“I did.” McPherson displayed an anatomical chart, and used his pencil as an indicator while he continued: “I found an incipient tumor of the brain. Brainard’s attacks of vertigo were due to that.” The deputy coroner raised his voice as his pencil traveled down the chart and rested on the throat. “The wound was on the lower part of Brainard’s neck and the carotid artery was severed. He bled to death.” “Was the wound self-inflicted, doctor?” questioned Thorne, taking the chart and examining it closely before passing it over to the juror nearest him. McPherson shook his head at Thorne’s question. “I do not believe the wound was self-inflicted,” he said, “for the wound commences under the right ear and extends toward the left; whereas, in the case of suicide the cut would have been made just the reverse.” McPherson’s words were listened to with deep attention, and in the silence that followed Thorne grew conscious of the loud ticking of the clock. “Then in your opinion, McPherson,” commented Coroner Black, “Bruce Brainard was murdered?” “Yes,” answered the deputy coroner. “The nature of the wound proves conclusively that it could not have been suicide.” “Unless,” broke in Thorne, “unless Brainard was left-handed.” “That point can be easily settled,” snapped the coroner. “That’s all, McPherson, thank you;” and as the doctor left the witness chair he added, “Kindly ask Detective Mitchell to step here.” It was growing darker in the room and Thorne walked over to the windows and pushed back the long curtains and pulled up the Holland shades. The sunshine had almost totally disappeared, and the gray of late afternoon alone lighted the room. Thorne moved over to one of the lamps which were dotted about, and was busy lighting it when Detective Mitchell followed McPherson back into the room. “Have you discovered which servants own razors in this house, Mitchell?” asked the coroner, after the new witness had answered other questions. “Yes, sir.” Mitchell took two razors from his pocket. “I have them each ticketed; this one belongs to the footman, Murray, and this to the butler, Selby.” The coroner accepted the two razors and compared them with the blood-stained one on the table, then he passed all three to the jurors. “They are not in the least alike,” he said thoughtfully. “Did you examine Dr. Noyes’ bedroom, Mitchell?” “I did,” answered the detective. “The bed had evidently been slept in, as the sheets and blankets were tumbled about, but all the doctor’s clothes were packed in his steamer trunk.” “Was his trunk locked?” “No, sir.” Mitchell paused. “I examined its contents, but I could not find any razor or strop.” “Were his overcoat and hat in his closet?”