The detective moved closer. “Your theory is good, but it doesn’t hold water,” he declared. “You recognized Bruce Brainard as your sister’s husband; you knew of his despicable conduct to your sister; you had just heard that he considered himself engaged to Miss Millicent Porter, in spite of the fact that the law courts would hold him legally married to your sister.” Vera stirred uneasily. “You had Bruce Brainard here at your mercy--and Mrs. Hall saw you, nearly two hours before you admitted discovering the murder, removing bloodstains from your dress. Oh, come, you might as well confess--and claim the leniency of the court.” “I will claim nothing but fair play,” cried Vera hotly. “I am innocent. I did not kill Bruce Brainard, much as I loathed and despised him.” “Then who did kill him?” Mrs. Hall, who had drawn back as Mitchell approached Vera, was roughly pushed aside as Hugh Wyndham, making no attempt to conceal his anger, stepped in front of the detective. “What’s going on here? What foolery are you up to, Mitchell?” he demanded. “Vera, there’s no law which compels you to answer this man’s questions.” A clamor in the hall, which grew louder as footsteps approached, drowned Vera’s answer, and Millicent Porter, clutching Murray’s coat sleeve, burst into the room with the footman. “There, there, miss, don’t take on so,” pleaded Murray, hardly noticing the others in the library in his endeavor to calm Millicent. “I told you he wasn’t dead.” But Millicent was past calming and, her dressing-gown fluttering with the haste of her movements, she flung herself into her mother’s arms. “Mother!” she moaned. “Alan has tried to kill himself. Oh, you must tell the police that the razor belonged to Craig.” A startled exclamation broke from Mitchell and Mrs. Porter winced. “How would that clear Alan Noyes?” she asked bitterly. “I presented the set to Alan on Monday morning.” “But you know he never took them, mother,” pleaded Millicent, her eyes dark with terror. “I found the set in your boudoir on Tuesday morning.” “But one razor was missing--” The comment escaped Mrs. Porter unwittingly in the agitation of the moment. “Hush! Mother, how could you?” Millicent clapped her hand on Mrs. Porter’s mouth and glanced fearfully around, to encounter Mitchell’s eager gaze, and shuddering she looked away. Wyndham, who had listened to Millicent with tense eagerness, turned with such suddenness that he collided against the large leather bag which Murray was holding, having, in his excitement, forgotten to put it down. The bag, insecurely fastened, burst open and out rolled splints and bandages and a miscellaneous array of surgical instruments and a razor. Wyndham reached for it, but Mitchell jostled him to one side and picked it up. “The razor is one of the set!” he cried. “Where did you get that bag, Murray?” clutching the footman and giving him a shake. “Answer!”