The Moving Finger

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  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 tete-a-tete.

  “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 proff
ered 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?”

  Chapter XVII

&nb
sp; 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,”