The moving finger E-Book

Natalie Sumner Lincoln

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 319

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

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.

Leseprobe

The MOVING FINGER

BYNATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN

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

CONTENTS

CHAPTER IV MORE TESTIMONY

CHAPTER V DOROTHY DEANE, “SOCIETY EDITOR”

CHAPTER VI THE WALL BETWEEN

CHAPTER VII AT THORNEDALE LODGE

CHAPTER VIII MANY INVENTIONS

CHAPTER IX IN THE ATTIC

CHAPTER X THE BLACK-EDGED CARD

CHAPTER XI MRS. PORTER GROWS INQUISITIVE

CHAPTER XII DETECTIVE MITCHELL ASKS QUESTIONS

CHAPTER XIII THE RED HERRING

CHAPTER XVI HARE AND HOUNDS

CHAPTER XVII VERA RECEIVES A LETTER

CHAPTER XVIII THE COUNTERFEIT BANK NOTE

CHAPTER XIX THE FIRST SHOT

CHAPTER XXI BLIND MAN’S BUFF

CHAPTER XXII “THE MOVING FINGER WRITES—”

CHAPTER XXIII OUT OF THE MAZE

CHAPTER IVISIONS

T

HE 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 IITRAGEDY

“R

AT-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 IIITESTIMONY

T

HE 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.