Mitchell had not troubled to lower his voice, and his words were distinctly audible to Dorothy Deane, who was sitting on the top step of the staircase. She waited until she heard Mrs. Porter and Mitchell go in the direction of the library, then sped to Craig Porter’s door and, jerking it open, she beckoned to her sister to come into the hall. “Vera,” she said in little more than a whisper, “Alan Noyes is evidently detained at the court house, and--and--Detective Mitchell is down in the library waiting to see you.” Vera stood as if turned into marble, then she drew a long, painful breath. “Very well”--her voice was not quite steady, and she cleared her throat before continuing--“I will see Detective Mitchell at once. Where is Hugh Wyndham?” Dorothy flinched, and her eyes fell before her sister’s direct gaze. “I don’t know--I can’t find him anywhere about the place. Oh, Vera,” coloring painfully, “must you tell _all_?” Vera nodded. “It would have been better had I been frank in the first place,” she said dully. “God knows, I acted for the best. I can’t leave Craig Porter alone, Dorothy. Where is Mrs. Hall?” “With Millicent, I suppose. I haven’t seen her lately.” “Then you sit with Craig until I return.” Vera pushed Dorothy gently through the doorway. “Call me if he requires medical assistance.” And pulling the door shut before Dorothy could recover from her surprise, Vera squared her shoulders and walked downstairs. Dorothy continued to stare at the closed door for some seconds, then turned her attention to Craig Porter, but his emaciated appearance was a distinct shock to her, and when she looked away her eyes were blurred with tears. Afraid to give way in the slightest degree to her emotions for fear they would master her, she walked back and forth with noiseless tread. The minutes seemed endless, and in agony over the scene which her active imagination painted going on in the library, Dorothy at last paused before the huge mirror over the mantel and stared at herself. Dark circles under her eyes and her total lack of color told plainly of mental anguish, and with a shudder she moved away. The desk next attracted her wandering attention, and she picked up the nurse’s chart and a pencil and subconsciously read the last entry in Vera’s handwriting: “Patient continues plucking at clothing.” Dropping the chart she walked over to the foot of the bed and regarded Craig Porter. A great pity for him drove, for the moment, her own problems out of her mind. They had been “pals” while she was at boarding-school and he a junior at Yale, and as memories returned of his merry disposition and gallant bearing a lump rose in her throat, and she hastily looked away. A glance at the open transom over the head of Craig’s bed sent her thoughts again to the tragedy enacted in the next room on Tuesday morning.