VERA RECEIVES A LETTER
AFTER leaving Detective Mitchell, Wyndham’s walk increased into a run
as soon as he turned a curve in the road, but before reaching Dewdrop
Inn he slackened his pace and it was with bowed head and slow step
that he entered the house. Entirely ignoring Murray’s efforts to help
him off with his overcoat, he brushed by the footman and entered the
drawing-room. Mrs. Porter’s voice, raised in angry expostulation,
drowned the sound of his approach, and he stood almost at the sheriff’s
elbow before that official became aware of his presence. Sheriff
Nichols, who had met him several times at the county court house,
greeted him cordially.
“How are you, Mr. Wyndham?” he said, relieved by having someone besides
an irate woman to argue with. “I’m trying to explain to Mrs. Porter
that Dr. Noyes must come along with me, and she won’t listen to reason,
nohow.”
“Reason? What reason is there in arresting an innocent man?” fumed Mrs.
Porter. “Besides,” a gleam of hope lighting her eyes, “Dr. Noyes is not
a citizen of the United States, but an Englishman.”
“Well, ma’am, that doesn’t give him the right to come over here and
murder law-abiding citizens,” retorted the sheriff bluntly. “No, he’s
amenable to the law.”
“I have not claimed otherwise,” exclaimed Noyes; he had been standing
somewhat in the background. Moving forward he laid a persuasive hand on
Mrs. Porter’s arm. “Do not worry; I can prove my innocence when brought
to trial.”
“But to subject you to such treatment!” wailed Mrs. Porter, her
composure showing signs of giving way under the stress of her feelings.
“And Craig--what of him? Is my son to die because you insist on taking
his physician to jail?” addressing the harassed sheriff.
“Law, ma’am, there’re plenty good American doctors.” But the sheriff’s
well-meant suggestion brought no consolation.
“They don’t understand Craig’s case. Secondly,” frigidly, “I don’t
place any faith in country doctors.”
“Call in Bev. Thorne, he only came back recently from city practice,
and”--brightening--“he’s just across lots; ’most as handy as having him
in the house.”
Mrs. Porter’s face was a study. “I shall never permit Dr. Thorne to
treat my son,” she announced, in her excitement utterly forgetting that
she had sent for Thorne the night before. “He is personally distasteful
to me, and I have no confidence in his ability. I tell you, sheriff,
by taking away Dr. Noyes you will be directly responsible for my son’s
death.”
The sheriff moved uneasily. “Duty’s duty, ma’am,” he mumbled. “And,”
suddenly suspicious, “I heard as how Mr. Craig was a great deal better.”
“He was”--Mrs. Porter wrung her hands, and the anguish in her eyes
stirred a responsive chord in the sheriff’s breast; he had lost a
son--“but Craig has had a relapse. Oh, my God! Why did Bruce Brainard
ever come to this house!”
“Hush, aunt!” Wyndham shook her elbow slightly, and as she met his
warning gaze she pulled herself together. “I will go bail for Dr.
Noyes, sheriff; and he will stay with us until the next term of court.”
Sheriff Nichols looked dubious. “Well, come along with us to the
court,” he directed. “I reckon perhaps the judge will accept your bond;
but it’s sure to be a pretty stiff one.”
“I will sign the bond also,” put in Mrs. Porter swiftly. “I beg of you,
sheriff, to hurry through the legal formalities and permit Dr. Noyes to
return.”
“Sure I will, if the judge permits.” The sheriff backed toward the
door. “Come along, doctor, and get your grip, we might as well tote
it with us; save a return trip in case the judge decides against the
bond.” He turned to bow to Mrs. Porter and walked into the hall.
Noyes led the way upstairs and paused outside his door. “Will you lend
me your suitcase, Wyndham?” he asked. “I didn’t bring mine back with me
yesterday.”
“Certainly.” And Wyndham hurried down the hall as Noyes and Sheriff
Nichols entered the former’s bedroom. It was a large bright room,
and as the surgeon moved backward and forward between his bureau and
his bed carrying underclothes piece by piece the sheriff took in his
surroundings in a comprehensive glance, then walked over to the bureau
and pushed Noyes gently to one side.
“Sit over there, son,” he explained. “A man with one arm ain’t got
no business trying to sort clothes.” And without losing further
time, he smoothed out the garments and arranged them in a neat pile.
In replacing several suits of pajamas, the sheriff disarranged the
large sheet of white paper which covered the bottom of the drawer,
and disclosed a photograph lying concealed under it. Nichols did
not require a second glance to recognize Millicent Porter; he had
seen her too often riding about the countryside, or motoring, to be
mistaken. A flip of his finger, and the photograph lay face down, but
no writing was on the reverse of the cardboard. The sheriff smoothed
the white paper back into place, then rose and faced Noyes, who sat
gazing drearily out of the window. His utter indifference upon the
announcement of his arrest and his subsequent silence puzzled the
sheriff; he was more accustomed to noisy protestations of innocence, or
quarreling; a willing prisoner was a new sensation.
Wyndham’s return with a suitcase put a stop to his cogitations, and,
hardly waiting for the bag to be opened, Sheriff Nichols gathered
together such toilet articles and clothing as he thought Noyes might
need, and slammed them inside.
“There, that’s done. All ready, doctor?” And he pocketed the key of the
suitcase.
Noyes roused himself. “Quite ready,” he said automatically, but once in
the hall his manner altered; he darted a look toward Millicent’s closed
door, then resolutely turned to the sheriff. “I must see Mr. Craig
Porter, and leave directions with his nurse.”
“All right, I’ll come, too.” And the sheriff, utterly blind to the
sudden furious glare Noyes shot at him, followed the latter into the
paralytic’s bedroom, and shut the door in Wyndham’s face.
At their entrance Vera Deane looked up from a chart on which she was
writing and rose, wonderment showing at sight of the sheriff’s stocky
figure; then suppressing her surprise she waited for Noyes to speak.
“Miss Deane, this is the sheriff,” he announced curtly, making no
attempt to lower his tone; and Sheriff Nichols frowned reprovingly as
he gazed at Craig Porter; a loud voice in the room with that motionless
figure seemed discordant. Nichols sighed involuntarily as he studied
the changes in Craig; the latter’s almost fatal injury had made a total
wreck of splendid manhood.
“And to think I uster take him hunting when he was a shaver,” he said,
below his breath. “And I’m hale and hearty and he’s bedridden; and
he’s twenty years my junior. It don’t seem right, Craig; but you were
always wishing to climb the tallest tree and ride the worst hoss, and
see what ambition’s done for you.” He met Vera’s eye and shook his head
mournfully as he said aloud, “It don’t seem fair to talk to Craig when
he can’t answer back.”
Noyes laid down the chart and faced the sheriff. “Kindly say nothing to
the patient, Sheriff Nichols. The slightest noise may do injury.”
“Then why are you talking so loud?” grumbled Nichols, reddening under
the reproof. “There ain’t no use hollering my name all around. Ready? I
can’t wait much longer.”
“In just a minute,” and Noyes went over to the bedside. The sheriff,
stepping back to make room for him, transferred his regard to Vera.
He had been aware of her sudden start on hearing who he was, but he
learned nothing from his scrutiny, for Vera’s usually mobile face was
expressionless as she waited for the surgeon’s instructions.
“Keep up the same treatment, Miss Deane,” directed Noyes. “I may be
back in an hour, or not for several days. Come, sheriff,” and they
filed from the room, Nichols’ glance lighting for an instant on the
large open transom over Craig Porter’s bed, but his last look was for
Vera who stood with head half averted, watching her patient.
The shutting of the door roused Vera from her contemplation and she
went busily about her duties, and when at last she sat down the room
was in apple-pie order. There was little she could do for Craig, except
rearrange pillows and adjust sheets, and while Craig could not by sign
or word make known his wants, she had the knack of making her patients
comfortable. But Vera was not left long to her own reflections, for a
tap at the door was followed by Murray’s entrance.
“Here is the bouillon, Miss Deane,” he said, placing the tray on a
stand. “And I brought an additional pint of milk. Shall I put it in
the refrigerator?”
“Yes, thanks.” And Vera hastened to place a screen so that the wind
would not blow on Craig as the footman opened the lower section of the
window and stepped out on the little gallery where stood the small
ice-box in which were kept supplies for the sick room.
Murray was some seconds in arranging the bottles to his satisfaction,
and Vera relished the cool wind as it fanned her hot cheeks. She
longed to be out-of-doors, but with Millicent ill she felt that it
was but right to relieve Mrs. Hall so that the day nurse could attend
the latest case. She, personally, did not require a great amount of
sleep, and the events of the night before had effectually deprived her
of peaceful slumber during the two hours she had lain down earlier in
the morning. She felt that she could not rest until the mystery of the
razor was explained, and yet how could she get an explanation from
Millicent as to how the razor came into her possession, when she was
too ill to be interviewed?
She had the alternative of asking Beverly Thorne if he had taken
the razor from her as they knelt in the shelter of the hedge waiting
for Detective Mitchell to depart. But at the idea Vera’s heart beat
with uncomfortable haste. Among her chaotic experiences following her
pursuit of Millicent one incident was indelibly impressed upon her
memory--Thorne’s impassioned whisper, “Vera, my love, my love!” as they
crouched by the hedge, had not only reached her ears but found response
in her heart.
“Have you heard the news, miss?” asked Murray, after carefully closing
the window, and Vera, on the point of replacing the screen in its
corner, paused and eyed him sharply.
“What news?”
“Dr. Noyes has been took.”
“Took?”
“Arrested, miss; the perlice has him, at least, the sheriff.” Murray
scratched his head. “They both puts him in jail, leastways that’s what
Mr. Hugh said just now before they went off in the motor.”
The footman’s comments, however, fell on deaf ears. Alan Noyes
arrested? Vera clung to the screen, her knees trembling under her.
“Why did the sheriff arrest him?” she demanded, in barely more than a
whisper.
“He thinks the doctor killed Mr. Brainard.” Murray reached forward to
catch her as she swayed toward him. “Did I tell you too sudden, miss?
Will you have a drink?”
Vera breathed deeply. “No, no,” she protested. “I--Dr. Noyes said
that he might be back, but I did not understand.” She stopped to gain
control over her shaking voice. “Who will attend Mr. Craig now?”
“I don’t know, miss.” Murray, like Vera, kept his voice lowered, and,
standing on the other side of the screen, neither was aware of a
movement in the other part of the room. “It don’t seem right, miss,
when the doctor returned to attend Mr. Craig, that he should be taken
away just when Mr. Craig needs him.”
“Hush!” Vera held up a warning finger; her quick ears had caught the
faint sound which accompanies the cautious closing of a door. Gliding
from behind the screen she crossed the room and, peeping into the hall,
was just in time to see the door of Millicent’s bedroom close. She
stared thoughtfully at the mahogany door. It was not the sound made
by Millicent’s door which had disturbed her; someone had opened Craig
Porter’s door and been in his bedroom while she and the footman stood
talking behind the screen. Why had the person not announced his or her
presence?
Vera turned back into the sick room and found Murray regarding Craig
Porter sorrowfully. He was about to speak when he caught her gesture
enjoining silence, and without a word tiptoed from the room.
Several minutes elapsed before Vera moved over to the lunch tray and
drank the bouillon almost at a gulp. As she set down the cup her eyes
fell on a letter addressed to her lying on the tray. The envelope
bore the words “Chesapeake and Potomac Telephone Company of Virginia”
in the left-hand corner, and Vera almost snatched it up. Before she
had more than torn off the envelope a rap sounded on the door, and
still clutching the unread letter she went to answer it and discovered
Dorothy standing in the hall.
“I can’t come in.” Dorothy drew back and her low, strained voice seemed
a counterpart of the haggard lines in her white face. “Do you know,
Vera, that they have arrested Alan Noyes for the murder of Bruce?”
“I have just heard it.” Vera glanced cautiously up and down the hall;
apparently they had it to themselves. She pulled the bedroom door
almost shut behind her. “Where is Hugh Wyndham?”
“Gone with Alan Noyes and the sheriff to the court house.” Dorothy
laid a steadying hand against the wall; she was trembling from head to
foot. “Mrs. Porter said Hugh would arrange for Alan’s release on bail.
Vera,” lifting pleading, anguished eyes to her sister, “are you going
to speak?”
A heavy tread on the stairs reached them, and without word or sign Vera
retreated into the bedroom, leaving her sister’s question unanswered.
With the door once safely closed she stopped and regarded Craig Porter,
then going over to the desk she took up the chart and, glancing at her
watch, registered the time and made the entry:
“Patient renews plucking at bedclothes.”
Putting down the chart she took up the letter from the telephone
company, and smoothing out the sheet read the typewritten lines. It was
from the branch manager of the company:
In response to your request for information regarding the telephone
call received by Central from the Porter mansion at 5.55 A.M. on
Tuesday of this week, would say that Central reports that Dr. Beverly
Thorne’s residence was called for, the speaker being a woman.
Very truly yours--
“The speaker being a woman--” Vera dropped the letter as if it burned
her fingers. Only one woman was in the library besides herself at 5.55
A.M. Tuesday morning--and that woman was Millicent Porter.