“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.