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 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.”