter. “You’ll find no argument there, Vera; I’ve lived too long in Washington not to float with the tide—mine are always Administration politics. But”—with a sudden sharp glance at her companion under lowered lids—“I am always interested in the tattle-tales of Cupid. Your sister Dorothy and my nephew Hugh don’t seem to be as good friends as formerly; what has estranged them?”

Vera’s fingers closed tightly over the arm of her chair and her answer was slow in coming. “Oh, they have frequent bickerings.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps the present tiff is more serious—for the moment.”

Mrs. Porter looked relieved. “I hope you are right, for I have quite set my heart on that being a match. Do you know,” in a sudden burst of confidence very foreign to her usually reserved nature, “I was beginning to fear that Bruce Brainard’s horrible death might have been at the bottom of the estrangement.”

“Oh, Mrs. Porter!” Vera’s shocked expression drew instant explanation and Mrs. Porter, in her excitement, failed to observe Vera’s growing agitation.

“The atmosphere of this place since the tragedy distorts every action, every idea!” she began incoherently. “I do my utmost to forget it, but I can think of nothing else. And you found Bruce dead on Tuesday morning—only forty-eight hours ago!”

“It seems a lifetime!” confessed Vera wearily.

“And that stupid detective has done nothing,” fumed Mrs. Porter. “In the face of no evidence, he still thinks Bruce was murdered.”

“I don’t catch your meaning.” And Vera looked as puzzled as she felt.

“Why, if Bruce had been murdered there would have been some clue; whereas, the lack of evidence against anyone proves that Bruce must have committed suicide.”

“Where did he get the razor?” The question almost leaped from Vera, and she bent forward in her eagerness to catch the other’s answer.

“Brought it with him.” But Mrs. Porter’s eyes had shifted and Vera could not read their expression. “Listen, Vera, let us argue this matter out—I’m tired of beating about the bush!” Mrs. Porter’s air of candor would have convinced anyone not familiar with her moods and tenses—Vera gazed at her and remained discreetly silent. “I know that every door and window in the floor and the cellar were locked, because I accompanied Hugh when he went the rounds to see that the house was securely fastened on Monday night. Even the police admit that no one broke into the house.”

“Yet they contend that Bruce Brainard was murdered.” Vera spoke almost without her own volition, and bit her lip until the blood came, but the words could not be recalled.

Mrs. Porter’s hand flew to her heart as if to still its rapid beating. “Yes,” she agreed dully, the false animation of a moment before deserting her. “Who in this household would have a motive for killing Bruce?”

Her question met with no response, and as the pause lengthened they avoided looking at each other; twice Mrs. Porter tried to speak, but her voice failed her, and she rose uncertainly to her feet. Vera sat as if carved from marble, and even the opening of the library door failed to draw her attention.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Porter,” said Mrs. Hall, advancing toward the desk. “I think you had better send for a physician for Mr. Craig.”

“Craig! Is he worse?” Mrs. Porter turned imploring eyes on the day nurse.

“I don’t like his symptoms,” replied Mrs. Hall, noncommittally. “And I dare not take the responsibility of treating him until a physician has seen him. Please don’t delay in sending for one.”

By that time Vera was on her feet. “Can I be of assistance?” she asked, addressing Mrs. Hall.

“Not now; perhaps later,” responded the day nurse. “Mrs. Porter, please tell me whom you desire called in, now that Dr. Noyes is no longer here, and Miss Deane can telephone for him.”