WITH a bound Detective Mitchell was by the footman’s side; a click, and handcuffs dangled from his wrists. It seemed a useless precaution, as Murray evinced no desire to be troublesome but sat and regarded them with a sardonic grin. “What’s the charge?” he demanded, ignoring Anthony’s presence at his other elbow. “The murder of Bruce Brainard on Tuesday morning,” responded the detective. “I warn you that anything you say will be used against you.” “Thanks.” Murray grinned again. “Between Miss Dorothy and Mr. Craig you’ve got evidence enough to convict me.” Mrs. Porter, who had been gazing at the pseudo-footman in horrified amazement, found her voice. “Do you mean to say that you killed my guest, Bruce Brainard?” she demanded. “That is what your son claims,” answered Murray. “Why did you kill him? You had seen him at my house many times before?” Mrs. Porter sat down in the nearest chair; she was weak from nervous strain and its reaction. “Why did I kill Bruce?” Murray cleared his throat. “We had worked together years ago at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, and he was the only man living who knew something of my subsequent career.” Murray’s handcuffs jingled as he moved uneasily. “But Brainard never penetrated my disguise until Monday night when I assisted him into the library. He had overheard Miss Millicent’s quarrel with Dr. Noyes, and it brought on some sort of an attack. I was in my shirt sleeves, and in helping him inside the library he tore my sleeve and saw a tattoo mark which he had made on my arm while we were working together. He knew my record up to ten years ago. I told him that I had reformed and was trying to live a different life; and he promised to give me a chance, but I could see by his manner that he was planning to give Mrs. Porter a tip as to my real character.” “I hardly think I would have believed him,” affirmed Mrs. Porter faintly. “You have been a model servant all these years, Murray.” Murray looked gratified. “I flatter myself I played my part well, and in my leisure hours I fitted up the cabin and perfected a wonderful counterfeit.” “You did,” agreed the Secret Service agent, “but you slipped up when you lost Miss Deane’s bag in the street car.” Murray shifted his position to look directly at Vera who stood somewhat behind Mrs. Porter and in the shadow of a high-back chair.