Thorne exchanged a low-toned word with McPherson and several of the jurors before slipping into a large wing chair which partly concealed his presence. Hugh Wyndham had evidently been awaiting the summons, for he followed hard upon the heels of the footman and stepped briskly into the library. The preliminaries were quickly gone through with, and Wyndham, while waiting for the coroner to question him, occupied his time in inspecting his companions, and his eyes contracted slightly at sight of Beverly Thorne, who sat gazing idly at the log fire which blazed in the stone fireplace, and added greatly to the picturesqueness and comfort of the well proportioned room. “State your full name and occupation, Mr. Wyndham,” requested the coroner, resuming his seat. “Hugh Wyndham, stock broker, just now not connected with any firm,” he added by way of explanation. “Since the failure in November of the banking house of Mullen Company with which I was connected I have been residing with my aunt, Mrs. Lawrence Porter.” “Were you and Mr. Brainard old friends, Mr. Wyndham?” “We have known each other for over a year, but were acquaintances rather than friends,” replied Wyndham, flicking a white thread from his coat sleeve. Black shot a questioning look at him. “Do I understand that you were not friends?” he asked. “Oh, we were friendly enough on the few occasions that we met, but our professions gave us very few opportunities to become better acquainted.” “What was Mr. Brainard’s occupation?” “He was a mining engineer.” The coroner leaned over and consulted Dr. McPherson’s notes, then, sitting back in his chair, asked: “Did Mr. Brainard complain of feeling ill before dinner last night?” “No, except to tell Captain Willert and myself that the climate in South America had played the devil with him.” “Were you present at the dinner table when he was taken ill last night?” “Yes. Dr. Noyes said that he was suffering from vertigo, and Mrs. Porter suggested that we take him upstairs and put him to bed.” Again Coroner Black referred to McPherson’s notes before asking another question. “Did Mr. Brainard have any suitcase or luggage with him?” he inquired. “No. I loaned him a pair of my pyjamas.” “When did you last see Mr. Brainard alive?” “I left him in bed, apparently better, and followed Dr. Noyes downstairs.” “Leaving no one with the sick man?” asked Black swiftly. “Yes, Miss Deane,” responded Wyndham. “Dr. Noyes sent her to look after Brainard. Miss Deane said that she would be within call if he needed assistance during the night.” He hesitated, and then added, “I volunteered to sit up with Brainard, but she said that it was not necessary.” “Were you disturbed by noises during the night?” “No.” Wyndham shifted his position, and one foot tapped the floor incessantly. “I am a heavy sleeper and my room is some distance from that occupied by Brainard.” “You were asleep when Miss Deane rapped at your door this morning?” “Yes.”