“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 icebox 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.
Chapter XVIII
The Counterfeit Bank Note
Wyndham turned his roadster into the river road and, seeing no vehicle approaching along the straight stretch ahead of him, pressed the accelerator and his car raced homeward. He had found Alan Noyes, his only companion, morose to a degree of rudeness, and had forborne to address him after leaving the county court house. The hearing before Judge Ball had been a tedious affair, and the arranging of bail hampered by red tape, and it was long after the luncheon hour when Noyes was finally permitted to return to Dewdrop Inn with Wyndham.
They had traversed a third of the distance homeward along the river road when Noyes touched Wyndham and signed to him to stop. Somewhat surprised, Wyndham drew the car to one side and slowed down as Noyes bent forward and fumbled with the catch of the door.
“I’ll walk home from here,” he said, springing out of the car. He reddened as he turned back to hold out his hand to Wyndham. “You’ve been awfully good, old chap; I shan’t forget it, but just now I must be by myself”—he hesitated—“a walk will do me good; see you later.”
Wyndham wrung his hand. “You’ve been through a lot; just walk off steam, but don’t get lost in the woods.” He started the car forward, but before rounding the next curve he looked back and was surprised to see Noyes still standing where he had left him, looking from the bluff down the valley. The ground toward the river dipped abruptly at that point and Wyndham, stopping his car, rose in his seat and gazed in the direction Noyes was facing. His only reward was an excellent view of the river and the peaceful countryside, and he was about to drop back in his seat and proceed homeward when he saw Noyes turn, cross the road, and disappear up the hillside. He had been gone but a minute when Wyndham, looking again toward the river, was surprised to see a figure standing near the river bank. The man was too far away for Wyndham to see who he was. The next instant he, too, had disappeared, and Wyndham, after a moment’s indecision, resumed his place behind the steering wheel and started for home; he was not Noyes’ keeper, and if the detectives wished to trail Noyes while he was out on bail, it was the Englishman’s responsibility and not his.
Reaching a crossroad Wyndham hesitated, then turning his car into the highway which skirted Thornedale, he continued along it until opposite the embankment where he had encountered Millicent Porter the night before and Beverly Thorne that morning. He stopped the car and, going over to the roadside, walked along it. The crushed and bedraggled condition of the creeping myrtle vines a little further on attracted his attention, and bending down he thrust his hand along until he touched the muzzle of the old cannon. Bending still farther downward he ran his hand inside the cannon and withdrew it a second later—empty.
“Could I have been wrong?” he muttered. “Millicent used to hide her toys and candy there—what more likely than that she thought of the old cannon if she wished to hide—” He broke off to stare moodily at the ground. Someone besides himself had examined the cannon since he had last been there; otherwise he would have noticed the torn vines that morning. And that man could have been none other than Beverly Thorne; he also knew of the cannon—had he, too, gone away empty-handed?
Wyndham was in no pleasant humor when he stopped at the garage and, turning over his car to the chauffeur, he went at once to the house. Instead of finding his aunt in the library as he had hoped, a stranger rose at his entrance and bowed politely.
“Is this Mr. Wyndham?”
“Yes.” Wyndham’s manner was not overly cordial; it was not customary to admit strangers to the library; they were usually shown into the reception-room. “Have you called to see my aunt, Mrs. Porter?”
“No, sir, I came to see you.” The stranger took out his card case. “I gave my card to the butler and he asked me to wait in here. I am Sam Anthony, of the United States Secret Servic
e,” displaying his badge as he presented his card to Wyndham.
Wyndham barely glanced at the engraved pasteboard; his manner had thawed perceptibly. “Sit down, Mr. Anthony,” he said, dragging forward a chair. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. What can I do for you?”
“If you will answer a few questions.” Anthony resumed his seat. “Were you in Brentano’s bookstore yesterday afternoon?”
“I was.”
“You ordered some visiting-cards for Miss Vera Deane?”
“I did.” Wyndham’s surprise at the question was apparent.
“And paid for the cards with a ten-dollar Treasury bill?”
“Yes,” responded Wyndham, and his manner had grown alert. “What then?”
“The bill was an exceedingly dangerous counterfeit.”
“What!” Wyndham sat bolt upright. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Anthony took out his bill-folder and selected a gold bank note. “It’s a wonder,” he added, feeling it tenderly. “Never would have aroused suspicion at the bank but that Chief Connor warned them only today to be on the lookout for such a note.”
“Let me see it.” And Wyndham carried the bank bill to the light, turning his back squarely upon the Secret Service agent as he faced the window. When he looked up from examining the bill he started slightly at finding Anthony standing at his elbow.
“I would never have suspected the bill,” he said, handing it back. “It looks absolutely genuine.”
Anthony nodded. “It’s the work of a genius,” he admitted. “Who gave you the bill, Mr. Wyndham?”
“Let me see.” Wyndham half closed his eyes in thought, and under lowered lids observed the Secret Service agent. Anthony cloaked his ability under a sleepy manner and sleek appearance, and with him patience was more than a virtue; it was a profession. Dogged perseverance had won hard-earned promotion for him. He waited in silence for Wyndham to continue his remarks. “Why do you ask where I got the note?” the latter demanded, and his tone was crisp.
The Moving Finger Page 17
