HARE AND HOUNDS
WYNDHAM, taking no precautions to walk lightly, tramped down the hall
oblivious of the bright sunshine which streamed through the windows,
whistling dismally below his breath. As he came abreast of his cousin’s
bedroom the door, which stood partly ajar, was opened fully and Mrs.
Hall stepped into the corridor, a finger to her lip. Wyndham halted
abruptly.
“Is anything the matter?” he questioned, alarmed by her manner.
“Miss Porter has been given a sedative,” she said, closing the bedroom
door softly. “The slightest noise--your whistling--”
“Oh, I beg pardon,” in deep contrition. “I was not aware--is she
seriously ill?”
“A trifle feverish.” Mrs. Hall glanced at him doubtfully, looked away,
then bowed and laid her hand on the knob of the bedroom door, but
Wyndham, quick to catch her expression, checked her by an imperative
gesture.
“You wish to ask me something?”
All hesitancy vanished as Mrs. Hall met his steadfast regard and came
unconsciously under the influence of his friendly smile. “Your cousin,”
she began, “your cousin in her delirium begged me to find out if she
had hidden them safely.”
Wyndham stared at her. “Hidden what?”
“She never said, but repeated over and over that she wished me to go
and see if she had hidden them safely.” Mrs. Hall moved nearer, and
lowered her voice. “I trust Miss Porter will be normal when she wakens.
I had to use physical strength to prevent her from going out to see ‘if
she had hidden them safely.’”
Wyndham failed to catch her furtive glance as he stood considering her
words. He roused himself with an effort. “I have no idea to what my
cousin alludes,” he said, and his glance sharpened. “How is your other
patient this morning?”
“Mr. Porter is about the same.” Mrs. Hall grew grave. “Dr. Noyes is
with him until Miss Deane awakens from her nap. She has volunteered to
do double duty.”
“I see; let me know if I can be of assistance in taking care of Craig,”
said Wyndham, and, bowing, he went downstairs.
Mrs. Hall did not at once re-enter Millicent’s bedroom, but when she
did her expression was not pleasant.
Wyndham was not noted for patience at any time, and when he strode into
the dining-room his manner showed his frame of mind. He had a vanishing
view of the butler, Selby, carrying a tray upstairs, but Murray’s
non-appearance after he had repeatedly rung the bell added to his
irritation. Jerking back his chair he pushed open the swing door.
“Murray!” he roared, and his voice carried through the pantry and into
the kitchen beyond.
“Coming, sir, coming,” and the footman followed his words with such
precipitancy that he almost collided with Wyndham. “Beg pardon, sir,
for keeping you waiting, but cook felt fainty-like, and I was just
helpin’ the maids give her some pneumonia.”
“Too bad!” Wyndham, concealing a smile, resumed his seat. “I hope she
feels better.”
“Yes, sir, thank you. Your breakfast is being kept warm for you; shall
I bring it in?”
A nod sufficed in answer as Wyndham spied the morning newspaper, and
paying no further attention to the footman he turned sheet after
sheet with feverish haste. With little to feed upon, excitement
about the Brainard murder had abated, and the column devoted to it
had been relegated to the third page. The reporter assigned to the
case had evidently had difficulty in finding a new angle in handling
the mystery, and had devoted his energies to concocting an ingenious
résumé. But one paragraph near the bottom of the column riveted
Wyndham’s attention.
Detective Mitchell, when interviewed last night, confirmed the
report that events in the career of Bruce Brainard before he came to
Washington were being investigated, and a thorough search made into
the dead man’s private affairs. Brainard was a self-made man, and
while a student at the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute at Troy, N.
Y., he spent his summer vacations working as private secretary to
the Director of the Bureau of Engraving and Printing in Washington.
Brainard afterward made a name for himself in his profession, and
was one of the recognized high-salaried consulting engineers of this
country.
All efforts to establish the ownership of the razor used to kill
Brainard have been unproductive of result. The detectives claim the
razor is one of a set, but where and by whom the other razors of the
set have been hidden in the Porter homestead is a mystery.
“Deviled kidney, sir,” prompted Murray, presenting a piping hot dish,
and Wyndham, with a thoughtful air, laid down the newspaper and
commenced his breakfast.
“Where is Mrs. Porter?” he inquired presently.
“Breakfasting upstairs, sir.” Murray, who had brought in a fresh supply
of coffee, hastened to fill Wyndham’s empty cup. “Selby is serving her
and Miss Dorothy in the boudoir. Have another muffin, sir?”
As Wyndham attacked his third muffin with unabated appetite, Dorothy
Deane strolled into the dining-room, and he rose to place a chair for
her, his face brightening at her entrance.
“It was very unkind of you not to wait and have breakfast with me,”
he said reproachfully, as she declined Murray’s offer of a cup of hot
coffee.
“Mrs. Porter asked me to stay with her. I only ran down thinking that
Vera might be getting her breakfast.”
Wyndham looked as hurt as he felt. “I am sorry--” he said stiffly.
Impulsively Dorothy extended her hand and he clasped it eagerly, and
Murray, his solemn countenance relieved by a sympathetic smile,
discreetly vanished.
“Don’t,” she pleaded brokenly, “don’t find fault with me. I--I can’t
stand it from you.”
Wyndham saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. The next instant
she was in his arms, and as he caught the passionate light in her eyes
his heart swelled with thanksgiving, the irresistible force of love
had conquered the constraint growing between them. But his moment of
rejoicing was short lived as, regaining some semblance of composure,
she quietly unclasped his hands and rose.
“We are both mad, Hugh,” she said, with a pitiful attempt at a smile.
“Under existing circumstances we cannot be married.”
“Why not?” hotly, with honest worship in his eyes. “I see no barrier,
except of your imagining.”
She recoiled. “Hush, Hugh! I cannot discuss it--it’s too near, too
dreadful--” She covered her eyes and so missed the look he shot at her.
Without a word he turned and paced agitatedly up and down the room,
coming at last to a full stop beside her. “Very well, if you wish it
I will not allude to past events.” His voice was so changed that she
looked at him in quick alarm. “But you must understand, Dorothy, that
your love is to me more than all the world; that I have never ceased to
love you.”
She moved impulsively toward him, then checked herself, her eyes
downcast; she dared not look at him or her resolution would have given
way.
“Finish your breakfast,” she said in a voice which quivered in spite
of her endeavor to keep it calm; she was very near to tears. “Are you
going to Washington this morning?”
“No.” He accepted her effort to make the conversation impersonal
with marked displeasure, then, thinking better of his ungracious
monosyllable, he added hastily, “Is there anything I can do for you in
town?”
“There is nothing, thanks,” she said drearily, and looked past him
through one of the windows in time to see Dr. Alan Noyes walking
swiftly along the path which circled the house. Dorothy watched Noyes
out of sight, then turned back to Wyndham, her eyes dark with wonder.
“Hugh,” she almost whispered her words, and he bent eagerly nearer,
“why has Alan Noyes discontinued wearing his false arm?”
He did not reply at once, and she remarked his silence, but before she
could repeat her question he addressed her.
“I cannot imagine,” he admitted. “It is a move likely to turn suspicion
toward him, and it will not lessen the conviction that he is perhaps
responsible for Brainard’s murder.”
“Why?”
“Because without the arm he could not have committed the crime;
therefore, if he is guilty the first thing he would do would be to get
rid of the arm--if innocent he would have continued to use it.”
“But his motive?” Dorothy frowned in perplexity. “The only person he
might protect by such a subterfuge never murdered Bruce Brainard.”
Wyndham studied her intently as he drew a degree closer. “Are you so
very positive you know who really is guilty?” he questioned, with
peculiar intonation; the look she flashed at him was her only answer,
for Mrs. Porter’s entrance put an effectual end to the tête-à-tête.
“Good morning, Hugh,” she said, returning her nephew’s kiss with
warmth. Pad and pencil in hand, she was on her way to make her weekly
inventory of household supplies, a habit clung to as year succeeded
year, and never delegated to the most trusted servant. She seldom
permitted circumstances to alter the daily routine. “Dorothy, will you
be here all day?”
“Yes, Mrs. Porter; this is my day off from the _Tribune_.”
With a relieved air Mrs. Porter walked toward the pantry. “Will you
stay upstairs with Millicent, Dorothy, until I return?” she asked.
“Mrs. Hall is still with her, but--” Mrs. Porter let the swing door
close and beckoned her nephew and Dorothy to come nearer. “I am
dissatisfied with Mrs. Hall,” she went on in an undertone. “In the last
week her manner to me is totally altered--”
“Perhaps she resents your fondness for Vera,” suggested Wyndham, as
Dorothy made no remark. “Professional jealousy may account for any
peculiarity of manner.”
“That is possible,” acknowledged Mrs. Porter. “She is an excellent
nurse, and until lately has been eminently satisfactory. I shall be
greatly obliged, Dorothy, if you will go at once to Millicent and stay
with her until I return.” And, not waiting for an answer, she entered
the pantry. Wyndham accompanied Dorothy into the hall and strove by an
appealing gesture to detain her for a few more words.
“I really can’t stop,” she protested, as he imprisoned her hand. “Mrs.
Porter is frightened about Millicent--and yet, Mrs. Hall told me it was
only a feverish cold, and that while she was running a temperature,
she was not seriously ill. What induced Millicent to go for a walk in
the grounds after midnight?” Getting no response, she added nervously,
“What was her object?”
“Her object?” Wyndham’s thoughts turned reluctantly from Dorothy to
what she was saying. “Oh, Millicent told me the house was stuffy and
that she had a headache and needed air.”
“Is that all?” Dorothy’s relief was manifest. “She came into my room on
her return and awoke me. When I questioned her as to where she had been
her manner was so mysterious that I concluded she was hiding something.”
“Hiding something?” repeated Wyndham mechanically, as Mrs. Hall’s
words recurred to him; Millicent in delirium stated that she had
“hidden something”--could that something be the extra razors which the
enterprising reporter in the morning newspaper hinted were secreted
somewhere about the Porter homestead? The thought was startling.
In his preoccupation Wyndham hardly noticed that Dorothy had freed
her hand and run up the staircase. He stared in front of him in deep
thought for several minutes, then, his decision taken, he picked up his
cane and hat and went outdoors.
Wyndham was totally unconscious of the beauty of the morning as
he strode along, retracing the path by which he and Millicent had
returned after their meeting at the foot of the embankment early that
morning. Upon reaching the highway he kept to the public road, and as
he approached the embankment he saw a man, at some distance beyond
the point for which he was aiming, emerge from a break in the hedge
separating Thornedale from the public road, and walk rapidly toward the
embankment. Drawing closer to the newcomer Wyndham recognized Beverly
Thorne and instinctively quickened his pace, and the two men arrived
simultaneously at the embankment.
With a curt bob of his head and a mumbled “Good morning,” Wyndham made
as if to continue his walk down the road, but turning his head quickly
he saw Thorne had stopped and was carelessly swinging his riding crop
up and down and thereby creating havoc in the creeping myrtle which
covered the space between the road and the embankment.
Wyndham wheeled about and was by Thorne’s side in an instant. Suppose
the surgeon inadvertently chanced upon Millicent’s hiding-place--for
that his theory was right Wyndham had come to believe in his walk to
the embankment. How Millicent had ever acquired possession of the
razors could be investigated later; at the moment it was his business
to prevent others, particularly Thorne, who must be familiar with that
section of his land, from stumbling upon any evidence which might
incriminate--
“Have a cigarette, Thorne,” he said, hastily producing his silver case.
“Great day, isn’t it?”
Thorne eyed him in surprise, then, concealing a faint hesitancy,
accepted a cigarette and also a proffered match. “Much obliged,” he
said politely. “How is your cousin, Mr. Porter, this morning?”
“Better, much better.” Wyndham was watching his companion narrowly; he
had only exchanged a few words with him on the few occasions they had
met. “My aunt appreciated your coming so promptly in response to her
message, and we were both sorry to put you to the trouble--”
“It was no trouble,” replied Thorne brusquely; sensitive as he was to
his neighbors’ dislike of him, he was quick to resent what he construed
to be a touch of patronage in Wyndham’s manner.
An awkward pause followed as each man waited for the other to walk on.
Wyndham was a poor hand at manufacturing small talk; he did not care to
discuss with anyone whom Mrs. Porter disliked intensely the happenings
of the week, yet Bruce Brainard’s murder and its attendant mystery were
uppermost in his mind, and he could think of nothing else to speak
about. Thorne, watching him closely, embarrassed him still further by
remaining obstinately silent. They could not stand by the roadside
contemplating each other for the remainder of the morning, but Wyndham
was determined not to leave until Thorne did.
“Suppose we sit down,” suggested Thorne finally. “We might as well be
comfortable while enjoying good cigarettes.” And he threw himself on
the ground and lolled back against the embankment.
Wyndham reluctantly followed suit. He was in a fever of impatience to
test out his theory; had Millicent really secreted the razors in the
old place in which as a child she had hidden her toys? He could not
start his investigations until it pleased Thorne to depart.
Three minutes, five minutes passed, and Wyndham regarded the wireless
apparatus on the Porter house in glum silence, determined not to speak
first, but a sudden rustling of the myrtle leaves by his side attracted
his attention and he discovered Thorne running his riding crop in and
out among the myrtle. Wyndham’s slight grip on self-control vanished
utterly, and, disdaining subterfuge, he slipped his walking stick under
the leaves and instantly the two pieces of wood knocked together and
clung, almost like rapiers feeling the strength of opponents before
making a deadly thrust. Suddenly the frail cane snapped and Wyndham
withdrew the bit he still held.
“Sorry,” said Thorne coolly. “Let me look for the other end of your
stick.”
“Don’t bother.” Wyndham’s utterance was husky with anger. “The loss of
the stick is no matter, but--” He stopped short as Detective Mitchell
came up to them; both he and Thorne had been too intent upon watching
each other to notice his approach.
Mitchell’s sense of humor was highly entertained by the tableau before
him; for Thorne and Wyndham both looked heated and displeased in spite
of their efforts to maintain an attitude of calm indifference. The
detective could understand their quarreling, but why they sat by the
roadside, resting lazily back against an embankment at some distance
from each other, and each presenting the appearance of having used
physical exertion, was beyond him.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, looking from one to the other.
“Smoking,” responded Wyndham; he did not relish the detective’s
presence. “Have one?” extending his depleted case, and Mitchell
accepted a cigarette. He took his time lighting it, while covertly
watching the two men, and his interest deepened as he saw Thorne’s
hands moving apparently aimlessly through the myrtle leaves. A look at
Wyndham showed him doing the same thing.
“What are you searching for, Mr. Wyndham?” he asked.
“I dropped my last match,” was the reply, and Wyndham leaned to one
side and felt about the ground.
“Here’s my box--catch!” Thorne, taking it from his pocket, tossed it
to Wyndham. The match box fell squarely before Wyndham, and he picked
it up with a word of thanks and relit his cigarette, then returned the
box, and gave his full attention to Mitchell.
“What news this morning, Mitchell?” he inquired.
Mitchell took his own time in answering as he puffed smoke rings with a
contented air.
“Commonwealth Attorney Wood has issued a warrant for Dr. Alan Noyes,
and the sheriff has just gone to serve it.”
“What!” Wyndham was on his feet instantly, his face white and startled.
“It is a monstrous miscarriage of justice. Noyes is no more guilty of
Brainard’s death than you are, Mitchell.”
“He will have ample opportunity to prove his innocence,” replied
Mitchell. “The preliminary hearing will be held before Judge Ball this
morning.”
“On what do you base such an accusation?” demanded Wyndham, for the
moment forgetting to keep up his espionage of Thorne.
“I cannot disclose details,” Mitchell’s chin looked aggressive. “Dr.
Noyes may give bond in answer to the warrant, and waive examination
until the next term of court.”
“Give bond!” Wyndham started. “By Jove! I had better return home;
Noyes will need me to go on his bond. See you later, Mitchell,” and he
stepped back into the road, then hesitated, his glance traveling to
Thorne who sat gazing straight ahead of him. He was leaving Thorne in
possession of the embankment.
Mitchell was about to call to Wyndham to wait for him when he suddenly
recollected a message intrusted to his care.
“Your old servant, Cato, is looking for you, Dr. Thorne; and he
asked me to tell you if we met that Philadelphia wants you on the
long-distance telephone.”
Thorne was on his feet instantly. “Why didn’t you tell me that at
once?” he began heatedly, then forgetting all else he hurried back to
Thornedale. A second later Mitchell was alone, for, not pausing to
exchange further remarks, Wyndham was beating a quick retreat to the
Porter mansion. Mitchell smiled grimly.
“There’s not much love lost between Thorne and Wyndham,” he muttered.
“Therefore it’s surprising that they sat here in positions which would
seem to indicate amicable conversation. And what were they striving
to find in this neighborhood without the other’s knowledge?” Mitchell
scratched his head in his perplexity. “And why did they leave me
here?” He considered the question, then brightened. “It’s because I’m
a stranger in this locality and they imagine I won’t know what to look
for.”
Mitchell made certain that Thorne had really returned to his home, then
facing about he saw Wyndham moving swiftly across fields toward the
Porter mansion. Losing no further time he knelt down and felt about
under the myrtle leaves near where Thorne and Wyndham had sat. But
his search only produced dirty hands, and mumbling an uncomplimentary
adjective about the two men, Mitchell moved a few steps down the road
to where the roadside, skirting the embankment, widened and hollowed
out. The creeping myrtle grew there in profusion, and Mitchell stooped
down every other second, as he moved slowly along, to feel about the
ground. At the last attempt his hand encountered cold iron, and he
dropped down on his knees and, drawing aside the leaves and vines,
saw an old cannon lying on its side in the hollow. It was small and
of obsolete pattern. It had sunk partly into the ground and was not
visible unless searched for, as the myrtle leaves made an effective
screen. The detective studied the cannon for several minutes, then
an idea occurred to him and he plunged his hand down its muzzle. His
fingers closed on a bundle, and dragging it forth he unfolded a large
silk handkerchief--a glittering array of razors confronted him.
Mitchell squatted down and examined his prize--it was a razor set of
finest steel. He paused to count each razor.
“Only five here,” he said aloud. “Each razor bears the day of the
week,” looking at the tiny lettering on the back of the blade.
“‘Friday’ is missing and”--turning them over--“‘Monday.’”
Laying down the set of razors, Mitchell drew from his pocket the razor
found on the bed near Brainard’s dead body. It bore the inscription
“Monday,” and by its make and shape was the missing razor from the set.
Mitchell looked at it as if hypnotized.
“Which one, Thorne or Wyndham, secreted these razors in the cannon?”
he said. “They were both searching for something on this spot. Am I
running with the hare as well as with the hounds?”