Dorothy shook off Wyndham’s detaining hand and walked over to Millicent. “Your brother saw you enter Bruce Brainard’s bedroom at two o’clock on Tuesday morning, and you carried a razor.” “You lie!” Noyes’ voice rang out bravely, but his agonized expression contradicted his words. “Craig Porter is a hopeless paralytic. He can neither leave his bed nor speak.” Dorothy did not shrink before his furious glare. “True, Craig cannot speak and he cannot get out of bed,” she admitted. “But he has regained the use of his first finger, and with that he signaled to me, using the Continental wireless code, that from his position in bed he can see what transpires in the next bedroom.” “How?” demanded Mitchell. “You remember that there is a huge old-fashioned mirror facing Craig; a similar mirror hangs directly opposite in the next bedroom and through the open transom over Craig’s bed whatever transpires in the next bedroom is reflected by one mirror from the angle at which it is hung into the other.” “Well, by--!” Mitchell stared dazedly at Dorothy. “And the bed Craig Porter occupies and the one Brainard occupied are backed against the wall which separates the two bedrooms, and both the mirrors face the beds.” Mrs. Porter, her face ashy, looked appealingly at Dorothy. “What did Craig see on Tuesday morning?” she mumbled rather than asked. Vera, waiting breathlessly, was dimly conscious of Wyndham’s heavy breathing. “Craig caught a glimpse of Millicent approaching the bed, a razor clasped tightly in her raised hand, then she disappeared out of his line of vision.” Dorothy’s hands were opening and closing spasmodically; she dared not glance at Wyndham for fear of breaking down. Alan Noyes’ agony was pitiful to witness as he sat forward striving to shield Millicent who crouched by his side, his one arm about her. Dorothy’s statement held her spellbound. “Craig said a little time elapsed,” went on Dorothy, and her voice sounded strained and harsh in the tense stillness. “Then the night light in Brainard’s bedroom was augmented by a powerful flashlight standing on the bed-table, and Craig saw the bed and Bruce lying in it with distinctness; he also saw a figure crouching by the bed, one hand groping for the razor which lay near Brainard. The next instant there was a sharp struggle and the murderer, straightening up, turned as if to listen, and faced the mirror-- Don’t try to escape, Murray.” The footman, edging toward the door, before which stood the Secret Service operative, swallowed hard and sat down. “The game’s up,” he acknowledged insolently. “Well, which is going to claim the honor of arresting ‘Gentleman Charlie’--the Secret Service or Detective Headquarters? Don’t all speak at once, gentlemen,” and his jeering laugh awoke the others from their stupor. CHAPTER XXIII OUT OF THE MAZE